(Then) Savannah

Eyes on Cornell Part 2

Julia had offered to help me with my essay as soon as I told her I was applying to Cornell, but unlike most of the people I knew, I wanted to try it on my own first.  Well, now I had tried and failed.  Not getting into Cornell wasn’t an option, so hopefully Julia would be able to help. 

She came over the next day and carefully read the part of my application that told me what to write.  Then she gave me some tips and talked me through my ideas.  She had me write down some notes, then told me to write and email it to her to edit when I was done.  I hugged her and thanked her for her help.  I actually had an idea of what to write now.

I did some writing and revising.  I couldn’t spend too long working on it at once without Mother getting suspicious, so I did the best could over the next several days.  I felt good about it the morning of the party, but decided to sit on it for a couple more days before sending it to Julia.

Mother helped me get ready for the party.  Or, rather, Mother stood in my bedroom and directed the people she had hired to help me get ready for the party.  I sat perfectly still like a good little doll as Mother’s hair artist (Seriously, lady? Hair Artist? Come on.) swept my long blonde hair into a perfect updo.  Then the makeup person, who must be new, painted my face.  Mother was horrified after and snapped something about drag queens.  Then she made the makeup person take it all off before she fired her and did my makeup herself. 

I regarded myself in the mirror when they were all finished fussing over me.  I looked like I could have been one of the developers’ third wives.  They go younger and younger each time, you know.  Mother frowned and regarded my arms, which were perfectly sculpted from hours of tennis practice.  “It’s a good thing we got something with a little bit of a sleeve at least,” she muttered, poking at invisible fat at the back of my arm.

“Don’t frown, mother.  Your plastic surgeon works hard enough already.”  It came out with the perfect amount of haughtiness.  It’s a tone that’s well known amongst the people that “Maintain Appearances.”  She quickly forced her face into a relaxed state, but it didn’t stop her from glaring at me.  You only need your eyes for that.

She ushered me out of my room and we walked downstairs.  I walked as easily in my 4 inch stiletto heels as I do barefoot (not that being barefoot is allowed, being barefoot is for poor people).  Another one of those things I’ve been forced to practice since I could walk. 

“You look beautiful, honey,” Daddy said, as I made my way down the stairs.

“Thank you, Daddy!” I chirped, kissing him on the cheek.  We waited patiently while Mother rattled off the rules.  I don’t know why she bothered.  The first thing Daddy did every time he took me to one of these things was give me a glass of champagne.  That was definitely against Mother’s rules. 

We arrived at the party venue, a chic museum that had been transformed, with a string quartet near the ticket window, a bar opposite, and tables lining the empty spaces.  The middle of the entrance hall now contained scale models of properties: houses, golf courses, even this very museum.  Because of course Daddy had done the flawless addition to this building 6 years ago.  One of his assistants stood near the models, answering questions politely. 

“Mr. Charles!” came a voice.  “And is this the Mrs. Charles?” The tall man took my hand and kissed it.  Who was this guy?  No one does that anymore.

Daddy chuckled.  “Don’t be ridiculous, Bob.  This is my daughter Savannah.  Savannah, this is Bob Bradley.  Bob is an owner at Bradley and Smithson Development.”

“So nice to meet you, Mr. Bradley,” I simpered, with a coquettish smile.  Daddy nodded in approval. 

“Bob, please,” he said, smiling broadly.  And ogling.  Daddy never insisted anyone call him by first name.  He said it was a sign of weakness.  Mother would say that only poor people insist someone call them by their first name.   Mother makes a lot of assumptions about poor people, because I’m pretty sure she’s never met someone who actually qualifies as poor.

The rest of the evening was much of the same.  Daddy didn’t limit my champagne, and by the end of the night I was a little wobbly on my feet.  I also didn’t notice the lecherous stares as much. 

We left the party a little after 1, with Daddy insisting it was improper to keep a 17-year-old out any later, because nothing good happens after 1 am.  This statement, which he repeated over and over, was accompanied by a wink and a laugh.  I did my best to paste a smile on my face and not shudder.

In the car, I loosened the straps of my shoes and wiggled my toes, which had now been numb for roughly 4 hours.  They tingled slightly as the blood flowed back into them. 

“Another successful event,” Daddy muttered.  “Thank you, Savannah.”  I nodded silently. 

When I got home, I pulled off the dress and left it in a heap on the floor.  I took a long, steamy shower, scrubbing the makeup off my face and trying to exfoliate away the lingering memories of the stares and hungry smiles.  Each time I went to a party like this, I got a little more used to it.  A small part of me even started to enjoy the attention.  But after, I always felt gross.

The next day, I got up and re-read my personal statement.  I made a few small changes.  I still couldn’t bring myself to send it to Julia, so I told myself I’d give it one more day, then send it.  I tried not to think about it for the rest of the day.  I went to tennis practice, then to the beach with Jeff and some of his friends.  I told Mother I was shopping, of course.

As I read the statement one more time the next afternoon, I couldn’t find any changes to make.  I knew it was time to send it to Julia.  Summer was almost over, and I needed her to have plenty of time to look it over.  I was planning to apply early decision to Cornell and I wanted to get everything take care of as soon as possible. 

I took a deep breath and hit send.  I felt a rush of anxiety as the “Your message has been sent” dialogue popped up, but there wasn’t anything more I could do but wait to hear back from Julia.