Looking Out for the Harolds

There is a starting and fierce efficiency in the way upper-middle class adolescents interact socially. Throw 30 of them together sometime in the morning, and by lunch they will have aligned themselves in firm groups, from the trend-setters to the sheep. They all worry about "their records"--high school, not criminal--and each June some 750 do something about it, they show up for the Harvard Summer Session.

True-to-life first-day scene: Cars fill the Yard at 9 a.m., and families find their kid still won't get the good bed because some people arrive a full day early and get to the dorms by 7.30 a.m. Proctors stand calmly near entryways, checking off names and absorbing effusive admiration for attending an Ivy League school. i must want to be lawyer, no? They must think I write recommendations, no?

An obvious flake unloads his home computer from a Mercedes station wagon with Connecticut plates, and Dad says something like, "So really, what does it take to get in? He's got top-notch scores; will he make it?" They told us about this at proctor orientation, but it hadn't seemed possible. "Yes," I reply, "I can guarantee it."

"Proctoring means keeping an open mind" also kept popping up at the orientation sessions, but as the hordes march back from their first encounter with Sebastian Sandwiches at the Union, the caste lines are already becoming clear. A quick primer on how the nation's eleventh grade elite arranges itself:

Trend-setters. Comfortable with the opposite sex and partial to high fashion, the ranking socialites insist on an appearance of casualness while they grind is out just like the rest of them. They shake hands and puck cheeks with studied grace, sometimes sleep together, and always talk about it within earshot of their elders.

Older women. A sub-division of the trend-setters, they smoke British cigarettes and seduce proctors. They are not older in years, merely more weary of the world and more prone to peasant skirts, husky laughs, and hoop earrings. They never join the trend-setters for mid-Yard tanning sessions, and they call their prep school boy friends "lovers."

Sheep, They do what they're told.

Flakes, Burdened with parents who compare their SAT scores like golf handicaps, the flakes respond in various ways. Some ostentatiously unload home computers on the first day and effectively guarantee a summer of alienation right there. Others talk only about science fiction, and some boast prodigious drug habits. These are the kids who read the newspapers and know every battle of the Vietnam War, Many come from Bronx High School of Science, where they win debating trophies or excel at ping pong.

Special-interest partisans. These are flakes who grew up. They're proud that they read the papers and know every battle of the Vietnam War but are mature enough to admit their lust for the trend-setter bunnies. Not that they get anywhere with the fast crowd. No, they must still alone for their occasional outbursts of sarcasm or their lingering interest in science fiction. Predominantly male (but including a few young women who write bad blank verse and read Virginia Woolf), the special-interest partisans are the hope and promise of their generation.

Standing above all this excitment ends up taking sides at some point. You can't help but sympathize with the science fiction fan, Harold, who falls for Suzi Scarsdale and does all of her physics homework, only to be scorned as "too serious" and left alone with his calculator while Suzi lets some Chip or Chuck sweep her away to an evening of mystery and adventure.

So you lie to Harold and tell him it's not important and that he's more

of a menach for sticking to his guns and being serious, if that's the way he wants to be. Inside, you kick yourself because the bottom line is that making out with Suzi Scarsdale is making out with Suzi Scarsdale. Her older sister pulled the same crap on you. "Let's go get some ice cream," you say to Harold, and you spend a bitter-sweet chocolate evening arising about the Red Sox.

The warm weather and mushy in all of subway construction from the Square has a profound effect on the youthful hormone system, and this creates problems for the proctors as well as the Harolds of the summer school. Naturally you have a professional duty to restrain from philandering with the guests, but when opportunity knocks at 3 a.m., wondering if you have a match when you've said repeatedly that you can't stand smokers--well, you in the best you can.

Poof! A puff of smoke and a little and devil on your right shoulder whispers in you ear, "Whaddaya doing, putz. You're two years past your sexual prime and slipping fast; you gonna pass this up, sucker?"

Ding! A flash of light and a little white angel on your left shoulder asks, "Didn't they just discuss this at the meeting this morning? You wouldn't, would you?"

"She would be a mother of two in some less-developed countries. You bet he would."

"What if she spreads the word among her friends?"

"Free advertisement!"

"Lecher!"

"Wimp!"

Athletics are another important aspect of a summer proctorship. In fact, a surprisingly large proportion of your colleagues are members of varsity teams. You've got the infield of the women's softball squad, most of the gridders' starting secondary, and the middle-distance runners of both sexes. All of this is, of course, the result of a wholly impartial selection process, in which the written applications of all those interested are given careful scrutiny.

The athletes tend to sponsor 10 kilometer runs and dorm parties, but intimate cookouts give the less physically fit chance to join in the fun. As the fire smolders and the bugs start biting, the whole gang sits around and chews the fat, until the trend-setters leave to change for the evening.

The talk often turns at those casual affairs to matters of academic prowess and the key to the successful college interview. "I hear coming here is just as good as being on student council," a particular fellow actually said one night, and they didn't let him forget it until August.

Five questions tend to surface over and over when considering higher education with the upwardly mobile products of advantage:

1. What were your scores?

2. Were you on student council?

3. What were your scores?

4. Do you work all the time?

5. What were your scores?

Best to divert them with tales of double-800s who are happily attending state schools and absurd geographical diversity cases that make it into Harvard. They don't believe you, but it seems to make them feel better until the topic changes to sex, by which time only the special-interest partisans are left, and you lead them out into the humidity beyond the Yard for bitter-sweet chocolate ice cream