or—”
“Art,” Tony said.
“Art,” Tak sat back as if done.
“Sir, it might be advantageous, if I may, if you’d allow me to—”
“You may not,” Tak said evenly. “He picked art and music. Now print out his schedule. He’s eager to start.”
Tony shot him a look. He was, of course, not eager to start—but admired the old guy’s panache in setting Mueller straight.
At eleven fifteen, Tony received a printout of his schedule. According to it, he was supposed to be in literature, second floor, Room 238. So, he slumped out of Enrollment Services, climbed the gilded staircase, and tapped on the appropriate door.
A man answered, which was his first surprise. He had dry, curly hair, his second. Though he’d never actually seen a live reference, Tony suddenly knew what people meant by Jew-fro. He touched his own hair, wondering if he had a Jew-fro too. After all, the texture between his hair and the lit-tra-chure teacher’s wasn’t all that different, both wild and full of volume. But was having a Jew-fro predicated on being Jewish? He couldn’t be sure. It irked him not to know.
The teacher before him had a widow’s peak, sunburned scalp, and a big mouth of a smile. He stuck a hand out and hesitantly, Tony shook it. When a few from the class snickered, he realized the teacher expected his schedule.
“Anthony Hammond?” he confirmed.
Tony nodded.
“Excellent. Introduce yourself to the class.”
Tony sighed. Fourteen schools and this part never got easier.
He stepped into the classroom, moved close to the dark wood desk up front, and opened his mouth. What came out sounded like a croak. He tried again.
“I’m Anthony Hammond from Bismarck, North Dakota.”
“And what brings you to Miami, Mr. Hammond?”
Reflex.
“My dad got a new job,” he said.
“Wonderful!” he exclaimed. “And what does your father do?”
Jesus, he should’ve said mom. What the hell did Tak do? Nothing so far as he could tell.
“He’s an architect. Real important, you know.”
In having made lying a pastime, Tony knew that deviating little from the truth helped hold it together.
“Wonderful,” the lit-tra-chure teacher said. “You may find that you have much in common with Brian Swallows. His grandmother is an architect, too.” He cast an indulgent smile on a pasty pale boy in a sweater vest and button-up, blond hair separated down the middle by a severe part.
“In any case, we are glad to welcome you to Edinburgh Academy. Please take a seat. Any seat will do.”
Tony surveyed the crowd. Usually classes were the same. Good kids in the front, bad or dumb in the back. But he couldn’t read this group. Third from the rear was a boy in black wire frames and a button-up. Had to be a brainiac. Last row on the right, a black kid, fat and too engrossed in his textbook to even look up. Jesus Christ, was he reading ahead? And up front, a girl with thick black hair and the slightest hint of a wave. When she looked up, Tony met velvet brown eyes and lips tinted with sparkling pink. He took the seat behind her.
The lit teacher went into a closet at the back of the room and returned with four books, all pristine. The first had a tan kid, mostly obstructed by shadows on the cover, holding what Tony could only guess was some all-important scroll. Up above it was the title: Panoply’s Sonnet. The book beneath it was a glossy paperback of lime and burgundy with a girl lounging in bed, titled Jill Norris and the Dog Catcher.
“We’re an eager class and have already begun Tower in the City . I’m afraid you’ll have to catch up a tad,” the teacher said.
Tony shuffled to that one. A sorry-looking white kid—boy or a girl he wasn’t sure—stared back at him.
He glossed over the description. Nazis. A death camp. Jews. Sweden.
“Are you familiar with these?”
Tony looked up. Back at his school, when he was going, at least, they read short stories from graffiti-covered books. For him, finding “Wendy
“Art,” Tony said.
“Art,” Tak sat back as if done.
“Sir, it might be advantageous, if I may, if you’d allow me to—”
“You may not,” Tak said evenly. “He picked art and music. Now print out his schedule. He’s eager to start.”
Tony shot him a look. He was, of course, not eager to start—but admired the old guy’s panache in setting Mueller straight.
At eleven fifteen, Tony received a printout of his schedule. According to it, he was supposed to be in literature, second floor, Room 238. So, he slumped out of Enrollment Services, climbed the gilded staircase, and tapped on the appropriate door.
A man answered, which was his first surprise. He had dry, curly hair, his second. Though he’d never actually seen a live reference, Tony suddenly knew what people meant by Jew-fro. He touched his own hair, wondering if he had a Jew-fro too. After all, the texture between his hair and the lit-tra-chure teacher’s wasn’t all that different, both wild and full of volume. But was having a Jew-fro predicated on being Jewish? He couldn’t be sure. It irked him not to know.
The teacher before him had a widow’s peak, sunburned scalp, and a big mouth of a smile. He stuck a hand out and hesitantly, Tony shook it. When a few from the class snickered, he realized the teacher expected his schedule.
“Anthony Hammond?” he confirmed.
Tony nodded.
“Excellent. Introduce yourself to the class.”
Tony sighed. Fourteen schools and this part never got easier.
He stepped into the classroom, moved close to the dark wood desk up front, and opened his mouth. What came out sounded like a croak. He tried again.
“I’m Anthony Hammond from Bismarck, North Dakota.”
“And what brings you to Miami, Mr. Hammond?”
Reflex.
“My dad got a new job,” he said.
“Wonderful!” he exclaimed. “And what does your father do?”
Jesus, he should’ve said mom. What the hell did Tak do? Nothing so far as he could tell.
“He’s an architect. Real important, you know.”
In having made lying a pastime, Tony knew that deviating little from the truth helped hold it together.
“Wonderful,” the lit-tra-chure teacher said. “You may find that you have much in common with Brian Swallows. His grandmother is an architect, too.” He cast an indulgent smile on a pasty pale boy in a sweater vest and button-up, blond hair separated down the middle by a severe part.
“In any case, we are glad to welcome you to Edinburgh Academy. Please take a seat. Any seat will do.”
Tony surveyed the crowd. Usually classes were the same. Good kids in the front, bad or dumb in the back. But he couldn’t read this group. Third from the rear was a boy in black wire frames and a button-up. Had to be a brainiac. Last row on the right, a black kid, fat and too engrossed in his textbook to even look up. Jesus Christ, was he reading ahead? And up front, a girl with thick black hair and the slightest hint of a wave. When she looked up, Tony met velvet brown eyes and lips tinted with sparkling pink. He took the seat behind her.
The lit teacher went into a closet at the back of the room and returned with four books, all pristine. The first had a tan kid, mostly obstructed by shadows on the cover, holding what Tony could only guess was some all-important scroll. Up above it was the title: Panoply’s Sonnet. The book beneath it was a glossy paperback of lime and burgundy with a girl lounging in bed, titled Jill Norris and the Dog Catcher.
“We’re an eager class and have already begun Tower in the City . I’m afraid you’ll have to catch up a tad,” the teacher said.
Tony shuffled to that one. A sorry-looking white kid—boy or a girl he wasn’t sure—stared back at him.
He glossed over the description. Nazis. A death camp. Jews. Sweden.
“Are you familiar with these?”
Tony looked up. Back at his school, when he was going, at least, they read short stories from graffiti-covered books. For him, finding “Wendy
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