Chapter 20
20
The headmistress at North London Collegiate squinted at my new card, examining it under her desk lamp as if it might explain what I, a random girl off the street, was doing in her office. Even though I’d already explained why I was there. “Anna Byrne,” she read from the card. “Byrne, that’s an Irish name. But you don’t sound Irish?”
“I’m American,” I said with a nervous laugh. “I teach students what they need to get into American universities.”
“Why, you look like you could be at university yourself! Barely older than our girls.” She said this sweetly, but it was obviously a judgment on my fitness as an educator. “It’s quite hard to imagine that our girls need additional schooling. We placed a dozen girls at Ivy League institutions last year.”
“That’s very impressive,” I said sincerely. “But you might be able to place even more with strong SAT scores.”
“I’m sure you’re quite right, Miss Byrne. I suppose good SAT scores helped you get into an Ivy?”
I deflated. I hadn’t asked her to hire me; I only wanted to be allowed to put my business cards out for students and parents. “I didn’t go to an Ivy,” I said. “I went to Smith College. It’s a private girls’ school. Like your school here, really—small, with great individualized teaching.” Might as well try shameless flattery. Nothing else had worked.
“Isn’t that lovely,” the headmistress said, like I’d told her I was really quite good at finger painting. “We’ll certainly keep you in mind.” Her eyes were already back on her computer screen. I stood to go.
On the walk home, I examined my business cards. They were heavy and smooth and expensive-looking. On the back I’d listed the most prestigious private schools I’d taught at: Roedean, King’s School Canterbury, St. Swithuns, Wellington, Marlborough College. Those schools would open doors for me, I knew, but that wouldn’t be enough. It was me the headmistress had objected to: the barely-old-enough American, clothes rumpled from the train, begging to be considered. I had to rectify that. Flip the equation.
Her snooty voice spiked through my brain again as I walked. Probably people like her could scent the desperation on me. But I was desperate. I wanted to make my life in London something I could stretch out in—feel safe in, enjoy—not something I balanced on a knife’s edge, like my parents had done all their lives. I wanted to live more like Tess and Ginny. It wasn’t their fine dining and hand-stitched leather that tempted me, though—it was the easy way they moved through the world. It was intoxicating, the free way they said yes, so often, to so many things. They were bulletproof.
At Pond Square, I checked my balance at an ATM, then turned up the high street to a salon that took walk-ins. The stylist shook out my ponytail and suggested a softer, layered look. She snipped and sectioned, snipped more, and the scissors were so tiny, like doll scissors. I felt rather than remembered Mom cutting my hair, the dull side of the long, cold scissor blade pressing against my shoulders to keep it steady and even. Years, in the kitchen, cut simple and straight across the back. Until I got to Smith and learned to be embarrassed about it.
When the stylist finished, my hair was just brushing my collarbone, the long layers curving in, neat and flattering and symmetrical, and somehow blonder, even though she hadn’t colored it. I looked more mature, more Highgate, instantly. I paid her a breathtaking amount, while Andre’s voice looped in my head, Can you really keep up? But if I could pull this off, I’d be able to afford the haircut with a single afternoon’s work.
Back at the house, I put on a simple face of makeup, then sat at the gleaming kitchen table and looked at my notes—all the schools I’d researched. There were two schools right in the area on my list, both coed: Highgate School and St. Giles College. The latter was actually an expensive English language school for international students, but I guessed that many of those students would be hoping to attend US universities once they’d improved their English. I could try out a new approach at both schools, let New Anna take a crack at it.
I’d been thinking of Faye, on the walk home from the salon. How she moved through the world: conspicuously confident, unhurried, expectant. Quietly commanding. I needed to arrive at the next posh school like I already belonged there, like I was doing them a favor just by dropping my card.
I pushed hangers back and forth in Faye’s closet. So far, I’d limited myself to wearing the simplest of her tops (nothing that would be recognizable in a Facebook photo, nothing I couldn’t hand-wash) for a few nights out with Theo or my new friends. But the pieces I needed now seemed to jump out at me, asking to be worn: a white silk blouse, charcoal-gray cigarette pants, and a matching blazer with tweed ovals on the elbows. It was easy to picture how Faye would wear the pieces, open like menswear, the sleeves baggy on her birdlike arms. On me they looked fitted and smart. The pants were just an inch or two too long, but I found black slingback pumps in the shelves, and then everything fell just right. The mirror showed me an Anna Byrne who made sense here. Under the silk blouse, I felt the cold metal of my mother’s kitchen scissors on my shoulders again, and I wondered what she would make of the well-dressed girl in the mirror, and the life that girl was dressing up to create.
I found St. Giles at the end of a leafy tree-lined path, everything on the property deeply green and well tended. I spoke with a young, fast-talking receptionist. If first impressions were everything—and it seemed like they were—I’d chosen well with a high-neck navy wool peacoat. The receptionist took it in admiringly and apologized that the director was away for the whole week, but offered to take me straight to the assistant director. I pretended to weigh this for a moment, as if an assistant director might not be worth my time, then agreed. She stood and took the coat from me, hanging it on a rack in the corner, then gestured for me to follow.
When we reached the office, the receptionist introduced me, then ducked out and closed the door behind her. The assistant director stood and held out his hand, his eyes evaluating me.
This time, I passed the test. There was something almost deferential in his welcome, his desire that I sit and make myself comfortable. He had a subtle Spanish accent, ever-so-slightly staccato, the R ’s rolling warmly. “What can I do for you, Miss Byrne?” he asked.
Again, I took my time, as if weighing whether I felt bothered to say a lot or a little. “The schools I normally teach at are a little more traditional than this one,” I began. “Old-fashioned sixth-form schools, preparatory colleges, all across Britain. I don’t usually work at language institutes.”
“And what is it that you teach?”
I gave him an abbreviated explanation of the SATs, and why they require test prep with expert guidance. “Am I correct in assuming that many of your students hope to study in the States? Once they’re fluent?” I asked.
The assistant director nodded. “Here or in the States, yes,” he said. “St. Giles is usually only one step on their educational journey, though a very important step indeed. That is why their parents send them to us—it opens up more possibilities for them. Everywhere, not just in Britain.”
“Of course. And their parents pay per course, yes? Not a flat-rate tuition?” I’d done my research.
“You know all about us,” he said, eyebrows lifting. “That’s correct, yes.” I had his attention now—he was just as interested in paying students as I was.
“Wouldn’t you like to offer them something new, an additional class they might sign up for?” I waited quietly, worried I might’ve overplayed my hand. But I knew this school was privately owned and for-profit, like most language schools in London. Revenue mattered, but you could only take one English language class at a time. St. Giles would probably offer a class on making a proper British cup of tea if they thought their students would pay for it.
“I could host a free informational session on higher education in the US,” I continued. “Not just about the SATs, but also about the application process, how things are done, that sort of thing. A perk for your students. And if it doesn’t generate at least twenty SAT class sign-ups, we can go our separate ways.”
The assistant director put his hands flat on his desk, palms down. “And if it does?”
My whole body felt tense with excitement—so close!—but I smiled and shrugged breezily. “We can negotiate a flat fee for a ten-week course, depending on how many students sign up. Or we could split the class tuition, if that’s easier.”
“A flat fee would be best, I think,” he said quickly.
“Of course,” I said. “Whatever you prefer.” I knew he wouldn’t want to split the tuition, which was why I’d suggested it. Now, I could probably name my price; any fee less than half of the full tuition would feel like a bargain to him. “When would be a good time?” I paused then, worried the eagerness in my voice would give me away. “Two weeks from now? That would give you time to promote it,” I said, taking out my planner, hoping he wouldn’t see my hands shaking.