Gray Matter

“Now he’s getting terrific grades and winning science fairs,” Vanessa continued. “He’s a different person.”

“Have you noticed any personality or behavior changes?”

“Of course!” Vanessa declared. “You don’t become a genius overnight and not undergo personality changes. Tasks that used to intimidate he now takes to like a fish to water—or maybe shark is closer. I can’t tell you how confident he is—and driven to excel. And he loves school, we’re happy to say—believe me! The same with Lucinda, right?”

“Absolutely,” Sheila shot back without missing a beat. “She can be a Miss Smarty Pants at times, but that’s more of a maturity problem.”

Their enthusiasm bordered on salesmanship, Rachel thought. “About the procedure: It’s an operation of some sort, I understand.”

“Well, I’m sure as Sheila told you we can’t go into those details, not until you move to the next stage. It’s silly, but those are the conditions. We don’t make the rules, but you can understand—revolutionary procedures need to be guarded.”

“Sure, but we’re talking about an invasive procedure of the brain, so you can understand my concern.”

“Of course.”

“What I’m wondering about are the side effects—pain, impairment of functions, personality change, anything like that.”

“He had a minor headache for a couple days but that was it, and no impairment of functions. Except for his cognitive abilities, he’s a typical fourteen-year-old boy who plays video games and does boy things.” She looked to Sheila. “Right?”

“Absolutely.”

“If you don’t mind, I’d like to meet Julian someday.”

“I have no problem with that, but he’s still at school,” Vanessa said. “But, you know, you can tell a lot about a kid from his room. Would you like a look?”

“Sure.”

Rachel got up and walked over to the wall of photographs. “Are you interested in photography?”

“I do a little.”

A large framed black-and-white shot showed a ragged mountain range backlit by the sun sending shafts of light through heavy clouds with a deep foreground of thousands of brilliant wildflowers. “This really is a great photograph. The composition and lighting are amazing. In fact, it looks like an Ansel Adams.”

“It is. Well, actually, the original is. That’s a painting.”

“A painting! It can’t be.”

Vanessa turned the picture around and unfolded a book photo that was stuck behind the canvas. “This is a copy of the original Adams.” The photo was an exact miniature of the painting. “He copied it from this.”

“Who?”

“Julian.”

“But how did he do it? I can’t see any brush marks.”

Vanessa made a dry chuckle. “With a lot of patience.” Vanessa didn’t elaborate.

Rachel couldn’t separate herself from the picture. She moved from side to side to study it from different angles, barely able to detect surface texture. It was so indistinguishable from the photograph that she wondered if the boy had done it with some fancy computer-art software—scanning the photo then printing up an enlarged version. “That’s remarkable.” Einstein, Van Cliburn, and Maxfield Parrish rolled into one. “Was Julian artistic before?”

“Not really. He had my tin ear and did mostly stick drawings. He really blossomed after enhancement.”

She led them upstairs to a large landing off which were the master bedroom, a bathroom, and two other rooms. One door had flower decals and a porcelain plaque saying LISA. Across the other door was a yellow and black sign: DO NOT ENTER—TRESPASSERS WILL BE EXECUTED.

“I must warn you, he’s something of a neatness freak. If you pick something up, please put it back where you found it.” She opened the door.

The immediate impression was how much stuff there was. The second impression was its preternatural orderliness. One whole wall had floor-toceiling shelves of books—all upright and lined up by size. Another wall was full of space posters—all the same size, all squared with optical precision—one, a shot of the earth, rising over the lunar horizon; another of the Atlantis shuttle. Against the far wall was a huge wall unit containing a television and electronic sound equipment. Beside it was a draftsman’s work board with pens, razor knives, and other tools—all lined up neatly. There was a single bed tightly made with three decorative pillows arranged so precisely that the points lined up. The place looked as if a fussy old woman rather than a fourteen- year-old boy occupied it.

But that was just more sour grapes, Rachel chided herself. Dylan’s room was in a state of perpetual disaster—clothes and toys all over the place. Any straightening out was Rachel’s doing, because he could not catch on to a system of order. Once she had rationalized that the chaos was the result of his being a late starter or immaturity or maybe a male thing—that he had an overactive guy-sloppiness gland. Now she suspected it reflected some haywire brain circuitry.

“If for nothing else, this was worth the fee,” Vanessa said.

Rachel wanted to ask about that, but the subject was off-limits. She smiled, but thought that the excessive neatness was creepy.

Beside the bed sat a large desk with a computer with an oversized monitor and printer—probably used for his cyberart. The screen saver was a continuously changing maze with red balls trying to make their way through the shifting network. It looked like graphics designed to drive the observer mad.

Above the computer hung a framed document announcing that Julian Watts, age eleven, had won first prize in his age group in a regional science fair. The title of his project: “How Different Types of Music Affect the Ability of Mice to Run Mazes.”

On a corner table sat a large flat surface with a maze. Near it was a cage with some mice. “Very impressive,” Rachel said.

“You wouldn’t think so at three in the morning,” Vanessa said. “He played everything from Aida to Zambian tribal chants. Around the clock.”

“And what did he determine?”

“That mice ran better with the longhairs than with rap. I’m not exactly sure how that affects the rest of the universe, but he had a good time.”

On the bulletin board were Museum of Science membership announcements and a list of upcoming museum shows and movies. Also, some snapshots of Julian’s class at Bloomfield Prep. The room contained all the adolescent accouterments of a kid who was going places. Nerd perfect. The kind of room Martin would love for Dylan.

As Rachel passed through the door, her eye caught on a curious little cartoon figure the boy had drawn and tacked over the light switch. Among all the high-tech paraphernalia it was the sole reminder that Julian was still a boy and not a grad student in astrophysics. It seemed so out of place: a happyfaced blue Dumbo.

“I’m not sure what—” But a loud crash from below cut Vanessa off.

They moved out to the landing. More pounding, then around the bottom of the staircase stormed a teenage girl. She looked very upset.

“Lisa!” Vanessa said. “What happened?”

Lisa looked up at her mother, unrestrained by the presence of the other women. “I told you it wasn’t right!” She slammed down her backpack, and stomped her way up the stairs. She wagged a paper at her mother. “I told you to let me do my own work.”

Vanessa looked mortified by Lisa’s outburst. “Maybe we can talk about this later.”

When the girl reached the top, she stopped nose-to-nose with Vanessa. Rachel noticed that the tips of Lisa’s fingers were all red where the nails had been chewed to the quick.

“Thanks to you, she gave me a fucking Incomplete!” she screamed in her mother’s face. “Now I have to redo it, and the best I can get is a C.”

Vanessa’s cheeks were burning dark red, as if she’d just been slapped. “Lisa, we can work this out,