Well, folks, I just took my sentimental journey to the center of the earth.
9
When Mom and Father come home Sunday night, I show them my list of chosen colleges. Father raises an eyebrow at Wellesley and says he’s never heard of it.
“It’s a women’s college,” I tell him. “It’s part of the Seven Sisters, which is like the Ivy League.”
“I know the Ivy League is good because Harvard is in it,” Father says.
“And Brown,” I add. Mom nods.
“I’ve heard that Princeton is good,” Father says, and my mind immediately flashes back to the folder.
“I’m pretty happy with my choices,” I say. Is this a test to see if I’d pick the same schools as Father?
“I think it’s good that Ellen is picking different schools from Michelle,” Mom says helpfully.
Father doesn’t say anything.
The next morning, I am poised with my list of phone numbers for arranging my interviews and overnight stays at the three colleges. Father hovers nearby, telling me what to say.
“Thank you very much. Have a good day. Goodbye.” It sounds suspiciously like Michelle’s old script.
Once the dates are marked in red letters on the wall calendar in the kitchen, I run out the door to catch the bus.
Between classes, I slip into the principal’s office to get my advance-absence pass that has to be signed by all my teachers.
In calculus, Mr. Carlson’s beady eyes light up when I show him the pass. “Are you going to look at MIT?”
“No,” I say. I’ve been in his class for two months and I swear he still thinks I’m Michelle. Doesn’t he notice that I have trouble catching on? Doesn’t he notice that my test scores are not all As? He keeps saying that when Michelle was here, he needed a grade higher than an A to give her—he can’t possibly get the two of us mixed up!
Mr. Carlson signs the pass c2 (Corey Carlson = C squared) and beams at me. I am relieved to take my seat.
“Guess what, class,” Mr. Carlson says, still beaming. “Ellen Sung is going to be taking a little trip. Want to tell us where you’re going, Ellen?”
I resist the urge to crouch down under my desk. “To look at colleges,” I mumble.
“Where?” Mr. Carlson prompts.
“Harvard, Brown, and Wellesley,” I say quickly. I am wondering what’s going to happen in April. Is Mr. Carlson going to make me name all the places I didn’t get in?
“Remember,” Mom says to me on the plane to Boston, “these visits are also for you to decide if you like these schools.”
“Thanks, Mom,” I say, although I still don’t feel that I have much choice in the whole process. I pull back a corner of the foil covering my dinner. Gray meat in beige gravy stares back at me.
Will I know anything for sure besides the fact that being on the East Coast will separate me from Marsha Randall—and Jessie? I cover the dinner again with a shroud of tinfoil.
Mom is poking at the gray meat under her foil.
“Is it okay if I start on the dessert?” I ask, eyeing the square of chocolate cake in its little plastic dish.
“I was just thinking the same thing,” she says, digging into her cake. I dig into mine, and we laugh. I am relieved that Mom isn’t using this time—as Father would—to coach me on interview techniques or something.
From Logan Airport, we rent a car and drive out to Wellesley, where we arrive at the Wellesley Inn. It is a quaint white wooden structure with a dark green roof and shutters. Inside, a beautiful crystal chandelier sparkles right over my head as we check in.
Arkin has two places for visitors. The Days Inn sits right off Route 9, so fishermen coming north from Minneapolis can stop for the night on their way up to the Boundary Waters. The nicer hotel, the Lakeview, used to be a Best Western until Mike Anderson’s father bought it, which might explain the odd choice of name for a building that looks out onto Main Street. The Lakeview has a pool, a bar, and a special room for wedding receptions. With its nubbly orangish carpets and striped wallpaper, however, it can’t even begin to compete with the Wellesley Inn’s whitewashed elegance.
Tonight, as we get ready to snuggle into the cozy bed, which has wooden headboards that look like half of a wagon wheel, I lay out my clothes for tomorrow’s interview: bra, slip, and one of the light wool dresses that Mom and I bought in Minneapolis.
The next day, Mom drops me off at the admissions office on her way to explore the town of Wellesley. I have my overnight bag and a manila folder with my report cards. I stare sadly at the back of the rental car as she drives off.
“Hello,” says the lady at the desk. Her gray hair is pulled back into a bun, and there are huge liver-colored age spots on her hands.
“Hi, I’m Ellen Sung, and I’m here for my interview,” I say, then clear my throat because my voice sounds as if it’s rattling.
“Please have a seat,” she says, pointing with her spotted hand.
I perch awkwardly on one of the hard needlepoint chairs. This room is so feminine, I notice. It has puffy curtains, soft-colored rugs under dark wood coffee tables, and chairs that no one would want to sit on for more than fifteen minutes. I want to check to see if the needlepoint gets worn by all the people sitting on it, but of course I don’t.
“Ellen?”
I look up to see a lady in a business suit.
“Yes, I’m Ellen,” I say, extending my hand.
“Hello, Ellen,” she says, returning my grasp warmly. “I’m Margaret McGrath, your interviewer. Welcome.”
She leads me into a room that has a huge wooden desk, lots of books, and portraits of women—who I assume are famous graduates—on the wall. She sits behind the desk and motions toward one of the smaller chairs facing her.
“You’ve come a long way from Minnesota,” she says, folding her elbows on the desk and looking expectantly at me.
“Yes,” I say, already resorting to one-word answers. Father said that was a no-no. “It’s worth the trip,” I add.
“So, why are you interested in Wellesley?”
I cross my legs at the ankle—the way Glamour magazine says you’re supposed to do in interviews—and I try to look thoughtful, not overwhelmed, which is how I really feel.
“I’ve been interested in Wellesley ever since I noticed I was one of two girls in my calculus class,” I say, then pause to hear how it sounds. “I started to think about what it would be like to go to a college where the women run things. At my high school, a premium is placed on being pretty, which leads girls to believe that that’s all they need to succeed in life. The crowning achievement for a girl is to be homecoming queen or a cheerleader, which really involves being pretty and cheering the boys on.”