Getting In (Amanda's Trilogy) (3 page)

A door at the other end of the room opens, and a woman enters. The door seems to close by itself behind her.

“Amanda,” she says, walking toward us. “A pleasure to meet you.” She offers me a firm handshake and leads me one of the sofas in the room. “I’m Jennifer Angstrom. Please have a seat.” Her attention turns to my companion. “Naoko, do bring us tea.”

Naoko bows assent and leaves the room, silently. I sit down and observe Jennifer, who sits across from me on a matching (unfortunately) gilt-and-velvet upholstered sofa. She’s attractive in an odd, elfin way—short, dark hair razor cut in a severe style that was at the height of chic two seasons ago, a long slim neck, exquisite bone structure, and full lips. However, she’s dressed like one of my English teachers at prep school. Her brown tweed skirt hits an inch below her knees; her blouse, cream silk, is buttoned up to reveal nothing of her femininity; and over her blouse, she’s wearing an unflattering cabled beige sweater that looks like it was hand-knit by Granny. It’s even pilling, which I notice as she reaches for a folder that’s sitting on table between us.

Then again, what was I expecting with a college preparatory program: Alexander McQueen in
Elle Decor
?

Jennifer slides back in her seat and flips through the folder. She doesn’t seem to be reading it too closely, just skimming for the highlights. I continue to gaze around the monstrosity of a salon, taking everything in: the ocean of gilt, the garish sparkle of the chandelier reflecting back at me from one of the gold-framed mirrors on the wall, the horrid flocked wallpaper. Then my gaze alights upon a small porcelain figurine on the side table next to Jennifer Angstrom’s sofa. I’m not sure if it would technically be called a figurine, since it depicts two figures: the first, a woman, bent over, her voluminous skirts pulled up around her waist—and the second figure, a man, fucking her from behind. The figurine woman’s face is contorted into a look of shock and surprise, while the man’s face is strangely blank.

“A gift from my husband,” Jennifer says. “It’s German.”

Even though she’s caught me staring, I’m not embarrassed. Nudity and sex don’t bother me a bit, probably because of my liberal upbringing. We’ve got nude statuary all over our Manhattan apartment, although none of it as tasteless as this trashy figurine. “It’s … interesting,” I offer.

“The whole room was a gift from him,” she says. Her English is slightly accented, from what European country I can’t place, but it’s a common accent, an affected style one hears when in St. Tropez or Gstaad.

“That should be grounds for divorce,” I reply before I can catch myself, but instead of taking offense, Jennifer laughs.

“I suppose you’re right,” she says, and I find myself laughing, too. “It
is
a little much, isn’t it?”

“It’s pretty bad.”

Naoko returns with a tea tray, which she places on the table between us, and leaves without Jennifer thanking her. Since Jennifer makes no offer of tea, I sit back and wait.

“So, you want to attend Lexington College,” she says. It’s less of a question and more of a statement. She doesn’t look up from what she’s reading.

“I guess.” I think better of my half-hearted response. “Yes. Yes, I do.”

“It sounds like your parents are very much in favor of your attending Lexington. They’ve done quite a bit to ensure you get in.”

“My mother went there,” I say, a little too defensively. “I’m a legacy.”

“Let me ask you something. What have you done to warrant an acceptance besides being lucky enough to be born to an alumna who happens to be sitting on a fortune? Scratch that,” she says, closing the folder and placing it on the seat next to her. “What are
you
willing to do to get in?”

I hear a clock ticking at the far side of the room. Jennifer is watching me, her expression placid, not at all hostile like the look that admissions officer was giving me yesterday.

Suddenly Jennifer starts to shrug off the horrible beige sweater she’s wearing. “Good lord, it’s hot in here.”

It’s obvious she’s not wearing a bra. As she pulls her arms out of the sweater’s sleeves, the cream charmeuse of her blouse slithers over her perfectly shaped breasts: full, round, and high, not too large, but what one of my boyfriends in high school would crudely refer to as “more than a mouthful.” I casually wonder if those perfect breasts are a Manhattan plastic surgeon’s handiwork; while Jennifer isn’t old, she’s certainly not fresh out of her teens. And despite her announcement of it being hot, I can clearly see her nipples straining against the silk, dark and erect.

“That’s better,” she says, her voice husky. I glance up and Jennifer is looking straight at me. This time, I do blush because it’s one thing not to be embarrassed by nudity, but another to be caught secretly assessing a woman’s tits.

“So, any ideas?” she asks.

I swallow. I’m finding it hard to meet Jennifer Angstrom’s eyes because I know she knows I was just ogling her like a sixteen-year-old boy. And let’s get something straight: I’m not a lesbian. Have I fooled around with girls before? Sure. In my social circle it’s something you do to blow off steam—get drunk, kiss your friends on the dance floor, feel their boobs, and hope a pap isn’t in the corner, squeezing off shots on his Nikon to feed to a gossip columnist back in New York. Women’s bodies are mysterious, soft, and beautiful, and if I can be honest, they’re a hell of a lot better looking than male bodies. But when it comes to feeling deeply satisfied, it’s a male body I need: hard and powerful, a solidity to complement my softness.

“I guess I could do another internship,” I offer. “A serious one this time. Like somewhere in Africa, maybe.”

Jennifer continues to hold me in her gaze.

“You like control, don’t you, Amanda?”

Her question confuses me. “Control?”

“You like to be in charge. Call the shots. Be the boss.”

“Doesn’t everyone?”

“No, not everyone.” Jennifer presses her full lips together. “Many of us … many people are willing to give up control; in fact, they’re quite happy doing so, just as you are happy to take control. But sometimes it does a person good to suppress his or her true nature for a short period of time. It teaches them trust and empathy, which I suspect are two qualities lacking in your life. It gives them purpose. Or for lack of a better term, some soul.”

I’m not offended that Jennifer thinks I’m untrusting and lack empathy because she’s right: I am and I do. “So you’re saying maybe an internship, working with AIDS babies or in a refugee camp, would give me some soul?” I shrug. “I could do that. Could you set that up for me?” As long as I could get out of there on weekends. Maybe her organization can find me something near Cape Town, which has a hopping nightlife.

“Amanda, are you willing to do exactly as I tell you?”

If I don’t get admitted to Lexington, who knows what I’ll have to do to finance my lifestyle. “I guess.”

“You don’t guess,” she says sharply. “You either say yes or you say no.”

I consider her words for a moment. “Yes. Yes, I’ll do what you say. My father will kill me if I blow getting in to college.”

She pauses and licks her lips. “Part of developing trust means we … I … can trust you not to divulge what is required of you during your visits here. Our methods are somewhat unique. Exclusivity reigns supreme.”

There’s that word again. I’m all in. “It sounds great. I’m sure it’ll help. How much does it cost? I’m sure my parents will think it’s great I’m doing something like this.”

Jennifer’s smile is warm. “Oh, there’s no financial cost to you. It’s all covered by private funding.”

I feel even better about everything. Maybe that idiot college admissions officer isn’t such an idiot after all.

“At any moment, you can be expelled from our program without cause. By the same token, you can leave whenever you want. However, we will expect you to honor our program by not saying a word about it. To anyone. In return, we guarantee you complete confidentiality. Do you understand?”

Not only do I understand, but I’m feeling a strange little thrill in the pit of my stomach that I’ve been selected—chosen, even—for this, whatever
this
is. I’ve been admitted to some of the most exclusive places in the world—golf courses played by kings, private clubs in London, hotel wings in Dubai, even a secret sex club in Berlin where I witnessed a very famous boy band singer get fellated by an aging film star with a pregnant starlet wife back in Hollywood. Rich people are fucking weird, to be honest, maybe because our senses are dulled by the banquet of excess we’re offered each day. But for some reason, admittance into this strange French-Gothic college prep program feels special, quite unique. And I don’t even have to pull out my Platinum Card to pay for it. Score!

“I understand,” I say. “Completely.”

“I want you to trust me, even if every cell in your body tells you not to.”

“I get it … this is like Outward Bound, but more exclusive. No problem. I can handle it.”
 

Jennifer seems to relax. She eases back into her awful sofa and gives me a smile that I can only describe as feline.

“Would you stand up?” she says. “I’d like to take a look at you.”

This must be part of the trusting. I stand up.

“Now take off your blouse,” she says.

“Excuse me?”

“Your blouse. Take it off.”

I open then close my mouth. I can feel myself getting a little pissed off because I don’t like being told what to do. On the other hand, what was it she said? That I need to suppress my nature now and then? Plus, I have no shame about my body. I’m even a bit of an exhibitionist, to tell you the truth. I’ve been photographed topless all over the world … in fact, if this college prep organization has done the research on me I think they have, they probably have some topless photos of me in that folder Jennifer has tossed aside.

I quickly unbutton the top two buttons on my blouse.

“Slow down,” Jennifer says. “It isn’t a race to the bottom.”

I slow down and before I undo the last button, I pause.

“You can trust me,” she says.

I let the blouse slip off my shoulders, off my arms, and I fold it up and toss it nonchalantly behind me on the sofa.

“Now take off your bra,” she says.

“I … why … but I don’t …”

“Amanda.”

She says my name as if she’s warning me I’m about to go over the line, so I grit my teeth, slip my hand up between my shoulder blades, and unsnap my bra. A couple of wiggles and I’m out of it, and like my blouse, it ends up on the sofa. Unfortunately, I don’t think the room is too hot, because I can feel my nipples contract and harden in the cool air. I look down at Jennifer defiantly, who gazes up at me with a coy smile on her lips.

“Since I caught you looking at my breasts, it’s only fair I see yours,” she says. “Turn around for me.”

Like an obedient puppy, I turn.

“Stop there,” she says. I stop. “Turn back a little toward me,” she says. I turn. “Perfect.”

I stand there like a statue. Jennifer doesn’t move either.

“Do you like art, Amanda?” she asks.

“I guess I do. Yes.”

“As you grow older, you’ll learn to appreciate it. I do love art, although this room may not suggest so, but I think the most beautiful object in the world is the human form. Not a figurine like this.” She shrugs to the crude coupling on the table. “The human form in flesh. The flat plane of a man’s stomach. The angle of his jaw. The curve of a woman’s hip as she turns to that man. Right now, I’m transfixed by the shape of your breast—like a teardrop.”

I’m not sure what to say, so I don’t say anything.

“Amanda, you have beautiful breasts. You must know that, though. You’re a woman who has never known what ugliness is.” She watches me for a few more seconds, then asks me to continue turning for her.

“Well-defined, shapely hips. On the tall side. Stomach flat, but not overly taut.”

I’m facing her again. Jennifer’s cheeks, which were pale, almost ghostly, when we first met, are now flushed pink. She seems to be in a trance.

“Very nice. You can put your blouse back on.”

The most awkward part of all this is putting my bra and shirt on in front of her, but Jennifer turns back to my folder, seemingly unaware of my dressing. When I’m finished I sit back down, and she closes the folder and gives it an efficient pat.

“One more question before we call it a night. What do you think of me?”

“What do I think of you?”

“Do you think I’m beautiful?” she asks.

I pause, not sure how to answer. So in an instant, I decide to tell the truth. “No. But you’re interesting to look at.”

“Interesting,” she says. I’ve hurt her feelings.

“I think you’re very pretty. But your clothes are all wrong.”

“Are they?” she says, looking down at her blouse and sad schoolmarm skirt.

“A style makeover …” I start to say, but Jennifer interrupts me.

“You liked my breasts.”

I blink with the rapid shifts in conversational direction. “I was wondering if they were surgically enhanced,” I say truthfully. And part of me is wondering—wishing, even—that she’d take off her blouse so I could get a better look.
 

“They’re not,” she snaps, and with that, she gathers up her ratty sweater, the folder, and stands up. As if on cue, Naoko enters the room, and Jennifer shrinks back from me, as if I’m a cobra.

“Naoko, we’re done here. You can show Miss Prescott out.” Jennifer fumbles to reach her hand out to me and in a formal tone says, “Amanda, it was a pleasure meeting you. I look forward to working with you in the coming weeks.”

I take her hand. “Thank you. Me too.” I’m actually kind of proud she wants to work with me. Why? I haven’t quite figured out yet.

Then she slips back out of the room, using the same door as before, and Naoko touches my elbow, ushering me out of the God-awful boudoir of a sitting room. I wonder if she’ll be hurt we didn’t even touch the tea she brought in, but given how strange this place is, I doubt unsipped tea is the worst thing Naoko has ever dealt with around here.

She hands me my Tod’s, which, oddly enough, look as though they’ve been cleaned during my visit, and I hand her the slippers, which Naoko brings behind the security counter. She slips me the eye mask.