Small Admissions Page 6

  “Sam texted,” Nancy said. “Can we start without him?” She threw her phone in her bag and sank into the sofa. She tried to position herself on one side but found herself tipping toward the crack between the two seat cushions. The couch was too soft. It reminded her of the kind she’d slept on in college, only with fancier fabric. In college the couches were twill or corduroy and stained with beer, close mimics of the male students who sat on them. Nancy moved her bag to the floor: Sam would arrive eventually, and he would need a place to sit. He would come in distracted, not even pretending like he gave a flying fuck about being there, and they would fold in on each other on this stupid couch in spite of their urge to hug opposite arms. Nancy wondered if this was part of Dr. Richards’s therapy: physically force people on each other.

  Dr. Richards looked at her, making her defensive of her husband in spite of hating him. “He’s very busy,” she explained. “We’re both very busy. It’s so hard to make the time work.” She looked around the room at the faded museum posters and marveled at their tackiness. Dr. Richards could certainly afford signed prints. “I’m more flexible, obviously, but Sam works all the time.”

  “How have things been since our last session?” Dr. Richards asked without moving any muscle other than the ones required to make her mouth form words. “Did you and Sam get a chance to spend any time together?”

  “Sam was out of town for the past two weeks, and when he finally got back, I tried to get him to talk to me about this whole admissions thing for Gus, at least do some of the unemotional tasks, like start one application, the Dalton one, maybe, since it’s in our neighborhood. But we both got completely overwhelmed, and next thing you know we’re screaming at each other. Have you ever looked at these applications? They go on and on, asking all of these questions that no parent knows the answers to, like ‘How does your child handle setbacks?’ How should I know? I can’t even think of a setback, much less try to figure out how Gus would handle one. Should I get a divorce just to have something to write about?” She chuckled self-righteously and tried to sit up straighter, but the couch closed in on her on all sides, making her spine roll into a ball. “I could kick myself for not enrolling him in a K-through-twelve school from the very beginning. I don’t know what I was thinking. This whole admissions process is a nightmare; I’m getting incredibly anxious about it. It’s not like Gus is some kind of genius, and it’s not like I know how any of this works, nor do I care. I just want it to be done.”

  “Will you and Sam be able to take this on together? A joint mission?” Dr. Richards asked.

  “No. I realized that’s not really how we do things. We hired a consultant.”

  “So you and Sam came together to make that decision. Does that seem like progress?”

  Nancy sighed in a manner sounding like boredom when in fact she was pissed. “Not really. Because the only thing we decided together is that we can’t get it done together. We can’t do anything together. Which is strange because we do so well together on our own.”

  Sam came in loudly and unapologetically, phone in one hand, briefcase in the other. “I’m late,” was all he said as he sat down next to his wife on the couch, finishing up an email on his BlackBerry. Sam’s energy was exhausting. No matter what time of day, he was moving at full speed, making it known that he was coming from somewhere and was on his way to somewhere else, never at rest. Nancy tried to pat his leg like she was happy to see him but it landed aggressively, more like she was smacking him.

  “Isn’t that right, Sam?”

  “What’s that?” he asked.

  “We do well together, on our own.”

  “What?”

  “We’re not good at joint projects. We’re good together as long as we don’t have to do anything together. Like collaborate or make decisions or I-scratch-your-back type stuff.”

  “Sure, I guess,” Sam answered.

  “Like we both work out every day, but we would never work out together,” Nancy explained.

  “I’m out of town a lot.”

  “But when you’re in town, we still don’t work out together.”

  “Do you see yourselves as a team?” the doctor asked.

  “Yes,” said Nancy, “but not the kind of team that involves passing or cooperation. More like a track team, but not a relay. Too much room for blame. Nothing with batons. Two separate races,” she said, slicing her parallel hands vertically through the air to illustrate. “Different heats.”

  “So you feel you’re in a race? Are you racing against Sam?”

  “No, certainly not. We’re both trying to beat everyone else, but when we try to join forces, we end up arguing.”

  “Sam, do you see your marriage as a team?” Dr. Richards asked. “Or as a race of some kind?”

  “I see us more in a pool,” Sam said, typing in his phone. “Like water polo in a pool. Very vicious. A lot of defense and cheap shots. Or water polo in an ocean. Alligator-infested. Something you could drown in.”

  “Our marriage?”

  “Especially when you add in the complication of having a kid. He’s like a Labrador. You think it will be fun; you’re swimming along and then suddenly he’s trying to save himself by drowning you.” He hit send on his BlackBerry, put his phone in his shirt pocket, and looked up for the first time. “Not a Labrador. What’s bigger? Bigger than a Labrador and clumsy as fuck. A Newfoundland.”

  “Gus is drowning you? Gus is drowning you?” Nancy asked.

  “No, of course not. The two of you are drowning me together.”

  “So I’m a Newfoundland now, too? Fuck you, Sam.”

  “Let me ask you,” Dr. Richards interrupted, “just to know if it’s a point of contention, do you plan to have more children?”

  “No,” they said at the same time.

  “It’s the only thing we don’t fight about,” Nancy said. “One kid is more than enough.”

  “I didn’t know Gus would take up so much space,” Sam said. “He doesn’t blend. When he starts talking? I can’t get interested. I hate being ignored, but at the same time, I want to be left alone.”

  “You’re selfish,” Nancy said flatly.

  “I know. I never hid that from you.”

  Nancy shrugged. “I used to see it as attractively masculine. And anyway, in my opinion, you’re drowning yourself.”

  “How can I drown myself?”

  “By tying concrete blocks to your ankles.”

  “Is Gus the concrete block?”

  “No. You are.”

  “How can I be the concrete block?”

  Dr. Richards tried to redirect. “Why don’t we shift gears . . .”

  “Why are you bringing Gus into this?” Nancy asked. “I was saying something positive. I was saying something nice. I was explaining that I think we’re a good team as long as we don’t have to interact in any way.” She could feel the gravitational pull; both she and Sam were tilting toward the center of the couch, shoulders almost touching.

  “I thought we were here about Gus,” Sam said.

  “Well, yes. I mean no. It’s about us. Gus can’t apply to school on his own, can he? We have to do it with him. But we don’t seem to be able to work together like a normal couple.”

  “Like the kitchen renovation,” Sam said.

  “A catastrophe.”

  Sam turned to Dr. Richards. “She said, ‘I want your input,’ and I thought maybe I cared. But it was obvious she didn’t really want me involved, and I hated hearing her argue about stupid things like . . . like tiles. She wanted a low-hanging pot rack, like she wants me to smash my head on things. And then I said fuck it. Who cares? Like I care about appliances? Like I’m ever going to load that dishwasher? It’s a fucking kitchen. We eat out every night anyway.”

  “Do you like the new kitchen, Sam?” Dr. Richards asked.

  “It’s fine.”

  “Then you must have resolved your differences somehow,” she suggested, “if the end result is one you both like.”

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sp; “It had nothing to do with us,” Sam said.

  “We moved to a rental and had a designer make all the decisions,” Nancy explained. “We let someone else handle it. She called us one day and said, ‘You can come home now. It’s finished.’ It cost a fortune and was worth every penny.”

  “It’s always better to pay someone. Hire an expert. We’re not experts.”

  “Which is why we hired Mel Branson. People say he’s the best school-placement counselor in the city; he performs miracles. My hope is that Gus will be like the kitchen,” Nancy said. “We’ll let Mel handle the details.”

  “It’s only day care,” Sam said. “You’re making too much out of this.”

  “It’s not day care, for Christ’s sake. It’s middle school. You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “We’ll be fine.”

  “What are you going to do about the interviews?” Dr. Richards asked.

  “We’ll be fine,” Sam repeated.

  “Will we?” Nancy asked.

  “Are you kidding? What do you think I do all day? Do you know how many people I bullshit? How many people I manipulate into doing whatever I want? What do you think a lobbyist is paid to do?”

  “Yes, of course,” Nancy said, rolling her eyes. “You’re a very powerful man.”

  “Don’t mock me.”

  “You think this is going to be so easy?” Nancy asked him. “You have no clue how hard it is to get a kid into private school in New York. Do you even have the slightest idea of the ends people go to?”

  “I don’t know anything about it.”

  “Getting into private school in Manhattan is like getting into Harvard.”

  “I got into Harvard.”

  “Like getting into Harvard now. Not in 1990.”

  “We got Gus in once before; we can do it again,” Sam said.

  “This isn’t kindergarten. The process is different, the expectations, the applications, the testing. And frankly I worry about the interview. I think we should practice.”

  “Just keep Gus from wearing those damn pink socks, and let me do the talking.” Sam’s phone made a series of noises. “I have a meeting in D.C. and there is literally a helicopter waiting. It’s been a pleasure,” he said, and because he was fit and energetic, he popped up off the couch. “We hired the guy, so all we have to do now is go to a couple of schools and talk about our kid. Piece of cake.”

  “We have to appear stable,” Nancy said, after he’d turned his back. “Like we get along.”

  “We get along fine.”

  “And we’ll have to convince everyone that Gus is a normal kid and a joy for us to be with.”

  “If you ask me,” Sam said, “we need acting lessons more than we need counseling.”

  “That’s rude. And unfair,” Nancy answered.

  “Get Dr. Richards here to give you a prescription before you leave. Something to take the edge off,” he said, opening the door. “It’ll be fine,” he called over his shoulder as the door shut behind him.

  “He’s very busy,” Nancy said. “It’s a wonder he was able to come at all.”

  Hudson Day was a city school, meaning it had no campus, no green space, no carpool lane. Certainly no pool. Rather it had nine floors, cramped classrooms, a gym in the basement, and a rooftop play yard that was caged in all directions to keep basketballs and children from falling down to the sidewalk below. The building was on the Upper West Side, one block from Central Park, where the PE teachers would set up cones, and the students would play games in matching royal blue and white sports uniforms.

  Hudson offered arts classes, but it wasn’t known for being artsy. It had sports teams, but it wasn’t considered sporty. Hudson was academic. Rigorous. Traditional. The students wore their uniforms, and they sat in rows. They were motivated self-starters who thrived in the school’s competitive atmosphere. Hudson taught them to buckle down and manage their stress. There was a well-stocked library. The science department was cutting edge. The Wi-Fi was fast and reliable. The teachers were known for their high level of expertise in their subject areas. The chair of the English department was a published poet, his works appearing in the New Yorker from time to time. Hudson graduates went to Ivies.

  Kate was beginning to see what set one New York City private school apart from another. She thought about what parents might look for when choosing where to send their kids all day, every day. She got to know the character and reputation of schools like Horace Mann, Trinity, Dalton, and Trevor, and she knew what set Hudson apart. She understood Hudson’s mission, philosophy, methods, and she learned the lingo used to talk about it all.

  But Kate knew that there was theory and then there was practice. Nothing about this place resembled the simple, homey public school she had attended, so Kate viewed Hudson Day as an unknown culture that required her exploration. She took time in her first two weeks to walk the tidy hallways and stairwells. She observed the teachers in their classrooms, noted order and discipline. She listened in on students’ conversations and looked over their shoulders to see what they were reading and writing. A few times she went in the cafeteria and invited herself to sit down at a table full of sixth-graders, which made them all go suddenly and completely quiet.

  “Who are you?” one of the kids asked her.

  “Kate,” she said. “I’m new.”

  “Are you a twelfth-grader?” he asked. “You’re too big to sit at the sixth-grade table.”

  “I work here,” Kate explained.

  “You’re a teacher?” a girl asked.

  “I do admissions. You know, for new kids who want to come here. I’m trying to learn about the school,” she said.

  They all started talking at once:

  “We’re never allowed to call you by your first name.”

  “Monday is pasta day.”

  “Your shirt isn’t tucked in.”

  “It’s against dress code to look sloppy.”

  “Latin’s the dumbest class in the school.”

  “Not as dumb as you are.”

  “Shut up, Scott.”

  “Saying ‘shut up’ breaks the Mutual Respect rule.”

  “You can’t say ‘stupid,’ either.”

  “We’re only supposed to get thirty minutes of Latin homework every night but it’s always more.”

  “You have pretty hair. It’s so soft.”

  “You’re not allowed to touch other people.”

  “You’re not allowed to touch other people’s things. Hair isn’t a thing.”

  “The Latin teacher is mean.”

  “Ms. Butler is not mean. She just doesn’t like you ’cause you never know the answer.”

  “She doesn’t like anyone.”

  “Ms. Banter is the nicest teacher in the school.”

  “We’re reading Whipping Boy.”

  “She lets us start on homework in class.”

  “Scott’s in Study Session. That’s what you get when you’re three assignments behind.”

  “I’m caught up now, so shut up.”

  “Mutual Respect? Hello?”

  “I never get Study Session.”

  “Can I try on your bracelet?”

  “Jackie got sent home today because she stood up when we were supposed to be sitting down and then she was sassy about it.”

  “Jackie’s late to Morning Meeting every day.”

  “My advisor says timeliness is next to cleanliness.”

  “The Latin teacher is the only one who yells.”

  “Ms. Banter never yells, but if you don’t put the right heading on your homework, she takes off five points.”

  Kate got the real scoop on teacher expectations and advisor personalities. As she got to know the students, they revealed the nature of morning meetings, the stigma of study sessions, and the inflexibility of homework headings. They exposed the real culture of Hudson, the good parts and the bad. So during her first week of work, when all she was trying to do was keep Mr. Bigley from realizing what a treme
ndous mistake he’d made in hiring her, she inadvertently impressed him by showing she had a grasp, superficial though it might have been, of everything the school stood for. She had costumed herself in Banana Republic and found she looked the part of whoever it was she was supposed to be. Now it seemed she sounded the part as well, and Mr. Bigley started complimenting her all the time.

  “Really nice work today,” he told her during her second week.

  Kate looked behind her.

  “No, Kate, you. You’re doing a great job.”

  Kate braced herself for criticism. “But . . .?”

  “But what?” he asked.

  “No, I thought you were going to add a disclaimer. ‘Good job, but . . .’ ”

  “No,” he said, “no ‘but.’ ”

  The praise seemed unwarranted, so she decided to work even harder to deserve it.

  Whenever she had a question, which was about a dozen times a day, she would reluctantly go to Maureen’s office next door. “Sorry to bother you again, but what exactly is an ISEE?”

  Maureen sighed and took off her reading glasses. “Independent School Entrance Exam. Stanines range from one to nine, one being the kid is dumb as a brick. We don’t see ones here. We want seven and above, but we’ll stoop to six if we like someone.”

  “So nine is good,” Kate said, taking notes.

  “Some kids get nines in all four categories.”

  “There are categories?”

  “Look it up. And there’s a timed essay, too.”

  “Do the kids get stressed out about it?”

  “Some take prep classes for more than a year before, if they can afford it.”

  “And the ones who can’t?”