Small Admissions Page 5

  With one day already lost due to her hangover, there were only four days remaining for a transformation. She went into her serious, hyper-productive mode and got to work. She looked up the Hudson Day School website and read the principal’s welcome letter. Under the Admissions tab she went to the “Meet the Staff” page and found pictures of Henry, who was smiling, Maureen, who wasn’t, and a young man named Nathan with a goatee. She studied the procedures for applying and noted the numerous dates and strict deadlines. There were offers for open houses and group tours beginning in the early fall and an invitation to download an introductory video that outlined the academic program.

  The Internet was full of information about the New York City private school scene and the admissions world, and Kate did research all morning, jotting things down whenever she felt something was particularly noteworthy. After spending hours at her computer, she flossed her teeth, went out for a walk, and read the New York Times. The next day she spent the whole morning learning about Hudson’s history (founded in 1888 with twelve boys and a philanthropist named Ebenezer) and philosophy (guiding principles: mutual respect, integrity, community, and especially scholarship). She did push-ups, sit-ups, and planks, showered, and went out to spend money she hadn’t earned yet on appropriate work clothes. She got her hair trimmed and her brows waxed.

  Back at her apartment building, she picked up her mail and headed up the stairs, trying to think of what else she needed to do to transform herself into whomever Mr. Bigley thought he’d hired.

  4C opened his door as soon as her foot hit the landing. She dreaded these encounters since all he ever said to her was that she was loud and heavy on her feet. He made her feel oafish and clunky. “How am I supposed to get around my apartment without walking?” she would ask.

  “Softly.” He came across as humorless and irritable, like a seventy-year-old man in a thirty-year-old’s body. “Maybe you could buy a few thick rugs or take your shoes off.”

  “I’ll tiptoe,” she would answer.

  And here he was again. “I’m sorry to complain,” he said, leaning out into the hall. It was his usual opening line. “I couldn’t sleep the other night. There was quite a ruckus upstairs.”

  “I got a little deep in the vodka.”

  “Threw a party?”

  “No, just me.”

  “I thought I heard talking.”

  Kate shrugged.

  “Were you doing some type of exercise perhaps?” he asked. “Like bowling?”

  “Funny,” she said dryly.

  “There was definitely furniture being moved around.”

  “I got a job,” Kate said, holding up her shopping bags.

  “So you’ll be out of the building more of the time, I suspect.”

  “Maybe. I don’t know. I don’t think they meant to give the job to me. I think they called the wrong girl.”

  “Why would you think that?”

  “I have no qualifications.”

  “Did they hire you to be a doctor?”

  “No.”

  “Are chemicals involved? Use of deadly force, that sort of thing?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Then fake it,” her neighbor said. “That’s all anyone does anyway. Dress the part, sound the part. They’ll figure you are the part.”

  “Eventually they’ll find out I’m a fraud,” she said.

  “By then you’ll know what you’re doing. As long as it’s not an ER. Or guarding a nuclear facility.”

  “It’s a school. I’ve spent the last couple of days studying up, trying to get informed.”

  “Yeah? I’m sure you’ll be fine. Don’t even worry about it.”

  “Thank you,” Kate said, and she felt relieved. “You’re right, you know. It’s not an ER.”

  “No one will die,” he said, “no matter how incompetent you are.”

  Jonathan, she remembered, recalling his name from seeing it on mail that mistakenly ended up in her box.

  “I’m Kate,” she told him.

  “Yeah. I know,” he said, looking hurt. “We’ve been neighbors for, like, a year.” He shook his head and closed his door.

  Kate went back into her apartment and looked through her mail. There was a postcard from her mother with a picture of a shriveled-up corpse:

  Dearest figlia,

  I am consumed with thoughts of Ötzi! So much speculation about this mummified copper smelter, from his fertility to the grainy contents of his stomach, when probably all the poor man wants is a bit of privacy. He has 3 floors of the museum in Südtirol, so he is spending his afterlife in pure luxury. Nevertheless, it reminds me that I wish to be cremated and sprinkled on an azalea.

  Your father and I think of you as being on a sabbatical of your own, taking the time you need to contemplate your past and discover your future. How thrilling!

  Baci e abbracci from your loving madre.

  Kate put the postcard in a shoebox where she collected all the mail she got from her parents. In bare feet, she put clean sheets on her bed, scooped the cat box, and swept the floor.

  Who knew that good old Mr. Bigley would be the one to raise Kate off the couch after such a long stretch?

  To: Chloe, Vicki

  From: Angela

  Subject: Kate??????????????

  * * *

  Hi ladies,

  I don’t want to freak you out, but Kate is missing. She isn’t answering phone or texts. I’m worried sick. It’s not like her to be out of touch with me and, as we all know, she is still struggling with personal issues. I went to her apartment today, and she wasn’t there. Have you heard from her? I can’t understand why she isn’t calling me back—I left her a million messages. This is not like her. Unless you know where she is, I’m calling the police.

  Angela

  To: mbranson@prestigeschoolplacement.com

  From: Nancy Smith

  Subject: Your services

  * * *

  Hello Mel,

  Thank you for taking the time to speak with me yesterday. Sam and I are looking forward to working with you to find the next step for Gus. His current school, Horizons Elementary, has always seemed flaky to me, a lot of “self-discovery” and finger painting for $40,000 a year, but as far as I can tell, Gus has liked it. I was disappointed to learn that Horizons’ role in placing their students is limited to sending grades and writing recommendations, so I have no doubt we will be in dire need of your services. I assume you’ll put together a list of choices for us? Or am I supposed to research all of these places? Because, to be honest, I would rather defer to your expertise. As for me, my one request would be that we only consider schools that go all the way through 12th grade so that we don’t have to apply again 3 years from now.

  I have sent in our check to secure your services for the application season. In terms of the kind of assistance you offer, will you be helping us with the essay portions of the written applications? I got online as you suggested and found this all to be rather overwhelming. Some of the questions for the parents are odd—“What would you like the committee to know about your child’s learning style?” I really have no idea. Can you advise? And “What are your child’s strengths and weaknesses?” I’m not sure exactly what they’re looking for with that.

  Finally, Sam made a mistake on his schedule, and it turns out he’s away on business on the day we chose. Do you need him to be present when we meet? He travels a lot. I am happy to reschedule or we can keep the meeting if I can come on my own.

  All the best,

  Nancy

  To: Chloe, Vicki

  From: kpearson@hudsonday.org

  Subject: guess what . . .

  * * *

  Sorry I was M.I.A. last week, but note the new email address?? Yes, I actually got the job and survived my first whole day. Can you even believe it? I’m going through cat and couch withdrawal, and I’m scared to death I can’t do this. I’ll fill you in on the details later but wanted to let you know that I’m back in the world, hop
ing I don’t burn up on reentry. We’ll see how it goes.

  I am writing from my very own little office. (I have no window, but I’m not complaining.) I’m getting a magnetic name tag and business cards next week—this shit is real! I work with a lady who hates me, but I think she hates everyone. She rolled her eyes at me so hard today I thought she was going to hurt herself.

  Remember all that time I spent getting ready for my job at NYU? Studying all things anthropological from brain phylogeny in primates to the evolutionary history of cercopithecoids? Well, obviously none of that is going to help me around here, and this time I’m going to have to learn everything all on the fly. Good luck with that, right? I’ll be lucky if I last the week.

  Off to Angela’s. She’s super pissed off at me.

  All ok with you?

  Xoxo K

  Angela was working herself up into a full fury, cooking an angry dinner and planning out the fight she was going to have. Inconsiderate. Thoughtless. Worrying everyone to death. What were you thinking? Not how we do things in this family. Since the brief moment of relief she’d felt when Kate had finally contacted her, Angela found she was becoming more and more outraged at her sister’s behavior. After all I’ve done for you . . .

  Doug got home from work before Kate arrived for dinner and right away could smell the rage above the carbonara.

  “For starters,” she said as he came in, “could you clean up all the toys and crap over there? We can’t even sit down. I don’t think it’s so much to ask—”

  “Okeydokey,” he answered, briefcase still in hand, picking up Duplos and newspapers off the couch. With that done, he couldn’t identify what other crap she was referring to. He went to the kitchen and patted Emily on the head. She smiled back at him, kicked her legs, and threw a fistful of cottage cheese on the floor.

  “Kate owes me an explanation,” Angela was saying as she ripped lettuce into small, bruised scraps. “I want to be able to sit down and question her.”

  “She doesn’t actually owe you anything.”

  “I had a very bad time because of her. I mean, my God, I called our parents.” With a whisk and violence she emulsed oil and vinegar until they behaved. She was still in her work clothes, high heels, and serious slacks, and she yelled—“Oh, for fuck’s sake!”—as one drop of dressing dared to land on her silk blouse.

  “Can I get you a drink? Bottle of glue? Something to calm you down?” Doug asked.

  Angela put her hands on her hips and stared at him.

  “I forgot,” he said. “This is going to suck. If things get too ugly—I’m just saying—I’m clearing out before all the crying gets started.” Emily started singing something loud and out of tune, while she drummed a wooden spoon on the high chair tray. He felt a longing for his office, quiet and orderly.

  “Oh, come on,” Angela said, unbuttoning her blouse. “No one’s going to cry.” She disappeared into the bedroom, and he heard the rattling of hangers.

  “Someone’s going to cry unless you stop being so pissed off. She didn’t do anything wrong.” Doug took off his blazer and tie and threw them on the couch, an act of rebellion against Angela and her rotten mood.

  “Well, I wouldn’t say that,” Angela yelled from the bedroom. “I wouldn’t say she didn’t do anything—”

  “She’s an adult. You need to let go a little. She doesn’t have to tell you every single thing—”

  “Don’t make me out to be unreasonable. I never said ‘every single thing.’ ” She came out of the bedroom, tucking in a clean shirt and checking herself in the mirror by the front door. “She can’t expect me not to worry given that she barely leaves her apartment for months, and then suddenly she goes missing—but I’m not supposed to worry?”

  “Why aren’t you in jeans?”

  “They’re too tight, thanks for asking.”

  “Pajamas, then. I don’t like where this is going. I see what you’re doing—it’s a superiority thing. She’s going to show up here, wearing dirty sweatpants.” Doug headed into the bedroom. “I’m going to have to balance things out and wear nothing but underwear.”

  The downstairs buzzer rang.

  “That’s a surprise,” Angela said to Emily. “Auntie Kate is actually on time?”

  “Smile so you don’t scare her,” Doug called out from the bedroom, “and try to keep in mind that she’s an adult.”

  Angela opened the door and waited while Kate walked up four flights of stairs. It was a nice apartment, a great Tribeca address, but everyone arrived at her door put out and panting. Angela checked her hair and made a face that she hoped looked aged from worry. She would extract the truth and a big apology if it took all night.

  Kate reached the fourth floor, only mildly winded and overly chipper. Everything, absolutely everything, was different. First, Kate wasn’t in sweatpants at all. She was wearing clothes that Angela had never seen before, a pencil skirt, a cool slinky belt, mid-heel peep-toes with blue nails peeping. What is this? thought Angela. Her hair was different as well, and she was entirely too put together. Second, as if this weren’t strange enough, Kate was holding out a bottle of nonalcoholic champagne with a starchy ribbon tied around the neck.

  “A peace offering!” she said sweetly. “Sorry you worried. Mmmm, smells so good in here.” She walked past Angela into the kitchen, putting her new bag on the counter, and went to say hello to her niece.

  Doug walked in barefoot wearing shorts and a ripped T-shirt.

  “Hey, I hear you’re knocked up!” Kate said to him.

  “I heard that, too,” Doug answered. “It’s quite a shock.”

  “It’s not a shock,” Angela corrected.

  “Look at you!” he said. “So elegant.”

  Angela was looking Kate up and down, even turning over the back of her shirt collar to see the label. “That’s some makeover,” she agreed.

  “Thanks. I’m starved,” Kate said, taking a bite of salad right out of the big wood bowl with her fingers.

  “That’s not surprising, is it?” Angela asked. “Given where you say you were all that time.”

  “You’re probably right,” Kate answered.

  “Did you get diarrhea?” Doug asked.

  “Oh, please,” Angela gagged. “Do we have to—?”

  “No, it was great,” Kate replied. “I just ate and drank all the stuff they gave me, antioxidants or whatever. Soup made of cabbage and fennel and I don’t know what. A lot of beets. And that’s pretty much it.”

  “Huh,” Doug shrugged, sitting at the counter and opening Kate’s bottle of fake champagne. “I thought those juice diets gave you explosive diarrhea. Guy I know went on one of those power cleanse things for, like, a week and got the shits so bad he ended up dehydrated at the hospital. They had to give him IV fluids.”

  “You’re disgusting,” Angela said flatly.

  “What?” Doug asked. “I’m interested.”

  “It was fine,” Kate said. “I told you I was on a health kick. It’s a lovely spa.”

  “A spa?” Angela asked, eyebrows raised.

  “Yes.”

  “Was it rehab?”

  “No.”

  “Because you do drink a lot.”

  “Thanks. No, it wasn’t rehab.”

  “Well, you look great,” Doug said. “Doesn’t she look great?”

  “I don’t understand this. Why didn’t you tell me you were going?” Angela asked.

  “No cell phone service. And it was a last-minute thing; I just jumped on the train. Spontaneously. I’m sincerely sorry I upset you.”

  “I think it’s weird,” Angela said. “Completely out of character. Not to mention outrageously inconsiderate. And thoughtless, and not how we do things in this family. You have no idea how worried I was. And your friends were hysterical. We didn’t sleep.”

  “I slept,” Doug said.

  “Mom was extremely upset.”

  “I talked to her yesterday,” Kate said. “She seemed fine to me.”

 
; “She was worried.”

  “Well, it was one of those things,” Kate explained.

  “See,” Angela said, taking Emily out of the high chair, “I don’t even know what that means. ‘One of those things’? Plus how could you possibly pay for it? Also, since when do you go to spas? And third, I thought we were focusing on getting you a job, not taking a vacation.”

  “I got a job. I started today.”

  Angela made a whole series of faces and sounds, from baffled to irritated to ecstatic, while Doug went over to give Kate a high five. “That’s awesome,” he said. “Good for you.”

  “What? How? Why didn’t you tell me?” Angela asked.

  “Surprise!” Kate smiled. “I just told you.”

  At 10:55 a.m., Nancy’s driver opened the back door of the black Escalade and, as a courtesy, offered his hand to help her out. She didn’t take it; she was young and fit, and she could sure as hell step out of an SUV on her own. And gracefully, too, regardless of the height of her heels. She could imagine being eighty someday and accepting the steady arm of her driver. New York was full of elegant elderly women, and Nancy would be the especially glamorous kind, wearing a Eugenia Kim fedora from Bergdorf’s and a Burberry cape. She would be single, since Sam would surely be dead and buried by then. Even though they were about the same age, she would outlive him by a decade. Single at eighty, dignified and well-preserved, sporting Sam’s mother’s diamond brooch; Sam’s mother would be dead as well, after all.

  “Eleven forty-five?” her driver asked.

  “Two o’clock on Fifty-Third near Fifth,” she corrected, “in front of the Modern. No, make it one forty-five and circle if you have to.” She looked at her phone, rolled her eyes, and walked under the green awning to the door of the building.

  The lobby of Dr. Richards’s Midtown office was more upscale than the office itself. The lobby was sleek, mirrored, and marbled, while the office was dark and shabby. In two appointments, Nancy, a woman who believed in remodeling everything from her Upper East Side town house to her ass, had redecorated it in her mind in several different styles. The carpet needed to be replaced, the furniture reupholstered. Dr. Richards didn’t seem bothered by the mothy drapes or the hideous, worn armchairs. Dr. Richards didn’t seem to have feelings at all. She took the idea of being a neutral presence to the extreme.