School Ties Read Online Free PDF

scholarship and most of his academic and athletic supplies get paid for through a special fund. Maybe it doesn’t cover art supplies? If you know what to look for, you can tell his family doesn’t have money, although he’s better at hiding it than most.
    I traipse around Turner, holding my cup of punch. It’s Friday night. There’s a better turnout than you might expect for an art show, but the boys are generous with one another. Everyone’s clad in dress code, and some parents have shown up, a few from far away, including Gerreaux’s parents all the way from France. Speaking of . . .
    â€œMiss Brewster!”
    â€œMonsieur Gerreaux, nice work. Congratulations.”
    â€œThank you.” He’s beaming with pride and for good reason. I’d overheard his instructor saying he should enter his project in the state competition. I bet he’ll place, too. The photographs as a set are stunning. He’s set them up so your eye is drawn to the tiniest differences in each print. As your gaze follows along, you’re left feeling like you’re being led through a dark forest at someone else’s mercy and shown precisely what they want you to see. It’s frustrating and thrilling at the same time. Or at least it is for me. I don’t know what anyone else sees. So often I’m left feeling like I don’t live in the same world as everyone else. “Miss Brewster, these are my parents.”
    I’m greeted with a murmured “
Bonsoir, mademoiselle
,” from both of them and though I extend a hand for a shake, they kiss me on the cheeks. My reply of “
bonsoir
” is met by a stream of rapid French. Gerreaux mercifully interrupts to explain that I don’t speak French. Much, anyway.
    â€œJean-Philippe has told us you gave him the inspiration for his project,” says Madame Gerreaux.
    â€œOh, no. Just a nudge. That’s all they need most of the time. Your son is very talented.” I chat with them for a few minutes until Jean-Philippe tugs them away to look at one of his roommate’s sculptures.
    I wend my way through the crowd, stopping to look at each project. I loved coming down here when I’d visit my grandfather. It was my own personal museum. Now I’m here, pride swelling in my chest as I walk among the works they’ve put their angsty, testosterone-fueled hearts into. I’m biased, having seen how much (in some cases literal) blood, sweat and tears have been poured into these pieces, but I think they’re amazing.
    I’ve saved a particular corner of the building for last, knowing what and who I’ll find there. When I’ve had my fill of the rest of the show and done my best art show chatter—The composition! The dimensionality! Reminiscent of Donatello or whatever other Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle comes to mind!—I make my way to the alcove where Shep and a couple of boys from his class have hung their work. I’ve averted my eyes for the past few days though I know what’s going to be there. I’ve seen all of Shep’s drawings from class, so there won’t be any surprises, but it’ll be fun to see them on actual display.
    I tease myself before turning the corner and an anticipatory smile creeps over my face. I’m such a dork. A silly, stupid, inappropriate dork to get so excited about seeing my secretly favorite student’s high school art project. Be that as it may, my breath still catches and I come up short when I swing into the nook.
    Shep
    I’ve been waiting for this all night. For her. For every “congratulations” I’ve received, for every hand of someone’s eager parent I’ve shook, and for every time a teacher has asked me something about one of my drawings, I’ve kept an eye out for Erin.
    The show is closing in fifteen minutes. I’d almost given up but in some back corner of my brain, stupid hope held out that she’s