Early Decision (23 page)

“So should I wait to work on the essay, then?”

Nice try, thought Anne. She shook her head, flipped back the page, and said, “No, listen.” Then she read him his own words: “ ‘I've spent my time in high school working on things that I liked and that were important to my parents and teachers, like tennis, guitar, peer leader and homework. I feel very lucky to have been able to do all these things. But I was surprised to learn this summer that I feel passionate about things that are completely new to me, like caring for the wilderness or finding ways to be sure that wild horses are protected in our nation's west.' ”

“Yeah . . .” he said warily. “It should be ‘peer leadership,' shouldn't it?”

God, the corrections this boy had endured. “Or some other wording, yes, but that's not why I'm reading it. This is the heart of it, Hunter, right here. This is the story you're telling. You've spent your life doing things other people asked of you and guided you to. And that's not wrong—that's called being a kid. Okay, so your mom's a little intense. Your dad kind of scares me, but then again I don't hunt. Even your dog kind of scares me.”

A laugh escaped his throat. He'd rather have belched, Anne knew, but he couldn't help but give her the smile.

“You have beautiful images in your essay, and great ideas. The braided rivers, the stars, the mustangs. About needing to be in the dark so you can see stars, about parents like cities. Keep all that. But go back to this passage I've read”—she drew a box around it—“and make sure that the whole thing is telling that story. Own it. Tell it straight up, as though you know what you're saying, because you do now. And tell us about those new passions. What are they, and how will you act on them?”

“Okay. That it?”

“Maybe lose the prison bit.”

“Right.”

“And go easy on your folks. Not because they deserve it, but because you don't want to sound like a dick.”

“You shouldn't talk like that,” he told her.

“You're right.”

“I won't tell.”

“And your language—be careful, now,” she instructed. “It's time to pay attention to every word. Look up here—you list homework as something you've done, and then in the next sentence you say you feel lucky to have done it. Do you really?”

“No. Freaking hate it.”

“All of it?”

“Most of it.”

“Okay. So if those lines are in there, then it's just sloppy. It's not what you mean. Be as careful as you would be with a precal problem set. Line by line. Make sure it follows, it all adds up. That'll save us some time.”

“What, it's—ten days now?”

“Exactly.”

“Cool.”

“So you'll get it done? I can look forward to revisions?”

“Totally.”

“Good. Want another Frappuccino for the road?” she asked, standing.

Hunter shook his head. “These things are gross.” He straightened, raised his arms as though for a free throw, and tossed his almost-f Venti several feet to the bin. It wobbled, end over straw end, through the café. People in line had to lean forward and back to clear the way. The cup fell in without a ding. The mothers among them shook their heads. One lowered her phone and scowled at Anne.

“Dude, Mom should've made me black,” Hunter said.

“Gosh, I know. She totally doesn't know you at all.”

“Craazy,” Hunter said again. He sped to the door to hold it open for her. “Thanks for the tip on the thing,” he said. “You know, Tide.”

“Nicole will appreciate it,” she told him, heading to her car.

“Awesome.” He stalled for a moment on the sidewalk, clutching his essay draft, with Anne's list of alternatives inked on the back.

“Yes?” she asked.

He shook his head. Then he held the essay up toward her, as though he'd caught it after a long pursuit. The page snapped like a flag in the chilly wind.

“Cool,” he called, and turned toward home.

 

“A
NNE
. M
ARGARET
B
LANCHARD.
Have you got a moment?”

Anne held out her phone and studied the plastic. Seriously, her friends would have gotten such a kick out of this. They'd recently had an e-mail round about Blanchard's latest book,
Call Down Your Career,
now that so many of them had reached safe perches in law, medicine, and finance. Seemed they were convinced of Anne's potential as the lone one among them who could “still do anything,” which, roughly translated, meant that she was the only one among them who had done nothing. Anne hadn't realized she had solicited their reassuring tones, which grated. She'd have loved to correct them the tiniest bit by mentioning Sadie; alas, she had a strict confidentiality rule about her students. She couldn't breathe a word.

The Margaret Blanchard in the books and magazines would've loved to get her coaching hands on a girl like Anne. So much potential, so little power.

“I've really got a bone to pick with you,” said the real Margaret Blanchard.

“I'm sorry?” Was it lunch? Who told her? Why would she care?

“Yes, well. Frankly, I can't believe I'm having to make this call.”

Anne's fingers began to shake. She hated this, how quickly she could be cut to the quick, like a little girl. She sat on her floor next to Mitchell and placed a shivery hand on his warm side. “What's happened?” she asked.

“First our daughter says she's not going to apply to Duke at all. That whole mess with the Mexican girl, you know. Then you meet with her, and next we hear, she's applying but not until January, when all the other kids apply, and I'll tell you, that's not sending the right signal to the admissions committee. And those people are our
friends
. But the real issue at hand today is this: is it true that you told my daughter that the only way she could not get into college is if she becomes a drug addict?”

Ah. Finally, a bit of comic relief. A conversation out of context could be explained much more easily than the real issues, like the imagined contest between Sadie and Cristina, or the fact that for these parents, college had nothing to do with their daughter and everything to do with themselves.

Anne allowed a little chuckle. “No, that's not exactly what I said. Not at all.”

“Really?
Not exactly?
Because that's what my daughter told me, and Sadie does not lie.”

Now Anne was both frightened and annoyed. She stood up, woke up her computer, and softly Googled “Margaret Blanchard.” Certainly Anne had seen her a million times, but in the moment she couldn't think. The screen offered a hundred thumbnails of a brunette who would have been beautiful save a vicious underbite, a jaw so deliberate she resembled an anglerfish in some deep-sea trench. “Honestly, Mrs. Blanchard, those were not my words, and in any case they're completely out of context.”

“So you're saying it's not true.”

“I had a conversation with Sadie about college and her opportunities. She was, as you know, quite upset.”

Margaret Blanchard cut her off. “You know, Anne?” A bit of song had crept into her voice. “What I teach my children is useful here. When we're confronted with a mistake we've made, we have to face that head-on. We have to honor our choices, even when they're the wrong ones. We don't resort to things like ‘context.' ”

Anne felt her own jaw grow as hard as she imagined Margaret Blanchard's bones must feel in her own skin. “I'm not resorting to anything. I am happy to detail for you the exchange I had with your daughter, if you'd like to hear it.”

“Sadie told me that you said that the only way she wouldn't get into Duke is if she was a drug addict. That it's a sure thing. And, you know, my husband and I have spent her entire life trying to impress upon her that her achievements are her achievements alone, and now you have just gone and undermined everything we have worked to create for her. What will that admissions letter mean to her now? I mean, Merry Christmas, Sadie!”

“I think Sadie will be very pleased when that letter arrives.”

“ . . . Though of course she's refusing to apply early now, so we have to wait until April for that letter, not that it will delight her anymore. I'd think you have ruined Duke for her completely. And to bring up drugs, well, I just don't even know what to say to that. I'm not sure if drugs are routine in your world, but we do not find the use of illegal substances to be appropriate subject for conversation with a teenage girl.”

“Look, Mrs. Blanchard, this is just a terrible misunderstanding. Sadie was casting about for a scenario in which Duke would not be in her future. Frankly, she can't imagine one. And that's a problem for her, believe it or not. It's lovely to want her to feel her achievements are her own. But getting into Duke is one achievement that will not be. I'm sorry, but it just doesn't work that way. So I chose to be honest with her, since she already knows the truth, and talk to her instead about being a good steward of her opportunities. Those are hers and hers alone.”

“What do you know about my daughter's opportunities? What place is it of yours to talk to my daughter about stewardship? I beg your pardon.”

“Would you have preferred I lie? Would you have preferred I tell her that she should be praying every night for a spot at Duke?”
Or would you prefer I tell her how her father's too ashamed of her to even let her write her own essays?

“We don't think it's inappropriate to allow her to feel that she's earning her success. But perhaps you do.”

“I don't!”

“In fact, perhaps it's hard for you to see these young kids succeeding. Perhaps a part of you wants to take that away from them.”

“Mrs. Blanchard, that's just ridiculous.”

“Don't be so quick to answer, Anne, you give yourself away.”

“Excuse me?”

“I don't hear a considered response, I hear knee-jerk. And knee-jerk means I've hit a nerve.”

Anne wanted to say,
It means you're a crazy bitch,
but knew she couldn't, and her brain refused to produce anything milder. She saw this woman's name on the covers of magazines in every checkout aisle in the city. She was everywhere, like some horrid self-help mushroom reaching its long, pious filaments blindly through everyone's thoughts. Anne felt helpless. She was silent.

“Ah. That's right,” said Margaret Blanchard. “It takes a few moments to really hear what we don't want to hear, doesn't it?”

“Mrs. Blanchard,” Anne said, “I'm sorry you're under the impression that I'm not trying to help your daughter, because I really am. I like Sadie very much. But I'm not going to be lectured by you.”

Anne made some quick calculations. Sadie was close to her final essay drafts; she'd get into Duke and likely Duke alone, but that wasn't any the worse for Anne's influence. She could just end the whole engagement right now. She had more than earned her first payment, and it was more than fair to forgo any balance. The novelty of being fired kept her from crumbling. This sort of thing had never happened before. Usually, parents sent her champagne and houseplants.

Anne continued: “If you think, in fact, that I'm not able or willing to help Sadie, then we should stop working together immediately. I'll be happy to forward all the essay drafts and materials I have to you.”

“Oh, Anne,” said Mrs. Blanchard, her tone shifting again. There was a long pause. “Dear, I'm sorry I didn't see this before.”

Anne waited while Margaret Blanchard took a long, audible breath.

“I should have done better than to come down on you,” she continued. “I can be formidable, I know. And now you're trying to just run away. You're young, you're alone. Do you have a partner? A boyfriend? I don't think you're married.”

Anne took the bait; in her confusion, it seemed like self-defense. “Boyfriend.”

“Long time?”

“Um, five years.”

“Ooh, yes. Excellent. Listen. You really should attend my seminar next weekend. It's oversubscribed, of course, but I could make an exception for you. ‘Strife to Wife: Empowering Women to the Altar.' It's right here in Chicago. My assistant can get you signed up. You must be lonely. We should get you sorted.”

“Oh, thanks, but my boyfriend's in L.A. He's an actor. He can't be here next weekend.”

“Oh, it's not for him!” she said, aghast. “No partners allowed! This is a safe place for the girls to come together. We like to blame the men, of course, but we have to get our own homes in order first, now, don't we?”

“What?”

“Listen, Anne, there's nothing to be ashamed of. You must want to move forward with your life. Come next weekend, you'll see.”

“Kind of a busy time of year for me, as I'm sure you can imagine,” Anne said quickly. “But thanks so much.”

“Shame, dear. A real shame. I had thought we might be able to connect here.”

“I doubt it,” Anne said, exhausted.

She practically heard the flame shoot up. Mrs. Blanchard's voice lost its dulcet tones and flattened, like sharpening steel. “In that case,” she said, “we will be clear on a few things. First, my daughter will complete her applications with you, and I will read every one of her essays. Second, there will be no more talk of the Mexican girl's desire to attend Duke or anywhere else until Sadie has applied and we are settled.”

So there it was. Anne pictured Cristina's file, meticulously compiled, the essays and forms and waivers and recommendations, all of it in a red folder Michelle carried to and from Cicero North every day. She didn't dare leave it in the office lest the school's own darkness swallow up the possibility. To think it came down to this woman, Margaret Blanchard, life coach to the stars, who had never even met Cristina—how strange this world could be, the way money tangled up lives so very far from its own concerns.