11. Zip Zap
The Zip Zap app Tiffin Academy edition is now available for free download.
Audre receives another email from Douglas Worth in his role as chairperson of ISNEC.
WTF? she thinks. She can’t deal with the inquiry into America Today. Are the other Heads really wasting their time with this nonsense? Wouldn’t it make more sense for them to put their energies into their respective schools so that their own rankings might rise?
But then Audre notes the subject line: A new pandemic.
What’s this? Audre thinks. Did she miss something in the news this morning?
She groans inwardly, recalling the year of lockdown across campus.
The masks, the social distancing, the incessant testing and quarantining, the parents who came out as staunchly anti-vax.
Those were the days before Chef Haz arrived.
They all ate boxed meals of cheese sandwiches and Campbell’s tomato soup for the better part of a year.
Roy Ewanick, one of the math teachers, got sick and Audre feared they were going to lose him.
She clicks on the email, steeling herself, but quickly realizes she misunderstood. The “pandemic” in question seems to be something called the Zip Zap app, which popped up at the Excelsior School over the weekend “and has likely spread to other boarding schools in the coalition.”
The Zip Zap app is designed for closed communities such as high schools and colleges, with a “geo-fence” of five miles.
That would mean only Tiffin, Audre thinks.
The nearest town, Haydensboro, is six miles away.
The danger with the app is that posts are anonymous and, in past incarnations of similar apps, there have been strings of abuse, cyberbullying, racial and sexual harassment, and bomb threats.
Users can vote “up” or “down” on the posts and comment anonymously.
Lots of room for damage and distraction, the email says. I encourage all Heads to be vigilant in quashing student use of Zip Zap. I would suggest a no-tolerance policy. Here at Northmeadow, students who are discovered to have downloaded the app will be disciplined immediately.
Audre scoffs. Isn’t it just like Douglas Worth to tell them all how to do their jobs? He’s a Nervous Nellie, and an alarmist. He led Audre to believe there was something to actually worry about—and instead she’s being fed this nonsense about something called Zip Zap.
As Audre clicks out of the email—she’s certainly not going to respond, nor will she read the reply-alls that will inevitably clog her inbox, thanking Doug for the “heads-up” and his hypervigilance—there’s a knock on her door.
“Yes?” Audre says.
Cordelia Spooner enters holding her cell phone, her eyes as round as plates. “Audre?” she says. “You need to look at this.”
Tiffin somehow has its own Zip Zap app and there’s already one anonymous post.
It reads: “Mrs.” Cordelia Spooner (who, for the record, has never been married) admits students to Tiffin based on their appearance.
Audre laughs out loud, though she can see Cordelia isn’t amused. “Surely you’re not concerned? Really, Cordelia, do you think anyone is going to believe you admit students based on appearance?”
Cordelia’s hand wavers a bit as she holds up the screen. “It’s gaining traction,” she says. It has thirty-seven “ups” and one comment: I can think of a few Tiffin students who prove this theory wrong. Has anyone checked out the third-form boys?
“Aw,” Audre says. “I think the third-form boys are cute.”
Cordelia frowns. “I can’t believe you aren’t taking this seriously.”
“That’s been a rumor for years,” Audre says. “Everyone always jokes about how attractive our student body is.”
Right, Cordelia thinks. She feels an itchy warmth prickling the skin of her chest and neck; she’s certain she’s splotching pink. It has been mentioned before, but nobody has ever connected her name with the phenomenon.
“What about the dig at my name?” Cordelia says.
“Name?” Audre says. “Oh, you mean the ‘Mrs.’? I’d hardly let that bother you.”
Cordelia checks her phone. “It’s at sixty-eight ‘ups.’ How did the kids find out about this?”
“I received an email from Douglas Worth.” Audre grimaces; the man’s name leaves an acidic taste in her mouth.
“The app is apparently popping up at all the schools. It spreads like a virus… and you and I both know you can’t treat a virus, you have to let it run its course.
The kids will grow bored with this soon enough.
But let’s keep an eye on it to make sure no one gets hurt. ”
Cordelia bursts into the college counseling office but has to wait because, through the glass wall, Cordelia can see Honey is in with…
yes, Annabelle Tuckerman. As she waits for them to finish, she checks her phone: 112 “ups.” Another comment: Those third-form girls, tho.
This is followed by the fire emoji. Then, to Cordelia’s horror, a third comment: Maybe “Mrs.” Spooner prefers girls…
Cordelia is about to suffer from full-on hives.
When Annabelle Tuckerman leaves Honey’s office and sees Cordelia, she beams. “Hey, Mrs. Spooner! If you need any help rating applicants, just let me know.” She nudges Cordelia’s arm. “That was a Zip Zap joke.”
“Good morning, Annabelle,” Cordelia says crisply. She enters Honey’s office, closing the door behind her.
“You know I don’t like it when you bother me at work, Cord,” Honey says. “But today, I owe you a thank-you. That child is relentless. I’m tempted to offer the Princeton rep a blow job to just let her in already.”
Cordelia pushes her phone across the desk. “Have you seen this? The Zip Zap app?”
Honey reads the screen and laughs. “On their appearance ?” She passes the phone back and studies Cordelia. “Why do you look like you need a cortisone shot? You’re not upset about this, are you? You’re the one who always says the kids treat you like a piece of furniture…”
Cordelia blinks. She has said this in the past, yes—since present Tiffin students have already been admitted, Cordelia is no longer of any use to them. They look right through her. (Except for her corps of tour guides, though this group isn’t the same without Cinnamon Peters’s big Tiffin energy.)
“… so you should be flattered they noticed you.”
“They claim I’ve never been married!” Cordelia says.
Honey lowers her voice. “Well, that’s the truth, isn’t it?”
Yes, Cordelia thinks, but the students aren’t supposed to know that.
Cordelia has been working at Tiffin for twenty-two years, longer than anyone except Roy Ewanick and Mr. James.
When Cordelia interviewed for the job, Chester Dell was Head and he was a man with traditional values.
Cordelia used the title “Mrs.” and invented a story about a husband who died only months after their wedding of…
testicular cancer. This did the trick: Chester Dell waved a hand as if clearing the mention of testes from the air, and Cordelia knew her marital status would never be broached again.
She goes by “Mrs. Spooner,” and this has effectively served to keep questions about her sexuality at bay.
How did the students uncover this long-ago lie?
It’s troubling, but apparently only to Cordelia.
“Well, what about the other part?” Cordelia says. “The part accusing me of admitting students based on appearance.”
“Preposterous,” Honey says. “Why are you worried about that ?”
“They’re insinuating that I’m… corrupt .”
“This has nothing to do with you, Cord,” Honey says. “Teenagers are narcissists. They’re feeling themselves. You admit students based on appearance and they’re here, which means they’re good-looking.”
“So you don’t think they know anything?”
“What could they possibly know?” Honey waits a beat. “Cord?”
“Nothing. Obviously nothing,” Cordelia says. “I’m sorry I bothered you at work.”
Cordelia hurries back to her office and logs on to her computer. She has a group of thirty people attending the information session at ten; she needs to move fast.
She googles “how to clear your search history” and follows the instructions. Only once it’s done (Right? She was successful? It’s been cleared?) does she sink back in her desk chair.
No one can prove anything, yet it is deeply disturbing because…
well, because Cordelia does occasionally check out an applicant’s photo before deciding whether or not to admit.
She does this when an applicant is on the cusp—maybe her SSAT score is underwhelming but her grades are promising or vice versa; maybe there’s a problematic disciplinary infraction in an otherwise sterling application; maybe the essay, while technically sound, lacks inspiration.
Cordelia will, on such occasions—assuming the child hasn’t interviewed at the school in person (which is true for over half the applicants because Tiffin is so far out in the boonies)—find the student on Instagram or TikTok and poke around.
Many times the student’s account is private and so Cordelia will hunt down the parents on Facebook and look at pictures of the prospective student that way.
Is it a pretty face she’s searching for?
Not exclusively, though physical beauty certainly doesn’t hurt.
She’s moved by overall appearance: Does the student look like she’ll fit in at Tiffin?
Cordelia eschews students who are too pale, too pimply; she’s not fond of overbites, or worse, underbites.
She once turned down a repeat fourth-former with an unironic mullet.
Really, she thinks, she’s doing these children a favor, sparing them high school trauma.