Admission by Jean Hanff Korelitz Read Free Book Online Page B

everywhere, as long as they were good
     ideas. One of our board members went to Lawrenceville. Every classroom had a long oval table. No one gets lost at an oval
     table. We implemented that. We also borrowed our farming model from Putney and our all-school runs from Northfield.”
    “You’ve obviously thought long and hard about everything.”
    “Oh yes. We had a lot of time to think. And argue about things, it has to be said. After all, we were working on the school
     long before we had our first student. And we still learn something new every day. We’re constantly tripping over places where
     rules ought to be, then we have to write the rules and implement them. That’s a consensus process, so it takes time, but we
     get there in the end. I know we look like
Lord of the Flies,
” he said apologetically, “but I can assure you, we’re legit.”
    “I didn’t doubt it,” Portia said, though of course she had.
    The corridor ended in a meeting room. A wall of new windows overlooked the cow meadow. The view was stunning, pristine. It
     was a jolt back into that other world: a room a millionaire might insist upon for his rustic New England retreat, though perhaps
     without the shabby, mismatched sofas that filled it.
    “Our commons,” said John.
    “It’s beautiful. Like something out of
Architectural Digest
.”
    “I’ll let our designer know you said that,” he said. “He’ll be over the moon. Technically, he specializes in reclaimed spaces
     and green construction, but the truth is, he’s a secret consumer of shelter mags. When you go to his house, there’s a hidden
     stash of architectural porn in the cupboard next to the compost toilet. I swear I found it by accident,” he said.
    “I didn’t ask!” said Portia, laughing.
    The room was flooded with light, which made the challenge of showing a movie on a laptop all the more acute. She placed her
     computer on a table and inserted the DVD. Acceptable, but far less satisfying than the state-of-the-art equipment she’d been
     given at Deerfield. The room was filling with older students who drifted to the sofas and talked in loud, unself-conscious
     voices. No one here, it was obvious, was trying to impress the visitor from the Princeton Office of Admission. She saw the
     reader come in, a finger protectively inside his book, holding his place. John was talking to another teacher, a heavy woman
     in overalls with two fat, graying braids. The woman left the room without introducing herself and with—was it possible?—the
     faintest whiff of hostility.
    “My colleague says that Deborah told her about this a couple of days ago,” John said, returning. “I honestly don’t know what
     happened. She’s going to go take the younger students out to the field. Usually the older kids are in charge of afternoon
     milking, but we think this is more important.”
    “Oh,” Portia said, both perturbed to be placed in the same category as a cow and relieved to have at least come out ahead.
     “Okay. Can we get started?”
    He turned back to the kids and gravely raised his hand, palm front, as if he were a crossing guard. He said nothing, but as
     each student noticed him, he or she stopped talking and did the same. Gradually, a forest of hands were raised. The talk thinned
     to scattered voices, then one resistant pocket of girls in a corner, and then nothing. When there was silence, the hands came
     down, John’s first.
    “Thank you,” he told them. “Now, we have a visitor. I’d like you to welcome her and give her your respectful attention. This
     is Portia Nathan.”
    He went directly to one of the couches, where the students compressed themselves and made room for him. Watching him, Portia
     found herself somewhat disconcerted, not so much by his quick departure from the stage—or the nondescript patch of floor that
     served as a stage—as by the fact that he had somehow remembered not only her first name, but her last. It took a further instant