Page 108 of The Academy
“I was hoping to attend the information session,” he says. “And then I’d like a map so I can take a self-guided tour.”
“Are you a”—Cordelia checks behind him, but he seems to be alone—“prospective parent?”
“Not exactly,” he says. “I have twin nieces who are in the throes of end-of-the-year activities at their middle school. Band concerts, spring sports banquets. So they sent me to check out the school, then report back to the fam. I’m vetting their list.” He pulls a notebook out of the breast pocket of his linen jacket. “I promised I’d take notes, and pictures too, of course.”
Well, well,Cordelia thinks. This year it’s twin nieces; last year it was triplet nephews. This same gentleman, minus all that hair, attended an information session last spring and then asked for a map so he could do a “self-guided tour,” and Cordelia had thought,Are you crazy? I’m not going to let you prowl around camp.And so she’d insisted he take a tour with… well, with the only student Cordelia could call on at the last minute, one who also happened to be the best tour guide at Tiffin.
The gentleman seems to suspect he’s busted because he takes a step backward. But Cordelia doesn’t want to scare him away.
“You’re the only one here today,” she says. “Come inside and we’ll chat.”
“I don’t need any special treatment,” he says. “Just a map and…”
“Follow me,” Cordelia says.
“I’m Cordelia Spooner,” she says as she leads the gentleman up to Audre’s private library and closes the door behind them.
“Philip Jennings,” he says, shaking her hand.
Cordelia nearly cries out in delight at the alias; she’s watched all six seasons ofThe Americans.She can’t remember the alias this same gentleman used last year—was it as obvious as Jim Bond? Cordelia does recall that he was bald and wore glasses with black square frames.
“Please have a seat,” she says.
Philip Jennings is gazing out the window toward Jewel Pond. The kids are arranging themselves by height. They’re laughing, goofing off; Cordelia hears Honey say, “All the Elon kids stand together.”
“That’s our sixth-form,” Cordelia says. “They’re having their class picture taken in their college shirts.”
“They’re good-looking kids,” Philip Jennings notes.
Cordelia looks him dead in the eye; she would like to avoid a conversation about the appearance of Tiffin students. “I know who you are.”
Philip Jennings tents his fingertips and releases an exhale. “Ahhh, I thought you might.”
“And I have questions.”
He laughs. “Why did I choose this wig? Or why did I return myself instead of sending a colleague? The answer to the first is my wife picked it out. The answer to the second is we’re understaffed.”
“Why did you rank us at number two?” Cordelia asks. “We aren’t the second-best boarding school in the country and we know it. We don’t have a huge endowment like other schools, we don’t have a hockey rink, our dorms are outdated. There’s no speech or debate team, our head math teacher is well past retirement age, and we don’t have a marching band.” Cordelia could go on, but she won’t.“The inquiry brought by ISNEC verified our ranking but it never explained why.” Cordelia pauses. “There has to be a reason.”
Philip Jennings nods, and briefly closes his eyes. “Younger staffers at the magazine thought criteria for our rankings should be less numbers-focused and more subjective. Feelings-forward, if you will. This past year we prioritized, for lack of a better word, the ‘vibe’ of a school. Was the school a pressure cooker, or a place of joy? Are the students happy? My impressions of Tiffin…”
Cordelia can guess. Philip Jennings drove through the wrought-iron gates, he saw the wildflowers of the Pasture in full bloom, he heard the bells of the chapel chime the hour. He would have been wowed by the Teddy; it’s the finest student union anywhere. He might have sat in on Señor Perez discussingThe Shadow of the Windwith his AP Spanish students or Mr. Chuy teaching the lyrics of Lennon and McCartney. But she’s not sure any of that answers the question.
“… were favorable, of course. But the reason I ranked you at number two was, in large part, because of the eloquence and passion of my tour guide.”
“Cinnamon Peters,” Cordelia whispers.
“Cinnamon Peters,” Philip Jennings says. His somber tone of voice lets Cordelia know that he knows. “I’m sorry for your loss.”
Cordelia brings her hands to prayer. “What was it about her?”
“I’ve done a lot of tours at a lot of boarding schools,” Philip Jennings says. “But I have never met anyone who loved a school the way that Cinnamon Peters loved Tiffin.”
Cordelia mists up. “Tell me more.”
“She took me to all the expected spots—the Schoolhouse, the student union, the library. She explained about the Senior Sofa—and during our visit to the chapel, she pointed out the needlepointed kneelers with their equestrian themes. She told me about senior speeches. And then she asked if I would mind stopping by the musicroom so she could pick up her guitar.” Philip clears his throat. “The music room was empty and she asked if I’d like to hear a song. She played that song ‘Home,’ I’m not sure if you know it, but she changed the lyrics toI know I’m not alone, because I’ve made this place my home.”
Cordelia is happy to find Philip Jennings has a pleasant singing voice.
