Almost Royalty: A Romantic Comedy...of Sorts (26 page)

Marcie flashed Bettina a quick, “You moron” look.

“No,” said Elizabeth, “they become miserable entitled retards who can’t do a thing unless we tell them every five minutes that they’re wonderful and brilliant just for learning how to write their names.”

“But they’re safe,” said June.

“Yes, that’s true,” said Elizabeth. “They’re safe. Until middle school. Then there are those endless issues of drugs, sex, alcohol and driving.”

“By the way, Elizabeth, did your husband ever get that bonus?” said Laura, attempting to change the subject.

Elizabeth bit her lip. “He better. Crossroads keeps bugging me about my planned donation. And we’re a little extended with the garden and remodeling.”

“Wait a minute. Are you sure there isn’t any way I could get into Thorton?” said Bettina. Once again, the room chatter crashed to a halt. No one said a thing for a few seconds.

Elizabeth sighed. “Well,” she said “if you get a good recommendation from the Governor, or maybe, I don’t know, Bill Gates, you might get in.”

“Oh,” said Bettina, “is that all?”

Miss Danko was the Admissions Director at Thorton Hall. She was very knowledgeable in the ways of Thorton Hall and its families. Five years ago she had been given a Senior Administration position at Thorton: Director of Admissions, a job which
finally
matched the Thorton uniform she was required to wear (a Classic Talbot’s Suit and Nordstrom’s Pumps) and for which she was qualified. Miss Danko’s main job was pre-screening all parents of Thornton applicants who had made the first cut (not obvious admission rejections) and making an admissions recommendation (yes, no, or possible) to Brell Donovan, who made the final determination.

After 30 years at Thorton, Miss Danko knew exactly the types of families which Thorton hoped to attract and knew with little or no effort which applicant (and applicant family) would be
a good match
. And after interviewing 2500 or so families, Miss Danko and Brell had developed the Recommendation Code:

1.
NM:
An application marked No Match. Usually this family had no visible signs of money. This prospective family was an easy rejection, and absolutely NOT
a good match
for Thorton;

2.
SM:
An applicant marked SM meant Some Match. This prospective family usually had parents who were professionals and were an OK, but not ideal, match, and would most likely be wait-listed and have to decide whether they would participate in “the campaign” or move on to another school;

3.
GM:
An applicant marked GM, or Good Match, was the rarest of applicants, the kind of applicant that every one of the truly elite private schools in Los Angeles always found—no matter the merit of the child or the family—
“a good match”
and basically recruited through invitations to events, coffees, and fundraisers long before any application for a family member was ever submitted. These were the applications of the name families of Los Angeles… Chandler, Disney, Broad, Riordan, Wasserman, Spielberg, etc. and those who were known to have the right qualifications or friends who could vouch for the right qualifications: lots of money. Unfortunately, owing to the different educational theories in vogue, Thorton never received more than seven of these applications per year, as every school in the city scrambled after these applicant families and their parents. Sometimes these individuals had a few known quirks that might make them interesting (disruptive) within the community, such as a known uncontrollable drug addiction, frequent and rotating sexual orientations, and a profound inability to adhere to schedules, appointments, deadlines, or basic hygiene.

But because these people were usually so
qualified
, Thorton (and Miss Danko) always attempted to make the application process as easy as possible for them by overlooking the various deadlines and
Steps to Thorton
which these people always missed, and no matter what, Thorton always,
always
, found them to be
a good match
. As it was, it was due to Miss Danko’s tremendous understanding of the desired Thorton Hall family that she was completely puzzled by the two parents sitting in front of her: How had these two obvious admission rejects made the first cut? There was nothing, absolutely nothing, which suggested that this couple and their little girl would be a good match for Thorton.

The father was greasy, marginally employed, and somewhat ambiguous in his sexuality (if she could even comment on that) and he giggled so much that she was fairly sure that his sobriety could be in question. And he smelled like incense or something. The mother was so uncomfortable in her freshly purchased (so easy to spot) Talbot’s classic navy blue suit and Nordstrom’s pumps. In personality, she was the strangest combination of abrasive and obsequious, as if she was furious that she was actually taking part in this pre-screening interview and yet absolutely clear that she had no choice but to participate in it.

But just as Miss Danko was about to mark Bettina and Bean’s application for little Sapphia the dreaded “NM” she looked at the recommendations.

And then she understood.

Bettina and Bean had somehow managed to obtain a terrific, make that a spectacular, recommendation from an alumnus named Robert Hutchinson. Young Robert, “Robbie,” was universally remembered throughout Thorton as the fantastically talented theater student who had managed to step into the role of “Maria,” the lead in Thorton’s yearly production of
The Sound of Music
, at the very last moment. As it turned out, Thorton had been in a panic on opening night when the girl who had been cast as “Maria” came down with tonsillitis and had thoroughly lost her voice by curtain time. To this day, more than twenty years later, many remaining faculty and staff remembered how Robbie (who had been cast in a minor role as a German SS Officer) stepped into the role and performed brilliantly after convincing the theater faculty that he knew every line, every gesture, and every movement of Maria’s and could perform in costumes which were much too big on him.

After graduation from Thorton, Robbie had pursued a theater education at a controversial college which was located not far from a major highway. After college, young Robbie had spent many, many years in off-off-off Broadway struggling and working in the same dimension where he had first shown his enormous talent at Thorton: as a female impersonator. Recently, he had landed a role in a Broadway production and appeared to be making quite a splash.

But more to the point, Robbie Hutchinson was the son of Alexander Hutchinson, a highly successful individual who had recently served two terms as the Secretary of State in a mostly Democratic cabinet for a US President.

And the Hutchinsons were so very, very, very
qualified
.

Brell Donovan stared at the color of the walls in her office. The instant that the receptionist from the front office led this couple up the staircase and into her office, she knew that something was off. It wasn’t the shade of green she had chosen for her office walls, but the tangerine shirt of the father sitting before her didn’t match, at all, the forest green walls of her domain. Brell was bothered by these applicants. It must have been some mistake, some oversight by Miss Danko, that they had even gotten far enough in the interview process to make it to an interview with her.

And, as it was, the parents in front of her didn’t smell of the usual fear or even that usual combination of fear and desperation. These two smelled of something entirely different, and Brell was sure that what they smelled of was pot.

Sure they were blabbing their heads off, but not necessarily to her. They weren’t even high achievers. She, the mother, led a Mommy (Parent) and Me class and had been an artist. And what did the father do? Did he have some sort of theater background?

Ick.

Not a good match.

Get them out of my office. Quickly.

She scanned the application in front of her.

Ahh. Of course. This would be easy.

“Tell me, Bettina?” Brell said, looking the mother-parent of the prospective applicant in the face, “What did you do at (with a visible sniff) ahhh… hmmm… Art School?”

Brell made sure that these prospective applicants saw her most bored look and an almost visible roll of her eyes. Brell knew at that moment exactly what that mother wanted to say. She wanted to say, “I went to the Tisch School and then started working at the Met.”

She wanted to say, “I went to Yale and then got a position in the Contemporary Art Department at Sotheby’s.”

She wanted to say, “I went to Cooper Union and got gallery representation, then made it into the Whitney when I was thirty-one.”

But as Brell had that mother’s application in front of her, she couldn’t say that. She had to tell the truth.

“Well, I did some paintings,” said Bettina, feeling a little nervous.

“Paintings,” said Brell, “how lovely. I love paintings. What did you paint?”

“Uhmmm… things,” said Bettina.

This was harder than Bettina thought it was going to be, and it wasn’t going well.

“Uh-huh,” said Brell.

Time to take aim, focus, and kill these applicants as quickly as possible.

Brell gave Bettina a big, toothy smile, pulled the trigger and let her bullet fly.

“Did you ever get gallery representation or… say… work in your medium?”

Bettina swallowed and looked down.

But then she looked up, and did Brell hear her whisper the word “Bitch?”

“Oh
please
, as
if
,” said Bettina. “I did Performance Art about the oppression of women in marriage and motherhood. And I was, and probably still am, a big ol’
lesbian
—and…”

Bettina looked at Bean.

“He’s
gay
!”

Brell was silent and let Bettina’s words reverberate off the walls. In all of the interviews which she had ever given at Thorton Hall, no one—
ever
—had uttered those words in an interview.

Brell cleared her throat.

“You know, when you choose a school for your child, it’s so important that you choose a community in which you’ll feel comfortable. Knowing what I do about the private schools in Los Angeles, well… I’m just wondering… Have you two considered… the public schools?”

“You know, I suffered through your
ABC’s of Thorton
lecture,” said Bettina.

“Yes, well, it’s just so important that you choose a school which is right… well… for the entire family.”

“And in addition to surviving your lecture and your hideously boring tour, I must tell you,” said Bettina, “the coffee you serve
sucks
. You need to get a new coffee pot.”

“But why would you choose Thorton?” said Brell, actually wondering.

“Robbie Hutchinson,” said Bean, “one of my best friends. He told me that we would be a good match.”

No.

Maybe she was tired from having done too many interviews in this application season. Brell silently cursed herself, reminding herself to always, always,
always
 review the entire application and recommendations before the interview, and suddenly noticed the bright-red warning sticker, too late, that Miss Danko had placed on the recommendations.

But maybe it would be OK.

“And Headmistress Donovan,” said Bettina. “The Secretary, himself, called me yesterday and told me to call him right after our interview and let him know if you made me feel welcome at Thorton.”

Bettina watched the color drain from Brell’s face.

Bettina stood up.

“Let’s go, Bean,” said Bettina.

Bean stood up from his mahogany chair and walked toward the door. Even he knew that his tangerine-colored shirt didn’t match Brell’s forest-green domain.

Brell stood up and extended her hand.

“Well, thank you…”

“Skip it,” said Bettina with a wave of her hand.

Bettina and Bean walked out of Brell’s office and started down the staircase. Half-way down the stairs, they both burst out laughing, laughing so much that they began crying.

The receptionist at the front office became startled and looked up the staircase when their laughter turned to howls.

And Brell could hear them just as plainly as if they were standing next to her.

Roast Concrete

“You’re not the best-looking woman I’ve ever slept with,” said Dr. Ted. “I know you think you are. But you’re not.”

“Hmmmm,” I said.

“What?” said Dr. Ted.

“I’m wondering why this coffee tastes like roast concrete,” I said.

We were sitting in a retro coffeehouse located on Third Street that was a former pizza joint. It was decorated with free posters, thrift store couches, and drip-wax-wine-bottle candle holders. Miles Davis ’60s jazz was playing in the background. One look said it all: It would go out of business 60 days after the landlord decided to raise the rent.

I watched a cockroach the size of a large paperclip march by my right foot. Our waitress, a volleyball Viking type with long, blondish brown hair in her early 20s, 5’ 11”–135 pounds, wearing a UCLA wife-beater T-shirt and tight, tight, tight jeans came by. She gave us a menu.

Dr. Ted eyed her with interest.

I knew that sometime, maybe in front of me, when I went to the bathroom, or maybe if he could get me to leave early and pretend to have left something behind—keys, glasses, a cell phone—that he would try to get her cell number or email.

We were drinking coffee.

Well, I was.

He was drinking tea.

I love coffee. I love the smell of coffee, the taste of coffee, and the look of coffee. Nothing in the world smells better than opening a fresh bag of coffee beans. If I could bottle coffee perfume, I would, and I would wear it every single day. I’m so in love with coffee that I travel with a coffee grinder and my own coffee beans because I can’t stand traveling to places where coffee might not be good—and I am an expert at detecting old, weak, or watery coffee with one whiff. So when it comes to tea, I just don’t get it. I’ve had delicious tea—Indian and Thai teas are my favorites—but as a rule, I don’t understand teabags, tea balls, letting tea steep, and the fact that tea has no smell. Maybe it’s because tea is the drink of therapy. Or it’s because I’m addicted to coffee. Or because right now I really don’t like Dr. Ted and he’s drinking tea.