Admission by Jean Hanff Korelitz Read Free Book Online

a hex sign, and a new house
     with blue shutters. She listened with a sinking heart, calculating: twenty minutes late, at least; half an hour, more likely.
     Portia drove away. She found the red barn and then the hex sign, and made the appropriate turns. The road turned dirt. There
     were no new houses with blue shutters. There was no Inspiration Way.
    But there was, to her great surprise, a large sign for the Quest School mounted on rustic logs at a crossroad in the woods.
     It looked handmade, like a student project. She turned down the lane indicated (an unmarked lane, but indeed—she supposed—Inspiration
     Way) and drove between sudden fields flooded with afternoon light. Cows grazed to the left. There was hay, baled and piled,
     on the other side. Ahead, she saw the white barn with cars parked around it. A group of teenagers played volleyball. Another
     group, seated beneath a tree, seemed to be having an open-air class. She drove past them, parked at the end of the row, and
     got out quickly, relieved to be only fifteen minutes late. No one seemed to notice her arrival.
    Portia hunted in her satchel for the Quest School file. There wasn’t much in it—a sheet with the name of her contact, Deborah
     Rosengarten, and the MapQuest directions. Also a printout that Abby, Clarence’s secretary, had given her of the school’s Web
     site, most of which was devoted to the mission statement. (“We believe that the purpose of education is to open doors, not
     close them. Recognizing that no one form of education will stretch to fit every unique individual, we cherish the beauty of
     each distinct mind.”) She shut the door of the car and looked around.
    The barn was massive and from the outside somewhat confusing. The great bay doors that had, presumably, once seen herds of
     cattle pass through were still in place, but they looked unused, possibly sealed. There was nothing else that looked like
     a door, let alone a front door. She walked to the end of the building and turned the corner, coming upon the outdoor class
     in their circle beneath a maple tree. The group regarded her with some curiosity, not least the evident teacher, a man roughly
     her own age in a white buttoned shirt and khakis.
    “You look lost,” he said affably enough.
    “I’m here to meet Deborah Rosengarten.”
    “Deborah?” He looked at his students. “Anyone seen Deborah?”
    “She went to Putney,” said one boy. He had an open book on his lap and looked up only briefly. “She told me she was going
     to Putney.”
    “Oh,” Portia stammered. “But… well, we had an appointment.”
    “I’m so sorry,” the man said. He got to his feet. “Can I help? I’m John.”
    “Portia. I’m here from Princeton.”
    “Yes,” he said, looking at her intently. “I remember you.”
    “Our appointment was for two. I’m a little late. I got lost. Perhaps she couldn’t wait.”
    “Perhaps she simply forgot,” he said, notably irritated. But at the missing Deborah, Portia thought. Not, she was fairly certain,
     at herself.
    “I apologize,” said John, confirming it. “This is terrible. Deborah… you know, she’s a great educator, but prone to distraction.
     And you’ve come so far.”
    “From Deerfield, Massachusetts. Not that far,” she said, loosening up a little. “So, what should we do? I’m happy to give
     my presentation if you’d like to round up your eleventh and twelfth graders.”
    He stood in the center of the circle and looked down at them. The kids were variously arrayed, supine, cross-legged, stretching.
     Some had put down their notebooks, but the boy who had spoken earlier read on, unruffled. He sat with his book unfurled across
     his lap, head tipped forward, thick black curls so shiny that they almost reflected back the sunlight. Curious, Portia tried
     to make out what he was reading and was just able to decipher the legend at the top of the page.
Edie: An American Girl.
The incongruity of that, here, beside a cow