Accelerated (3 page)

“You made that?” It was actually pretty well done. Weaving wasn’t easy, at least he didn’t think so. “No way.”

“And this is my wampum.” Toby pointed to some marbles and shells. “It’s like Native American money.”

Before Sean could respond with appropriate amazement, Toby pulled him over to the math corner where he pointed out tricky problems in his workbook that he’d gotten right. What was the school making such a stink about? Toby was doing great.

He wondered which sub they’d throw at the kids today, the fat smelly one Toby and his friends called “El Stinko,” or the strict school marm the kids called “She Who Must Not be Named.”

But there were no subs in the room. Just the busty assistant, Miss Bix, who was fussing with a map and push pins. With the new teacher starting next week, he figured the school was skipping the subs completely.

When Calvin blustered into the classroom, Toby ran over to him and they plopped down on the rug together to look at a comic book. Calvin made all the special sound effects of guns and lasers. Toby groaned and gurgled death throes of dying bad guys. This was the old Toby, relaxed and happy. The Toby he hadn’t seen much of lately.

Sean felt a small finger jab at his thigh. It was Alexis. “Hi Toby’s dad,” Alexis said. She and Toby had been friends briefly in first grade. The girl was a disaster waiting to happen. Once, Toby had come back from her apartment having played
sturgeon
, in which they fashioned new boobs and lips for her American Girl dolls out of Play-Doh and fed them Tic Tacs that Alexis kept calling Xanax.

“Why are you here?” She gave him the once over, lingering on his extremities. Probably sizing him up for a
procedure
.

He twitched uncomfortably. “I’m going to make collages with your class.”

“Representational or abstract?” Alexis asked. Her eyes were squinty and her lips puckered like she’d just sucked on a lemon.

He shrugged. “Up to you.”

He ought to sit. It would give him something to do, and maybe Alexis would go away. He lowered himself into a mini chair, but the thing was way too close to the ground. His knees were in his armpits and only half his ass fit on the seat. Suddenly, the chatter in the room stopped. He looked up to see an incredibly attractive sub put a bag down at the teacher’s desk. Her hair was brown, almost black, and pale freckles dusted her skin.

Toby was staring at her. They all were. Sean tapped Toby with his foot. “Who’s that?” he mouthed.

Toby shrugged, no clue.

The sub smiled at the class, then focused a surprised look directly at Sean. He’d been waiting to be booted. Bradley School rules: no parents in the classroom unless cleared ahead of time.

“Oh. Hi,” she said. “Who do you belong to?” She had a great voice. Like she’d spent the weekend screaming her lungs out at a football game.

He looked up at her from the mini chair and wished he hadn’t sat in it to begin with. “Oh, I’m …” He pushed himself up awkwardly. “Sorry. I …” He tried to straighten his knees and hoped the effort didn’t show. “I’m Sean Benning. Toby’s dad.” He extended his hand:
I come in peace
.

“Nice to meet you.” She shook it. Her hand was delicate but strong.

Her eyes were blue, but much lighter than blue eyes he’d seen before. They were like blue vapor.

“I’m doing an art project with the kids second period,” he said. “I brought some work to do in the hallway until it’s time.”

“No, stay if you want. It’s good to have you.” She smiled and went to the board and wrote the name Jessica Harper. She turned to the kids. “Hi.” She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and smiled. “I’m Jessica Harper. Your new teacher.”

The kids exchanged looks.

He couldn’t believe his good luck. The other parents would kill to be crashing the new teacher’s first day.

Alexis, visibly rattled by this departure from the schedule, raised her hand. “You’re not supposed to be here until Monday.”

“Surprise,” Jessica Harper said. “I couldn’t wait to get started.”

The girls giggled. Toby and Calvin whispered excitedly, then Calvin raised his hand. “What should we call you?”

“You can call me Jess,” she said. “That feels more normal to me.” This answer prompted more whispering. Until middle school, teachers could choose to be called whatever they wanted. Only a few—the very cool few—opted for first names.

Jess was now focused intently on the class. “Miss Bix tells me you’ve started some Thanksgiving essays. Why don’t you get them out of your binders and we’ll get to know each other?”

As the kids rustled around, she carried an adult-size chair over to Sean and placed it next to him. “This should work better.” She was twenty-eight, he decided. Maybe thirty.

When the kids settled down, Jess unfolded a piece of notebook paper. “I did one, too. I’ll go first.” She surveyed the room before starting. “I’m thankful for the Boston Red Sox.”

The boys sat forward defensively. He saw Jess stifle a smile and keep going.

“I’m thankful that I don’t care about peer pressure and that reading good books is still legal. I’m thankful for my new job at The Bradley School and also for the chance to get to know you guys.”

Drew’s hand shot up. He had Opie-like ears and a head full of cartoon-grade red hair.

She raised an eyebrow, pretending to be surprised that he had a comment. “What’s your name?”

“Drew,” he said. His Izod shirt matched the turquoise stripe on his V-neck sweater, a miniature version of an investment banker on a golf outing. “The Yankees rule.”

“I’m also thankful for freedom of choice,” she said. “And the right to voice one’s opinion in a public forum. Drew, why don’t you go next?”

He picked up a professionally matted laser printout and straightened his spine. “I’m thankful for my mother and stepfather, my new twin brothers and in-vitro fertilization. I’m thankful for Democracy, technology, and my Xbox.”

What eight-year-old was thankful for in-vitro? This kid was going to be pretty surprised down the road when he learned how babies were usually made. Sean got a flash of Drew’s mother on Larry King last year talking about her new book,
Liars
. Any woman who claimed she didn’t want children, she announced on national TV, was a liar. For six months, news shows featured one angry woman after another debating women’s biological imperative to reproduce. During that six months, Drew’s mother got divorced and remarried. Not too long after that she was waddling around The Bradley School pregnant with twins at the age that most women were starting to think about grandchildren.

The classroom was a sea of raised hands shaking to get the teacher’s attention. Jess called on Kayla, who was wearing a Pepto-Bismol–colored sweat suit with the word “Juicy” emblazoned across her butt. Her Puma sneakers matched exactly. Kayla was just figuring out how to use her talents to get what she wanted from people. Unfortunately, Toby was under her spell.

“My name is Kayla and I’m thankful for my innate gymnastic abilities and for Boris, who fled his country to help me achieve my Olympic dream,” she said. “I’m thankful that I am an American and can vote for president when I’m eighteen.” She smiled a beauty pageant smile she must have practiced in the mirror and sat down.

A girl he’d never seen before was next. “I’m Emily B,” she said, and pushed her glasses up the bridge of her nose. “I’m thankful for J.K. Rowling’s magical writing and for Harry, Hermione, and Ron. I’ve read all the books twice. I like to memorize passages and recite them in a British accent for my mom during dinner.”

Toby hated
Harry Potter
. It was way too hard. As it was, Toby refused to read even the simplest chapter books to himself unless strong-armed into it. Getting through an eight-hundred-page
Harry Potter
book would be pure torture—for both of them. He’d get there someday. Maybe.

Calvin stood next. He’d slimmed down a little over the summer and looked very serious. “I’b Calbin.” His
m
s and
v
s sounded like
b
s. “I’b thankful for engineers and skyscrapers that bake New York City the bost ibportant city in the world.” He stared hard at the paper as if the letters might vanish. His hands were trembling. Sean wondered if Calvin’s father, who was responsible for building half of those skyscrapers, had fed him that line. “I’b thankful for Wolberine, Silber Surfer, and all the X-Ben super heroes.” He sat down and took a deep breath through his mouth.

“Thanks Calvin,” Jess said. “Would you like a cup of water?”

He shook his head quickly.

Next she called on Alexis, who batted her dark eyelashes before beginning. “I’m thankful for the new anti-global warming legislation and also for
iCarly
, and the miracle of organ transplants.”

“That’s a wide spectrum,” Jess said. “I like that.”

Toby was next. He stood and looked at his paper, then at Sean, then down at his shoes. Sean tried to guess what he’d be thankful for. Saturday morning cartoons? Sour Straws? Christmas presents?

Toby swallowed before starting. “I’m thankful for my dad,” he read. “He takes me to school and plays with me and makes me food and stuff while my mommy is away. I really miss her, but I’ve still got my dad.” He smiled shyly, not looking at Sean, then sat down.

Sean blinked back tears. His chest felt like it might cave in as he remembered whacking Toby and telling him his mother had run out on him. Everything else could change, disappear, disappoint. Toby was his constant. The only thing that mattered. He had to be a better father. Tearing up in front of these kids, not to mention the new teacher, was out of the question. For a second, he noticed her eyes dart over to him, trying to figure out what the essay meant. He coughed like he had a tickle in his throat.

“Thanks, Toby,” she said. “Your dad sounds great. And I’m happy to turn the class over to him for a while.” She gestured him up to the board. “Mr. Benning?”

He stood up, which was much easier now that he had the bigger chair. “Uh, thanks. I’m … call me Sean.” He looked around for the materials, then asked the class if they’d had time to slice up the
Buzz Weekly
s he’d sent with Toby last week.

Kayla marched to the supply closet and emerged with two shopping bags. Sean dumped the pieces onto a table and spread them out, then moved a few onto a sheet of paper and rearranged them until something interesting started to happen. “Just start playing around. Certain shapes and colors are going to call to you. See where it takes you.” He recognized the orange and black squares and circles the kids had cut from the “Lapdogs of the Stars” piece that had run last month.

“Can I make a horse?” one girl asked.

“You can do whatever you want. But try it without knowing what you’re making before you start. Just see what happens.”

They looked suspicious, but gave it a try. Jess pulled up a chair next to Toby and started one too.

Isaac raised an eager hand and fingered his Einstein glasses with the other. “I’d like to do a map of the United States. Can I do that?” The kid was a brown-noser who’d written his first novel the summer before second grade and was currently the reigning ten-and-under New York Regional Chess Champion. Last year, his parents had called a meeting with Mr. Daniels to request a course of independent study because the second-grade work wasn’t challenging their brainiac spawn.

“That’s going to take a long time, Isaac,” Jess said.

“I can take it home and finish it tonight if I’m not done.”

“The idea is to let the content drive the form,” Sean said, trying not to sound annoyed. “Allow the pieces show
you
what you’re making.”

“No.” Isaac shook his head. “I think I’ll make the map.”

Jess, who’d stepped deftly out of the conversation, focused on her collage and tamped down an amused smile.

Soon, the kids were busily working. Drew was focusing so hard, Sean thought his tongue might bore a hole through the lining of his cheek. Luke pasted blue squares in a mass at the bottom corner of his page as he scratched absent-mindedly at a patch of red bumps on his neck. They were an intense bunch.

After a double period of working on the collages, Jess looked at the clock. “Who’s hungry?” she asked. Toby ran up to her and tugged at her sleeve. “Can my dad have lunch with us? Please?”

“Of course,” she said. “I mean, it’s fine with me. As long as he doesn’t have to get back to work.”

“No, I’d love to.” He realized, with a rush, he’d never seen lunch. The kids cheered. He was a rock star, at least until someone more interesting came along. As he texted work to cancel his noon meeting, he realized he’d only been in the fifth floor dining room once, on the school tour five years ago. Walking into the room, he remembered Mimsy Roach, the admissions director, in her pastel sweater set and Barbara Bush pearls, boasting about how the same wallpaper hung in the White House. The other parents had oohed and aahed at this tidbit, which struck him as idiotic. It was
wallpaper
. Boring, old-fashioned wallpaper of women in petticoats picnicking on a lawn.

But looking around now, he wondered if the presidential paper had anything to do with how insanely civilized the kids were behaving. They sat at tables, engaged in polite conversation. At least that’s how it looked from where he was standing. There wasn’t a spitball or mashed potato catapult in sight. Food fights had been a highlight of his grade school experience. Toby was going to miss all that.

He pushed his tray through the cafeteria line. The kitchen bustled with precision movements. A chef in a white hat served him grilled Atlantic salmon with polenta. When Toby came home from school reporting there’d been fish for lunch, he’d imagined fish sticks, overcooked cod. Not this. He followed Toby to the two third-grade tables and watched the kids unfold linen napkins on their laps.

He and Toby sat next to Zack, the only son of the Knicks’ once-kickass power forward, Billy Horn. The kid had gotten the height gene from his father and had learned to dribble the ball before he could walk. If all went according to Billy Horn’s plan, Zack would carry on his NBA legacy.