“Yes, briefly.”
“Little guy, right? Kind of timid? What’s he doing now, anything?”
“Building props from C. S. Lewis novels.” Stan Marensky continued to look at me as if I baffled him, or in some way presented an enigma. A wave of noisy students swelled down the hall. Stan Marensky said, “I understand Julian Teller lives with you now, doesn’t he??
What was this, interrogation time? If he couldn’t eyen tell me the status of the fur trade, what was I doing recounting the doings of our household?
I said merely, “Mmm.” We were saved from open warfare by the sudden appearance of Headmaster Perkins at his doorway. He looked expectantly at the Marenskys, who turned in unison and made for the headmaster’s office. Odd. Two people didn’t need to come in to pick up an old coat. Something else was going on. But as the door to the office closed with a soft click, I knew I wasn’t going to be privy to any confidences.
The second bell rang. I asked the receptionist how to get to seventh-grade social studies and then walked pensively down one of the long halls. Pictures of the old hotel before it had become a school hung between the bulletin boards and rows of metal lockers. In the first photograph you could see the lobby in its former glory. Once this had been an expanse of pink Colorado marble with replicas of classical statuary placed tastefully here and there. Now it was covered with dark industrial-grade carpet. Other pictures showed the wide halls to the guest suites; still others, the suites themselves, lushly decorated with floral-patterned rugs, matching wallpaper, and egg-and-dart molding. The faded photos exuded an air of quiet luxury that was distinctly at odds with the bulletin boards stuffed with announcements, the battered lockers papered with pictures of rock stars, the throb of young voices pulsing from classrooms.
Through the rectangle of glass in the door to his classroom, Arch was visible in the back row of desks. At the front, a video ran on a pull-down screen. A shot of the Acropolis flickered on the screen, accompanied by some loud droning from the announcer, then a shot of the Colosseum. I could see the chalked words on the blackboard: Early Cities: Athens, Rome. Arch, turned away from the teacher, his legs splayed out in front of him, paid no heed. His glasses had ridden down on his nose as he hunched with a book held to the light from the projector. I didn’t need to see the title: The Voyage of the Dawn Treader, his current favorite.
I fought a powerful instinct to slip in and lift the volume right out of his hands. He was flunking this class, for goodness’ sake. But I held back. I even managed not to rap on the door window and embarrass him. But then a sudden touch on my shoulder made me shriek. So much for my Mother of the Year Award: I lost my balance; my forehead bonked the glass. All the heads in the classroom turned. Hastily, I drew back, but not before I saw Arch put his head in his hands in embarrassment.
“What is it?” I demanded brusquely of Audrey Coopersmith, dressed this day in a periwinkle gabardine shirt and baggy pants complemented with hightop sneakers.
She winced. The perfect curls shook slightly. “Sorry,” I said, and meant it. Support, I reminded myself. “What’re you doing here?”
“Delivering books. I’ve just been to the headmaster’s office, but the secretary said you were here.” Her tone was tentative; maybe she feared I would growl at her again. “Listen, that was a great stir-fry that you did. Thanks again. Anyway, after the seminar, one of the staff people said the bookstore was having a, a … reading this Fri-day night. I thought I’d talk to Perkins about it this morning, but he’s in a meeting. The secretary let me talk to him over her phone, though, since the notice was short ? “
“Notice was short for what?” I had a vision of stir-fry for a hundred people. The last thing I needed was another job in an already busy week.
“The headmaster wants to use the reading as a college advisory thing. You and I would do the treats. After the reading, of course.”
“Don’t tell me. Halloween? Clive Barker. Stephen King.”
“Nooo,” Audrey said. She shifted her weight back and forth on her high tops; the keys on her belt hook jingled. “It’s for Marshall Smathers.” To my look of confusion, she explained, “He wrote that best seller, Climbing the Ivy League. It gives tips for the admission process.”
True horror. I asked, “Will the bookstore pay for the treats?”
“No, the school will. The seniors and juniors from Elk Park Prep are all supposed to go. It’ll be over early because of the SATs the next morning. The headmaster’s office is going to call around and tell the parents. Perkins said the school would pick up the tab if you put out a little sign that says refreshments compliments of Elk Park Preparatory School. I suggested that part to him,” she said with a slight snort.
“Audrey, you’re an advertising whiz.”
She said bleakly, “I’m a whiz, all right.”
I didn’t know whether the irritation I felt was from Audrey’s cynical tone or just my increasing impatience with her chronic unhappiness. “Okay, okay,” I said. “Tell Perkins I’ll do it and that I’ll call him.” At that moment, I would have preferred to be a pelt in a Marensky coat than face another metaphor.
She said she’d leave Perkins a message because she had another meeting to go to. Then she turned and traipsed off. I went in search of Miss Ferrell. She did not teach Arch, but she did advise the French Club, which he enjoyed immensely. Maybe she could give me some perspective on his problems.
After about ten minutes of pointless wandering through mazelike halls, I located Miss Ferrell’s room. Actually, it wasn’t that difficult: it was the only door with a poster of a giant croissant on it. Above, a hand-lettered sign was posted: SENIORS: DISCUSS APPLICATION ESSAY AND ROLE-PLAY COLLEGE INTERVIEWS TODAY ? THIRD PERIOD.
From inside the room came the sound of voices. I opened the door and slipped in, heeded only by five or six of the thirty seniors within. Audrey appeared to have just come in also; to my surprise, she was sitting in the back. The Marenskys, apparently finished with their powwow with the headmaster, plus the Dawsons and several other sets of parents, were seated over to the side. A couple raised eyebrows at my entrance. I shrugged. Just me, the caterer. I noticed that a number of the seniors were mourning their valedictorian with black armbands.
A short, round fellow whispered, “Did you bring any food?” When I shook my head, he reluctantly turned his attention back to the front of the room.
Miss Ferrell’s toast-colored hair was swept up into a;:’ large topknot held on the crown of her head by a trailing red scarf that matched the red of her tent dress. The dress itself was one of those bifurcated triangles, half bright red, half raspberry pink. She looked like a pyramid of sherbet. I took the one empty chair at the back of the room. Julian gave me a high-five sign and I smiled. Guess I had shown up at the right time.
“Okay now,” said Miss Ferrell, “it seems to me that too many of you are becoming obsessively worried about what colleges want ? “
A hand shot up.
“Yes, Ted?”
“I heard that for the most selective schools, if you aren’t in the top ten percent of your class, you are dead.”
There was a collective sharp intake of breath at Ted’s infelicitous choice of words. Miss Ferrell paled slightly and reached for a response.
“Well, the ranking may have some effect, but it also helps to have good grades showing your effort…”
“But what about a composite SAT score between 1550 and 1600?” prompted another student fiercely. “Don’t you have to have that too?”
“I heard you had to play varsity soccer, basketball, and lacrosse,” catcalled another, “and get the good sportsmanship award too.”
There were whispers and shaken heads. Miss Ferrell gave her audience an unsmiling look that brought a hush.
“Look, people! I could tell you that the ideal applicant walks a minimum of six miles each way to school! That he’s a volunteer vigilante on the subway! Is that going to make you feel better or worse about this process?”
“There’s no subway in the mountains! Good or bad?” Audrey Coopersmith decorously raised her hand. “I heard that the ideal applicant comes from a low-income single-parent family.” Over the murmurs of protest, she raised her voice. “And I also heard that if the applicant’s after-school job helps support the family financially, it shows character, and that’s what top colleges are looking for.”
Cries of “what?” and “huh!” brought another stern look from Miss Ferrell. Did Heather Coopersmith have an after-school job? I couldn’t remember.
