Chapter One
I'm not sure whose fault it was, Ruby's or mine, that
we
didn't get in. Let's just say neither of us aced the
admissions interview. I knew we were in trouble as soon as
Ruby woke me up, at 6:00 AM, with a scowl as black as the
cowboy boots she had insisted on wearing to bed the night
before. She refused to let me comb the left half of her
hair, so I ended up walking out of the house holding the
hand of a tiny little carny sideshow attraction: half
adorable, beribboned angel, half street-urchin from hell.
The effect was dramatized further by her chosen attire:
Superman T-shirt, magenta mini-skirt and bright yellow
clogs. She was impervious to my pleas, and seemed
uninterested in my explanation of how not going to the
right pre-school would preclude Harvard, Swarthmore or any
other decent college. She'd end up at Slippery Rock State,
like her dad. Even if she hadn't been two and a half years
old, this would likely have made little impression on her.
Her un-Ivied father made about ten times as much money as
her thickly-Ivied mother, and had an infinitely more
satisfying career as a screen writer than mine had been as
a public defender.
By the time we got into the car, we were all three,
Mama, Daddy, and Baby, in matching moods. Bad. Really,
really bad. Peter was irritated because he'd had to get up
before eleven. Ruby was irritated because I had turned off
The Big Comfy Couch and forced her to eat some Cheerios
and
get out of the house. I was irritated at Ruby for being
such a stubborn little brat, at Peter for failing to help
me get her ready for the interview, and at myself for
having gained 55 pounds in the first 32 weeks of my second
pregnancy. I'd already outgrown most of my maternity
clothes and the only thing I could fit into was an old,
dusty-black smock that I had worn to shreds when I was
pregnant with the tiny Hell's Angel herself.
As we drove up Santa Monica Boulevard I desperately
tried to give Ruby some last-minute admissions hints.
"Listen, peach-fuzz, it's really important that you try
to be sweet today, okay?"
"No."
"Yes. Yes. It is. You have to try to share with other
kids. Don't grab toys or fight. Okay?"
"No."
"Yes. Hey, I have an idea! You can tell some of your
funny stories. How about that story about the crazy kitty?
Want to practice that now? That's such a great story."
"No."
I sighed. Peter looked over at me and raised his
eyebrows.
"She'll be fine." I said. "As soon as she's around the
other kids, she'll be her sweet, agreeable self."
I glanced into the back seat. Ruby was grimly picking
her nose and wiping it on the armrest of her carseat. When
she saw me looking at her, she covered her eyes with her
hands.
The Little Engine That Could was widely considered the
best pre-school in the city of Los Angeles. The
competition
for the seventeen spots that opened each fall in the Billy-
goat room was cutthroat. It was probably easier to qualify
for the Olympic gymnastic team. It was certainly easier to
get into medical school. Every one who was anyone in
Hollywood had a little Billy-goat. The school's spring
fund-
raiser, a talent show, had boasted original songs by Alan
Menken, dance numbers by Bette Midler, and one legendary
reenactment of Romeo and Juliet's balcony scene starring
Arnold Schwarzenegger and Whoopi Goldberg.
Our interview at the preschool took place with two
other
families. We perched on miniature chairs, covertly sizing
each other up while waiting for the school principal. One
family seemed pleasant enough and were exhibiting the
same,
slightly manic, good cheer as Peter and I. The father had
a
kind of artistic look, with longish, tousled hair. I
decided he was probably a cinematographer or moderately
successful director. He wore the same dress-up uniform as
Peter, chinos and a slightly wrinkled oxford shirt. The
mother was an attractive, dark-haired woman about my age,
thirty-two or three, wearing a long sweater over leggings
and pretty brown boots. When she caught me looking at her,
I smiled ruefully and rolled my eyes. She smiled back.
Their son sat quietly in his father's lap and buried his
head in his father's shirt whenever anyone looked at him.
The other couple was a whole different kettle of fish.
First of all, he was wearing a suit, a double-breasted,
sharkskin. Definitely Italian. He was substantially older
than the rest of us, at least forty-five or fifty, but
trying real hard to look thirty-five. He sported an
expression that managed to look tense and bored at the
same
time. Skinny wasn't the word to describe his trophy-wife.
Emaciated more like. Her very young, twig-like body was
wrapped in an elaborate slinky skirt with a Lycra top that
revealed a strip of bare midriff. She sported a diamond
the
size of a small puppy on one finger. She had a gash of
blood-red lipstick in an otherwise alabaster-white face
and
her petulant pout precisely matched that of her daughter.
I
discreetly snuck a tongue out over my lips to see if I had
remembered to put makeup on. Of course not. I rummaged in
my purse for a lipstick, but had to satisfy myself with a
tube of Little Mermaid Junior Lip Gloss.
The hyper-elegant couple's daughter wore black velvet
leggings and a red tunic with shiny black cuffs and
pockets. Ruby was transfixed by her red patent-leather
boots. She pointed at them and said, "Mama, buy me that" -
dat - "I want that!"
Normally that kind of demand would be greeted with a
mini-lecture on why we can't have everything we see. It is
a mark of how desperately I wanted Ruby to get into that
school that I leaned over and whispered in her ear, "I'll
tell you what, kiddo. If you are really, really good I'll
try to find you a pair of those boots."
The principal walked in just in time to hear Ruby say
to
the proud owner of the boots, "I'm getting those boots if
I'm really" - weawy - "good!"
I blushed to the brown roots of my red hair and Peter
snorted with laughter. The nice couple smiled and the not-
so-nice couple looked superior. Trophy-wife
hissed, "Morgan, come here," and hustled her daughter away
from Ruby as if she imagined that my baby would try to
wrench the boots clean off her little treasure's feet. As
if Ruby would ever have tried that. At least not with me
right there.
Abigail Hathaway, the founder and principal of the
Little Engine That Could, was a woman in her mid to late-
fifties, tall, thin and striking. She had black hair, shot
lightly with gray, that she wore rolled in a chignon at
the
nape of her neck. Her clothes were gorgeous,
conservatively
elegant, and obviously expensive. She wore a faun-colored,
wool jacket buttoned loosely over a thick, creamy, silk
blouse. Her skirt was in a matching herringbone. It
occurred to me to wonder how she kept herself looking so
splendid when she was surrounded every day by 40 or so
frenetic and filthy pre-schoolers. Ruby and I had already
managed to acquire matching milk stains on our shirts, and
my shoulder was festooned with a pink splash of toothpaste
where she had wiped her mouth after brushing her teeth. I
looked like the "before" picture in a Calgon bubble bath
ad. Abigail Hathaway looked like she was heading out to
lunch at the hunt club.
She perched herself on the edge of a mini-chair,
introduced herself, and told us how she had come to start
this most elite and special pre-school, fifteen years
before. I put on my alert and interested expression, the
one I had perfected in law school to impress professors
with my zeal and engagement with the material. Actually, I
was listening only with about fifteen percent of my brain.
The other eighty-five was concentrating on Ruby as she
wandered around the room, picking up toys and books.
"The Little Engine is designed to be a place where
children learn the most important of lessons, how to
cooperate and communicate." Ms. Hathaway said. "To that
end
we try to inculcate values like empathy and concern for
others."
At that moment Ruby plucked a toy from the nice
couple's
son's hand. He began to cry.
"Look Mama, I'm grabbing!" --gwabbing-- She announced
proudly.
"Ruby!" I snapped. "Don't grab."
"But Mama, I love to grab." She smiled hugely. I shot a
quick glance at Ms. Hathaway to see if she'd heard. She
had
and was looking at me expectantly.
"Ruby, these toys belong to all the children and we
have
to share." I was using my best Miss Sally, Romper-Room
voice.
"It's virtually impossible for children of this age to
share, Ms. Wyeth." The principal said.
"Actually, it's Applebaum. Ruby and Peter are Wyeth,
I'm
Applebaum." I said, automatically, then winced. Like I
really had to make that particular point at that
particular
moment. I looked over at my daughter. "Never mind, Ruby."
At that point Peter decided to take over for me, since
I
was obviously not wowing the room with my parenting
skills.
"Hey, Rubes, come over to Daddy." She ran over and
jumped up into his lap.
The school principal continued on for a while,
describing how at the end of the afternoon those of us who
had been selected to move on to the next stage of the
application process would be given forms to fill out and
send in, along with the one hundred and twenty-five
dollar,
non-refundable application fee. After about five minutes
of
sitting quietly, Ruby had had it. She wriggled out of
Peter's arms and leapt off his lap. She was making a bee-
line for the sand table and had mischief on her mind. As
she blew by me, I reached out an arm, stopping her in mid-
run. I hauled her onto my lap.
"If we're all ready to settle down," said Ms. Hathaway
with a disapproving glance in my direction "I'd like to
tell you about the pedagogical goals of the Billy Goat
program."
Ruby, it turned out, was on her best behavior after
all.
She played nicely and managed not to break anything. But
none of that mattered. My parenting skills had not
impressed Ms. Hathaway. As we gathered our belongings at
the end of the morning, I watched as she handed a thick
manila envelope to the pleasant couple, who, laughing
delightedly, scooped up their shy little boy and rushed
out
the door. No packet came our way. I had a moment of
sadness
thinking that we probably would never get to know that
nice
family, who had seemed like people we could be friends
with. Those thoughts were interrupted by a scene unfolding
at the other end of the room.
"Excuse me. We haven't received our application
packet."
Morgan's father had reached his arm out to stop Ms.
Hathaway as she walked toward the door.
"I'm sorry, Mr. LeCrone." She said.
"Sorry? What do you mean, you're sorry? Where is my
application packet?" He leaned over her, threateningly.
"We are only able to extend an invitation to apply to a
small number of those who visit. I am sorry."
"Look, what the hell are you talking about? Do you
realize that I employ the parents of half your students? I
suggest that you get me an application."
His wife put her hand on his arm. "C'mon, Bruce. Let's
just go. Who gives a shit."
Ruby, who had been staring at the drama unfolding in
the
doorway, gasped. "She said shit, Mama!"
I leaned down and picked her up. "Shh. Honey-pie." I
murmured. I wanted out of that room right away, but they
were blocking the only exit. Peter and I looked at each
other. Neither of us could figure out what to do.
"I give a shit, goddamn it. Who the hell do you think
you are, lady?" LeCrone's grip tightened on Ms. Hathaway's
arm. Two spots of color appeared high on her cheeks. She
looked genuinely frightened.
"Bruce, I'm leaving right now." LeCrone's wife said,
grabbing their daughter by the hand. She pushed by him,
out
the door. He opened his mouth to speak but before he could
say anything more, Peter walked over.
"Hey, let's just chill out here a minute. We're all a
little tense. Nobody means any harm," my husband said, as
he put an arm around LeCrone's shoulder. "I don't know
about you, man, but my back's killing me from those little
chairs, and I'm seriously coffee-deprived."
LeCrone looked, for a moment, like he was going to
snarl. But suddenly he seemed to change his mind. Angrily
shrugging off Peter's arm, he spun on his heel and marched
out the door. Ms. Hathaway sighed with relief. She hugged
her waist with her arms and shivered.
"Mr. Wyeth, if you'll wait a moment, I'll go get you an
application."
"That's okay. You don't have to reward me. We
understand
you have your selection process. It's no big deal." Peter
said, motioning to me. I scooped Ruby up in my arms and
accompanied him out the door.
"Thanks for everything and have a nice day." I said,
smiling over my shoulder at the principal. I'm not sure
what prompted that, maybe I just wanted to show her that
we
were fine and unscathed by her rejection. At any rate, it
turned out to be singularly inappropriate comment, given
what happened later that evening.
© Ayelet Waldman