Early Decision (12 page)

What was it that college was intended to bestow, at any rate? Princeton loomed over Anne like a half-remembered dream, full of richness but frightening, too. She thought of all the lost opportunities, classes she dozed through or failed to dare, the years of casting about more for boys than for ideas; though perhaps, she had concluded, this was the best use of the time: four years when you are not yet ready to be an adult, when you are free to think, learn to work, and try out personas without getting into too much trouble. Like a giant playpen for late adolescents. Maybe as a service to society, campuses kept them mostly contained and mostly off the roads. But this was too pejorative. College could be a person's quickening. And if you had come from a certain background, it could change your life entirely. As it would, she figured, for Cristina Castello.

Gideon Blanchard had followed up with a quick phone call: Cristina, he explained, was exceptional; he'd already been in touch with Duke's director of admissions, whom, as it turns out, he happened to know from way back; they were going to do everything they could to ensure her paperwork was received in short order. He'd asked Anne to lunch, to discuss further Cristina's application, was Italian okay? Without waiting for her answer, he left it to her to schedule the day with his assistant. Behind his words Anne heard the panjandrums celebrating. She imagined Cristina as the lone survivor of catastrophe, swum to the side of some gleaming ship. Now all the ropes were lowered, men scrambling to bring her aboard. The hard part was done. She'd been doing it since birth.

And someday, if she was lucky, she'd be sitting in some stupid condo-board meeting, listening but not listening to the minutes proceeding—something about a special assessment for the roof and keeping the alley bins flush with the wall—and college would be behind her, and she'd have the luxury of not having to think about it at all. A luxury for Cristina, of course, but for Anne the problem was still what to build in its place. How to live the life that all that education seemed to predict for her?

“Thank you,” April Penze was saying. As ever, her voice was shrill, but she was reaching for formality, so Anne tuned in. “I'd like to talk about the dog problem,” April said carefully. Her words sounded rehearsed. She was sitting awkwardly on a folding chair, legs crossed, one huge Wookiee boot bouncing slightly.

“What dog problem?” asked Stuart Baldwin.

April waved her hand dismissively in the direction of the two Labs, as if to clear their golden names. “It's the stairs—I don't think they, I mean, I don't think for the carpets, that dogs should be going
all the way up
the stairs.”

“How are they supposed to get into their apartments?” Anne asked coldly.

April narrowed her eyes, revealing twin streaks of frosted violet shadow. “Well, the fire escape. Outside.”

Barbara the Chair held up her hand. “Hold on. April, has there been a problem I'm not aware of?”

Anne was shaking her head. The Baldwins looked at each other and then over at their snoring Labs. Nobody else in the building owned a dog.

“It's just that I think, with winter coming, it's not right to have dogs on the carpets. Wet feet, the snow, all the dirt. I think they should use the back stairs.”

“And only come in and out through the alley,” Anne added.

“Well, yes.”

“That's ridiculous,” Anne snapped.

Liesl Baldwin shifted a bit around her belly. “Are you sure that's necessary?” she asked gently.

“Sweetheart, the back steps can be slippery,” said Stuart quietly.

“ 'S okay,” she told her husband. “You can just take them in the ice, love.”

Everyone paused for this exchange, which was enough to make Anne want to cry.

Stuart thought for a moment. “Well, I guess we're okay with that,” he said.

“I'm not!” Anne protested.

“It's a not unreasonable request, I guess,” said Barbara carefully. “Of course there's nothing in the condo docs about having to take pets through the back . . .”

“I pay a monthly fee to have a dog,” Anne pointed out. “Carpet cleaning will be included, I imagine. And by the way, my dog's feet don't generally have leaves stuck to them.” Anne nodded in April's direction. April continued to bob her leg up and down, waving the muddy clump like a flag, totally unaware.

This earned a smile from Stuart Baldwin.

“Anne, are you comfortable walking Mitchell in and out by the back stairs?” Barbara asked her.

The smile from Stuart gave her almost enough generosity to say yes—it could be done, of course, it was just a hassle of locked gates and narrow wooden stairs and passing the trash bins each way, but the point wasn't logistics, the point was April actually creating the opportunity to take something else away from Anne—in addition to her newspaper!—every single day. And to do so publicly.

“Sorry,” Anne replied. “I'm happy to do that when he's muddy, which I already do. But on nice days, I'm going to use the door, the way I have for three years. If the carpets end up covered in paw prints, you'll know it's me, and I'll be happy to revisit the situation.”

April set her boot down and squared herself. “Not good enough,” she said.

“What's going on here?” asked Liesl.

“I have no idea,” Anne answered. It was the truth. When had she become a target of April's bizarre ire?

There was no way to bring up the missing newspaper now without seeming to be entangled in something that no one would want to engage. April was casting her violet-rimmed eyeballs around the room. Finally she said, “Look, I didn't want to say this, because it's a little difficult for me to talk about . . .”

The room was silent.

“But when I was a little girl, I got attacked by a dog that looked exactly like her dog.”

“A German shepherd, huh?” asked Anne.

“It looked exactly like your dog.”

“Attacked?”

“Yes. It was terrible.”

“Gosh, how scary,” said Barbara. “Did it break the skin and everything?”

April seemed perplexed. “It ripped my coat. It was a big, puffy coat. I remember it all. So I just, I have a hard time going by that dog. I don't mind these two”—she pointed to the slumbering labs—“but there's just this thing about her dog.”

“His name is Mitchell. My name is Anne.”

“I know,” April said defiantly.

“Wow, did you sue?” Anne provoked.

“No, I think—” April broke off. She was not a quick liar. “I think they moved away. The people with the dog.”

“Well, that's good,” said Anne.

“It was.”

“Okay, well, listen,” said Barbara. “Why don't we just ask Anne if she's willing to take Mitchell out the back, assuming that's convenient, is that okay? We know Mitchell's a sweet dog, so it's just a neighborly courtesy. Yes?”

“Wait, so do we have to do the same?” asked Stuart Baldwin.

“No!” chirped April.

“Guess not,” said Barbara slowly. “But I have to say, that seems—”

“Totally unfair,” finished Anne. “Dog discrimination.”

“I was attacked!” protested April.

“Can we move on?” asked Mr. Wozniack. “Dinner?”

“Yes, let's,” said Liesl. She reached a hand out and patted Anne's arm.

Again Anne wanted to cry: frustration at April, of course, who was a crazy raving bitch, but more at herself for getting into such tangles in the first place. This marked two days in as many weeks she'd been embarrassed to find herself caught out somehow, through no fault of her own.

Fat lot of good Princeton did in moments like this. The meeting was breaking up; the Baldwins were asking her to stay for dinner. “I've made lamb,” Liesl said. Anne declined, and retreated upstairs to fume and eat alone her customary supper of popcorn and red wine. She poured the usual quarter cup of kernels into her Whirly Popper, a device that made perfect popcorn every time, no burned bits, by virtue of a hand crank that turned a little wire arm across the bottom of the pot. She worked it continuously with one hand and drank with the other. Her mother hated it. Unclear why. True, her mom made popcorn the old-fashioned way, shaken with good olive oil in a well-seasoned saucepan, and perhaps it was a feeling she had that her daughter was cheap. But Anne suspected her mother's greater concern was that her daughter was investing in things that furthered the half-assedness of her life, snacks instead of meals, gadgets instead of crockery; that she'd have greeted the appearance of, say, a Dutch oven, entirely differently. But the Whirly popcorn maker was a purchase Anne was enormously proud of, that and her black Rabbit corkscrew, whose silent, hidden mechanism was unquestionably sophisticated. The two of these together on her counter every evening formed an impressive tableau. Though the corkscrew did put her in mind of another adult purchase, this one a complicated sex toy, also, and unfortunately, termed a rabbit—because who wanted to fuck a rabbit?—which she'd bought online after Martin had mentioned he'd love to introduce “some tools” into their lovemaking. The thing was bright pink and had a horrible Hello Kitty–ish face whose bunny ears vibrated while other bits swirled. It was altogether too much, and she'd been terribly ashamed when she'd pulled it out and switched it on and seen the look on Martin's face, as though she'd brought out her hair dryer, or a waffle iron: what the hell is that for? He'd actually laughed at her. “I didn't tell you to buy a freaking auger,” he said.

One week later he'd given her the thing he found exciting: a tiny pair of loosely weighted balls, yoked by a string, that she was supposed to put inside herself and walk around with, like some sort of pornographic Captain Queeg. He said they were intended to incite secret orgasms. “That's sooo hot,” he groaned. “You'll have to tell me when you're coming.” In truth they felt terrible, like misplaced marbles, but Anne considered herself obligated to issue a few moans, and since then he'd been sold on the idea. “Will you be wearing them when you come pick me up?” he'd asked just the other day, now that he was finally flying out to see her. Martin adored thinking he knew about her secret life.

In truth her secret life wasn't sexy at all. It was downright secretarial. Night after night, both the pink rabbit and the little balls stayed buried in a drawer while Anne sipped wine and trawled the Internet for job opportunities. She was addicted to career porn. She clicked through doctoral programs, vocational degrees, credentialing bodies and institutes and corporate recruiting pages. She read what McKinsey had to offer her, and how a career at Goldman Sachs could take her anywhere. Or how about med school? The postbac programs didn't seem that challenging. You had two years to complete all those science requirements, and they all but promised to get you in when you were done. Or vet school? Surely Mitchell served some sort of prerequisite? She was especially excited when she stumbled upon sites containing snippets of the great exams—LSAT, MCAT, GMAT; even the GRE subject tests could be good fun (she'd killed on English Literature). She'd do a few questions and find them easy and think, Life is possible. Then she'd hit a question she couldn't answer and look up, and there would be her faded love seat and the heirloom mirror her mother had installed over the dormant fireplace that showed Anne's teeth blue from wine. At this point, some nights, she cried. She had to admit the difference between something that piqued her interest and a sustaining passion. She had to admit that her friends had somehow found it in themselves to square their feet and start climbing ladders, and now they were really getting places—J.D.s, Ph.D.s, editorial roles that didn't require reviewing lip gloss. There were people looking out for them. Two of her friends, if they worked past nine, had long black town cars to bring them home. They always worked past nine and they bitched about it all, but still—a car and a driver, waiting for them? And what did Anne have? A tarty neighbor and a fire escape.

Sometimes her future seemed a climbing wall smooth as glass. Not one single handhold she could find, nowhere to dig in her toe. Once, in graduate school, a shrink had called it “dysthymia.” In other words, he'd said,
You're just sad
. But it didn't feel like sadness. Sadness was to be admired: it usually followed a loss, which meant you'd had something to love. This was angrier than sadness, and terribly frightening. Anne felt like a falling thing almost at the bottom of a well. She was in trouble now, but very soon it was going to get much, much worse. She needed a rope. And it seemed a proper job with a proper name would be just the thing to pull herself up on. She'd wanted to talk about this more with the psychologist, but her student health insurance didn't cover more than three mental health visits, and he'd made the diagnosis on day three.

Tonight again found Anne filling out multiple-choice ovals online, but this time not for fun. She had a questionnaire to complete as part of her application for new health insurance, now that she had left school and joined the real world. “These things are important,” her father had said. But he, the physician, didn't know. Freelance and over twenty-five? You'd better not get sick. Or dysthymic. Or run over by a car. Or have any sense of privacy:

Do you now have, or have you ever had, multiple sexual partners?

Anne stared at the question. Did they mean at the same time? At the same time in one night or at the same time over, say, a semester? Why did they select this one for her? Did they know about the pink rabbit? Or the pink rabbit
and
the wine Rabbit? My God.

The answer to their question was, Not really: there was Martin now, there had been her high school beau, and there had been—well, she'd gone to college, so a few. But
not really
was not an option. She chose
no
.