Admission by Jean Hanff Korelitz Read Free Book Online Page A

pasture in deepest New Hampshire, struck her as odd. Then sort of hilarious.
    “What do you say, guys? Are you up for some college guidance?”
    Portia looked at him. “Is this your eleventh and twelfth grade?”
    “Not all. A few are doing other things. We’ll ring the bell. Caleb? Would you ring the bell?”
    A lanky kid got to his feet. He had an acne-spattered jaw and a blond ponytail. He walked off without a word.
    “All of our sixteen- and seventeen-year-olds should attend, I think. We’re trying to learn how to do this, actually. Our first
     students are just coming up to graduation this year. We’ve been focusing on other things.”
    “I see. Well, I expect you’ve had other colleges visit.”
    “Oh dear.” He smiled ruefully. “Would it complete your already terrible first impression of us if I told you you were the
     first? I know we’ve put in a call to Hampshire. And Goddard.”
    “I think Goddard has closed, actually.”
    “Ah. Maybe that’s why we haven’t heard back.”
    “Maybe.” She smiled. She was surprised to discover that she wasn’t, actually, pissed off. She ought to be. But she wasn’t.
     It had warmed up through the day, and the air smelled of hay and the best version of cow. At the very least, this was going
     to be interesting. “I’ve brought a short film. Can I use your television and DVD player?”
    “Oh, I wish we had them. It’s on our donation list. To tell you the truth, I think there’s some resistance to the idea.”
    “Resistance? Do they think if they let in a TV, the students will all sit around watching
General Hospital
?”
    “Essentially.” He laughed. “You know, our parent base is part Luddite, part day trader. It’s hard to get consensus on some
     things.”
    “Well, never mind. They can watch it on my laptop. They’re a small enough group.”
    “That would be great,” he said. “We’ll go in.”
    Atop the barn, a bell creaked to life. The volleyball game stopped. Out in the fields there was movement as students slouched
     toward home. “That’s a useful thing,” Portia said.
    “It’s our original bell. It was once used to call the cows home for milking.”
    “Interesting metaphor for education.” She smiled. “How long have you been here?”
    “Me?” John asked. “Or the school? Well, it’s moot. I was here at the birth. Six years. Eight if you count the time it took
     us to get set up. We were refurbishing inside and getting accredited. Some of us lived in trailers on the site. Thankfully,
     that’s over.”
    “You must be very dedicated,” Portia said, stepping carefully. Her leather boots, so understated that they virtually disappeared
     on the streets of Princeton, seemed absurdly urban in this setting. She felt as if she had left the familiar world, the world
     of Starbucks and cabs and
Vanity Fair,
and wandered through a hole in the backdrop, emerging in the dazzling light of 1967, or 1867, where the old bell rang to
     call in the cows and the farmers of both genders wore feather earrings. The students, save the still immersed reader, stirred
     and got languidly to their feet and began to amble across to the barn. She saw kids coming in from the fields and the volleyball
     court. There were a few adults now, looking curiously in her direction. Everyone wore jeans and had a sun-kissed, genially
     bedraggled air. Or almost everyone. The comparatively prepped-out John’s white shirt seemed blindingly clean. It made him
     look as if he’d wandered seriously off course, somewhere between Groton and Brooks Brothers.
Mr. Chips Goes to Woodstock,
Portia thought, suppressing a smile. He had dark blond hair, thinning but oddly rakish. He wore a watch on a cracked plastic
     band. At least he wore a watch, she thought.
    The barn was thoroughly renovated. They walked down a corridor flanked by classrooms, each fitted with a single long table.
     “One of our earliest decisions,” John said, noting her attention. “We took ideas from