Nanny Returns (5 page)

“The board brought me in to steer us through this transition,” he says tightly. “The old head didn’t share their vision.” He clears his throat. “Shall we go in?” He reaches out for the doorknob, a LIVESTRONG bracelet peeking out from his cuff.

“Great!” I smile. So what Gene lacks in pedigree he makes up for in his ability to share a vision.

We enter Ingrid’s homeroom, where the kids chat among themselves as they slouch on the rubberized floors beside empty stainless steel cases that will one day hold Bunsen burners and jarred specimens. Taking in the arrival of their headmaster, they straighten somewhat, their listless expressions perking. Across the room I spot Ingrid setting up a podium with the help of a diminutive student wearing a black straw porkpie hat. As Ingrid takes a seat, the girl lowers herself to the floor, resting her head against one of the chair’s legs like a loyal spaniel. I follow the back of Gene’s blazer as he wends over to the far wall, careful not to step on the professionally polished nails of girls lounging in black pleated miniskirts, their black over-the-knee socks flashing swaths of nubile thigh. Atop long-sleeved scallop-necked tees in a range of pastels, some have draped black cardigans or sweatshirts around their shoulders, an appliquéd crest visible in the folds. The boys sprawl among messenger bags and Apple devices in black flat-front chinos. Their white dress shirts peek out crisply from black blazers embroidered with matching crests, and the sherbet hues of their ties echo the shirts of their female classmates. Individually, a
Teen Vogue
spread; collectively, a little Pink Floyd.

Gene finds a spot for us to stand by an anatomy diagram, while Ingrid approaches the podium. He turns to me, his charisma recovered. “You know, the thing about it was, Nan, my predecessor just wasn’t excited by the prospect of change. Even the new neighborhood. They sold his apartment and bought my family a condo in Chelsea.”

“Oh, I love Chelsea,” I cheer as if he’d asked me to move in, thankful to see kids lining up at the podium, bringing this sort-of interview to a pause so I can get my bearings. To review: Shari had a baby and left, hurting Gene’s feelings and pissing off the board, even though she “pretty much” saw the “tweaks” through to completion, and now the board wants to pay me to be “on call” in case they need a “cushion”—
not
part of this principal’s job description—for potential future organizational tweaks? Yup, no clearer than when I ventured under the Chihuly fifteen minutes ago.

“Agnès b. designed them for us,” Gene whispers proudly in my ear.

“Sorry?”

“The uniforms.”

“The seniors are here for announcements,” Ingrid calls from her chair as a trio of kids snake up through those seated.

“Today’s field hockey game against Dalton is at four. Please come cheer!”

“Drama Club tickets for
Caucasian Chalk Circle
go on sale today. Come by our table after school, buy a ticket and a vegan brownie!” The seniors don’t stand directly behind the podium so much as lean on it for conferred support.

I take off my trench and fold it over my arm as the last senior steps forward wearing an elaborate feather headdress. “The Save Venice Club will be selling handmade masks in the senior homeroom all this week. Every dollar raised goes directly to Venice.”

The town criers make their way out and Ingrid takes the floor, returning Gene’s wave. “Hey, guys! And welcome, Headmaster De-Santo! So, as today is the third Tuesday of the month, we will be holding our final round of competition for junior class keynote speaker at the convocation of our helipad the Friday of Memorial Day weekend. Chassie, come on up.” The small girl stands from where she was leaning against Ingrid’s chair, hastily removes her hat, and makes her way to hover behind the podium with a stack of note cards. She has dirty blond hair, in both senses, and little fingers she tucks up under her chin in nerves.

Ingrid cups her hands around her mouth as she reseats herself. “Let’s hear it for Chassie, guys!” There is a smattering of halfhearted clapping.

With a quick glance of gratitude to Ingrid, Chassie clears her throat and, rolling back her shoulders, begins to speak. “I believe that the helipad is a perfect metaphor for departing Jarndyce. Next year we will leave equipped to lift off and up, to see the world with vast perspective,” she says in a small voice, her chin just clearing the wood. “But not without ambivalence. As much as we would like to see ourselves as Pynchon’s Chums of Chance, climbing into our blimp and touring through the very center of the world, we will still struggle to leave that which has nurtured us.” Chassie, her voice shrinking, continues on, from
Jason and the Argonauts
to Kubrick’s
2001: A Space Odyssey,
occasionally stealing sidelong glances at a nearby cluster of boys, who snicker obnoxiously. “Ultimately, to honor the Jarndyce education is to soar.”

“Thank you, Chassie.” Ingrid steps forward, clearly impressed as she pats Chassie on the back of her cardigan. Everyone claps. Chassie, blushing furiously, moves to the side and all heads turn to an oversized boy sitting in the middle of the cluster of boys, sporting identical hairdos that look like an adolescent take on the middle-age comb-over, or as if they’ve found their grandmothers’ bob wigs and thrown them on backward and slung to the side. The kid in the middle looks a little nonplussed. “Go, DZ!” one of the comb-overs shouts in encouragement and, recovering, the kid lumbers to his feet. I think DZ is attempting a swagger, but his limbs are too long and his body too thick. He should be playing football in a cornfield somewhere, from the looks of him, really violent football, not overshadowing a forensic podium.

Ingrid continues enthusiastically, “And now Darwin’s presentation!”
Darwin?
Oh my God. I lean forward, squinting to place the most psycho of the psycho kids from my nanny heyday who used to beat the crap out of his caregiver, Sima, while his mother stood idly by. The large forehead, the pug nose, the pronounced jaw—features that have yet to come together. Not like Grayer, I allow myself to think. Grayer turned out beautifully. At least externally.

“Wassup?” He raises a palm to his fans as he looks out at the room. “Yeah, so today I’ll be speaking about, uh . . .” He grips the sides of the podium, leaning back, away from the task at hand. Note-card-less, his eyes dart around, looking for …“Yeah.” His gaze fixes on the opposite wall. “I’ll be speaking today in the spirit of our motto.” He gestures to where “Nostrum Amicus, Nostrum Defero, Nostrum Universitas” arcs in red construction paper across a bulletin board, quite a lot of plural possessives for a motto. “What my opponent failed to mention is …who do we take with us as we launch off this pad into the great blue yonder of our futures? Our friends.” A few whoops go up. “The friends we made here, in
our
community. And we go out together and serve
our
world.” As his freeballing gathers momentum, an oil slick of confidence spills from his mouth, engulfing his face and transforming it into something far more attractive than it has any right to be. He showers the crowd with a cocky grin. And I know that if I were fifteen years old, my entire day would be taken up with trying to get him to notice me. And I would probably be very, very sorry once he did.

“This school was founded in 1878 by a group of men, business buddies, club members, who wanted to create a place where they could write the charter and mold their sons’ young minds in their own image. And that tradition has been passed down from generation to generation, surviving both the coed revolution of the seventies and the affirmative action debacle of the eighties.” A few heads in the audience tilt. “Then, in the nineties, we sought to expand our scholarship program, allowing people from outside our community in.” His friends nod. “But that isn’t the …helicopter our founding fathers envisioned. So I think we should take this opportunity to …celebrate our community and our friends and hope that the world out there looks and feels as good as Jarndyce.”

“Okay!” Ingrid shoots over. “Thank you, Darwin. So, let’s take our vote. Who thinks Chassie won?” The students look around uncertainly at each other. clap for DZ and have a convocation speech that sounds like Leni Riefenstahl’s version of the school brochure or—what? Be ostracized? Stuffed in a toilet? What are the kids doing to each other these days? They take a middle-of-the-road approach, clapping a mediocre endorsement, leaving plenty of room for cheering. “And who votes for Darwin?” Ingrid asks in the same tone. They seem to pause to remember their previous pitch of enthusiasm and replicate it exactly. Darwin’s flushed face darkens and Chassie sinks into her black sweater. “Okay, then, I’m the deciding vote and, based on preparation, Chassie, you win,” Ingrid pronounces, shaking her hand. “Congratulations! And good work, Darwin. Maybe next time a little more prep?” I begin to estimate how many tiles and lighting fixtures I could afford by lining up a string of other clients while collecting this retainer. Because while there’s easily a student—or five—who would benefit from an airdrop in the Sudan, the faculty seems pretty on top of its game.

Chassie extends her hand to Darwin, but he storms off. She looks slapped. A bell chimes. Not the aggressive bleat of the traditional school bell, but a melodious Gregorian gong. From the steeple? Do they have their own hunchback? Is it the last headmaster?

“Digital,” Gene leans in to whisper the answer as, in a whoosh, the students grab their Vuittons, Mulberrys, and monogrammed Goyards and flow past us out the door. Not one of them stops to talk to Chassie, who, hat in hand, finally shuffles out behind the stragglers after receiving a last encouraging arm squeeze from Ingrid.

“Ingrid.” Gene makes his way upstream to her with me in tow.

“Yes?”

“A word?”

“Sure, Gene.” She dismantles the “Save Venice” display.

“Sorry, Nan, can you give us a minute?”

“Of course!” I step a few feet away and stand awkwardly, deciding to busy myself with checking my BlackBerry.

“Yeah, I’m not really sure we made the right call here.” Gene frowns. Really?

“Really?” Ingrid jostles the rolls of poster paper to settle into her arms.

“Yes. I think with some coaching Darwin could have gotten there, don’t you?”

She smiles. “Gene, he farted his way through it. That boy didn’t put a minute of research into this. And I’ve seen him prepared, it’s not like he doesn’t know how.”

“There was a core idea there, though.”

“Jarndyce had scholarship students the first year it opened. It was a key part of Ralston Jarndyce’s vision and a not-so-small fact I love about this place.”

“Of course, of course, but don’t you think you could have developed his metaphor? Isn’t that your role?”

“I do it with him every week in Forensics. But Chassie clearly did extensive preparation and that should be rewarded.”

“You’re not letting her obvious affection for you cloud your judgment?”

“She’s been a little clingy this semester, but that’s to be expected, given her home situation. I’m with her almost twenty hours a week, between one activity and another, so I’m a natural target for her …transference. I take that responsibility seriously, Gene, but right now that’s irrelevant. Did you see how Darwin blew past her . . .” She shakes her head with concern.

Gene stiffens his lower lip and sucks through his teeth. “But
her
parents are not going to be on the roof, sitting beside me on the stage at the helipad convocation, Ingrid. Grant Zuckerman is going to be sitting on the stage.”

“I know—I’m really surprised Darwin didn’t take that into account.” She darts her eyes to me.

“The entire school—every alumnus of stature will be there—all of New York watching, Ingrid. It needs to be a big success, symbolically launching the school above its competitors.”

“I hear you. And Chassie’s speech is going to wow them.” She tips her head to upset her bangs from her eyes.

Gene looks at the carpet and continues carefully. “I’m really excited about where this school is going. The board of trustees is really excited.” He crosses his arms. “It would be
unhelpful
if they got the impression the faculty is less than excited.” And it strikes me that Philip may have gotten the noisy, contentious party backward.

“Okay . . .”

“Excellent, excellent,” Gene says with a conclusive tone before stepping over to me. “Nan, I’m delighted to have you on our team. My assistant will be in touch about setting you up and we’ll call you as we need.”

“Thank you, Gene. I look forward to working with you.”

“Now, unfortunately, I have to run to a meeting, can you find your way out?”

I nod. Let’s hope so, or I may end up in your jujitsu cages or particle accelerator.

He turns to leave and pivots back. “So Darwin then, Ingrid?”

Dumping the poster paper in the garbage bin, she sucks in her lips. “I already told the kids what we’re doing, Gene.”

He stares for a minute, hedging. “Why don’t you take a few hours to think it over and stop by my office after class.” He nods at her. He nods at me. He leaves us with the Bunsen burner bases.

“And …that’s Gene!” Ingrid says with false cheer as she stares at the door slow-closing on its high-tech hinges.

“So, what type of development was Shari offering the staff?”

“Oh, you know, buy-in workshops, role and responsibility sessions, that kind of thing. She could have saved a ton of time by just passing out faculty kneepads. When we got back from Christmas break they announced they wanted to make changes in health care to offset the design costs.
That
had everyone freaking out and bugging her on her maternity leave.”

“Wow. But that’s gone by the wayside?”

“Something about the revenue from the new investment plan.”

“Gotcha.” I drop my BlackBerry in my bag and glimpse the videocassette from Grayer that I tossed in at the last minute with hopes that the public library might have a VCR. “Ingrid, does the school have an AV room?”

“Are you kidding? Spielberg’s jealous.”

“Actually, I just need a VCR. We only have a DVD at home.” And no hamster wheel with which to power it.