The Valeditztorian Read Online Free PDF Page B

one tough woman.
    On the next street corner, Grace points out a man chopping sugar cane. Similar to Lucineige, his skin is dark, leathery, and wrinkled like a prune. I can’t begin to guess his age. Smiling broadly, his mouth is a rotten cave, nearly devoid of teeth, excluding a handful of withered stumps. Cracking a stalk of sugar cane in half, the sun-dried man begins sucking on one end. Though his remaining teeth are clearly in jeopardy, he seems untroubled. When he offers me the other half, I respectfully decline.
    Hanging out on the curb near the sugar cane cart are three skinny, school-aged boys.
    Grace waves to the children, saying, “Ola!” 
    When the boys flash huge smiles in return, their remarkably white teeth contrast sharply with their pitch black skin. All are barefoot, wearing ragged clothes caked in dirt. I wonder whether they live in the favela behind our building.
    Just watching the boys makes me uneasy. Though it’s the weekend, I imagine they’re not returning to school on Monday, and I can’t help worrying about them. Are their teeth destined to rot like those of the sugar cane man? As teenagers, will they succumb to drugs and crime? Will terrible infectious diseases strike them down, before they even have a chance to grow up? If I was their mother, and I lived in the favela, would I do a decent job raising them? Considering that I can barely take care of myself, I doubt it.
    “Are y ou okay?” Grace asks. “You’re looking a little pale.”
    My pulse rate is indeed accelerating, but I’m trying to remain calm. Little kids always make me nervous. The smaller they are, the more fragile they seem. I never hold babies, for instance, because I’m terrified of accidentally dropping them. Still, I’m surprised by my strong reaction to the street urchins, who aren’t exactly babies.
    Perhaps my problem is that I view childre n—particularly needy children—as a direct threat to my own livelihood. Since I receive very little financial assistance from my family, I’m responsible for devising my own means of support. Undoubtedly, caring for a child would be the quickest way to end my career. Speaking of which, I’d damn well better get a fabulous job when I’m done with all of this training. How else am I going to pay off the enormous student loans that I’ve been accumulating since college?
    “I’m okay,” I answer . “Just tired.”
    “Then let’s head home,” Grace offers.
    On the return loop, we make one final stop at the key maker’s shop, another street-side cart, where we obtain an extra set of keys for our apartment and the lab.
    “Wow ! I can’t believe this key works,” I say, after successfully turning the lock in our apartment door.
    Grace smiles .
    “Occasionally tec hnical things work around here,” she says.
    “So what should we do next ?” I ask.
    “ You’re already looking for something else to do?” she says. “Don’t you ever relax?”
    “Only when I’m sleeping .”
    “You’re not manic-depressive , are you?”
    “No . I just get bored easily when I’m not busy.”
    I’ve never been good at twiddling my thumbs . As a kid I couldn’t sit still for more than five minutes, which used to worry my mother, who assumed I’d eventually end up on Ritalin. Though it’s hard to believe, so far I’m still drug free.
    “ Have you finished unpacking yet?” Grace asks.
    “Actually, no,” I say.
    “Off you go, then.”
    At Grace’s suggestion I put away the rest of my clothes and belongings. Lying at the bottom of my suitcase is the only picture I’ve brought, a four-by-six photograph taken by my mother on a family trip to Vermont nearly 10 years ago. Our final vacation together, the trip occurred just weeks before my mother and I had our falling out. In the picture, I’m sitting in a canoe with my dad, who’s proudly displaying the enormous trout he’s just hooked. Clutching my dog-eared copy of The Cider House Rules , I appear to be smiling, but in