way into the best preschools. Infertile couples advertised for egg donors in the Yale Daily News. Others doled out thousand of dollars for the sperm of Nobel laureates. Some had even consulted geneticists, hoping that they could locate a “smart” gene to be stimulated. There is none, of course, nor any known cluster or combination, but that didn’t prevent people from spending small fortunes. It was all so amazing and amusing.
“Nobody wants to be normal anymore,” he said aloud.
As Mrs. Rachel Whitman drove away, a new silver BMW 530 two-door pulled into the slot just vacated by her. It was Mrs. Vanessa Watts, coming in to consult about her Julian’s behavior problems. Years ago, she had come in just like this Rachel Whitman, gnarled with despair that her youngster was distracted all the time, unfocused, a slow learner, and that he had scored in the fortieth percentile on his math aptitude and fifty-five on the verbal. She was likewise desperate to know what could be done to boost his ranks, otherwise he would never get into Cornell where his father had gone or even into Littleton State where, after some unpleasantness regarding a paper on Jonathan Swift, she eventually earned a doctorate in English literature. And that just could not be—not her Julian. No way. It was unacceptable, and they would do
He watched Vanessa Watts cross the lot to the front entrance as she had on several occasions to come up and complain that they had succeeded too well—that her Julian was too absorbed in his studies, in his projects, that he had become antisocial: that his filament was all too brilliant.
Never satisfied, these bastards. Especially this one—Professor Loose Cannon. And now she was here with her ultimatum. Fortunately, he had one of his own.
He picked up the phone and dialed Sheila MacPhearson.
28
Brendan found Nicole in her ballet class in a building off Bloomfield Prep’s central quad. She was with seven other girls and an instructor in a dance room with mirrors and bars.
Through the glass door, Nicole was dressed in white tights. Her shoulders were bare, giving her long-neck Modigliani proportions. She looked like a swan. They were going through motions called out by a woman instructor dressed in a jogging outfit.
Because it was the last day of classes, the place was empty, so Brendan watched without being discovered. Nicole was perched with one leg up on the bar in line with the other girls. In the reflecting mirror, they looked like twin rows of exotic roosting birds, their faces in a numbed tensity. Suddenly the instructor said something, and they went into leg-flashing exercises. Nicole was second in line at the mirror, her long legs kicking out with elegant precision as if spring-loaded. From a CD player flowed the sweet violin strains of
When the instructor turned off the music and announced class was over, Brendan left the building and waited for her behind some trees in the quadrangle.
Several minutes later, he saw her with two boys coming down the walk toward him. She had changed and was heading for the cafeteria.
“What are you doing here?” Nicole said when he stepped out from behind a tree.
“I have to t-talk to you.”
“How did you find me?”
“That’s n-n-not important.” He pretended the two boys weren’t there. “Look, we h-have to talk.” According to her schedule she had a forty-minute lunch break before her next class.
“I have a conference with one of my teachers. I can’t.” She made no effort to introduce Brendan to the others, and he was grateful.
“It’s very important,” Brendan insisted. He had not foreseen a conference lunch. Or maybe she was just making that up.
She looked at her watch. “I’ve gotta go. Call me later.”
He had promised Richard to take him for his doctor’s appointment in two hours. “I can’t. We have t-t-to talk now. Just two minutes.”
“Hey, man, she said she’s got a conference,” the taller boy said, trying to puff up. He was a smooth-faced kid who looked like the poster boy for Junior Brooks Brothers. He was dressed in beige chinos and a stiff blue oxford shirt. The other Nicole drone, a black kid with wireless glasses, had on the same chinos but a white golf shirt. “What part of no don’t you understand?”
“Now there’s an original expression,” Brendan said. “D-d-did you read that in
The kid looked baffled, but before he could respond, Nicole said, “Forget it, I know him.”
“You sure?” asked the taller boy, eyeing Brendan as if he were toxic waste.
“Yeah, I’ll be fine.”
“Good luck,” the black kid said to her, probably referring to her conference. Then he glanced at Brendan’s baggy jeans and black T-shirt with the multicolored tie-dyed starburst on the front. “Nice threads,” he sneered.
“Up your J. Crew b-bunghole.” As soon as the words were out he felt a surprising flicker of pleasure.
“Cut the shit, both of you,” Nicole said.
As the boys moved away, one of them said, “Speaking of the devil.”
Coming down the path was an older man in a sport coat and tie and carrying a briefcase.
Nicole’s face went to autolight: “Hi, Mr. Kaminsky.” She beamed at him as he approached. “I’ll be right there.”
The man scowled at Nicole. “You know where I’ll be.” He did not look pleased. As he walked away, he glanced at Brendan, and recognition seemed to flit across his face, but he continued down the path toward the next building.
It was the bushy-haired guy in the diner. And the one she had shacked up with that same night.
“I’ll catch you later,” she said to the other boys, dismissing them. As they walked away, she looked at Brendan blankly.
“Your teacher,” he said, barely able to hide his dismay.
“So?”
“Nothing.” But he could tell that she remembered Brendan seeing them holding hands at Angie’s. She had no idea, of course, what he had seen through her window.
“Okay, make it fast.”
“I had a dream the other night. It was c-c-crazy, but I was in a hospital bed.”
She looked at him incredulously. “So?”
“I had never been in a hospital before, at least I d-don’t remember.”
Nicole checked her watch. “You’ve got twenty seconds.”
“M-Mr. Nisha was there. He said I had to be a good boy and take my medicine. It was crazy, and I don’t know what or who he was—just that image floating and ‘Mr. Nisha wants you to be happy’ stuff. I don’t understand. Also, there were other kids there, too.”
Nicole continued to stare at him blankly. “I’ve got an A hanging on this conference, and if I’m late, he gets pissed and takes off, and I’m screwed out of a four-oh. I’m not going to lose that because you had some stupid dream.” She started away.
“Okay, but just one question,” he pleaded, chasing after her.
“Later,” she snapped. “At the club party.”
Dells was sponsoring a Scholar’s Night Saturday for caddy scholarship winners and the publication of Vanessa
