okay?”
“‘The words are too big, the syntax is too sophisticated, the prose is too polished,’” Lisa singsonged in a voice mocking her teacher. “It wasn’t me,” she screamed. “And I’m not Julian. You get it?” She slammed the flat of her hand onto her door. “SHIT! Now I’ll never get into AP English.” Lisa burst into tears and pushed her way to her room.
“Lisa … ?” Vanessa pleaded after her.
“Go fuck yourself!” Lisa cried and slammed the door.
The noise was like a gun blast. A moment later, they could hear more swearing and sobbing.
Vanessa looked at Rachel and Sheila and made a tortured smile. “Now, where were we?”
36
“‘I hate the whole damn charade,’ Rachel said,” as they pulled into the parking lot of Bloomfield Prep.
“Well, it’s the only way we’re going to meet him. He heads for camp next week,” Martin said.
Located an hour and a half west of Boston, it was a school for wealthy whiz kids. “Pretending we’re prospective parents is just so unfair to Dylan.”
“Maybe for the time being.”
She looked at him. He did not appear to be joking.
At ten-fifteen sharp, they met Sheila in the parking lot near the white Colonial that served as the admissions office. Because it was the last week of classes, regular tours were no longer given. However, Sheila knew the admissions officer, Harley Elia, so they could visit different classes including Julian’s, posing as parents seriously considering the school as an option for Dylan.
It was a beautiful place, its brick and stone buildings nestled in fourteen acres of green hills, thick with maples, oaks, and pine that lined paths through ample grassy fields reserved for sports and play. According to Sheila, Bloomfield, which went from fourth through twelfth grade, was on a par with Exeter and Andover Academy.
Lining the walls of the foyer in the admissions office were numerous group photographs of smiling students, some in their team outfits, some at play in the fields, some in graduation robes. Over the fireplace hung an oil painting of the founders, Stratton and Mary Bloomfield. They had started the place in a backyard barn in 1916 “to keep the minds of children alive and open, to instill a love of learning, to provide a life of fullness and rich possibility, to secure freedom of body and spirit.” Like the school, the inscription was inspiring, but it held little promise for Dylan.
While waiting in the reception area for Ms. Elia, Rachel nearly told Martin that she wanted to leave. The place was a sanctum for gifted children, and pretending that Dylan was—or would be—a candidate for admission was self-flagellation. A tour would only heighten her resentment of other kids and sharpen the sting of what she had denied Dylan. But she held back. Martin’s interest was picking up by the minute. He was particularly taken by the catalog’s boast that fifteen percent of the last graduating class went on to MIT. Most of the rest went on to Harvard, Yale, Princeton, and the other
After a few minutes, Ms. Elia emerged from her office. She was an attractive and smartly dressed woman in her forties with bright blond hair and a cheerful face. She embraced Sheila then led Rachel and Martin into her office where she took down information about Dylan. For a painful fifteen minutes, Rachel held forth about how sweet and sociable a child Dylan was and his love for music as the woman avidly took notes. Martin just nodded. She said nothing about his language deficiencies.
When that was over, the woman took them on a tour, outlining the school’s history and accomplishments. Rachel said very little, but Martin engaged Ms. Elia with questions about the science curricula and computer labs. After maybe half an hour, they entered a modern redwood structure with a sign saying GRAYSON BIGGS ART STUDIO. Sheila nudged Rachel that they were heading for Julian Watts’s class. According to Sheila, he was one of only two enhanced children in the school. She would not reveal the name of the other.
“It’s one of the more popular places,” Ms. Elia said. “Kids come here after classes and work on their projects.”
Scattered around the large bright room were about a dozen children. Some were painting; others were in the corner at potter’s wheels. Others still were working with wood carving tools. Two teachers were moving about quietly commenting on the kids’ progress.
The walls were covered with student work—big splotchy impressionistic paintings, simulated rock posters, odd multimedia canvasses thick with paint, fabric, glitter and other materials. Most were colorful, and a few showed some talent and inspiration.
One drawing caught Rachel’s eye—a sepia reproduction of the campus chapel, a small stone Gothic structure. Even the intricate carvings and details on the stained-glass windows were captured. If it were not stretched on a canvas, Rachel would have sworn it was an enlarged photograph. The signature at the bottom was printed in tiny block letters: JULIAN WATTS.
While Ms. Elia chatted with Ms. Fuller, the art teacher, Sheila nudged Rachel and nodded at a bespectacled boy in a blue shirt hunched over a stretched canvas at his table. Rachel walked quietly past some children who broad-stroked gobs of paint across their canvases, moving their brushes like young orchestra conductors in training.
By contrast, Julian sat rigidly, wearing headphones and hunched over a canvas. From a distance, he looked as if he were suffering from tremors, but up close his left hand moved with delicate robotic precision. Rachel had to repress a gasp of amazement. The boy was painting with an architect’s pen. In fact, there were several of different sizes neatly lined up. Awestruck, she and Martin watch him dab away in microscopic detail, occasionally switching instruments. He did not seem to notice their presence.
“The assignment was a self-portrait in any medium or style,” the teacher said. “The only directive was to capture something of their personality.”
Pinned to his easel was a black-and-white photo of Julian that appeared to have been done by himself at arm’s length. He was dressed in a black T-shirt and staring at the camera through his rimless glasses. The intensity on his face was startling—as if he were possessed. Although he had traced the oval of his face with a pencil, in the center of the canvas were two intense eyes so realistically rendered that the canvas appeared to be studying Rachel.
The teacher tapped Julian. The boy looked up and turned off his headphones. The teacher introduced them.
“We didn’t mean to disturb you, but that’s incredible,” Rachel said.
The boy muttered a “Thanks.” He had an edgy shyness, and it was clear he wanted to go back to his canvas.
“How long did it take you to do that?” Martin asked.
The boy reached into his mouth and removed plastic teeth guards. “About three hours.”
Rachel felt a small electric shock pass through her. Julian’s teeth were nearly stubs. Her first thought was that he had had some kind of accident. But they were so evenly ground down—top and bottom—and flattened off as if filed.
Rachel tried to hide her shock and continue as if she hadn’t noticed. “I’ve never seen anything like it before, except the French pointillists.”
“Yeah,” Martin said. “In fact, I thought you were touching up a photograph.”
Rachel wanted to engage him more, but the teacher said he had to get back to work. Julian put the guards back in his mouth, slipped on the headphones, and went back to the canvas.
“He’s something else,” the teacher said. “He’s got a really unique talent.” Then she lowered her voice so the other kids couldn’t hear. “He’s also one of our most gifted students.” And she saucered her eyes for emphasis. “Straight As.”
“Does he always paint with a pen?” Martin asked.
