The Dream

The long awaited day had finally arrived. I could not wait to get home to check the mailbox. The results would be there, just waiting for me. For all us. It’s really cruel that they send the results out via snail mail. What’s wrong with e-mail? A phone call?

Months of waiting followed months and months of jumping through hoops. All of the testing. It was unreal what we had to go through. There were appointments with medical doctors, psychiatrists, financial planners, sociologists (I still don’t know what they had to do with anything, but there they were, collecting their $500/hour fee).

It started as a wisp of an idea. We want the best for our family- who doesn’t? And, because our best is so much better than anyone else’s, that should qualify us right there. We overheard some super-achievers at the park talking about the school and we thought we should check it out. So we did. Of course, we had absolutely no idea how competitive it is to get into the “BEST” school. Not schools. There’s only one.

We got caught up in the dream, sure that the school was perfect for us. How could we not be perfect candidates for the school? We’re rich. We give money away like candy, and we fill the pool with crystal champagne-- a little unorthodox, but hey, why not? We’re snooty and elitist- we have a staff. I can’t see how they wouldn’t pick us. There is no way. We funded the new wing- the entire sensory deprivation wing came from us at the very beginning of the process.

The testing was extreme. And thorough. Talk about leaving no stone unturned… think about leaving no body part unturned. We had to undergo more testing than Jack did. That seemed a little weird. It was a feat of endurance to make it though all of their hoops. Literally. We trained as if to run a marathon, as that was part of the application process. The very first step was for the adults to run in the next marathon. We had to qualify for the Boston Marathon in order for our prodigy to even be considered. That means we had to do it in under 3:25. I now saw why people started their training long before they even had their candidate. You can’t apply prior to the arrival of the candidate, but immediately upon their arrival, the calls, e-mails and appointments begin. The application process itself takes over a year.

With a little (okay, a lot) of help from the local subway, we barely managed to qualify for the Boston marathon. We didn’t actually have to run Boston, but we had to qualify for it. We thought about running it after all, being as we qualified, but I’m not as familiar with the rapid transit system in relation to the marathon course in Boston, so it seemed risky. But, they had many other things in store for us anyway.

There was hypno-regression for those of us who could speak. It wasn’t enough to prove that we were ridiculously rich in this lifetime, but we had to be regressed to make sure we came from elite stock going back generations. I had heard, but did not have confirmed, that if you weren’t a 500-head slave holder with a plantation in a previous life, you may as well quit right then. Because your little bundle of joy doesn’t stand a chance. Which could be a relief, but what would the neighbors say? Not to mention the genteel folks at the club. Can you imagine the snubbing? It would probably make the Queen’s response to Diana look like a friggin tea party.

After the marathon came the intelligence tests. Because it was too early to test Jack’s IQ accurately, they tested ours. We both had to score in the top 5 percentile of the Mensa crowd. Lucky for us, we worked day and night for weeks to find the answers on-line and thus were well prepared. I figured if you’re smart enough to cheat your way in, the IQ question is moot.

Then came the financial inspection. If it was anyone other than Ken Lay researching us, I would be confident that we could snow our way out of that one. Luckily, if there’s one thing Ken Lay understands, it is secret bank accounts in remote locations. I guess that was lucky for all of us—mostly for him, as I believe Ken has had the opportunity to draw on that account now that he’s been re-born. Or un-dead, if you prefer.

Next up, the mental stress tests. Well, frankly, if we could find a way to maneuver though the rest of the minefield, this part was a cakewalk. All we had to do was some exhaustive research on the Psychiatrists. Just a boatload of cash and some plane tickets to an investigator and our psych tests were the shortest in history. We walked in, threw some pictures taken from his most recent Thailand vaca on his desk and walked out with stellar psych references.

That was everything. Well, aside from some plastic surgery--as the candidate had to look his very best for the interviews and tests. Just a little cosmetic work and some implants and he was ready to go. We actually got the family plan- Tony and I had the works- pretty ,much everything was lifted, separated, and suctioned and Jack had whatever was needed to make him more appealing.

We all lived at the clinic for 3 months. We told everyone we were all in rehab- that’s so much more respectable than showing up with stitches and bruises all over. Of course, no one recognized us when we came out, but that’s okay. We didn’t like most of those people anyway, so we’ll just befriend the younger ultra-rich set.

After almost a solid year of jumping though these hoops and being scrutinized within an inch of our lives, we were finished. Now we waited to see what the executive committee had to say. I wonder how they felt sitting in judgment of us. And all of the loser families that were also trying to get a leg up for their prodigies by getting them into the country’s most exclusive academy.

We had discovered that the right school, even at one year old, can make all the difference. The right connections for later in life. The right past for future schools. There is no way anyone would not be impressed- he would travel with the elitist of the elite and never look back. The very basis of his career would rest on the school that he attends, and if we were to chose poorly (or if the selection committee chose poorly), his entire career and thus his entire life would be ruined long before it even starts.

The only problem that we couldn’t solve was bribing the selection committee. Turns out those amoral bastards will take everyone’s bribe and lie through their teeth about their allegiance. If you don’t bribe them, you get the thin letter that says “We regret to inform you…” immediately, instead of waiting 3 months with everyone else. The only way we could deal with the jury was to put a contract out on all of them, in the event that we weren’t deemed good enough of their school. We did do that, however, it didn’t help us to get Jack in.

The day arrived. They told us when to look for the letters. I whipped the maid so she would hurry to get the mail. She waited at the mailbox for three hours; I think she didn’t want to spend any more time with me and the whip than she had to. I was breathless. I had to steel myself with a few bottles of Jack Daniels in order to stay conscious. Then it was even harder. Jack and I snuggled up to await the news of his future. He did not seem to realize the importance of this event, despite my repeated and slurred explanations. I think he was tuning me out.

Finally, the maid drove up the driveway. I was all-atwitter. I couldn’t stand, I couldn’t sit. I ran out to meet her and ripped the mail from her arms. I tried to focus on return addresses, throwing letters, catalogs and other detritus in the rosebushes in my desperation. There it was. I had it. It seemed thin, but I was actually seeing three of them so that may not have been a reliable observation. Jack wasn’t even out there with me. I think this meant far more to me than to him.

I had the maid open it and read it to me. “We regret to inform you that YuppyPuppy Elitist Academy has determined that you and your pet do not meet the standards for the incoming class….”


Copyright 2007 Antigone Lett. All rights reserved. This material may not be published, broadcast, rewritten or redistributed.