Chapter 22 — Frozen Out

The school, which Sam Reed had left in March, bare,brown, muddy, with windrows of grayish snow beside the paths, was a different place when he came back in April. The mud had dried up; grass was showing new green, the frost gone, and Mrs. Floyd’s crocuses bloomed brilliant yellow, blue, and white under the windows of Chelsea House. Although the sun was warm, the southerly wind carried the chill of cold salt water far up the river. Sam noticed the weather only on the edge of his consciousness. He felt wretched. Down for early admission to Darthurst, a letter which brought disappointment but not despair, he had written the Director of Admissions at the suggestion of Mr. Hallberg, to express his disappointment and to re-iterate that Darthurst was still his first choice, that he would enroll if accepted. He had received a pleasant but non-committal reply. His subsequent applications to Yale, Princeton, Williams, Bowdoin, Mt. Adams, and two colleges in western New York State had brought nothing but formal acknowledgements. Mr. Hallberg said not to worry. He would hear in April. The first thing he did, before he went to his room, was to look in his post office box. Letters from Williams and Princeton, disappointingly thin. No matter how a director of admissions tries to soften the blow, no is no. Three days later Yale had said no. Mr. Hallberg hadn’t seemed concerned. “Must be the low SAT verbal score,” he had said. “But with B’s in Math and Physics you ought to look good. And Bowdoin doesn’t pay any attention to scores at all – so they say. Sit tight and wait ‘em out.” But April 15 came, the magic day. It seemed every senior was jubilant – accepted at Mt. Adams, accepted at Yale, accepted at Haverford, accepted at Harcourt. “I’m playing football for the Big Pink at Vassar,” exulted Jeff with a bit of a wry smile. “Where did you get in, Sam?” “Still waiting,” said Sam. But he wasn’t still waiting. He was out, rejected everywhere. Joe, his roommate, tried to cheer him up. “It will be OK Sam. You’ll make it somewhere. The school will take care of you. Old Uncle Seth is a sharp guy.” But Joe was into Mt. Adams and on the waiting list at the Great University. He was no great comfort. Gus Cunningham dropped in to find Sam sitting on the edge of his bed glowering at his shoes. Gus knew. He had been pulled through the same knothole only four years ago. He had a constructive suggestion. “Bad news all the way, Sam?” “Yes Sir.” “No waiting list?” “No. “Know anybody at any good college?” “No.” “Well, maybe I can help. My sister is on the Admissions Committee at Van Buren in New Jersey. Want me to write her? It’s a good little college. I should be able to wiggle you in there. I’ll write tonight.” The Headmaster, Mr. Sawyer, stopped him outside the dining room. “Bad news, Sam?” “All the way, Sir.” “That’s tough to take. Still, it happens once in a while. Go see Mr. Hallberg. He is likely to have an idea. We have seen this happen before and we have never failed anyone yet. ‘Courage, mon bràve,’ as they 100

say in Montréal.” Bouchard’s face flashed across the screen of Sam’s mind, a memory of his cheerful French-Canadian opponent in the final hockey game, and just the memory was cheering. Mr. Hallberg was not very sympathetic, but his businesslike attitude was encouraging. “Your bad news is making waves all over the place, Sam. I had a call from your father this morning. He and your mother are coming in tomorrow afternoon. They insisted, although there isn’t much I can tell them.

“I called Dick Smith at Mt. Adams and the office at Bowdoin, but Dick couldn’t tell me anything except that the competition was tough and they couldn’t take all the good candidates they had. I couldn’t get through to Bowdoin this morning. I think they just took the phone off the hook and walked out. They can’t tell anyone anything today. “And Gus Cunningham was in to say his sister might get you into Van Buren. Do you want to go to Van Buren?” “No. I’d rather go in the Army.” “I thought so. Van Buren is a good enough college,but there are better ones.” “But how can I get in now? The time is past and I am no good. What college would take me?” “Lots of them – and good ones. No one today, but we have time. You see every college accepts more people than they can accommodate because even the most competitive don’t get every applicant they accept. They all guess on what the “yield” will be, accept about the number they will need to fill the college, and then keep a waiting list. They won’t know until the first week in May exactly how many are actually coming. Then they look at the waiting list and the yield from that is uncertain, because many waiting list people are accepted elsewhere and some of the people who accept them on May 1 may be on a waiting list elsewhere and bug out when chosen from that list. It is June or July before the freshman class is final. So we have some time and we better use it. How have your grades been since mid-year?” “Fair. 2 B’s and 2 C’s.” “We have a marking period closing May 2. From now until then, you do two things: First and most important, get me some good grades by then, so I will be able to do you justice with whomever I talk to; and second, make me a list of colleges you would like to go to. Not much use to put on Ivies or colleges where you have been turned down, but put down any you would like to go to and we will worry about getting in after May 2. Ask anyone who can help - your parents, their friends, faculty, anyone. If I can help, ask me. Bust in here anytime I don’t have a visitor. After May 2, we’ll go to work on it – but get me some grades! “You probably will want to be here when your parents come – maybe about 3 o’clock.” “I’ll be on the river then, but I guess I can get excused from crew.” “Better not. Come in after practice. You’re stroking the 3rd boat now aren’t you? They need you. See you tomorrow.” An hour later Gus dropped in on Seth Hallberg. “Want me to write my sister?” “I don’t think so.” “Why not?” “A boy who is turned down, especially if he is a good kid with considerable guts – which Sam is, reacts in a weird, logical-illogical way. He wouldn’t go to Van Buren if you gave him the place. He reasons, probably only half-consciously, ‘I got turned down everywhere. Therefore, I am no good. If I am no good, any college that will take me is no good. Well I am really not no good so I will be damned if I am going to let anyone’s sister shoe-horn me into a no good college.” “But Van Buren’s a good school.” “I know that. You know that. Your sister knows that. If Sam had studied it before April 15, he would know that. But right now he can’t see any good in it, and if he went there, he would bust out.

Believe me, Gus, I have been here before. Thanks for your help, but right now we can’t use it.” “OK, coach. You know best, but it sounds crazy.” The next afternoon Sam’s troubled parents came in. Mr. Reed, in a three-piece business suit, wanted to know why. Why hadn’t Sam been accepted? He was a good boy, reasonably intelligent, good athlete, good grades, went to a good school from which boys far less able than Sam had been accepted to the very colleges where Sam had been rejected. It was not fair. It must be in some way the school’s fault. “I have been on the telephone with several of these schools. The most competitive ones, Yale, Princeton, Bowdoin, Williams, take only about one applicant in ten. Their admissions committees would like to be “fair,” but their job is to admit an interested, interesting freshman class of varied abilities. Out of 1000 applicants, they might admit without question 50 really outstanding scholars and faculty children, and “special cases” and they reject at once perhaps 200 applicants whom they judge incapable of succeeding academically. From the remaining 750, all of whom are presumably qualified academically, they must select about 250 men and women of varied interests, abilities and backgrounds. They may very well find they have had to reject a quite good scholar in favor, for instance, of a talented musician, also a good scholar whose presence will be a strong asset to the class, or ten men from New York City in favor of ten applicants from Alaska, Hawaii, Arizona and Puerto Rico.” “But Sam has worked awfully hard and he is a really good boy,” observed Mrs. Reed. “Doesn’t that count for something? They just destroyed the boy. How can they do that?” “Sam is a good boy and he has proved it over and over again. Quality is not measured by objective tests. Look how he supported a losing football team? He is rowing on a 3rd crew right now, a position many seniors would turn down in favor of perfunctory participation in intramural tennis. This has, and will, have a great deal to do with the selection process.” “Is it possible,” asked Mr. Reed, “that your recommendations and the school’s did not do him justice?” “It certainly is not possible. However, the law says that you can review them if you wish. There is a procedure for this, but I can tell you that there is nothing in those letters but the truth and a very favorable presentation of that truth.” “Then what did we do wrong?” wailed Mrs. Reed, fumbling in her pocketbook for a handkerchief. “Nothing. Sam is a boy to be proud of. He will do well and go to a good college.” “I won’t have him go to some little freshwater school on the prairies. I’ll tell you that right now. I’d rather put him in the shipping department of my business and let him paste up boxes for a year.” “Oh, George ...” “That is an alternative, although he probably would extract all the intellectual nourishment from that position by coffee time on the first day. Still, there certainly are alternatives to college that he could profitably choose. One of our graduates is in Antarctica right now with a meteorological team and will return to the University of Pennsylvania in the fall. They took him on the recommendation of one of the scientists. “Another alternative is to go to another secondary school for a post-graduate year.” “No way will he do that. How about repeating his senior year here?” “I don’t think that would work. We don’t ordinarily take P.G. students, and Sam might well feel awkward as a member of a younger class. He is ready for college. He can do the work in any college in the country, so I think he should go to college.” “But how? He got rejected at all the good colleges. He’ll never get into a good one.” “Where, aside from those where he was actually rejected,would you like to see him go?” “How about Wesleyan or Trinity College in Hartford? They are near home.” “Long shots, but we can try them. Nothing will happen until the first week in May when the colleges know how many of the candidates they accepted are going to come. Why don’t you improve the time

between now and then by making up a list, with Sam, of perhaps ten colleges you would like to see him enter, in order of your preference? Then we’ll see what we can do.” Sam knocked on the doorframe and stood in the open door, a strong, healthy, intelligent-looking boy of 17, his hair still wet from his recent shower, radiating a feel of salt water, wind and sunshine. His mother plied her handkerchief and his father choked up a little as he rose to shake Sam’s hand. “Sit down, Sam. I was just telling your folks of our procedure on the list. Any questions?” “What about University of San Huronymus? They have a crew.” “OK, if you want to row. Put it on the list and give me some grades to talk about.” Half an hour later Mr. Hallberg bowed the family out the door on their way to go out to dinner together, then collapsed in his chair. “Long afternoon, Seth?” asked his secretary, putting on her coat to leave for the day. “Here’s a few calls I fielded for you this afternoon.” “I’ll try a couple now if it’s not too late. Nice people, the Reeds. I hate to see it happen to them. See you tomorrow.” Before Seth finished dialing the first call, Mr. Sawyer bounded up the steps and came in. “What are we going to do about Sam Reed, Seth? His uncle has been giving me a rough time on the phone. Says we have let him down and all that.” “Don’t panic, Chief. Sam’s OK and we’ll find a good place for him. We’ve seen this happen before. Johnson got into Hudson last year and told me he is doing very well and glad he didn’t go to one of those snotty schools that turned him down. I think he was talking about Brown.” “He would have sold his soul to get into Brown last year.” “Not now. Don’t worry about Sam. I’ll have him in by May 15.” “May 15! Can we wait that long?” “Have no fear. Uncle Seth is here.” It seemed to Sam that he was the only senior in school who was whole-heartedly committed to studying, but he paid no attention to the “young college boys” lolling in the sunshine and bore down. After the third successive C- English theme, a paper on the development of romanticism in the late 18th century, a paper over which he had worked almost all night, picking out the last of it on Joe’s typewriter at 3 a.m., he went to see Mr. Edgehill. “Sir, what do I have to do to get a B in English? I worked 10 hours on this paper and other guys knock them out in an evening for honor grades. There must be a trick to it.” “There must be, Sam. Do you get B’s in any other subject?” “Sure, in Math.” “How do you do it in Math?” “Math is a cut-and-dried subject. You know exactly what you have to prove. You have all the facts necessary to prove it right under your hand. All you have to do is line them up one after the other and, Q.E.D., you’ve got it. And if it’s right, it’s right and no doubt about it.” “Let’s try it in English if it works in Math.” “How?” “Easy. Write down in one sentence what you are trying to prove. What was it in this paper?” “Well, these guys, Burns and Goldsmith and other guys we read, they wrote romanticism but some other guy, Johnson? Said they just found a new way to be dull and they ought to follow the rules...”. “Hold on. You don’t have to tell all you know in one sentence. Tell me in one simple sentence what you want me to know.” “Romanticism started in the 18th century.” “OK Good. That will do very well. Now, just as you did in the math problem, prove it did. Any evidence?”

“Well, Robert Burns wrote romanticism and so did Goldsmith and Wordsworth and Keats.” “Take it easy. Take just one. Whom do you like?” “Burns.” “OK. What did he write?” “He wrote about the mouse.” “What’s romantic about a mouse?” “I – I really don’t know.” “You’re in a tough spot. You are trying to prove something started in the 18th century and you don’t know what it is.” The discussion went on for another hour, but at the end of it, Sam had a one sentence statement of his theme, a definition of his terms, three paragraphs, each dealing with one poet and one poem showing in each case a clear connection with the definition and concluding with a neat Q.E.D. sentence. “Now, that,” said Mr. Edgehill “is Instant B. That is an academic essay. It works in almost any subject you will ever study and it is a winner on examinations. It isn’t great literary art. It will seldom get you an A. But it is a guaranteed B, and it is a great time-saver because like Napoleon’s armies, you concentrate all your force on the single objective you want to gain and don’t waste time ravaging the whole countryside.” It worked. English and History, which had always been hard subjects, rose in two weeks to solid B’s to the admiration and delight of all concerned. “Why didn’t anyone tell me this before?” asked Sam. “We did, Sam; we did. But in your unregenerate state you had not sufficient motivation to bear down and do it. Now, never forget it.” Math soared to an A and Physics held to a solid B so on May 3 Sam came in to see Mr. Hallberg with an A- and 3 B’s, the best record he had ever posted. May 3 was a miserable afternoon, cold, dark and dirty with fog lying up the river. No day to row. Sam sat next to Mr. Hallberg’s desk, presented his list of colleges and waited. Mr. Hallberg got out a composition pad, pushed accumulated papers to one side, hunted around for a pencil, and the telephone rang. “Jane,” he called. “Catch that foul ball, will you, and any others that come in. Keep the line clear, and I don’t care if the President of the United States comes up the steps, I am too busy to see him. We’ve got work to do.” The next ring of the phone was choked off half way. “Now, Sam, let’s get it all down on one sheet where I can see it. Scores: 550 verbal, 590 mathematical. Not bad. Achievement tests in English, Physics - English 510, Physics much better. Grades – hey, how about an A and 3 B’s! You been taking smart pills? Old Dr. Edgehill’s Instant B, for best results, use only as directed. I got some others who could use a bottle. What about athletics? Varsity football, varsity hockey 2nd goalie, 3rd crew. What about extra curricular stuff? Plays, debates, anything like that?” “I was on the stage crew for My Three Angels last year when we built a loft over the stage for the convicts.” “I remember that. Good show, too.” “What did you do last summer?” “Worked for my father.” “Doing what?” “Hauling boxes around, loading trucks, packing radios for shipment, nothing very exciting.” “What did you do that for?” “Money. “Did you learn anything?” “I learned where you end up without a high school diploma.”

“Do anything else?” “Took a canoe trip down the whole length of the Connecticut River.” “Was that any good? Tell me about it.” Sam told, at length, of the transition from a wilderness stream in the Northeast Kingdom to an industrial resource in Massachusetts and something I like an open sewer in Connecticut. “OK, anything else?” “I did win a prize in a science fair in the 9th grade for a windmill generator.” “We’ll stick that in. I talked with your father about money. He thinks you can make it without financial aid for the first year.” “Probably. I have a job this summer with Radio Shack. That will help some.” “Good. We’ll get that down too.” “Now, let’s see your list. What’s on top? Trinity College in Hartford? A long shot, but the worst they can say is no. Let’s give them a try.” When he got through to the Admissions Office, “This is Seth Hallberg at Kennebec Academy in Maine. We’ve got a good boy here who had some bad luck on his applications. He’d like to go to Trinity. Can I tell you about him? He is not on the waiting list?” “No, he never applied to Trinity.” “All right. Good luck. You’ve got a real Cadillac problem. We’ll be glad to see you in the fall.” “No chance there. They’re buying beds at Sears Roebuck and renting rooms. Cross off Trinity. What’s next?” “McAlpine College in Winterport, Michigan.” “That’s a good place, near Detroit. Seems I met an admissions man from there. Hold on.” He went to the door. “Jane, who was that macho guy from McAlpine that was here in November? He talked big about wrestling. That’s him. Ed Blackiron.” Seth dialed again, got through to admissions. “Can I speak to Mr. Blackiron please? … Hi, Ed. Seth Hallberg here. Kennebec Academy in Maine. Yes, I remember. Last November. Oh, it’s miserable here. Fog and rain and just like March. Great for the gardens. We get three crops here: Snow, rocks and crows. Ha, ha … Well, Ed I have a good boy here who had some bad luck and would like to go to McAlpine. Let me tell you about him. Sure. 550 verbal. 590 math.” Seth ran through the scores. “Good grades and right now the best he’s ever done. A and 3 B’s. No senior slump for him. We don’t figure rank in class. We’re too small. Sure he’s an athlete. Football, hockey, crew. Third boat but a winner. Sure he’s big – big enough, Eddie. His feet reach the ground. Oh, 175. Sure, he takes a part. A good kid. Canoed down the Connecticut River, held a job, working for Radio Shack this summer. No, Ed, no. Don’t send an application. This boy wants McAlpine; you’re on top of his list. This is no shopping trip. If you take him, he’ll come. He wants to see the place first – of course he does. He’s too smart to buy a pig in a poke. No financial aid problem – at least for this year. Forget the application. He’s coming out to see you. Tomorrow. Probably around 3 o’clock. We’ll see how the planes fly. Sure. Limousine from Detroit. Can you find a bunk for him overnight? In the dorm. That’s fine. OK. He’ll be there tomorrow. So long. Talk to you later.” Sam was breathless. From dark despair he had broken into the sunlight, regardless of the weather outside. Seth’s account of his admirable qualities, the interest in seeing him, the prospect of a trip, changed everything. Seth was already on the telephone to the airport. “Name is Samuel Reed. Round trip to Detroit tomorrow. 8 am. Yes, he’ll be there at 7 and pay for the ticket at the counter. Thank you. And another call to Seth’s father.

“A place at McAlpine. Looks good. More than half their alumni go to graduate school. Sure it’s academically sound. We had a boy there six years ago. Liked it fine. Now in med school. Tomorrow. Sure, the school will advance the fare. Right here in my office. You want to talk to him?” Sam suddenly found himself telling his father –not being told – about the coming trip. It felt good. “OK, Dad. I’ll call you from there if I can.” “I’ll get the paper work together tonight and I’ll pick you up at your dorm at 6. They have a spot at McAlpine I’m quite sure, or Ed wouldn’t have been so hospitable. But you don’t have to take it if you don’t want to. They will show you around and probably take you to a class or two. Listen to the professor, but look at the kids and listen to what they are talking about after the bell rings. Go into the library. Is there serious work going on? Sit down at a table in the Student Center with some guy sitting alone, tell him why you’re there and ask him how he likes the place. The guys in the dorm should tell you something. If you think it is a serious academic institution and your kind of place, tell Blackiron you’ll come and tell him with some enthusiasm. Give him the papers. They will be in a sealed envelope,but I will give you copies to read on the plane so you will know what I am telling him. He will probably give you an application to fill out on the spot and the school recommendation to bring back. I’ll meet your plane in Portland on Thursday and we’ll see what to do next. If you don’t 1ike it, you don’t have to go there. We’ll try the next on the list. Now, get out of my office and let me get to the paper work!” Sam left, feeling it had been the most important afternoon in his life. Seth had given him serious attention, obviously thought well of him, had persuaded Blackiron to see him, had arranged transportation, taken him into his confidence completely without railroading him into a decision. He felt adult. He liked McAlpine. Everyone was friendly and hospitable. Mr. Blackiron had taken him around the campus, and then turned him over to a student who took him down to the boathouse where a coach took him out in the launch. The professors were quite young and informal and the guys in the dorm were good guys and seemed to drink a lot of beer – or they said they did – but they studied too. He told Seth all about it on the way back from the airport. The next morning Seth was on the telephone early. “Ed … Oh better here today. Yeah, summer’s coming. Saw a car from Michigan. How did you like our boy? Good. Sure he did. Loved the place. You’ll put it through the Committee? Of course you have to. Yes, his father’s good for the deposit. Charge it to me if you want to. I tell you, you’re number one. Oh, when does the Committee meet? Next Tuesday! Well, give me an idea of how they’ll come down on this boy. If you turn him down, we’ve got to move fast on some other place. Sure I’ll hold. Ask around … Great! Good news, Ed. Sure. I’ll get the papers in the mail this morning. He gave them to me last night. Can’t tell you how much we appreciate your being so good to him. You’ll be proud of that boy, same as we are. OK. I’ll tell him. See you in the fall.” Thirty seconds after the bell rang at the end of the second period Sam was in the office. He knew from one look at Jane that the news was good. Seth met him at the door. “You’re in, Sam, and if you ask me they’re damned lucky to get you. Nothing to it now but paper work and the matter of an enrollment deposit. I’ll call your father. All you have to do now is push that crew across the finish line tomorrow. Seth called the Headmaster to give him the news. “McAlpine? Is that any good? We couldn’t have sold him that last fall at any price.” “He went there, Ben. He found real human beings who liked him and wanted him and who took him seriously. It isn’t a list of statistics in a book for him. It’s people. Sure, it’s a good college. I’m not going to send Sam Reed off to Santa Claus U. just because he didn’t get into Bowdoin. Far more important than where a boy goes to college is the attitude he takes with him. Sam goes eagerly and that isn’t half the battle; it’s the whole war.” “Thanks, Chief. See you at coffee time.”