Red Writing Hood: Entrance Interview

The prompt: Physical beauty. It can open doors, or it can shut them. Write a scene where a character is impacted by this trait.

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Our daughter looks supremely out of place as she waits on her over-sized leather chair, oiled to a high gloss. She is white, ironically the minority in this waiting room. Her curly, white-blonde hair cascades down her back. Her bright blue eyes scan the book that she brought with her as mine scan the room, the competition. At least I am the only one feeling the eyes of the other applicants sizing up her ivory skin, protected by years of diligently applied SPF 50. To her left, a cute Asian girl with glasses. To her right, an Italian named Pino. Sophia, quietly confident, is content, though I’m sure she doesn’t understand how admission to the Academy will change her life for the better.

The room reflected the melting pot that is NYC, but I was nervous. Admissions committees boast their school’s diversity and Sophia was anything but, on paper. Daughter of a middle-class family. Both my husband and I have graduate degrees and work as teachers. If we were dirt poor or if neither of us had graduated high school, Sophia would be a shoe-in. But no. Responsible, hard-working, average parents are not worthy of sending children to prestigious schools. Even if she gets in, we have nearly eliminated our ability to pay for posh education by not choosing to major in finance and become a hedge-fund millionaires, and by virtue of working at all, we have barred Sophia from receiving any “need-based” scholarships. Religion, race (optional). Maybe I should fill in Hindu. As if Catholic Caucasians are carbon copy kids with nothing to offer via personality, experience, or talent.

“Sophia?”

Interview time. As she slides off her chair and walks toward the secretary, I can’t help but reflect on the years passed by. How did she get to be so big, so fast? Off to school already. My little lady. Wait! Slow down! I want to go back to the days of snuggling those chubby cheeks. 

I wish I could be in the room with her, coach her on her answers, and remind her to think about her response before speaking. No, she’ll be fine. We’ve practiced and Sophia doesn’t usually get nervous speaking with people of authority. 

I wait. 11:12. 11:16. 11:22. 11:29. Out she comes—less than 20 minutes, I hope that’s a good sign—waving goodbye as she skips back to me. I could not see their reactions. I hope they do not think that too childish.

“Jasmine?” the secretary announces. I see a fair-skinned African American head into the room to seal her fate, and probably Sophia’s. Her mother, I notice, is white. So either Jasmine is adopted or Daddy is black. Either way, she has an ace up her sleeve. 

When we’re back out on the street, I hail a cab. I’m a ball of nerves and can’t bear the congestion of the subway.

“So what did they ask you, Soph?”

“They asked my favorite book and why do you like it?”

“And?”

“I said Corduroy because it shows that you can start off sleeping next to a scary clown, but if you look hard enough for your button, you can find a really nice girl who will take you home.”

“What did they say?”

“They laughed.”

“What else did they ask?”

“They asked me if I wore contacts, like you and your broken eyes?”

“Why did they ask that?”

“Dunno. I said no. The lady said good because those are the bluest eyes they’ve ever seen.”

“Interesting.”

“Do you like my eyes, Mommy?”

“They’re the prettiest eyes I’ve ever seen too.”

We get out at Grand Central and head straight downstairs to grab two smoothies before heading back to Westchester. Sophia orders mango and banana. 

“Sophia, did you like the people that you talked to today?”

“Yeah.”

“Would you like to go there next year for preschool?”

“Will we get smoothies every day on the train?”

“Well…”

“I’ll think about it,” Sophia said as she slurped up her whip cream.

“I will too,” I said, licking the dollop of white fluff off her nose.