The Ivy Chronicles Read online

  “Can you help me get financial aid?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Financial aid. With private school so expensive, the only way we can afford it is with assistance.”

  “I’m sure I can help you with that as well,” I declared. “Anyhow, if you’re interested, I accept MasterCard, Visa, American Express, and personal checks.”

  “This is a service you have to pay for?”

  “Yes, my fee is $10,000.”

  “ARE! YOU! OUT! OF! YOUR! FUCKING! MIND?!” Click.

  I took that as a “not interested.”

  Three other people called, each more sticker-shocked than the last when I quoted my fee. This was beginning to get me down.

  One more call.

  “Hello, Ivy Ames speaking.”

  “Ms. Ames, this is Dr. Klein. I’m a gastroenterologist with offices on Madison Avenue. I saw your ad on a tree in the park near my apartment.”

  Oooh, a doctor! “Do you have a child, Dr. Klein?” I asked, deepening my voice to make it sound more professional.

  “No, just a dog. But I do have a large gastroenterology practice that specializes in treating Manhattan parents who are going through the private-school admissions process. September is my Christmas season, Ms. Ames. That’s when I see a spike in gastrointestinal problems suffered by overanxious parents. Anyway, I was wondering if you’d be interested in trying a little cross-promotion with me. You’ve probably seen my ads on buses and subway trains all over Manhattan. Well, I was thinking that you and I might partner on a campaign that leverages the symbiosis between school admissions and GI problems. How does this sound to you: ‘If the thought of applying to kindergarten makes you sick, call Ivy Ames for admissions advice and Dr. Klein for relief from gastrointestinal symptoms.’ Then I’d list both our phone numbers. What do you think?” he asked.

  I was desperate. But the idea of linking private-school admissions with a guy who tells you to bend over and drop your pants struck me as off-putting. Don’t ask me why.

  “Dr. Klein, I know who you are. I’ve seen your pictures on the subway a thousand times. Thanks for thinking of me—but my gut tells me to pass.”

  Three weeks had gone by since my ads were placed and not one sale. I turned to Faith, who theorized that perhaps wealthy people wouldn’t respond to an ad for this kind of service. Maybe it was too gauche. She promised to hold a luncheon in my honor and invite all her girlfriends who were applying their children to kindergarten. “It’ll be like shooting fish in a barrel,” she said.

  The euphoria I’d felt while putting the business together was gone. What made me believe I could start a company? The idea was absurd. Why would anyone pay $10,000 to get her kid into school? I couldn’t pull this off. What an idiot I’d been to spend so much time on this crazy scheme. I was a single mother with two children to support.

  What had I been thinking?

  10. Radical Humiliation

  On the Friday of the fourth week that my ads were running, I lay on the couch consuming baked potato chips, Diet Coke, and low-fat ice cream, smoking a cigarette and watching reruns of The Golden Girls, which, I’ll have you know, can be seen on at least one cable channel twenty-four hours a day. For her sake, I hope Bea Arthur gets residuals. What a talent she is, even with that man voice of hers. I contemplated the hair on my legs by the light of the TV. If I stared long enough, maybe I could actually see it grow like corn in a field. This was boring. Let’s see. Who starred in Dynasty? Jane Wyman, Lorenzo Lamas, Abby Dalton, William Moses. He was cute. Didn’t he marry that actress Tracy Nelson? I started to imagine what I’d be doing if I’d never been born when something familiar caught my eye. It was me on television, looking as ugly as a catfish, trying out for Radical Reinvention. I sat up.

  “. . . no, I beg you to choose me for a radical makeover because I just got fired, my pet died, and I caught my husband taking a bath with another woman . . . and they were naked. Now, I’m gonna have to start dating again and look at me. Who would want . . . this? Plus, my mother died, I’m about to lose my home, I had to fire my nanny, my maid, and my kids’ tutors. I have to color my own hair and do my own nails. My psychic says I’m gonna get hit by a bus. And have you ever seen a frown line this deep? I need . . . no, I’m desperate for Botox.”

  Simon Starkey, the show’s host, came on. “Tune in Thursday night for a special edition of Radical Reinvention—‘Auditions—Uncensored, Uncut, Ugly!’ You’ll see tapes of show hopefuls who were so lame, even we couldn’t help them. You won’t want to miss our must-see ‘Reject Show’ this Thursday night at eight. If you want to feel better about yourself, be there.”

  OH! MY! GOD! How could they do this? I didn’t know whether to be more upset about not being picked as a contestant or about being publicly portrayed as an even bigger loser than I really was. It was one thing for me to audition for the show in the privacy of Skyler’s bedroom, to exaggerate my patheticness so they’d choose me, but quite another thing for them to air the tape just to humiliate me on national TV. This was irresponsible journalism. This was an outrage. Heads were gonna roll.

  I called the network and asked to be connected to the Radical Reinvention show. After going through four people, alternatively howling and wailing my case at them, I was finally transferred to Ms. Ball in Legal.

  I exploded when she picked up. “Ms. Ball, I want my audition tape taken off your promo this instant or I will call my lawyers and sue your ass until I own your moronic show. You have no right, NO RIGHT AT ALL, to portray me like that on national television without my permission.”

  “But Ms. Ames, didn’t you read the fine print in your application? You gave us unlimited rights to use your tape for content, promotion, publicity, marketing, and advertising of our program. I’m afraid there’s nothing you can do about it.”

  What? Nothing I can do? I agreed to all that? Gaaah. Think. Appeal to her humanity.

  “Ms. Ball, making fun of my misfortune is cruel. What kind of organization are you part of? This’ll backfire. You’ll see. People will hate your network and all its affiliates for being so callous toward people like me who are down and out.”

  “Ms. Ames, humiliation sells. It’s the cornerstone of reality TV. Audiences love watching people degrade themselves. We’ve made billions of dollars on that one idea.”

  This was not working. Think. Think. Think. Appeal to her bottom line.

  “Ms. Ball, after all my misfortune, and now this, well, I can’t take it anymore. I may have to kill myself. And you know what? My suicide note’s gonna say that it was seeing that audition tape on TV that pushed me over the edge. Then my family will sue you and I don’t care what I signed, they’ll win.”

  “Oh, my God, would you really do that? A suicide would blow our ratings sky-high. You can’t buy that kind of publicity,” she said.

  “It sounds to me like there’s nothing you wouldn’t do for ratings, Ms. Ball.”

  “Pretty much.”

  Is there no way out of this? Think.

  “Well, Ms. Ball, even though you’ve so brutally exploited me, I’d be willing to drop the whole matter if you’d give me the radical makeover I asked for.”

  “Let me be brutally honest with you, Ms. Ames. No.”

  “But why not?”

  “Nothing personal, but you’re a train wreck. Even we can’t fix you. If it’ll make you feel better, we’ve made you the featured star of our ‘Reject Show.’ Everyone will see you on national TV. You’ll get your fifteen minutes.”

  “I don’t want my fifteen minutes,” I whined. “I want plastic surgery so I can be pretty and someone’ll marry me. I want a new life. Is that too much to ask?”

  “Sorry, hon, no can do. Goodbye. Good luck.” Click.

  I hung up and dissolved into tears. How could this have happened? Had I gone too far with the Jaclyn Smith kelly-green pants suit? Or was it the vegetable oil I’d sprayed in my hair? What difference did it make? My last hope for rescue had been dashed. I couldn’t find
a job. My business was a failure. I’d disgraced myself on national TV. I picked up the phone and ordered a large loaded pizza from Ray’s.

  11. Manhattan Madness

  Chewing cold pizza, I reflected on my troubles. Why was life such a struggle for me? Why couldn’t I have it easy like Sassy and Faith? Sassy was so beautiful. Faith was so rich. It’s not fair. You’re making it too hard for me, God. If you could cut me one break, just one, I’d never ask for anything ever again. I promise.

  The telephone rang. It was Faith. At least she loved me. I started to tell her about my crummy luck with Radical Reinvention, but she cut me off. “Turn on the news,” she insisted. “You won’t believe what’s going on.”

  I turned on Channel 4. Chuck Scarborough was covering a breaking story. They were showing live pictures of Harvard Day. The children had been evacuated. I caught sight of my friend and informant, Tipper, on camera looking distressed. She was talking to the police. Her butt looked even more enormous on TV. It was so sad.

  “There is a frightening hostage drama going on at the Harvard Day School,” Chuck said earnestly. “Apparently the children are safe. They have all been evacuated and are walking to St. Martin’s School on East Eighty-fourth. Let me repeat this for parents just joining us. The Harvard Day students are safe, and parents should meet them at St. Martin’s.

  “Meanwhile,” Chuck continued, “a hostage situation is unfolding inside this exclusive Upper East Side private school.” He motioned to a gorgeous redhead standing to his right. “This is Lara Long from the posh Harvard Day School. Lara, I understand you were present when this drama began. Can you bring us up-to-date?” He stuck his microphone in her face.

  “Well, Chuck,” Lara said excitedly, “I work for Cubby Sedgwick in the admissions office. She was meeting with a father who applied his son to our school this year. The boy didn’t get in, and the man was appealing the decision. Anyway, Cubby must have given him bad news because there was yelling. I started toward the door and that’s when I overheard him say that she’d never take another child if she didn’t take his son. I ran out of the office and called the police. Then I pulled the fire alarm and the children filed out of school at an orderly pace as they would in any fire drill.”

  “So it was your quick thinking that saved the lives of hundreds of Harvard Day children?”

  “Yes, Chuck, I guess it was,” Lara answered, beaming.

  “Now, Lara, what grade was this child applying for?”

  “He was applying for kindergarten, Chuck.”

  “Kindergarten?” Chuck mugged directly into the camera, making an exaggerated incredulous expression.

  “Yes, Chuck, but you have to understand that anyone who matters knows that our kindergarten only accepts the crème de la crème, so it’s not surprising that parents become distraught when their children don’t get in. Cubby’ll reconsider a decision, especially for a child who made the wait-list.”

  Chuck turned to his left and introduced Emily Cone, a disheveled mother, along with her two children, six-year-old Esme and baby Engelbert. “Mrs. Cone, are you shocked by what you’re witnessing today—Harvard Day’s director of admissions taken hostage by an apparently desperate father?”

  “Chuck,” she said breathlessly, “I’m just surprised it doesn’t happen more often. What private schools do to parents applying for places is unconscionable. We applied a few years ago and I’m still reeling over the experience. This father must have flipped out. I hope this serves as a wake-up call to private schools that parents can only take so much.”

  “Emily, I have to interrupt you,” Chuck said. “There appears to be some kind of activity taking place inside the school. The SWAT team is moving in. Let me repeat: the SWAT team is moving in. For parents who are just tuning in, your children are safe. They have been evacuated. They can be picked up at St. Martin’s School.”

  They kept the camera focused on the school, but all the action was happening inside. Finally, they switched back to Sue Simmons at the anchor desk, who promised to update us on any developments as this story unfolded.

  “My God,” I exclaimed to Faith, who was still on the other end of the line watching TV along with me. “I’m shocked. This is terrible. I hope Cubby’s okay. She was really nice to me when I met her.”

  Faith said she was sorry, but she had to run. She wanted to be in the limo when Mae was picked up from her playdate. You had to hand it to her. She could have delegated the task to her driver and nanny, as so many privileged mothers do, but she was determined to be there herself.

  I turned back to the TV, where pandemonium was breaking out behind Chuck. I could see Tipper with a group of people in the background. They were hugging each other.

  Soberly, Chuck announced that the hostage drama had ended in a terrible tragedy. The man had shot and killed Cubby Sedgwick, then turned the gun on himself. His wife told police about her husband’s rage and disbelief over their son’s rejection from Harvard Day. He had promised his wife that he would change Cubby’s mind if it killed him. Sadly, it had.

  12. The Best Publicity Money Can’t Buy

  My phone rang at 7:00 P.M. It was a reporter from the New York Times. They were covering the Cubby story and wanted to interview me for an accompanying piece on how difficult it was to get a child into prestigious private kindergartens in New York City.

  “How did you find me?” I asked in disbelief. “I’m just curious,” I added. This was huge!

  “I was doing a Nexus search and your ads came up. I thought you might know the anguish parents experience when they apply to private schools.”

  “Oh, I do,” I assured the reporter. “I’ve had to talk parents off ledges over this.” I’m no dummy. I knew this was one of those life-defining moments. With every ounce of authority I could muster, I bared my soul, telling the reporter everything she wanted to hear about the heart-break of kindergarten admissions in New York City—the extraordinary lengths to which mothers and fathers would go for a coveted spot at a top school. Having just interviewed so many parents, I recalled some of the wildest stories I’d heard, telling them as though they were my own. May God forgive me.

  “Do you have my name? It’s I-V-Y, A-M-E-S.” Just make sure you get that right.

  The moment I hung up, the phone rang again. And again. The Wall Street Journal. The Daily News. The Associated Press. People. Time. Forbes. Larry King Live. Farmer’s Digest. Farmer’s Digest? The story had captured the nation’s fancy, with America in disbelief over the apparently misguided values of Manhattan’s most elite citizens. The press was wetting their pants over this. Since I was the only kindergarten-admissions adviser they could actually find, the media wanted my comment. Remind me never to trust experts on TV.

  I was dying to call Faith to tell her about my good fortune, but the phone wouldn’t stop ringing.

  Barbara Walters’s assistant called. They wanted to discuss the rarefied world of private-school admissions on The View. Would I be willing to appear on camera? Would I! At 11:00 P.M., I had Katie Couric on one line and Diane Sawyer on the other, both asking for interviews the next morning. I hated to disappoint Diane, but I went with Katie because I’ve always believed that the two of us could be friends if only we met under ordinary circumstances, like having our daughters in the same class. I can’t explain it, but I had a hunch that she just might invite me for coffee after the interview.

  Talking to the media, I marveled at what a gifted actress I was. All my research had paid off. Even I believed I knew what I was talking about and that I’d spent fifteen years in the field.

  The phone stopped ringing around midnight. I turned on the answering machine so I could get some sleep before my 5:00 A.M. Today show pickup. Maybe they’d send a stretch. How cool would that be! I called my best friend’s chief of staff, who in turn patched in my best friend, waking her from a sound sleep. “Faith, I’m sorry to call so late, but I need your help.” I explained what had been going on, and she promised to send one of her nannies
over by 5:00 A.M. to get the girls up and ready for camp. She also promised to stop by herself to pick up my messages, clear the answering machine, and tape my appearances on TV.

  Faith, who lived the most exciting life of anyone I knew, was thrilled by my good fortune.

  That night, I prayed. “God, I’m really sorry about Cubby’s murder, may she rest in peace. You know I never would have wished it on her and I feel terrible about it. But for reasons not apparent, her tragedy is bringing me lots of opportunities. Please God let this senseless killing be the break I need to burst on the scene like this year’s ‘It’ girl. Let every family with a toddler that can afford an apartment in the 10021, 10028, and 10128 ZIP codes reach out to me. Then, Lord, help me find the perfect school for every child you put in my path. God in Heaven above, please do these things in the name of Cubby Sedgwick, so that her death won’t have been in vain. Amen.”

  13. Surprising Developments

  I was exhausted after doing The View. I had to walk that thin line of entertaining the audience with wacky admissions stories without alienating viewers who might become clients. It was a challenge.

  At Myoki, executives got two weeks of media training before they were allowed to talk to the press. I’d never been high enough on the food chain to get trained. Still, I held my own, I thought. I had Star and Meredith in stitches.

  Faith was waiting for me when I got home. She gave me a hug before getting down to business.

  “Okay, here’s a list of press calls you need to return,” she said as she handed me two handwritten pages of publications that ranged from the Washington Post to the Irish Echo and shows that included 60 Minutes and Jerry Springer. “Even better, here’s the phone log of parents who want to hire you. The first page lists people who live on Park Avenue, Fifth Avenue, and Central Park West. I’ve been quoting them twenty thousand for your services.”