“Thank you so much for meeting with us,” said Gideon, after the introductions. “We’d like to enroll our son, Tyler, in the second grade. He’s a very special boy.”
“Of course. Naturally, we have a fairly comprehensive process here at Throckmorton Academy, involving interviews with the parents and child, teacher references, and a battery of age-appropriate testing. We have many more applicants than we can accept, unfortunately. And I am afraid to say, as I believe I explained on the telephone, there are currently no openings in the second grade.”
“But Tyler is special.”
Van Rensselaer had not seated himself. “So as I mentioned, while we’re glad to give you a quick tour of the campus, it would be unfair to take up more of your valuable time without any hope of admission for your son. If something opens up, of course, we’ll be in touch. Now, we’d be glad to arrange that tour.”
“Thank you. But I just thought I would leave this folder of Tyler’s work—” Gideon brandished the folder of papers toward Van Rensselaer, who eyed it with the faintest whiff of distaste.
“That won’t be necessary at this time.”
“At least let me leave you the symphony.”
“The…excuse me?”
“The symphony. Tyler composed a symphony.”
A long silence. “How old did you say Tyler was?”
“Seven.”
“And he had help composing this…symphony?”
“Oh heavens, no!” said Orchid, suddenly, her raspy cigarette-cured voice echoing in the hushed confines of the office. “What do we know about classical music!” A laugh followed.
Suppressing a smile, Gideon slid out the sheet music. After a moment, Van Rensselaer took it.
“He used GarageBand,” said Gideon. “It sounds great, lots of trumpets. The CD is taped there, too. You should listen to it.”
Van Rensselaer began flipping through the printed-out symphony. “Surely someone helped him do this.”
“No one. Really. We didn’t even know he was doing it.”
“Um, neither of you is musical?”
“I like Lady Gaga,” said Orchid, with a nervous laugh.
“Where does…Tyler get his musical interest?”
“No idea. He was adopted, you know, from Korea.”
“Korea,” Van Rensselaer repeated.
“Sure. Some of our friends were adopting kids from Asia and so we thought it would be cool, since, well—we can’t have children. And it was something we could have in common with them, you know, talk about. But the symphony isn’t the only thing. Here are some of his drawings. You can keep them—they’re copies.”
He slid out the drawings. It was amazing what you could find on the web. He’d added a little signature to the bottom of each one, TYLER CREW, before copying them.
Van Rensselaer took the drawings and looked at them.
“That’s our dog. Tyler loves the dog. And that’s some old church he found in a book.”
“Chartres,” murmured Van Rensselaer.
“What?” It had been devilishly difficult finding the right drawings from the vast selection available online; they had to combine childishness with artistic genius in just the right way.
“These are amazing,” said Van Rensselaer softly, paging through them.
“Tyler is special,” repeated Orchid. “He’s already smarter than I am.” She put a Chiclet in her mouth and began to chew. “Gum?”
Van Rensselaer didn’t answer. He was absorbed in the drawings.
“I gotta tell you,” said Gideon, “Tyler’s also just an ordinary kid. He’s not one of those stuck-up types. He loves to watch Family Guy with us, he laughs so hard. He especially liked the episode where Peter gets drunk and drops trou in the front yard, just as the cops are driving by.”
Orchid burst into a peal of laughter. “That one was the best.”
“Family Guy?” A look of horror bloomed on Van Rensselaer’s face.
“Anyway, in this folder are a bunch of Tyler’s sonnets, more drawings, and a bunch more musical compositions.”
“All done by himself?”
“I helped him with the cartoons,” said Gideon proudly. “But, well, we don’t know much about music, literature, or drawing. I own a sports bar, see. In Yonkers.”
Van Rensselaer looked from him to Orchid.
“He’s also good at mathematics, I don’t know how the heck he learned the stuff. Just like when he taught himself to read when he was two and a half. Also, I’ve got some letters from his teachers in there.” He pawed through the folder and extracted a couple of letters he had carefully composed and printed on faked school letterhead. “There’s one from his math tutor — he’s way ahead of his grade — and another from the principal.” The letters waxed eloquent about Tyler’s transcendental genius and some made carefully veiled allusions to his home environment.
“Oh, and here are his test results. Somebody gave him an IQ test.”
Van Rensselaer examined the results. His face became very still, almost blank, and the paper shook slightly. “I think…” he began slowly. “Under the circumstances…we may be able to find a place for Tyler here at Throckmorton. Of course, we’d still have to meet him and go through the application process.”
“Wonderful!” cried Orchid, clapping her hands. She was really getting into it.
“Please,” Van Rensselaer said, “have a seat.”
“Just a minute,” said Gideon as he sat down. “There are a few things I want to make sure of. First of all, will there be other Asian students in his class? I don’t want him to feel left out.”
“Absolutely,” said Van Rensselaer briskly, switching into full salesmanship mode.
“Like, how many? Not just in the second grade, but in the elementary school. I want to know numbers.”
“Let me get the class lists.” Van Rensselaer called in the receptionist, issued the request. She returned a moment later with a piece of paper. The admissions officer glanced through it, slid it across his desk. “She’s checked the ones of Asian descent.”
Gideon took the paper.
“I’m afraid I can’t let you keep that. We are naturally very protective of our families’ privacy.”
“Oh, sure, sure.” He examined it. Fifteen students. That was his universe. He committed the names to memory.
“I also heard,” he said sternly, laying down the paper, “that there was a serious outbreak of flu on campus.”
“Flu? I don’t think so.”
“That’s what I heard. In fact, I heard that on June seventh, just before graduation, more than three-quarters of the elementary school was out sick.”
“I hardly think that’s possible.” Van Rensselaer called the receptionist back in. “Get me the attendance records for the lower school on June seventh.”
“Very well.”
“How about some coffee?” asked Gideon, eyeing a pot in the corner.
“What? Oh, please excuse me! I should have offered it to you earlier. How negligent.”
“No problem, I’ll take it with extra cream and three sugars.”
“Extra cream and four sugars for me,” said Orchid.
Van Rensselaer rose and fumbled with the coffee himself. As he did so, the receptionist came back. She laid the document on the desk just as Van Rensselaer returned with the coffee. Gideon reached for it as he rose from his chair, and the combined movement somehow caused him to knock the cups and spill coffee all over Van Rensselaer’s desk.
“Oh, I’m so sorry!” he cried. “What a klutz I am!” Pulling a handkerchief from his pocket he began mopping up the liquid, wiping the papers, fussing about, shoving everything this way and that.