Jonathan Kellerman_Petra Connor 02 Read Online Free PDF Page A

Marilyn stood, coughed, trudged to the kitchen wall-phone. “I’m going to call that fool of a principal. One way or another, we’ll get to the
bottom
of this mess.”
    Dr. Marilyn confronted public school bureaucracy and fared no better than Irma.
    â€œAstonishing,” she exclaimed. “These people are mindless cretins.”
    She conferred with Dr. Seth and the two of them took it upon themselves to confer with Melvyn Pogue, Ed.D., headmaster of the Burton Academy, where John, Bradley, and Elizabeth Lattimore had earned nearly straight A’s.
    The timing was perfect. Burton had come under fire from some of its progressive alumni for being lily-white and elitist, and though plans had been drawn up to increase diversity, no steps had been taken.
    â€œThis boy,” said Dr. Pogue, “sounds perfect.”
    â€œHe’s extremely clever,” said Dr. Seth. “Nice, religious little fellow to boot. But perfection’s a bit overreaching. We don’t want to pressure the lad.”
    â€œYes, yes, of course, Dr. Lattimore.” In Pogue’s top desk drawer was a freshly signed Lattimore check. Full tuition for an entire year, with money left over for gymnasium refurbishment. “Clever is good. Religious is good. . . . Um, are we talking Catholic?”
    Isaac arrived at the Burton campus, on Third near McCadden, just a brief walk from the Lattimore mansion, freshly barbered and wearing his best church clothes. A school psychologist ran him through a battery of tests and pronounced him “off the scale.”
    An appointment was made for Irma and Isaiah Gomez and the boy to meet Dr. Melvyn Pogue; Pogue’s assistant; Ralph Gottfried, the chairman of the faculty committee; and Mona Hornsby, the chief administrator. Smiling people, white-pink, invariably large. They spoke rapidly and, when his parents seemed confused, Isaac translated.
    A week later, he’d transferred to Burton, as a seventh grader. In addition, he received individual “enrichment”—mostly reading by himself in Melvyn Pogue’s book-lined office.
    His brothers, happy and recalcitrant in public school, thought the whole deal was weird—the Burton uniform with its silly blue, pleated pants, white shirt, powder-blue jacket, and striped tie; taking the bus to work with Mama, hanging with Anglos all day. Playing sports they’d never heard of—field hockey, water polo, squash—and one they knew about but believed unattainable—tennis.
    When they asked Isaac about it, he said, “It’s okay,” but he was careful not to display too much emotion. No reason to make them feel deprived.
    In reality, it was better than okay, it was fabulous. For the first time in his life, he felt as if his mind was being allowed to go where it wanted. Despite the fact that most of the other Burton students regarded him as a little dark-skinned curiosity and he was often left alone.
    He
loved
being alone. The leather-and-paper smell of Melvyn Pogue’s office was imbedded in his consciousness, as fragrant as mother’s milk. He read—chewed up books—took notes that no one read, stayed in school well past dismissal time. Waiting, with a bag full of books, for Irma to come by to pick him up, and the two of them embarked on the long bus journey back to the Union District.
    Sometimes Mama asked him what he was learning. Usually, she dozed on the bus as Isaac read. He was learning about wondrous, strange things, other worlds—other universes. At age eleven, he saw the world as infinite.
    By the time he was twelve, he’d made a few casual friends—kids who invited him to their glorious homes, though he was unable to reciprocate. His apartment was clean but small, and the Union District was grimy, urban, a high-crime neighborhood. Even without asking, he knew that no way would Burton parents allow their progeny that far east of Van Ness.
    He accustomed himself to a