Admissions Process

            It was not as if the boy’s pleas were falling on deaf ears, not at all. Henry Munroe heard him loud and clear, his impatience growing each time the child asked. Was he oblivious? If a teacher meant no, did he physically have to say no? Perhaps subtlety had been removed from the standard curriculum along with Tom Sawyer, The Odyssey, and decent handwriting.  Or was this guy, this teenager, just another one of a litany of spoiled, entitled kids, in this rich island of a town in the midst of a sea of rich towns who had never been told “no”?
            Honestly, Amherst. Did he expect to get into Amherst?   
            Munroe cleared his throat with a studied ahem that came out as a cough. “Look, Robert. I’ve had you for less than one semester. I hardly know anything about you. I wouldn’t do you justice.”      
            Munroe didn’t mean justice. He meant that he didn’t want to be bothered by Rob; no one called him Robert. Munroe didn’t want to be bothered by anyone, certainly not some half-wit student seeking to get into his alma mater.
            “But you wrote one for Janet Markovitz. And Fleming, I think. He said he was going to ask.”
            Munroe looked away for a second, tightening the ends of his bowtie as he thought about Janet Markovitz. She was a different kettle of fish. Smart, to be sure, and engaged.  She positively raved over Munroe’s fiction work he rarely shared and was more rarely published. The girl had an eye for talent, a rare quality amongst the grade grabbers that dominated his classes and the school in general. She gave him his desired respect.  And she was very unpopular for it.
            It was no wonder she was nervous when approached him.
            Munroe always made a show of his disdain in writing recommendations.  When he saw a request coming, he’d roll his eyes up, close his lids slowly, lean his head to one side and inflate his sunken cheeks just before offering the deep exhale of discouragement.
            These were the contrived clues he wanted to provide, to make the students know they were the ones in need of a favor and needed it from him. In return, he wanted to make them sweat. Happily, he got few requests. But in recent days, he’d give in a little if the student was smart enough, if the student was deferential enough, if the student was lonely, nerdy, an outsider. If the student was like Henry Munroe had been. Janet hit all the high points.
            In these recent days, it was less a pain to write a tight handful of chosen recommendations than confront, once again, with the Administration on the issue of his attitude. In these recent days, they had measurable objectives, metrics they called them.  Metrics to prove you were a good teacher by the number of students who wanted your class, by their SATs, by where they went to college. And by how many college recommendations you wrote. Even the union insisted he try to get more involved with the students on that one.
            Munroe was never criticized for his teaching; there were no metrics for students actually learning.|
            Fleming, Ian Fleming of all things, was Munroe’s type; offbeat, slight, and slightly effeminate, probably gay, but didn’t know it and bullied like most sensitive kids and probably couldn’t stand Sunday nights. He found Fleming once trying to hide in his locker in tears. Munroe considered putting his hand on the boy’s shoulder but thought better of it. He told Fleming to take a deep breath and that he’d be happy to hear what was upsetting the boy.
            Fleming dismissed him with a, “It was nothing” and brightened up. “Hey, Mr. Munroe, I reread ‘Paul’s Case.’ I liked it, though I think you’re right, Holden Caulfield is the more tragic figure. That was a good class.”
            Munroe lifted his chin in acknowledgment while on his mind was “Screw that Ratemyteacher app.”
            For those types, those kids, Munroe could write decent recommendations, even great ones. For the few he wrote as a sop to the Union, his recommendations would merely be okay. For all the others who would dare ask him, it was a finger pointing down the hall, to some else, someone who’d give the child in question the praise they “undoubtedly deserved” but weren’t about to get from Henry Munroe. Those kids got the point.
            “Mr. Munroe?”
            Munroe looked back to Rob. “Well, as I suggested, I think there is a teacher who could do you a solid. (Munroe was pleased that he could come up with such a colloquialism.) I’ve seen you positively animated with Mr. Glascock.” The image gave Munroe a moment of satisfaction.
            “He’s a gym teacher! I need someone from humanities. And English is an humanities.”
            Munroe tilted his head and said, “An humanities? I see. Is that your intended major?”
            If Rob got the slight, he didn’t show it.
            Munroe wanted to say “no.” He wanted to be strong, definitive, to tell Rob he’d write a lousy recommendation because that’s what he deserved. He wanted to say that the only reason he never reported his frequent absences and tardiness—he couldn’t bring himself to say latenesses—was because he didn’t notice and didn’t care one whit about him or his jock friends or the fact he drove to school in a car Munroe couldn’t afford.
            “I’ll give it some thought, but don’t think I’ll change my mind. You do the same.  Come up with an alternative and we’ll compare notes.”
            “You’re great, Mr. Munroe. Simply the best. Thanks so much. This is a real relief.”
            Munroe’s left arm rose in wonder. His right arm would have risen as well but then the armful of books would have fallen to the floor and those included not only Moby Dick but the Moby Dick SparkNotes he would need reread. He tried to say to Rob, in no uncertain terms, there was nothing to thank him for, not at all. He hadn’t said yes; he merely not said no.
            In the teacher’s lounge, Rick Goldman, AP Calc and Stats, sipped his coffee and shook his head with a grin that spelled trouble. “Munroe, is it true? You’re writing a recommendation for Robby Montgomery? Talk about opposites attracting.”
            “Whatever gave you that idea?” said Munroe.
            “His dad,” replied Goldman.
            “HIS DAD?” said Munroe.
            “Yeah, I ran into him with some lacrosse recruiter. Bowdoin I think, maybe Colby. Someplace in Maine.”
            Munroe stammered that he hadn’t said yes. All he’d said was that Robert—Robby—would do better with someone else, someone who knew him: he left out that he didn’t like him, not one bit. He pushed Goldman, asking whom he thought would be better.
|           “Search me. He’s an obnoxious prick. He asked me, and I said no. Fact is, I asked him to drop Stats, but he rallied. Doing quite well, to be honest. And I can use extra bodies in class.”
            Extra bodies. The administration was constantly looking at the less popular courses and cutting them for classes that made the school look good on paper, in papers, and in the college acceptance statistics. Munroe was momentarily grateful he taught a core curriculum course.
            He was not, however, grateful for his inability to get one student to grasp his meaning, his nuance, to say nothing of his genius. He envied Goldman’s direct if somewhat coarse demeanor. His was too gentle, too cerebral, too fey and now, not for the first time, he hated himself. How could he extricate Henry Munroe from being Henry Munroe?
            “Well done, Munroe!”
            He turned to face the smoker’s rasp of the department chair, “Oh, hi, Allison. I didn’t see you there.”
            “Lost in thought? Thinking about Robby Montgomery’s letter, no doubt.”
            “Yes. I mean, no. Ah, a bit maybe. How do you know about that?”
            She explained, “Good news travels fast Surprised, I must say. Goldman mentioned it.”
            GOLDMAN. 
            “I didn’t offer Alison, he just pleaded really and…”|
            “And your heart melted. Happens. No matter. It’s a good thing. Takes the edge of your elitism. Wears the leather patches off your elbows so to speak!  “
            Munroe asked about trying to find a substitute, his subtlety giving way to desperation. He got no takers but did get responses:
            “Can’t stand the kid.”
            “Smart with emphasis on alecky.” 
            “Cuts corners, cuts classes. Did well on the boards, I’ll give him that.”
            And finally, “Me? I’ve got enough of them. Couldn’t do him justice anyway. Say, did you try Glascock?”
            Munroe tried not to think about Rob, but the more he tried, the more he thought about him. He kept his distance from most students, all students, deliberately. The privileged few he’d written recommendations for were easy enough. After all, he was an English teacher and writing came easy, easier than his fiction. But he resented being asked and resented not being able to say no. With Rob, Robby, Montgomery, he was cornered.
            The hard-copy form Rob brought to him said explicitly it was to be submitted electronically. “These are some ideas, notes, you know about me. Highlights,” said Robby.  Attached was a sheet of handwritten scribble. At least it wasn’t written in crayon.
            Munroe looked down his nose or tried to, but Rob had four inches on him. Instead, he looked as if he was preparing to put in eye drops.
            “Are you having a nosebleed, Mr. Munroe? I can get some tissues.”
            Munroe lowered his chin. “I’m fine, but these notes.  You understand this is my appraisal, not yours.”
            “Sure, of course, I just wanted to give you some pointers.
            Mr. Goldman suggested it.”
            Goldman, again!
            That night he sat with a glass of Armagnac and set to it. The word ‘team-player’ didn’t easily roll off Munroe’s keyboard. He tried to come up with words as generic and noncommittal as possible but felt they didn’t do justice to him—to Munroe, that is—in the literary sense. This was for Amherst, after all, his alma mater. With a self-loathing that forced his hands to shake he typed in the word ‘bonhomie’ under the section “Positive Attributes.” It took him fifteen minutes to come up with any.
            He wasn’t ready to give up on his creativity but did give Rob’s notes the once over.  He got no inspiration.  After a while, and another Armagnac, he was rewarded with a load of immature conceit hidden behind naïveté. 
            It must have been the Armagnac because Munroe started to write what was in his heart. He wrote he knew Rob, hardly. Perhaps he was an adequate student. He could be polite—an odd thing to write and Munroe smiled at doing so—which stood in contrast to the brazen bravado the three-time captain of the lacrosse team more consistently demonstrated. He’d answer if questioned, would contribute if pushed. Beyond that? “I can safely say he can both read and write but whether that’s to Amherst’s standards I offer no further comment.”
            Munroe was pleased. He’d written nothing untrue. He’d given Rob ample opportunity to choose another teacher. If Amherst thought of it as a half-hearted recommendation, they’d be generous. And besides, what he wrote would stay between him and the admissions officer who’d read it, assuming, which he assumed would not be the case, Rob’s grades were sufficient to get his application past the initial scan.
            Months later, word came in.|
            Janet Markovitz decided she was a lesbian and chose Smith.  Ian Fleming decided on a large state college in the Midwest, for mechanical engineering, on an ROTC scholarship of all things.  X got into Y. A was rejected at B but got into safety C.
            Rob said nothing.  That raised Munroe’s curiosity each time he glanced over at the boy. Not a word to relay his disappointment? He’d become a more engaged student, remarkably so, since asking for the recommendation. Munroe wondered if he didn’t deserve some solace for inspiring the boy. He thought maybe he’d been too hard on him.  He thought maybe Robby didn’t get into any school.
            Which was why he was caught by utter surprise when Rob lifted him off the ground in an enormous hug, his tears staining Munroe’s bowtie. “I made it. Off the waitlist. Thank you, thank you, thank you, Mr. Munroe. A thousand times and then some.”
            “Huh?” came back Munroe.
            “I’m in! Amherst. First choice. Thank you, thank you, and thank you again.”
            Rob danced away, leaving Munroe shocked and confused. How had this happened? What had happened? Had he once more found himself too subtle for his own good?
            A single call gave him the answer.
            Before he could finish saying he wanted to offer the school his gratitude for accepting his student the receptionist in Admissions interrupted. “Oh yes, we’ve been expecting you. Just a sec.” She immediately put him through to the Director of Admissions.
            “Munroe!!!” boomed a voice at the other end of the line. “How the hell are you, you dweebish pansy. It’s been, what, 25 years?”
            “I’m sorry, who is this?”
            “Gordy Goddamn Adams!”
            “Adams? What on earth?”
            “Director, Admissions, you douche. So, you’re teaching English now?  The great American novel still on hold?”
            Munroe stumbled, trying to convey he’d had some things published, mostly regional journals, but found his passion in teaching.
            “Hah, and getting kids into college, too?” said Adams.
            “Well, I wanted to express my gratitude, appreciation, for Rob—Robby. I must admit I wasn’t fully confident he’d get in, offered Munroe.
            “No thanks to your recommendation. Lucky for him it fell onto my lap.”
            “Yours?” said Munroe.
            “Yeah, mine. I couldn’t believe anyone could write such a thing, and then I saw your name and like, duh, of course, you would. I called his dad, a big donor by the way, and asked for one more recommendation to get him over the edge. Math guy named Goldman. Yours I rolled up and put in the smallest room in my house. None the wiser.  Get it? Anyway, the lacrosse coach wanted him. He was a shoo-in.”
            “A shoo-in?”
            “Shoo-in. And Munroe, you don’t want to pull that shit again. Okay?”
            Over the next year, Munroe wrote a series of recommendations for Amherst and managed to get student jock in. She played lacrosse.