You Are Free: Stories

Admission

The letter was unexpected. Cassie stared at it for a long time as she sipped her coffee, trying to decipher a hidden clue, though the language was crisp, the message to the point. They had been invited for an interview.

You recently completed the first stage of the application process when you attended a tour of the Institute for Early Childhood Development. You have been selected for the second step—an interview. This is for parents only. Please arrange appropriate childcare. Your interview time and date are:

TUESDAY, FEB. 18, 2:00 p.m.

Please call to confirm your attendance.

Cassie headed across the wet grass to Duncan’s studio, letter in hand. She peered in the window to see if he was working. He was sitting in front of his television eating a mango with a knife. She opened the door and stepped inside. He was watching a basketball game and lurched back in his seat. Fucking foul! That was so over the line.

Duncan.

He turned and looked at her. I didn’t hear you come in.

We got an interview.

He stared blankly.

At the Institute.

He squinted. The Institute?

They’d toured the place two weeks ago and already he’d forgotten.

The fancy school.

Oh yeah, that. He turned back to the game. Speaking of children, where is ours?

Brittany took him to the park.

Well, then, you should be working. This is our window. Time’s a-wastin’.

I know, she said. But this letter. What should we do about the interview? They’ve offered us a time and a date.

How kind of them.

Duncan. I’m serious.

He turned around slowly, his mouth glistening from the mango. We aren’t interested, remember? So an interview would be a waste of time. Cody is already all set to go to Wee Things. He swiveled back to the television.

Cassie bit her lip and stared at the back of Duncan’s head. It looked egg-shaped and vulnerable from the back.

It was true that they’d only gone on the tour because she’d said she needed to research the play she was writing. She still had no more than the barest sketches of the characters and situation: a wealthy Los Angeles family, a disconsolate bulimic wife, an eight-year-old girl’s suicide attempt. She had not yet decided whether the attempt would be successful.

She’d half believed the research excuse herself. But as she’d driven them over to the Institute that morning in the old Subaru—Duncan grumpy that he’d had to put on clothes—she had to admit that she was weirdly, secretly excited.

Several of the mothers in her playgroup had briefed her on the application process, which was famously mysterious and daunting.

You have to be a Spielberg or something to even get an interview.

I heard Will and Jada got wait-listed.

The Institute for Early Childhood Development. She and Duncan had moved out west only recently from Providence, Rhode Island; he’d gotten a teaching job, she’d gotten an NEA grant for her next play. They were subletting a house—a friend of a friend’s—in Larchmont Village, a precious neighborhood with a quaint, Mayberry feel to it, though it was on the edge of West Hollywood and the residents were all film industry people. Cassie had already found a school for Cody in walking distance, but she’d applied to the Institute anyway, for research. She needed to know the rituals and mores of the city’s elite. Anyway, the application wasn’t hard, just a square white card with blanks for her and Duncan’s names, their occupations, and their child’s name, address, date of birth, and race. Hillary, a playgroup mother who had applied and been rejected twice, observed with some bitterness that the application was so barebones because the Institute got the rest of your information off the Internet.

You have to be Google-worthy, she said.

The school was located in the middle of the city. It was across the street from a public school, an old brick building with brightly colored Spanish and English signs posted on the chainlink fence. The Institute looked more like a museum than a school—a sleek modernist building surrounded by a high cement wall lined with brightly colored turrets that stabbed the sky at odd angles.

This better not take too long, Duncan grumbled as they approached the building. I’ve got work to do.

She’d expected a small group of select applicants, but nearly every seat in the auditorium was filled, and the tension in the air was palpable. The crowd, on the surface at least, was diverse—black and brown and yellow and white, gay and straight. Duncan went for the muffins and coffee while she got on line for their name tags and a folder with information about the school. They found seats in the middle of the room. Nearby she noticed a familiar face. For a moment she thought it was someone she knew, but no, it was a famous actress. She nudged Duncan. Look who’s sitting two rows down.

Duncan was leafing through the information packet. He snorted. Check out the second question here. He was pointing to a green sheet labeled Frequently Asked Questions.

QUESTION #1: Is it true that all the children at the Institute are the children of celebrities?

ANSWER: No. Only a modest percentage of our parents are celebrities. We pride ourselves on our diverse community—which includes plenty of people you’ve never heard of.

The chatter in the room began to quiet as a small, zaftig white woman in an elegant blue pantsuit and clicking heels walked across the floor to the microphone and tapped it twice. Obedient silence fell over the crowd.

The woman smiled and spoke into the microphone. She had a vaguely European accent. Welcome, parents. I’m Esther Vale, director of the Institute. I’m so pleased to see all of you here today.

She went on to give a speech about the school’s pedagogy while the giant screen behind her showed images of the Institute children in action: an Asian girl frozen in hysterical laughter on the playground; a white boy with a mop of blond curls wearing safety goggles and staring at fluid in a beaker; a black girl onstage in a ladybug costume, her face alight with a gaptoothed smile.

The crowd around Cassie seemed to thrum, silently, with excitement and desire. She eyed their rapt faces as they listened to Esther Vale speak.

Now I’m going to tell you who should not apply to the Institute, Esther was saying, a small, bemused smile on her face. And I’m going to be honest with you. Can I be honest? You should not apply to the Institute if you don’t see the value of our generous financial aid program that allows families of all income levels to attend. You should not apply to the Institute if you aren’t interested in being an active member of our school community. You should not apply to the Institute if you are uncomfortable with nontraditional families—gay parents, single parents. You should not apply to the Institute if you are uncomfortable with your child making friends of different racial and ethnic backgrounds. You should not apply to the Institute if you don’t want your child to have as much art—drama, painting, poetry, sculpture—in their curriculum as they have reading, writing, and arithmetic. If these aren’t the qualities you want in a school, then this isn’t the school for you, and there are plenty of private schools in Los Angeles that will suit your needs.

The crowd burst into applause as Esther strode off the stage. They had been given instructions to meet their tour guides at the front of the auditorium, based on the color of the sticker on their folder. Cassie and Duncan’s sticker was blue and they joined the cluster around their group leader, a petite blond woman.

For the next forty-five minutes, she led them through the school—peering into classrooms, telling them about the amazing programs the school had to offer and her own children’s experiences there. Duncan jiggled his keys in his pocket and kept checking his watch. Every so often they would pass another group of parents, and Cassie would recognize a face or a name on a name tag. She felt like she was in a dream. There was Julia Roberts, and there was Donald Sutherland, and there was President Nixon . . .

The last stop on the tour was the preschool area. Their guide explained that the window in the door was actually a two-way mirror, the kind used in police lineups. It allowed parents to come and watch their children as they worked and played. The parents in their group took turns stepping up to the window and peering through it at the class of toddlers.

They’re having snack time, the tour guide explained.

Cassie looked and saw a cluster of children sitting at a table eating what looked like edamame.

I’m not impressed, Duncan said when they were safely outside the gates, heading toward their car. The digs are fancy, sure, but there isn’t anything special about the teaching. Sure ain’t worth the insane tuition. Did you see the figures?

Esther said they have a generous financial aid program, Cassie said.

Whatever. That’s for poor people, their ‘socioeconomic tokens’—not for our upper-middle-class Negroid asses. Or did you forget, we made it, sweetheart. We on da East Side now. He pulled a muffin from his pocket, loosely wrapped in a napkin. He ate as he talked. I’d rather send Cody to the school across the street. Did you get a peek at that? I wonder how Esther explains that little eyesore to all the Institute kids.

Cassie was silent as she pulled out of the parking space. She felt a burning of longing in her chest she couldn’t admit to Duncan just now. She’d been impressed by the Institute—by the aggressively multicultural creed Esther professed, but also by the cheerful yet cloistered feeling of the hallways and classrooms. It seemed so civilized compared to the rough-and-tumble public schools she had attended growing up in Philadelphia. She wanted her child to grow up around these people, not those people, but she couldn’t admit that to Duncan.

So did you get all the details you need for your parody? he asked.

She cleared her throat the way she always did when she was about to lie. Yes, she said. I think so.

And now here she was, holding this letter that invited them to go one step further. The Institute wanted to meet them. They were good enough to meet.

She didn’t mention it again until later that night, after they’d had rugged sex. He was lying beside her in a postcoital coma when she said, Duncan, baby, I’d like to do that interview at the Institute.

I thought you finished your research.

Not quite. I need the interview. It’s the best part.

He sighed. Okay. I guess we can go.

Brittany was the only white nanny in the neighborhood. Duncan, who was originally from the South, had insisted on racial subversion—and he’d ended up with a real live cracker, as he put it, an Alabama native who had been in Los Angeles ten years, fruitlessly pursuing a singing career while she cared for other people’s children. Brittany was in her thirties and vaguely pretty, though Duncan said, The dew is off the rose. He liked the irony of the situation: a black couple with a Southern white mammy caring for their brown child. Of course, they truly liked Brittany as well. More important, Cody adored her. He was even picking up her twangy accent.

So, Brit, Cassie said, we should be back from the interview in an hour. Can you give Cody lunch?

Brittany sat still while Cody drove his Hot Wheels up her blue-jeaned leg, making a vrooming sound.

Sure thing, darlin’. Take your time. And break a leg!

Brittany didn’t know it was just research.

The reception area was empty and Duncan sat playing a video game on his cell phone while they waited to be called inside.

Can you put that away?

No, I’m winning.

She squirmed beside him, irritated. Moments later, a couple—a black couple, slightly ragged-looking, definitely socioeconomic tokens, as Duncan would say—came out wearing bashful smiles. They nodded at Cassie and Duncan but their smiles were tight and their eyes frightened.

A moment later, a middle-aged white woman came out to greet them, smiling with big teeth, her hand extended. Hello, I’m Penny Washburn, director of admissions. Come on in.

She was rather sexless in the way of New England WASPs, with a long, thin face, graying blond hair, and bright blue eyes. She wore belted khakis, comfortable shoes, a pink oxford shirt tucked in.

They followed her down a plush-carpeted hallway to her office.

Inside, Cassie and Duncan took their seats. Cassie looked around. On Penny’s desk sat a photo of two children—preteens with braces—who might be hers. Beside it was a framed picture of a smiling Barack Obama, which, silly as it was, made her feel more comfortable.

The interview lasted about twenty minutes. Cassie wasn’t sure what she’d been expecting, but Penny’s questions surprised her in their blunt specificity: When had Cody crawled? When had he walked? How long had he been breast-fed? How many words—approximately—did he have in his vocabulary? How did they choose to discipline him, if at all? What was his typical diet?

Cody was advanced in all areas, so Cassie felt a surge of pride as she answered. Six months, ten months, thirteen months, and at least one hundred. They disciplined him with time-outs and he ate a healthy diet, though a little heavier on cheese than Cassie would have liked.

He’s very precocious, Cassie said. He already knows all his numbers and letters. Duncan thinks he might even be sight-reading.

He’s two, though, Duncan countered. And an only child. Spoiled. Which means there are plenty of days when we’d like to send him back to the factory.

Cassie shot Duncan a dirty look. He didn’t notice.

Penny, giving nothing away, nodded and scribbled in her notebook.

Then she wanted to know about their backgrounds, their work. Duncan told her about his paintings, the collage technique he used. Cassie was vague about her plays. Penny made interested sounds in her throat and nodded and scribbled more notes.

Then the interview was over and Penny was leading them to the door, wearing a placid, completely unreadable smile on her face.

Cassie breathed a sigh of relief when they were on the sidewalk. Though they’d only gone in the spirit of research, she had felt nervous, as if she were really trying to get her kid into the school.

Penny seemed nice enough, she said when she’d started the engine.

Whatever.

It was cool she had a picture of Obama on her desk.

Yeah, so what. He’s the new Mickey Mouse. Duncan buckled his seat belt. Anyway, are you finished?

Finished what?

With your fieldwork.

I guess so, she said, and stared out the windshield at two women, one white and blond, the other Asian, mothers presumably, who were chatting on the sidewalk outside the school. The Asian one was familiar, from some television show maybe, though Cassie couldn’t place her. They were both glamorous in high heels, with identical sheathlike hairstyles that fell across their faces. They made her think of Malibu Barbie and the ethnic Barbie, Kira. She’d owned both in her youth. The women’s matching silver SUVs were parked in the loading zone beside them. Two girls, their children, came striding out the gate of the school in matching Ugg boots, and waved good-bye to each other as their mothers led them to their respective vehicles.

Cody was napping when they got home and Brittany was wearing her iPod and singing along to country music in a husky voice as she folded their laundry. Cassie told Duncan she was going out for a walk to think about her play. But once outside, she didn’t think about it at all. Instead she went over and over every detail of the interview, trying to imagine what Penny had thought of them, how they’d come across. That slight and inscrutable smile—was it just what Penny’s face did, or did it mean something?

She thought about the school—the vast splendor of it—and the schools she’d attended at that age, the children she’d known.