“Yes. It started a couple years ago when we did a unit on pointillism, and that’s now the only medium he works in. We tried to get him to move into brushes and pastels, but he prefers points. You know these dedicated artists.”
During a moment’s silence, Rachel realized that it wasn’t music Julian was listening to but spoken audio. Except that the voice didn’t sound human. She looked at the tape recorder—an unusual-looking unit that was set on fast-forward.
“What is that?” she mouthed to the teacher.
“Spanish. I think it’s
“But …”
The teacher nodded knowingly. “Yeah, he’s trained himself to understand it on double speed. Last year he learned Italian that way.” Then she just shook her head in dismay. “What can I say? He’s something else.”
“My God,” Rachel whispered. The fixity of his expression as he jabbed away while absorbing the high-speed prattle sent a shock through her. He looked like some alien creature in the semblance of a boy receiving coded messages from afar.
As they started away, Rachel looked back. Julian’s mouth was moving. At first she thought he was chewing gum until she realized he was tapping his teeth guards in sequence to his hand movement. Then she realized that he wasn’t keeping pace—he was counting.
They visited two more classes and ended up in a psychology lab. All along, Ms. Elia went on about the school and the programs and how ninety percent of the graduating class goes to college, half to the Ivy Leagues. “Four of our graduates are freshmen at Harvard this year.”
“How nice.”
Rachel was anxious to leave. The tour was only an hour long, but it seemed to last all morning because Martin kept asking questions. Sheila was just along for the ride and said very little.
The psychology lab was a large open room with many windows and rows of workbenches all equipped with computers, scales, and dispensers, electronic devices with lots of wires connecting equipment. Along one wall were cages of large white rats with electrodes connected to their heads. The sophisticated setup looked more like a university research center than a lab for high schoolers.
As Ms. Elia led the three of them into the lab, the kids looked up casually, apparently used to prospective parents’ tours. The teacher—a pleasant man, about thirty, dressed in chinos and a blue work shirt—explained the psychology program and what the students were doing. “It’s a term project on operant psychology techniques—a classic conditioned-response study in learning behavior,” he said.
Rachel could not have cared less, but Martin was fascinated, of course.
“At the beginning of the term, each student was given a rat, and over the weeks, they shaped the animals’ responses by rewarding them with small electrical stimulation to their brains. First they learned to press a lever, then a second lever, then a third, until they learned to tap a particular sequence of what the students decide upon —ABCD, CBAD, CBAD, or whatever.”
“So it’s cumulative?” Martin asked.
“Yes, and increasingly complex, which is why it’s taken an entire semester to get to this point. This is their wrap-up day. Their reports are due next week.”
Rachel was ready to scream. But Martin asked, “What does the electricity do?”
“It gives them a two-volt hit to the pleasure centers of their brains.” The teacher pointed to a plastic device beside the computer about the size of a tissue box. “That’s the stimulation chamber which is connected to the animal and the computer, which regulates the parameters—voltage, pulse width, frequency, et cetera. And that’s a printout of the responses.” He pointed to a scroll-paper ink-needle printer.
At various benches, quiet buzzers and lights were going off in the cages as students hooked up their rats and were recording their responses as they tapped the levers.
“Did you have any problems with the animal rights people?” Martin asked.
“I’ll say, but that’s the good thing about Bloomfield. The headmaster agreed to institute an animal care-and- use committee to be in compliance with state regulations. That took some string-pulling, but we eventually got approval as long as the instructor does the implant surgery and supervises the experiments. But the kids put together all the equipment and run the experiments. It’s been great.”
“You can understand that the kids become very attached to their animals,” Ms. Elia said. Nearly every cage had name stickers—Brad, Snowdrop, Vinnie B, Snagglepuss, Bianca, Mousse, Dr. Dawson, Rumplemints, and so on.
“I bet,” Martin said.
“By the way, we have another student from Hawthorne.” Ms. Elia nodded to a tall pretty blonde who was putting her rat into the test cage. Because of her height and bearing, she projected considerable presence. “Nicole DaFoe.”
Rachel didn’t recognize the name.
At the next bench, an Asian girl was fixing something on her printout machine before she set up her rat. Rachel heard her say she was out of paper, and the teacher said to check the supply closet in another room. The girl fidgeted with the machine then left.
“Amy Tran. She’s one of our best,” the teacher whispered to Rachel. Then he said, “You folks have got to see this.” And he led them into the adjoining room.
As Rachel began to follow, she happened to look back. Something about the tall blond girl held Rachel’s attention—the body language and a heightened awareness. Rachel pulled behind a partition as the others left, and through a slot, she watched. The girl looked around until she was certain the visitors had left, then while the other students busied themselves at their stations, she slipped to the nearby computer and ran her fingers across the keyboard. She then went back to her own station and flicked the start switch on her animal’s cage to run the program. The animal tapped a series of buttons until the cage light went on and the animal reared up in pleasure from the stimulation.
A few moments later, the Asian girl returned with the scroll paper, fixed it into her machine, then got her rat whose name was Sigmund. She removed him from his box, gave him a few affectionate strokes with her finger, then put him into the test chamber. She wrote something down on her clipboard, said something that amused the blonde on the next bench, then flicked the external switch.
Picking up the cue, Sigmund moved to the levers and began to tap through a very elaborate sequence. When it apparently finished, a cage light went on to signal the reward. The animal sniffed the air a few times then reared up with pleasure.
Suddenly the animal stiffened and let out a high piercing scream then shot straight up into the air as if launched. There was a terrible sizzling sound, as Sigmund fell onto the cage floor, his body violently twitching and smoke rising from his head.
Amy cried out in horror.
Other kids ran over to her. And a moment later, the teacher reappeared. “What happened?”
The girl was crying. “He’s dead! He’s dead.”
The teacher looked at the rat lying on its side, a pungent odor of cooked flesh filling the air. He went to her computer and tapped some keys. “Jesus, Amy, you had the voltage set for twenty instead of two.”
“No, I set it for
“Well, it says twenty.” He stepped aside to show her. He looked very upset. “Why didn’t you double-check as you were supposed to?”
“I did.” Then too distraught to continue, the girl broke down.
Nicole put her hand on Amy’s shoulder. “It’s okay,” she said. “We all make mistakes.” And she shot Rachel a look that sent a shard of ice through her heart.
“I think she sabotaged her experiment.”
“Based on what?”
“I’m telling you, I saw her do something at the Asian girl’s keyboard.”
