With Friends Like These: A Novel by Sally Koslow Page A

from
Swan Lake
, accompanied by a four-foot-tall string quartet playing Tchaikovsky. Only after Odette and Odile took their bows and the director introduced the mathletes did Dr. O’Neal lead the parent group—we must have totaled close to one hundred—around the school like a trail of tall, gawking geese.
    I counted no more than sixteen children in each class, and faces of every hue, all sunny side up. Not one teacher appeared scary, burned out, or in need of immediate dental attention, and every classroom seemed to pulse with laughter and good health. I couldn’t imagine a child here getting lice or, God forbid, fat.
    “At Jackson Collegiate we have a historical emphasis on the arts,” Dr. O’Neal said as we stepped inside a room filled with first graders painting at individual easels, “but we value all the disciplines—science, the humanities, and physical education, too.”
    “What sets Jackson apart?” Xander asked as we caught up to her. Talia wasn’t far behind.
    “What’s most important here is building character,” Dr. O’Neal said. “We try our best to cultivate authentic respect for one another.”
    I’d heard more or less the same speech from every director, but this was the first school where I felt that it might be true. Maybe here “nice” wasn’t a dirty word left in the dust of “hi-ho, Harvard.” This might be a school where Xander, Dash, and I would all fit in and make friends. I stayed close to him as we migrated back to the hall. “What do you think?” I whispered into his ear.
    “I like it,” he said. “I think I like it the best yet.”
    “Me too,” I answered. As I gave his arm a squeeze I felt a tap on my shoulder.
    “Wouldn’t you have killed to have gone to a school like this?” Talia said, grinning. “Poetry on the walls, for God’s sake.”
    “What about the science labs?” Xander said. “A sixth grader could cure cancer in there.”
    “And the library?” she said. “That’s where I’d like to spend the whole afternoon.”
    Tom caught up to us. “Now do you see why Betsy’s my idea of an educator?”
    “It would be great if Henry and Dash could be in the same class,” I gushed, and then felt embarrassed. Dr. O’Neal hadn’t mentioned money—nobody did on these tours—but I’d read the fact sheet, and tuition was higher than at any other school we’d seen. What if Tom and Talia couldn’t afford this school, which cost an arm and a leg and maybe a spleen? The four of us took seats, and Dr. O’Neal began to field questions.
    “Do you give preference to brothers and sisters of current students?” the woman to the left of me asked.
    “We believe in family traditions and give siblings every consideration,” she said. “But unfortunately, we can’t offer guarantees.”
    “Last year eighty percent of the class was siblings,” a woman in back of me carped to no one in particular. “In vitro run amok—too many frigging twins.”
    “When do you introduce foreign languages?” asked a man in a white turban.
    “Second grade,” Dr. O’Neal said. “Spanish, French, Chinese, Japanese, Punjabi, Arabic, Hebrew, and Italian.” Sports facilities, trips to museums, and religious education—there was none, unless you counted the history of Eastern spirituality—had all been covered by the time Tom asked, “What’s your policy on scholarships?”
    “We handle them case by case,” Dr. O’Neal said, “but yes, we have resources for especially deserving students.” Tom glanced at Talia. I couldn’t see her face.
    Finally the director called on Xander. “How many applications do you expect to receive this year?” he asked.
    I couldn’t miss her pride. “If last year is any indication, I’d say at least a thousand.”
    “How many spots are there?”
    “In preschool, thirty-two.”
    These numbers could mean only one thing. If Dashiel McKenzie Keaton was to get into this school, his parents would have to play the game. The question was,