CHAPTER 1
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Whistling, a janitor wielded an old-fashioned string mop in front of him as he worked his way down a silent high school hallway. He was slender and in his 60s, grateful to have a steady job, unlike so many others in his family. He came from western Jamaica, where work was scarce. As he worked, he daydreamed about the mists of the Blue Mountains near where he was born.
Out the windows bloomed another San Francisco Aprilâcloudless, mild, the trees a tender green. The janitor passed the administrative offices, busy with the soft clicking of computer keyboards, then the empty lobbyâa long, silent stretch of glass cases. These were filled with trophies from the schoolâs students that had accumulated over the 50 years of its existence; basketball and football awards were the most common.
The rest of the cases held photographs of students and faculty now gone. They began with the bright Kodachromes of the early â60sâyellow-haired cheerleaders with pink lips and red outfitsâand ended with digital photos, printed on streaked paper. Along the way, every style of the last half century seemed to be representedâcountry western, hippie, punk rock, goth, and every variant in between.
Several faces stood out from the hundreds showcased. One female graduate from 1969 had an Afro so massive that it exceeded the photographâs frame. A blond boy from the â70s was a dead ringer for John Denver, with a moptop haircut and granny glasses. A more recent photo was of a fresh-faced boy with high cheekbones, a pierced nose, and a face both handsome and sensitive, his flowing tresses tucked behind his ears. Beside this was a photo with the same face, unpierced, with shorter hair and a more intense expression. These images had stopped many visitors who did double takes of these young menâthe only identical twins in the 2005 graduating class.
As the janitor moved on, he passed by the science classrooms on the first floor. In the first, Mr. Hadley, a dinosaur of a teacher with thick black-framed glasses and a droning voice, was putting another class to sleep with his explanation of the Pleistocene epoch. Most of the students had their heads down on their desks; others sent texts from their laps.
In the next room, a new teacher in her 20s, prim and Southern, tried to control a class of boisterous older students as she discussed the intricacies of cross-pollination. A diagram of a stamen and pistil were on the front board, but no one was paying attention. Several students near the doorway were occupied with fast-food breakfasts; one poured syrup over a stack of pancakes in a Styrofoam container. Cell phones buzzed and beeped.
The last classroom in the hallway was different; it seemed to be stopped in time. A Bunsen burner flamed in a corner. A diagram of an atom hung on the wall; a chart of the solar system covered the ceiling. The chalkboard was covered with a long, complex formula. The only items that revealed the current era were a row of personal computers lined up against the wall, but no one was using them today.
Instead a dozen students of various shapes and sizes were listening raptly to their teacher, Peter Keller. At 42, his salt-and-pepper hair was tousled, his eyes were a light blue-green, and his white dress shirt was rolled up at the sleeves. There was a rumpled, weary look to his face that did not diminish his vitality. He seemed lit by some passionate inner glow, as he held forth with the grace and nimbleness of an actor.
Kellerâs students listened to him intently as he measured two ounces of water and poured them into an empty soda can. Using tongs, he carefully lowered the can into place over a heated Bunsen burner. Year after year, his introductory physics class was the schoolâs most popular, often with a waiting list in case someone dropped out, though that rarely happened. He had a reputation for kindling in students a new respect for and interest in
----
Whistling, a janitor wielded an old-fashioned string mop in front of him as he worked his way down a silent high school hallway. He was slender and in his 60s, grateful to have a steady job, unlike so many others in his family. He came from western Jamaica, where work was scarce. As he worked, he daydreamed about the mists of the Blue Mountains near where he was born.
Out the windows bloomed another San Francisco Aprilâcloudless, mild, the trees a tender green. The janitor passed the administrative offices, busy with the soft clicking of computer keyboards, then the empty lobbyâa long, silent stretch of glass cases. These were filled with trophies from the schoolâs students that had accumulated over the 50 years of its existence; basketball and football awards were the most common.
The rest of the cases held photographs of students and faculty now gone. They began with the bright Kodachromes of the early â60sâyellow-haired cheerleaders with pink lips and red outfitsâand ended with digital photos, printed on streaked paper. Along the way, every style of the last half century seemed to be representedâcountry western, hippie, punk rock, goth, and every variant in between.
Several faces stood out from the hundreds showcased. One female graduate from 1969 had an Afro so massive that it exceeded the photographâs frame. A blond boy from the â70s was a dead ringer for John Denver, with a moptop haircut and granny glasses. A more recent photo was of a fresh-faced boy with high cheekbones, a pierced nose, and a face both handsome and sensitive, his flowing tresses tucked behind his ears. Beside this was a photo with the same face, unpierced, with shorter hair and a more intense expression. These images had stopped many visitors who did double takes of these young menâthe only identical twins in the 2005 graduating class.
As the janitor moved on, he passed by the science classrooms on the first floor. In the first, Mr. Hadley, a dinosaur of a teacher with thick black-framed glasses and a droning voice, was putting another class to sleep with his explanation of the Pleistocene epoch. Most of the students had their heads down on their desks; others sent texts from their laps.
In the next room, a new teacher in her 20s, prim and Southern, tried to control a class of boisterous older students as she discussed the intricacies of cross-pollination. A diagram of a stamen and pistil were on the front board, but no one was paying attention. Several students near the doorway were occupied with fast-food breakfasts; one poured syrup over a stack of pancakes in a Styrofoam container. Cell phones buzzed and beeped.
The last classroom in the hallway was different; it seemed to be stopped in time. A Bunsen burner flamed in a corner. A diagram of an atom hung on the wall; a chart of the solar system covered the ceiling. The chalkboard was covered with a long, complex formula. The only items that revealed the current era were a row of personal computers lined up against the wall, but no one was using them today.
Instead a dozen students of various shapes and sizes were listening raptly to their teacher, Peter Keller. At 42, his salt-and-pepper hair was tousled, his eyes were a light blue-green, and his white dress shirt was rolled up at the sleeves. There was a rumpled, weary look to his face that did not diminish his vitality. He seemed lit by some passionate inner glow, as he held forth with the grace and nimbleness of an actor.
Kellerâs students listened to him intently as he measured two ounces of water and poured them into an empty soda can. Using tongs, he carefully lowered the can into place over a heated Bunsen burner. Year after year, his introductory physics class was the schoolâs most popular, often with a waiting list in case someone dropped out, though that rarely happened. He had a reputation for kindling in students a new respect for and interest in
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