Admissions Read online

  “Michael sounds pretty great, and you’re so lucky to have Zoe. She is too cute. Just look at her,” Sara said, pointing to the pigtailed biker madly pedaling to keep up with a small blond child on a pink trike.

  “Go, Zoe, you can do it!” Helen shouted ahead.

  “She’s one determined little girl. Look at her trying to overtake Julia.”

  “It’s Julian,” Helen corrected. “A boy.”

  “Oops.”

  “And now watch. If I know my daughter, she’ll pedal really fast to catch up to him and then slow down and follow behind. She’s always been reluctant to take the lead,” Helen laughed, both proud of and annoyed by her daughter’s noncompetitive nature.

  “That could be developmental. She might surprise you one day with a killer instinct you never thought she had,” Sara volunteered.

  “She’d better. Or she’ll never survive in this town!”

  By the fifth kilometer they were giddy, laughing at the absurdity of the bike-athon itself (couldn’t The School have found a worthier cause than old horses?), at several of their fellow chaperones, who at this point were slavishly carrying both their children and their children’s bikes, and at the taunts of one jeering onlooker: “Hey, what about me? I don’t have a retirement fund!”

  When the bike-athon was finally completed, Zoe was in need of a nap, and Helen, feeling buoyant at the prospect of cultivating a new friendship, invited Sara back to her apartment for lunch. They spent the better part of the afternoon delving deeper into their life stories, struck more by the differences than the similarities, and by the time Zoe woke up, they were on their way to becoming fast friends, entranced by what each perceived to be the other’s exotic background.

  In the years Sara had lived in New York, she had acquired a mo-dicum of sophistication while somehow managing to retain her deeply ingrained Midwestern sensibility. Her outward persona was straight-shooting American Gothic, but those who knew her well were privy to her sharp wit and droll style. These traits would serve her well in admissions, where a poker face was mandatory but a funny bone was the key to survival. Helen, on the other hand, was urbane to the core, with a cynicism that allowed her to see the humor in most of life’s travails—that is, most of those she had encountered so far.

  Over the years, their friendship blossomed. They saw each other regularly in The School’s admissions office, where, after five years as Rothschild’s assistant, Sara became the director of admissions, and Helen volunteered as a tour guide for prospective Kindergarten applicants. And they both participated in the many activities that were scattered throughout the school calendar, particularly once Helen was elected president of the Parents’ Association and her presence at these events was required. Beyond that, they made an effort to see each other socially, as frequently as their divergent and demanding New York schedules permitted, which admittedly was not as much as either would have liked.

  In addition to all her other responsibilities, Sara was the director of The School’s extracurricular choral group, of which Zoe was an enthusiastic and talented participant. After years of in-school interaction, Sara had come to know Zoe not only as Helen’s daughter but as a highly valued member of the School community, a gifted musician, and a solid though not stellar student. In turn, Zoe looked up to Sara and, unbeknownst to Helen, had also recently sought her advice on the subject of high school admissions. Sara recognized the risk involved in separately counseling two members of the same family but told herself that as long as she exercised the utmost discretion, her objectivity might be helpful. And since the Dragers were the closest thing she had to family in New York, she was willing to run the risk of ruffling a few feathers to make sure Zoe ended up in the school that was right for her.

  Pamela Rothschild did not arrive at The School until noon. It was unusual, on the first day of school, for the head not to be poised at the front gate, a smile ready for the shy first-time students, a compliment on a new haircut for a returning fifth-grader. In past years, Pamela could always be counted on to be there, the figurehead at the bow of the ship. But this year she was feeling complacent. The School was running well, enrollment was robust, and money was pouring in from several recently enrolled families who viewed their hefty contributions as the least they could do to express their relief at having been granted admission into her exclusive enclave. But even more to the point, proffering enormous donations helped these new parents sleep at night, assuming that their little ones would receive preferential treatment the minute they were enrolled in their new school.

  Pamela unlocked her office, admiring the shiny brass plaque she had had engraved over the summer and affixed to her door.

  Headmasters have powers at their disposal with which prime ministers have never yet been invested.

  “Brilliant, isn’t it?” she crowed to her assistant, Margaret, who still wasn’t sure what message the new plaque was intended to convey: “Keep out”? “The doctor is in”? Or simply “Beware”?

  As Pamela stood in front of her office mirror rearranging her hair, she remembered the one thing she had to do before the evening party: check to see if Julian Toppler was appropriately dressed for the first day of school.

  During the course of the past summer, Pamela had spent many hours counseling John and Lauren Toppler about their eighth-grade son, who seemed to be in the midst of a rather disturbing adolescent identity crisis.

  “I strongly suggest that when Julian is away at camp, you purge his room of all cosmetics and feminine accessories. And when he returns, you must forbid him to enter his mother’s dressing room or touch her jewelry,” she declared with utmost authority. A believer in tough love, Pamela told the Topplers that they could only hope to set Julian straight on his gender confusion by setting limits and enforcing them through strict disciplinary measures.

  “That means no more eyeliner—even if he tells you all the kids are using it,” she commanded sternly.

  Mr. Toppler agreed with Pamela, but his wife did not.

  “I’m more inclined to explore a kinder, gentler, therapeutic approach. Maybe we need to consult a professional,” Lauren ventured tentatively.

  “Are you suggesting that I’m not a professional?” Pamela replied haughtily, and looked to John for support. He nodded in agreement. “In my years of experience I can’t tell you how many parents think their children need touchy-feely intervention when, in fact, their children are crying out for discipline! They’re looking for limits! And it’s up to you to set them!” she addressed her speech to Lauren, whom she had pegged as the pushover. It was two against one, and for the time being, John Toppler and Pamela prevailed.

  Stepping back from the mirror, she experimented with a side part and a new rhinestone-studded barrette, her beloved charm bracelet jangling each time she flipped her wrist.

  An innocent bystander’s glance in the general direction of her hand was Pamela’s cue to recite the unabridged story behind each of the fifteen charms. The first year she was the head of The School, the graduating class presented her with the bracelet, simply adorned with a single gold apple in celebration of her recent relocation to the Big Apple. The annual gift of a charm became a tradition at The School, and each eighth-grade class presented her with one on the day of their graduation. The class representatives spent weeks trying to find the perfect charm, wanting theirs to be more precious and personally significant than the last. Over the years she had been given a lucky horseshoe, a ruler, a little teapot, a riding crop, and her favorite of all, a perfect little replica of The School, complete with a tiny red door and a minuscule schoolmistress standing in front. While fondling the most recent addition, a tiny gold ladle commemorating the days she spent with last year’s graduating class at the local soup kitchen, she remembered her offer, made in an uncharacteristically magnanimous moment, to bring an appetizer to the Topplers’ party. But over the weekend she had been too busy to shop for the ingredients and, quite frankly, regretted ever having made the offer.

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p; “Margaret!” she shouted. “Where can I procure decent pissaladiere? I need enough for a crowd. For tonight,” she barked.

  “I’ll get right back to you on that,” Margaret replied, pretending to know what Pamela wanted. It sounded like some sort of French undergarment for accident-prone children, but why would such a thing be needed for a cocktail party? She scrambled to her desk and grabbed the dictionary.

  “Jeez, was I off base—a Provençal finger food! I’d better phone Bruce. If anyone can help me, he can,” she thought, quickly dialing an old college friend who, she had read on Page Six, was now an up-and-coming caterer.

  Margaret had been working for Pamela for five years. The pace of the school day appealed to her, the kids were endlessly amusing, and she enjoyed her colleagues immensely. But it was the opportunity to work directly with the legendary Pamela Rothschild that had initially sold Margaret on the job. She was respected for overseeing what was considered to be one of the most rigorous, traditional elementary schools in the city.

  In addition, Margaret equated “British” with “learned” and had convinced herself that there were many things she could learn from Pamela. And it was true, there were. But recently some of Pamela’s requests had been falling into the not-in-my-job-description category—like today’s, for example. Or into the I’m-not-so-sure-this-is-ethical category, like the time last year when Pamela asked her to wrap a Murano glass vase that had been donated for The School auction and re-gift it to Pamela’s recently married cousin. The most annoying aspect of her job, however, was the frequency with which she was required to invent excuses to conceal her boss’s habitual absenteeism. But at least she could always rely on the stimulation of new challenges.

  So here she was, hustling a caterer while Pamela was sequestered in her office, “catching up on some pressing correspondence,” as she regularly announced with an air of self-importance. After hearing the same phrase for months, Margaret had figured out that it meant a few minutes of legitimate e-mail followed by hours on the Internet, which, as far as she could tell, involved nothing remotely school-related. Once she caught her searching eBay for bargains on Staffordshire porcelains. Other times she nabbed her yacking up a storm in a chat room with fellow Windsor watchers. And then there were the frequent games of solitaire, which, if Margaret happened to walk in on, would magically vanish from the screen in a nanosecond.

  Meanwhile, ensconced in her graciously appointed office, Pamela cast a wary eye at her computer. As it was day one of the admissions season, it was not surprising that her in-box contained over a dozen messages from eighth-grade parents, all reporting on their application progress. “What a bloody bore,” she murmured to herself as she reluctantly clicked on the first message in her box.

  Pamela-

  Should I inform the schools that Nathan is on Ritalin when I request the applications, in the applications, or wait until the interviews?

  J. MacGuire

  What sheer stupidity! Have you been sampling the meds yourself? Pamela wondered, and responded:

  Jean-

  I won’t tell if you don’t tell. Ever. End of story.

  Pamela

  Next was an e-mail from Neal Moore, the most nebbishy parent in The School and the bane of her existence.

  Pamela,

  Marianne has suddenly done an about face and doesn’t want to apply to any of the schools you suggested. When we met with you in June, you strongly recommended a single-sex school for Nicholas and we both agreed with you. At least I thought we did. Now she suddenly thinks a boys’ school is the wrong way to go. What should I do?

  Neal Moore

  What a weenie! This is exactly why poor Nicholas needs a boys’ school—he has no masculine role model, Pamela sneered, and wrote:

  Neal,

  Who wears the pants in your family? If Marianne is unwilling to call for the applications, then you do it! But deal with this right away! The schools must not sense her ambivalence! You both must appear single-minded and confident in your choice. If she is not, then she should not go on the interviews. But we will talk about that later. Now just get the applications!

  Pamela

  These people need more hand-holding than a kindergarten class on a field trip, Pamela moaned.

  Pamela,

  I wanted to inform you that Marissa will be taking the qualifying exam for the selective public schools. Richard and I have agreed that we do not wish to apply to any of the private schools you have suggested. We have a deep commitment to public education and have decided to pursue that route. We look forward to, and have all confidence, that our pursuit will have a successful outcome. Thank you for your continued interest in Marissa’s education.

  Denise Doyle-Gillis

  A successful outcome indeed, Pamela sniffed. If they want to scrimp on their own daughter’s education, that’s their business. I always thought Dick was a bargain hunter. Anyway, it’s one less student I have to worry about. Young Marissa’s loss will be my gain.

  She didn’t dignify the e-mail with a response.

  And then there was Helen Drager’s, which required no more than a two-word response like “good job” or, if she were feeling friendly, which she was not today, “go, girl.” Since Zoe was a relatively competent and presentable adolescent and her parents had been appropriately generous to The School with both their time and checkbooks, she was currently holding a space on Pamela’s “eminently placeable” list. But that could change any time, particularly since Pamela had learned that Helen had committed a major breach of Rothschild’s Admissions Etiquette.

  During the summer Pamela had heard a rumor via the eighth-grade grapevine that the Dragers were considering coed schools for Zoe, after Pamela had specifically instructed them, when they met last spring, to apply only to the girls’ schools. Her fury was fueled as much by their audacity as by her anger at having her authority called into question. And to make matters worse, she learned that the Dragers’ decision was made on the basis of advice received from, of all people, her former assistant Sara Nash. Pamela knew that Helen and Sara were close, and, resentful of their friendship on multiple levels, she took this as a personal and professional affront and sent Helen a strongly worded e-mail in which she commanded her not to discuss admissions with anyone other than herself. She had since realized that Sara’s advice was well founded, given the limited number of spots in the girls’ schools, but she wasn’t about to admit that.

  Pamela frequently congratulated herself on her omnipotence within The School, always finding the concept of her limitless influence headily intoxicating. She relished her role as ruling puppeteer, pulling the strings that controlled the actions of the people she referred to as her “marionettes.” Every year there were many moments in the admissions drama when she was tempted to assert her power. She was well aware of her range of options, from simply not returning phone calls to out-and-out sabotage, and she would exercise them as she saw fit.

  But that would come later. Now she had to hustle down to the auditorium, where she was expected to make an appearance at the afternoon welcoming ceremony, where while the elementary chorus was singing “My country ’tis of thee,” she quietly sang “God Save the Queen.”

  Brandi appeared to be slightly frazzled by the relentless ringing of the phone. No sooner had she finalized a breathy conversation with a soft-talker from the West Village than the screamer from Chelsea called back with a zip code correction. But despite her inexperience with the codified hierarchy of New York society, Brandi caught on faster than Sara could ever have predicted.

  Sara was so relieved at last to have an assistant that she was willing to overlook the fact that Brandi was a twenty-two-year-old recent graduate of a southern party school with no real experience to recommend her. In the past Sara had manned The School’s admissions office entirely unassisted, but the volume had increased to the point that it became unmanageable for one, and after much back-and-forth, Pamela finally agreed to hire an additional employee. Sara posted the
job on the Internet and received a pile of resumes but never actually had an opportunity to interview anyone. No sooner had Pamela approved the position than she informed Sara that she had taken the liberty of hiring Brandi, who just happened to be the niece of one of The School’s trustees. Sara was less than enthusiastic when she saw her resume, a sparse one-pager describing three summers playing Minnie Mouse at Disney World and an internship at the House of Blues. However, on meeting her she was pleasantly surprised. What she lacked in experience, Brandi definitely made up for with enthusiasm and, Sara had to admit, there was something refreshing about a perky sorority girl with a cheerful disposition. And by the time January rolls around, she mused, the admissions department will definitely benefit from an infusion of pep squad rah-rah and sunshine.

  The hiring of Brandi was the last positive professional contact Sara had with Pamela. In fact, she hadn’t spoken to Pamela since June, before they both went off on vacation—Sara to a New Age spa in Taos to do tai chi, sun salutations, and meditation, Pamela to a cooking school in the south of France owned by Justine Frampton, the director of admissions at The Fancy Girls’ School. Pamela had spent her vacation at Justine’s cooking school every summer for the past five years. Not coincidentally, for the past five years, The Fancy Girls’ School had admitted a disproportionately large number of Pamela’s graduating female students.

  Before leaving for the day, Sara asked Brandi for an up-to-the-minute tally of application requests.

  “One hundred and seventeen calls. Is this a record or what?” Brandi announced proudly.

  “One for the Guinness Book. Tomorrow may bring even more. Think about all the people who never got through today,” she sighed, sweeping her keys into the utilitarian green canvas backpack she carried every day. “I’ve got to get home quickly to change and then get myself over to the party. See you tomorrow. And by the way, good first day,” she smiled, awkwardly patting Brandi on the shoulder before turning to dash out.