Small Admissions Page 8

  “What?”

  “Like, what do you like to do on the weekend?”

  “You mean like soccer?” Dillon asked. He was moving around in the chair, getting tangled up in his own legs.

  “Yeah. I guess so.”

  “Soccer.”

  “Okay. Would you say you play it . . . a lot?”

  “I don’t know. Sometimes.”

  Soccer sometimes.

  “Anything else you like to do?”

  “Yes, but I’m not supposed to say video games.” He had taken her stapler and was slamming his fist on it repeatedly. He spotted the tape dispenser and started pulling off long strips and doing what almost looked like origami. He was folding pieces of tape into shapes and then taping those together into bigger and bigger chunks.

  She read the next question, which was under the heading “Social/Emotional Development”: “What methods do you use to resolve conflicts with your peers?”

  “Huh?”

  “I don’t know. I guess, like, do you fight with your friends?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “Call ’em names?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Hit people?”

  “Sometimes. My mom says don’t hit, but my dad says it’s fine. I never hit first because then you get in trouble.”

  “Okay.” Name-calling. Hits people only with good reason. “I’d hit, too, if someone hurt me.”

  “You’re not supposed to hit people. You’re a grown-up.”

  “But still.”

  “Who’d you hit?” he asked. He had taped his fingers together like a boxer, and he was punching his wrapped fist into the palm of his other hand.

  “My ex-boyfriend. Well, I didn’t hit him, really. I threw something at him. But believe me, he deserved it.”

  “Did you leave a mark?”

  “I hope so.”

  “It’s better not to leave a mark,” he said seriously. “You get in more trouble when you leave a mark.”

  “That’s true. But,” she assured him, “sometimes you want to leave a mark.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you’re really mad.”

  “Did he hit you first?” Dillon asked.

  “No, not exactly. But metaphorically he did. You know what I mean?”

  “No.”

  Seriously? Doesn’t understand metaphor.

  “My mom says you have to control your temper, and that shows you’re getting more grown up.”

  “Well,” Kate said, a little miffed, “I don’t think your mom knows my ex-boyfriend. Ex-fiancé almost. Unofficially, anyway.”

  “Next time you want to hit someone, try counting,” he told her, busily pulling the tape off his hand and rolling it into a ball.

  “Why? I thought you said you hated math.”

  “I don’t know. That’s what the school counselor says.”

  Sees shrink at school? She checked her watch and then looked back at the paper. There was only one question left, and she still had twenty more minutes to spend with the kid. More chitchat? About what? “ ‘Ask the candidate’—that’s you,” she said, “ ‘Is there anything that you would like to ask me?’ ”

  “Yeah—what did he do?”

  “Who?”

  “The one you threw something at.”

  “No, I think they mean something about the school. Anything you want to ask me about the school?”

  “No,” he said, “except do you have recess?”

  “No, but we have a gym in the basement and Central Park’s right across the street.”

  “Can I have a piece of candy?”

  “Sure.”

  He reached into the plastic pumpkin and took a fistful of Starbursts.

  “Any other questions?” she asked him.

  “Did you get in trouble for leaving a mark?” he asked.

  “Why would I get in trouble?”

  “You could go to jail.”

  “Look, I’m not going to jail. He . . . Let’s just say he tricked me.”

  “Like a joke?”

  “No, not like a joke. Like a really mean trick.”

  “I don’t think my dad would say it’s okay to hit because of a trick.”

  “What if the trick ruined your whole life?”

  “You’re not supposed to take tricks that seriously. They’re tricks.”

  “Are we done here?”

  “I don’t know,” he said. “I’ve never done this before.”

  “Me neither.”

  At the bottom of the page, it said, “Based on the interview, would this student be a good fit for Hudson?” Kate drew a big, loopy question mark, wondering if she would ever get the hang of this.

  Dillon’s parents, Silvia and Kenneth Blake, took their seats in her office, and Kate got ready to make her way through the list of suggested parent questions she had in front of her, but they didn’t notice her or her clipboard. Silvia Blake was busy parking her briefcase and handbag and taking a sip from her Smartwater bottle. She was young and put-together, and she said enthusiastically, “I can’t wait to talk about Dillon.” Her husband, Kenneth, handsome, gray-haired, and formidable, was looking around the room as if he’d been sent to a broom closet, like the walls were too close to him on all sides, and he sat uncomfortably in his chair. He looked down at it, and Kate kept expecting him to say, “Back in my day, we had real chairs.” They were both suited-up, looking like they’d stepped right out of a Brooks Brothers catalogue, except they were the real thing. Authentic and both slightly plus-size.

  “Great,” Kate said, just to get things started. “Let’s do that.”

  Mr. Blake began with, “I’ll give you some background about myself. I’m CEO of Universacom. You’ve heard of us. We’re huge. Here’s my card.”

  “And I’m a lawyer with Stein, Blake, Stern, and Stein,” his wife added. “Here’s my card. We’re not huge. We’re more of a boutique firm.”

  Kate gripped her pencil and nodded. They steamrolled right over her.

  “We live in the neighborhood,” he said. “Bought our condo a few years back. It’s prewar. A beauty.”

  “So close to Hudson,” Silvia added, “which would be absolutely perfect for us. I can walk Dillon right over on my way to the office. I’m one of those working women who loves mommy time.”

  “She certainly does. My wife,” Mr. Blake said proudly, placing his hand on her back, “is an outstanding, highly respected attorney, and yet she always makes time for Dillon. She’s a terrific mother.”

  “Ohhh,” Silvia said modestly.

  “Now, I’ve been at this parenting racket for ages. I have a son in his last year of college and then there’s my daughter, Bailey, from my second marriage who lives with her mother, and she’s in high school now. My wife, my ex-wife, that is, Bailey’s mother, and I had a heck of a time deciding where to send her, but the all-girls thing works great for her, not that that helps Dillon any. She acts in plays and participates in Model UN, and I don’t even know what else. She’s a very accomplished young lady, if I may say so. And my older son—”

  “I went here,” Silvia interrupted suddenly. “But maybe you knew that already.”

  “I should hope she knows that,” Kenneth said. “Legacy is everything.”

  “We only filled out the preliminary application so far, and I don’t remember if that was on it. But I did go here,” Silvia said again.

  “Silvia thinks that Dillon would do well here, and I’m sure she’s right about that.”

  “He’s been so happy in elementary school,” Silvia said.

  “Best public school in the city,” he bragged.

  “It’s a bit too focused on testing and performance if you ask me, but it has a very nice playground, lots of professional, well-to-do families there. It’s a happy place.”

  “And now we need a top-notch next step for him.” He pointed at Kate, and clicked. “That’s where you come in.”

  “We went to Columbia for our advanced degrees,” Silvia sai
d.

  “A few years apart, of course,” he laughed. “Business”—pointing his thumb at himself—“and law”—aiming it at his wife.

  “I hear you have very strong college placement. Is that true?”

  “Of course they do.” He patted his wife on the thigh. “That’s why we pay the big bucks.”

  Kate was busy scribbling on her paper. Half-sis, half-bro. Mom is 3rd or 4th wife(?)—Alum-attorney, Dad is OLD and ceo uni-something. College placement. Mr. and Mrs. Big Bucks.

  “You look very young,” Mr. Blake was saying. “Is there someone else we’ll be meeting with? Someone in charge?”

  “We’re used to going straight to the top.”

  “Why waste time?” he asked. “I hate wasting time.”

  “Who has the time?” she said. They looked at each other and laughed.

  “Dillon,” Kenneth remarked, “and I appreciate this, Dillon keeps me young, and he’s a good example to me, to both of us, because Silvia and I work hard—I look at Dillon, and I’m reminded every day that you have to find time to play, and that’s what Dillon does, always makes time for the monkey bars; I respect that.”

  Kate wrote playtime and drew a dog face on her paper.

  “I know I’m totally biased, but Dillon really is special,” his mother said. “So imaginative and spirited. Kids love him, and he’s developing a strong social platform. He has friends here already, so you won’t have to worry about him socially.”

  “We know loads of Hudson families. Socially and through work. I play golf, of course.”

  “Dillon plays golf,” she said.

  “And we attend charity events with them as well. We’re already plugged into the Hudson parent body.”

  “We’re very involved in charity,” she added. “Very sensitive to those in need.”

  Kate made a serious face and nodded, writing Oh please in a bubble coming from the dog’s mouth. The dog looked a bit like Mr. Bigley.

  “We’re generous people,” she went on, “with our time and, well, otherwise Very generous.”

  “Gotta give back,” Kenneth agreed.

  “I love Hudson, especially the uniform,” Silvia said. “I can’t wait to see Dillon in that little blazer with the crest on the pocket.”

  “Did he tell you he plays soccer?” Kenneth asked.

  “He’s an amazing soccer player. Very fast. He just loves to run, and he has such stamina.”

  “He’s a natural. His coach says he’s never seen anything like it. He’s by far the best in his league.”

  Best in Show, she wrote above the dog.

  “And he reads,” Silvia said, “sometimes just for fun. I’m sure he told you. He’s voracious; we have spent thousands on books because he rushes through them so quickly. He’s voracious,” she said again.

  Reads. Duh.

  “Also, he was the best in the talent show last year,” she went on.

  “He didn’t win a prize or anything, but believe me,” Kenneth said, “he won.”

  “He did,” Silvia agreed. “It was obvious, and everyone said so.”

  “Damnedest thing, but did you know they say they don’t give out prizes anymore these days? They’re too afraid of hurting kids’ feelings.”

  “They did give one girl a gift certificate at the end, but that had nothing to do with the talent show. If they gave out prizes, Dillon would have won first place.”

  Kate drew a squiggly circle around Best in Show and wrote not quite above it.

  Mrs. Blake sighed and said quietly to Kate, “The girl played this long, boring thing on her violin, almost put me to sleep. But the school wanted to do something nice for her because her father died the week before, and everyone felt sorry for her.”

  “It’s not like it was unexpected,” Mr. Blake said, shrugging. “He had cancer.”

  “She did this whole dramatic thing, ‘I’d like to dedicate this to my dad,’ and everyone started crying.”

  “I mean, is it a talent show or a memorial service?” Mr. Blake asked.

  “It was deadly. And then Dillon, poor baby, Dillon has to come out and face this teary-eyed audience. Everyone passing tissues around.”

  “But he comes out . . .” He paused here for a moment and made Kate wait. She couldn’t decide if she should be writing or not, so she held the pencil tip to the page, sort of in anticipation. “And he stands there for a second, and . . . kaboom! He brought the whole show back to life.”

  “It was a very difficult thing to do,” Mrs. Blake explained. “To get the audience back to the point of the thing—talent. He was spectacular.”

  “Bruce Springsteen couldn’t have done it better.”

  “Harry Styles! No one!”

  “Well, I don’t know who that is,” Mr. Blake said, “but Silvia has the show on her telephone if you want to see it.”

  “Oh, can I show you? Is there time?”

  “She’ll make time,” Kenneth said.

  Kate used her feet to walk her swivel chair three steps over to their side of the room, and they all leaned over the iPhone while Silvia played the clip. There was Dillon, wearing dark glasses, holding an electric guitar. Kate leaned in closer. The guitar didn’t have any strings.

  “I can email this to you later,” Silvia said. “Dillon’s part, I mean. I didn’t film any of the rest.”

  Dillon came to life, moving across the stage. He pumped his fist in the air a few times and shouted something that Kate couldn’t quite make out.

  “He looks like Justin Bieber, don’t you think?” Silvia whispered. “I think he looks just like Justin Bieber.”

  Dillon air-strummed his guitar violently while “Walk This Way” played over a loudspeaker. He shouted the words along with Steven Tyler. “He has a beautiful singing voice,” Silvia added quietly. “I get goose bumps whenever I hear him sing.”

  Kate nodded, watching Silvia’s face as she studied her son’s performance; she was entranced.

  “Isn’t he wonderful?” she asked.

  The clip went on until finally there was a smattering of applause. Kate walked her chair back to its spot. Mr. Blake checked the time on his thick, shiny watch, saying, “Look, let’s get right to the point: you want Dillon. He’s the whole package, and we’d like to move this process along as quickly as possible. Sign things. Contracts, all that. I’d be happy to leave a check now if that would put anyone at ease, maybe throw in a little extra. We’ve made up our minds that this is the place we want.”

  “We’d like it settled,” Mrs. Blake explained. “I went to Hudson, Dillon should go to Hudson. It’s where we want him to go.”

  “Oh,” Kate said, startled at the sound of her own voice. “I’m sorry. There’s a process, you see. There’s a, ummm . . . a committee. And we all review the files and talk. And we discuss. And then there’s a date, one specific date in February, I can’t remember exactly when, but that’s when we tell everyone at the same time.”

  They frowned at her.

  “It’s the rules,” she explained. “I’m only one person. I can’t decide anything on my own.”

  “I see,” Mrs. Blake said, picking up her purse and putting on her dark glasses. “That’s disappointing to hear.”

  Kenneth Blake sat forward in his chair. “I took an hour off work. Certainly you can give us an indication?”

  “Well, there’s the whole file to consider,” Kate said. “And I’m part of a committee.”

  “Yes, yes, you read the file and all that. But what are his chances? I assume his chances are very good, am I right?” He looked at her as if seeing her for the first time and narrowed in on her name tag. “Is there someone else we can talk to? Isn’t there a head of admissions? Who runs the department?”

  Kate realized that these people had never had to wait for anything before, and they always got what they wanted. She felt herself weaken.

  “Did he mess up his interview?” Mr. Blake asked.

  “No! Not at all,” Kate assured him. “He was very comfortable.”


  “So what do you need to know?” he asked. “You haven’t asked us anything. You were with him what? Twenty minutes? I’m sure in that time he showed you what a strong candidate he is. And given what we’ve told you, I think you could be a little more encouraging of our son’s application.”

  Kate squirmed. “No, I am,” she said. “I’m sure it will turn out fine. I mean, I can’t tell you for sure . . .” She looked at the scribbles on her clipboard: the dog was wearing a top hat. “But he plays soccer. He, well, he reads. And the talent show was, wow.”

  “So you’re saying you can see him here?” he asked.

  “I’m saying . . . I don’t not see him here,” Kate said, wondering what it even meant.

  “Excellent!” said Mr. Blake.

  “Fabulous!” said Mrs. Blake. “That is such a relief.”

  “I’m glad that’s out of the way.”

  “But there’s a process—” Kate interjected, trying to sound authoritative. “There’s the whole rest of the file . . .”

  “It’s okay, I get it,” said Mr. Blake, and he winked at her. “You go ahead with your ‘process.’ As long as we have an understanding, then we’re all set.”

  “I figured you’d see Dillon the way I do,” Mrs. Blake said. “You’ll be so happy having him here.”

  Oh God oh God oh God.

  After they left, Kate typed up her comments as Henry had asked her to do. Her notes were of little help, so she tried to remember everything that seemed relevant and to relay it as accurately as she could:

  Dillon is a lively, sporty kid who enjoys some aspects of his current school, although not so much the academic ones. He loves to run around and play (big fan of recess/PE) and manages subjects like math with far less enthusiasm. His inability to sit still for five seconds makes me wonder if he has the temperament to make it through a fifty-minute Latin class. That said, he performed in his school’s talent show and showed a great deal of confidence in front of a crowd. He is a fan of Aerosmith, along with other rock bands, one could assume. We had a conversation about what is and is not acceptable behavior when dealing with friends and other people.

  His rather forceful parents say they are generous and give back. Mother (Silvia) is an *** ALUM *** and a doting mom. Dad (Kenneth) is ancient. They say Dillon reads books and plays soccer very well. He is “the whole package,” whatever that means.