The Better Half(65)
“That was a stroke of brilliance, huh? Pun intended,” Roans says, self-satisfied.
“Can we get to the point, Roan?” The ego-stroking portion of our impromptu meeting is over, I actually have a job to do other than hand-holding Roan through minifits.
“Well, if everything you’ve said is true, then explain these two partially completed high school applications that, I have no idea how, came through WeeScholars to my inbox this morning. You mind if I log in to my account so we can look at them on your big screen?” I motion Roan to go right ahead as I take a seat in my desk chair. “Actually, I’m going to print them out so we can both look at them.”
I read the names at the top of the two applications, Dontrelle and Marcus Burns. Twins I assume, currently in eighth grade at a public middle school in Crenshaw, a neighborhood in South LA.
“Before you get locked in to reading, let me share that I have reviewed every electronic sign-in sheet for the twelve fall school tours, and there is not one adult who attended on behalf of these applicants. There are no SSAT scores, grades, or teacher recommendations. So, somehow an administrator at WeeScholars was persuaded to push the applications through without them being complete.” Roan’s in business mode, which is good, because even though the Burns boys are only applying for high school admissions, not college, in Los Angeles County it’s a blood-sucking sport. If there’s even a sniff of foul play at Royal-Hawkins on the application front, I’m going to be accused of a white-collar crime, and jumpsuits are not my best look. I’m not quite tall enough to pull them off.
“So, if there’s no visit, scores, grades, or recs, what is there?” Trying to answer my own question, I flip through the thin pile of papers that Roan has printed out for me.
“All the general information is complete, full name, birthday, address, etc. . . . and the essays. Also, the tuition assistance pages have been completed, but incorrectly, almost like it was done in a hurry and without reading the directions.”
“Okay, well, Crenshaw’s a long way for the boys to travel for school, so I can’t imagine the consideration for attending is very high. Let’s start by assuming best intentions, there could be an obvious explanation we’re missing.” After taking in the general information on the boys I turn to the parent essay, which is always written with tedious perfection. Dontrelle, I assume, is Black, and from the address provided, he’s coming up in a hard part of town with his brother, Marcus.
What are your child’s strengths?
Dontrelle has been dedicated to the game of basketball since his father took him to Jim Gilliam Park near our house when he was three and big enough to carry his own ball. He has consistently played up in rank in several youth leagues with boys older than him because his level of play has always been advanced for his age. Whether it’s on his school team or club teams, Dontrelle averages about 25 points a game and is often awarded MVP status in regional and state basketball tournaments. In high school Dontrelle and his brother Marcus will most definitely work tirelessly to bring a league championship to their school.
I turn to look at Marcus’s essay about his strengths. His is the exact same answer as Dontrelle’s, only his name has been swapped out with his brother’s. These essays were clearly banged out in about five minutes.
“And you double-checked, no SSAT scores, grades, or teacher recommendations? Maybe they’re still pending?” I thumb through the incomplete applications a second time.
“Nope, nothing. I don’t know any more about this applicant family than, I’m relieved to find out, you do.” Roan’s shoulders finally drop from his ears for the first time since he entered my office. “Well, I’ll refund their application fees and email the parents to let them know that we can’t consider the boys for admissions due to partial and late application packages. I seriously want to know how these two even made it through the system; WeeScholars will be getting a call from me. Two decisions down, five hundred more to go.” Roan smacks the applications he’s holding on his right thigh, signaling he’s ready to leave.
“Hold up on emailing the parents and calling WeeScholars until you hear from me. I need to think on how to best handle this. I might call the principal of the boys’ middle school, see what they may know about this.” There’s something about the Burns boys and their scrambling to apply to Royal-Hawkins at the last minute that’s piquing my interest. For this family to consider traveling from Crenshaw to Pasadena every day makes no sense, particularly when there are plenty of private schools closer by.
Even from the slim information in front of me, there is something about this family that reminds me of mine. Celia paid no mind the hour-plus travel time each way for Clive and me to attend top schools. Sure, there were others near our home, but Celia had a list of successful alumni who went to Collegiate and Spence, and she wanted our names added. I never saw what my mother submitted on our behalf with her limited knowledge of American culture and private school admissions. For all I know they may have sounded a lot like this one. What I do know is that Celia and Fitzroy would want me to dig a little deeper on behalf of these boys, and that’s what I’m going to do.
“Okay, so you’ll get back to me by . . .” Roan trails off, waiting for me to offer a time frame. I understand anytime you can move something off your to-do list and onto the done pile, a director of admissions is eager to make that move, but right now I’m in charge of this ship, and it sails on my schedule.