Admissions Read online

  Sara’s third-floor walk-up apartment was filled from floor to ceiling with self-help books and CDs. Her taste was eclectic, running the gamut from The Origin of Chinese Deities to Who Moved My Cheese? and from Neil Young (post-Buffalo Springfield) to Norah Jones.

  Not particularly tuned in to the nuances of decorating, Sara had in her apartment much of the same furniture she had in her college dorm room, including the steamer trunk she had used to ship all her worldly goods to and from campus twenty years ago. Only now it functioned as a coffee table, stacked high with educational newsletters, New Age publications, and assorted magazines, the piles topped with the two books that were currently in use: The Joys of Yiddish—a gift from Helen on her last birthday—and Thinner Thighs in Thirty Days, an old standby she revisited every few years. Her sofa was covered with a muslin one-size-fits-all slipcover she had ordered from a catalogue—a misnomer since it never seemed to fit her particular sofa properly.

  Hanging on her “exposed brick wall” (a phrase her realtor had chirped over and over when selling her on the virtues of the apartment) was the patchwork quilt made by the children of room D from dozens of their daddies’ discarded Italian silk ties—one of the many items she had bought over the years at the annual school auction. On the table sat the room C ceramic vase, decorated with all the children’s names in Chinese calligraphy, although how they translated names like Courtney and Ashley into Mandarin was anyone’s guess. On the floor lay the hooked wool rug that the fifth grade had roughly patterned with a map of the Lewis and Clark expedition, complete with a tiny figure of Sacagawea in the lower right-hand corner. Having grown up with Ethan Allen, Sara thought of the colorful, whimsical student creations as adventurous home décor, while at the same time they qualified as contributions (and tax deductible, too!) to The School—the only monetary contributions she could make on her paltry salary.

  Sara’s last big purchase, outside of the auction items, was the stationary bike she had bought with the intention of pedaling for thirty minutes a day while watching Jim Lehrer. She was embarrassed when Helen was last over and pointed out that the bike, draped with piles of clothing, looked more like a coatrack than a piece of exercise equipment.

  Sara’s wardrobe also lacked pizazz. She would have been happy wearing jeans and a sweatshirt every day, but unfortunately, the dress code for her job was more Talbot’s than tattered, confronting her with the daily challenge of assembling a presentable outfit. When Pamela promoted her to the position of director of admissions, she admonished Sara that she would be “the first contact the public has with The School, and you must dress with that in mind.” She remembered thinking what a chore that would be, and she had been right; particularly since she had gained a pound a year since she started at The School, and half her clothes didn’t fit. She blamed that on the frequent school bake sales, which inundated the admissions office with a constant flow of minimuffins, cupcakes, Rice Krispy treats, and other so-called child-friendly confections.

  After searching despairingly through the chaos of her closet, Sara threw on her standard school event uniform: straight gray skirt, pink sweater set, and practical flats. She struggled with a new pair of panty hose, annoyed that size D, which, according to the pseudoscientific height/weight chart on the back of the package, should fit, barely did. Glancing in the mirror, she dabbed some petroleum jelly on her lips, ran a comb through her thick, unruly hair, then caught a cab to the Topplers’.

  The elevator door opened directly into the Topplers’ luxurious Fifth Avenue duplex apartment; Sara had been in enough of these buildings to know that one apartment per floor was always a sign that grandeur lay ahead. Stepping into the foyer, she remembered Helen describing it as “a treatise on artifice.” With every surface painted to look like something it wasn’t—ceiling as sky with clouds, vertical beams as Doric columns, walls as Aegean vistas—it was truly a triumph of trompe l’oeil. The vast living room beyond contained three discrete seating areas, each of which was upholstered with heavy brocades, jacquards, and velvets, with silky tassels dangling off every corner of every pillow, every knob of every drawer, and every edge of every lampshade. Extending outward from the living room were several long hallways, each one softly lit by a complex network of recessed fixtures and costly dimmers. One hallway led to the master suite, one to the children’s wing: a series of four bedrooms occupied by Julian, his two stepsisters, who lived most of the time with John’s first wife in Los Angeles, and his stepbrother, who lived most of the time with John’s second wife in Honolulu. A third hallway led to the library, music room, and a variety of other underused, overdecorated spaces. Throughout the apartment, the walls were covered with fabrics, veneers, mirrors, marbles, and tiles but were otherwise strikingly bare. The absolute absence of art seemed incongruous amid this level of splendor. But, as Helen had explained to Sara at the last Toppler-hosted school function, “the Topplers’ apartment is about texture, not culture.”

  “Miss Nash. How good of you to come,” Sara was greeted by a deep curtsy and great aplomb. “Pink. What a lovely color on you,” Julian added, waving a white feather duster in the air. Apparently his parents had neglected to inform him, upon his return from camp, that the maid’s closet was off limits, too.

  “Hello, Julian. How was your summer?” Sara asked warmly.

  “FAB-ulous. Camp itself was nothing to get excited about, but I got the leading role in the summer play, Auntie Mame! The other kids were totally freaked by that, but the director was really, really supportive and went way out on a limb to give me the part.”

  “Did your parents get to see the show?” she asked.

  “Regrettably not,” he replied pouting.

  Knowing how much time Pamela had spent counseling the Topplers over the summer, Sara was surprised to see Julian flaunting the feather duster. She couldn’t help but wonder what Pamela’s response would be.

  John Toppler was a wildly successful class action attorney, well known from his advertisements in subway cars and bus shelters. He was also one of The School’s wealthiest parents and had made no bones about the size of the donation he planned to make upon Julian’s admission to the right high school, although in this case “right” did not necessarily mean the school that was right for Julian as much as right for him. Originally from the Bronx, he aspired to more for his son than DeWitt Clinton High School. He had made the blanket assumption that between his money and Pamela’s alleged clout, his son would be handed an automatic acceptance by the same New England prep school his neighbor’s son attended. What Toppler chose not to acknowledge was that these days there were no guarantees, particularly in a school that had more interest in filling its freshman class with lacrosse players than with cross-dressers.

  Pamela frequently complained about this type of father—the man who made unrealistic demands, relinquished all responsibility, and then became apoplectic when the outcome did not meet his expectations. She often proclaimed to have “zero tolerance for these self-important bastards,” except in the case of John Toppler. With him she had no choice—she had already scheduled a dedication ceremony for The School’s new auditorium, Toppler Hall.

  Looking around the room, Sara was happy to see Helen gliding towards her, looking lovely in a sleeveless, black crepe de chine cocktail dress, strappy black sandals, and a triple strand of water pearls. Sara marveled at her friend’s ability to look her best no matter how stressful a day she had had, and to do this on half the clothing budget of most of the women in this room. Helen knew exactly how to make the most of her lithe, willowy frame by wearing well-cut, tailored clothing. She always managed to look fashionable but never trendy. Even her hair, which had been shoulder-length for years, was always straight and bluntly cut, framing her high-cheekboned face perfectly. Sara cringed when she once heard one of the mothers cattily whisper what a pity it was that Helen’s nose was too large for her to be considered truly beautiful. To Sara’s eye, Helen’s excellent posture, spectacular figure, and elegant style more
than made up for an aquiline nose. She knew she would benefit from implementing even a few of Helen’s fashion suggestions and, picking at a pill on her sweater sleeve, vowed to follow her advice the next time it was offered.

  “You look gorgeous. I always feel so shlebby next to you,” Sara greeted her warmly.

  “Do you mean shlubby or schleppy?” Helen teased.

  “Both,” Sara laughed as she grabbed two wineglasses from a passing waiter and handed one to Helen.

  “To the new school year”—Helen clicked her glass against Sara’s—“and all that comes with it,” she whispered, rolling her eyes.

  “You’re such a headmistress’s pet,” Sara teased, knowing Helen had been one of the eager beavers who started making her calls at eight a.m. the day after Labor Day, according to Pamela’s instructions.

  “Well, I’m glad to get the calls out of the way, and I’m looking forward to the school visits and interviews. I’ve got to remember to make sure Zoe gets involved and doesn’t feel bulldozed. I know I have a tendency to get wrapped up in a project and get really bossy. I don’t want to be like some of these other people”—she lowered her voice and gestured towards the other guests—“and lose sight of what’s best for my child. You know what I mean?”

  “I can’t imagine who you might be referring to,” Sara deadpanned as she and Helen observed Julian across the room, rose between his teeth, leading his flustered mother in a mock tango.

  “I haven’t seen Pamela. Is she coming tonight?” Helen asked innocently.

  “I assume so. It is the kickoff event of the school year. One would at least expect her to make an appearance.” And she added in a whisper, “Especially given the hosts’ net worth.”

  Pamela’s comings and goings had always been unpredictable, and occasionally raised eyebrows, even among the members of her devoted fan club, the head-of-School-can-do-no-wrongers. Helen remembered the time she was working at The School’s book fair with Cally Reynolds, and Cally whispered to her conspiratorially, “Last Saturday, at two a.m., Jake saw Pamela at Gruffy’s—you know, that leather bar in the village. What do you make of that?”

  Helen looked at her incredulously and said, “I have no idea. How weird,” while actually thinking, And you’re not wondering what your husband was doing there?

  Seeing that Michael had arrived, Helen went over to rescue him before Peter Newman, one of The School’s biggest windbags, had a chance to corner him. Peter was a Civil War buff, and Michael had once made the mistake of mentioning a business trip he had made to Fredericksburg, Virginia, leading Peter, who missed the word “business,” to assume that Michael shared his interest in the battle site. As a result, whenever he saw Michael at school functions, he subjected him to an 1864-based monologue. Helen grabbed Michael’s arm just as Peter was beginning a discourse on a new theory about Lincoln’s assassination, and whisked him off to get some food.

  “Thanks. Dodged a bullet that time,” he said, appreciatively kissing his wife on the cheek.

  “Two bullets. John Wilkes Booth and Newman,” she replied, warmly returning his greeting.

  “How was your day?” he asked.

  “I’ve developed a case of carpal tunnel finger. I must have pushed the redial button three thousand times today. When I finally got through, it was to be put on hold. But I did finally manage to speak to a few admissions office flunkies and, by noon, had succeeded in wangling applications out of four of them. The other two schools put us on wait lists, and we now actually have to write one of them a letter telling them why we’re willing to wait. Can you believe it? And the groveling is just beginning!”

  “They’ll come through, don’t worry. It’s just a little test. They want us to prove that we know how to play by their rules,” he said reassuringly. After her morning of petty indignities, she found Michael’s mechanical optimism slightly irritating.

  As they stood around nibbling on goat cheese tartlets and chicken saté, Margaret rushed in, balancing a large tray of hors d’oeuvres on one arm while adjusting her tote bag, purse, and gym bag on the other.

  “Ms. Rothschild’s contribution.” She grimaced and plunked the tray down on the table. “Pissaladiere, in case you’re not familiar with it.”

  “Yummy,” purred Dana Winter, mother of eighth-grader April and member of The School’s board of trustees. “I love everything Pamela cooks. This must be her rendition of the famous Justine Frampton recipe, right, Margaret?”

  Margaret was about to blurt out that that was only possible if Bruce McCall was channeling Justine while he worked, but then remembered Pamela’s instructions: “Make sure the pissaladiere appears to be my own creation.”

  “I’m really not sure where the recipe came from,” she replied vaguely. Meanwhile, Toppler refused a piece of pissaladiere faster than he would a no-fault insurance claim, and cross-examined Sara about Pamela’s whereabouts. Sara, now convinced Pamela was AWOL, tried to concoct a plausible explanation, all the while resentful that this burden had fallen on her. In classic Pamela fashion, her arrogance had left her insensitive to the Topplers’ true agenda in offering to host the party—their desire to have the head of School in their home for an evening. Every year, Sara watched the eighth-grade parents compete with one another to get in Pamela’s good graces. They kissed up to her in every way imaginable, thinking that would guarantee them admission to the school of their choice. The sad reality was, it generally worked. Pamela pulled strings for a short list of families—only the few she deemed worthy, regardless of the child’s qualifications. And “worthy” could mean anything from the virtuous (donating generously to the Capital Campaign or sewing costumes for the School play) to the smarmy (loaning the country house to Pamela for her personal use during spring break or sending the family masseuse to Pamela’s apartment on a weekly basis).

  Dana Winter had moved on to the crabmeat dip, scooping and shoveling with an endive leaf. A stocky redhead with ruddy skin, coarse hair, and nicotine-stained teeth, Dana widened her squinty eyes when she spied Helen sipping wine by the bar.

  “Hey, there! How was your summer? Any interesting travel?” Not waiting for an answer, Dana continued, “We had the BEST summer. Patrick has always wanted to go to cooking school, so I surprised him with two weeks at Justine Frampton’s École de la Cuisine de Provence.”

  “Fun, fun,” Helen replied distractedly. She was never fond of the Winters, and had grown to dislike them intensely over the past year, when their daughter, April, tried to steal Zoe’s best friend Julian by bribing him with designer hand-me-downs.

  “Did you call for your applications today?” Dana asked.

  “Of course,” Helen answered lightly. The last thing she wanted to do was swap admissions stories with Dana.

  “Do you know what your first choice is?”

  “How could we possibly know that so soon? We haven’t even seen the schools. Do you?”

  “Well, after spending a few weeks with Justine Frampton, we’re pretty sold on The Fancy Girls’ School. It was so nice for her to get to spend some quality time with April and get to know her in a nonacademic context. Could be helpful, too,” Dana winked.

  Helen raised her brow and murmured, “Good for you,” as she glanced over Dana’s shoulder in search of a friendlier face. “Oh, I need a refill. Please excuse me.”

  Denise Doyle-Gillis waved, and Helen went over and gave her a warm hello. Denise had volunteered to chair The School auction this year, a Parents’ Association function that Helen was glad to hand off to somebody as well qualified as Denise. Over the years Denise had held many positions of responsibility in The School, from lieutenant of the playground patrol squad to dance chaperone coordinator. In each case she took her role as seriously as could be expected, and then some.

  Helen had known most of the people at this party for many years and had spent numerous memorable occasions with them. Together they had attended holiday galas, school plays, art fairs, field days, and fund-raisers and watched each other’s chil
dren grow from adorable toddlers to gawky adolescents. She and Michael had become quite close to several of the couples, which added yet another grueling dimension to the admissions process; their friends had suddenly become rivals as they battled one another for the limited spots in the city’s most desirable schools. Each acceptance meant someone else’s rejection, and Helen couldn’t stop herself from looking around the room and sizing up the competition.

  April Winter is bright, Helen grudgingly admitted to herself, but I hear her anorexia has really gotten in the way of her academic performance. Poor thing. I can’t imagine that most schools wouldn’t consider April a mental health liability and reject her on that basis alone. But who knows? Maybe their summer sojourn clinched them a spot in The Fancy Girls’ School. God knows, that place must be crawling with girls with eating disorders . . . There are the O’Neals. I seem to recall their mentioning that Katie’s test scores weren’t very good last year. I wonder if they had her tutored over the summer. Hmmm . . . I’ll have to ask Zoe. Oh, and I think I remember Neal Moore saying that Pamela told them Nicholas should only apply to the boys’ schools. That will free up one more spot in the coed schools.

  She despised herself for thinking this way. No matter how hard she tried to stay above it, being thrown together with the other eighth-grade parents seemed to bring out the worst in her these days. Looking around for a diversion, she saw Sara, no longer being interrogated by Toppler but, worse, trapped in a conversation with a mother who, Helen knew, had a second child she was desperate to enroll at The School. She sidled over and joined their conversation.

  “Sara, I’m not totally clear on The School’s sibling policy. Can I assume Ari’s acceptance is a fait accompli?” Norit Ben-Adler inquired.