The Valeditztorian

by Alli Curran

  “Hi, Aimee. It’s Emma, your tutor. Remember me from last week?”

  No response.

  “You might want to check out my new hairdo,” I say. “It’s super cool.”

  That gets her attention. Aimee peeks out from beneath the blanket, glances curiously at my hair, and starts laughing hysterically.

  “What’d you do,” she asks between spasms of laughter, “drop a bucket of purple paint on your head?”

  In a strange way, it’s nice that my appearance is eliciting a response from another person, even if it’s derisive laughter from a nine-year-old nut.

  “Not exactly. I discovered I had some gray hair, and I tried to dye it red, but the color came out a little differently than I’d planned.”

  Aimee hops out of bed and approaches me. Wearing a flowery green jumper, with her hair pulled back in sprightly braids, Aimee looks like she could’ve stepped right out of Rivendell.

  “You should’ve gone to Nicolino’s.”

  “What’s Nicolino’s?”

  “The salon where my mom gets her hair done. They always get the color just right.”

  When she reaches out to touch a lock of my hair, I notice several new, irritated scratch marks on her right forearm, and I’m tempted to ask her how she acquired them. Then again, I probably don’t need to ask how. The more important question is why.

  “Say…do you think we could dye my hair purple?” she asks.

  “We’d have to ask your mother first.”

  Aimee’s face falls. Presumably, the child knows that her mother wouldn’t allow such a thing.

  “Hey, don’t look so disappointed. I did bring some treats.”

  Reaching into my jacket pocket, I draw out the white paper bag. When she lunges for it, I whisk my hand over my head.

  “Oh, no you don’t. Remember last week, when you promised to do your homework, if I gave you a treat?”

  “Yeah,” she says.

  “And then you ate the entire bag of candy, but you still didn’t do any homework?”

  Aimee gives me a sulky look and kicks the floor with her foot.

  “I guess.”

  “So today, you have to do the homework first. For each problem that you finish, I’ll give you one piece of candy.”

  “One piece? That’s it?” she whines.

  “One piece per problem. That’s the deal. But the candy in this bag is pretty awesome. Sour peaches, Swedish fish, a couple chocolate truffles….”

  “Oh, fine,” she interrupts. “I’ll do some problems.”

  “Great. Where’s your homework?”

  Aimee shrugs. For the next half hour we pick through scattered books and piles of clothing strewn about the floor of her room. Eventually we locate a crumpled math worksheet hidden underneath her comforter. Miraculously, the sheet is current and contains this week’s homework problems—fairly complicated long division requiring the use of multiple decimal places.

  “Okay, Aimee,” I say. “Let’s get started. I’ll watch, and if you get stuck, just ask for help.”

  Aimee scoffs at me, as though offended by the suggestion that she might require assistance. At first I doubt her abilities, but in less time than it takes to chew a Swedish fish, she completes four out of 20 problems. Pulling a calculator from my pocket, I check her work for accuracy. Every problem is correct, down to the last decimal place. My goodness. The kid must have a calculator for a brain.

  “See?” she says. “Boring.”

  Aimee throws down the pencil, crossing her arms over her chest.

  “I’m impressed,” I say. “You did a fantastic job with those problems.”

  Aimee smirks in a self-satisfied way.

  “I am in a special class for kids with advanced math skills, you know.”

  “That’s great,” I say.

  “No it’s not. The class is stupid.”

  “Even if you think the work is stupid, or easy, you still need to hand it in,” I say.

  “First, the candy,” says Aimee.

  Fair is fair. She holds out her palm.

  “I did four problems, so that’s four pieces.”

  When I open the bag, Aimee chooses two chocolate truffles, a sour peach, and a whopper, shoving them into her mouth in quick succession.

  “Hey, slow down there,” I say. “If you choke to death, your mom will probably fire me.”

  Aimee can’t say anything because her mouth is completely stuffed with candy. When a bit of chocolate oozes over the corner of her lips, I reach for a tissue and wipe away the sticky dribbles. Wow. That’s probably the most maternal thing I’ve ever done.

  “When you’re done eating,” I say, “why don’t you finish the rest of the math problems? Then we can take a look at the reading assignments.”

  That’s assuming we can find the reading assignments in her disheveled bedroom. Aimee shakes her head vigorously as she swallows.

  “No, way. I’m not doing any more math problems. You can see that I understand this stuff, right?”

  “Yes, but even if you understand everything, you’re not going to pass your classes at school if you don’t finish your homework and hand it in. Until the work is completed, I’m not giving you anymore candy.”

  “That’s okay,” she says. “I don’t want any more candy.”

  “You don’t?”

  “No.”

  Uh, oh. I’m completely out of creative ideas to motivate this stubborn kid. It’s time to seek inspiration, right from the source.

  So I ask her, “Is there anything reasonable that I can do, to convince you to finish your homework?”

  Aimee smiles, “Sure there is.”

  “What?” I ask.

  I hope I’m not going to regret this question.

  “Take me to Serendipity. My mom never has time to bring me there.”

  “Umm, I’m not sure whether that’s kosher, Aimee. I mean, are we even allowed to leave the building? I don’t know whether my tutoring company has a policy on field trips.”

  “I know what we should do,” says Aimee.

  “What?”

  “We should ask Maria.”

  “Uh, ok….”

  Before I even finish uttering the word, Aimee bolts out of the room like a jack rabbit.

  In the hallway, I listen as Aimee questions Maria in rapid-fire Spanish. Her accent is perfect, though I’ve got no idea what she’s saying. Maria shrugs, picks up the phone, and dials a number. Holding the phone to her ear, another brief conversation ensues, again in Spanish.

  Replacing the phone, Maria looks at me.

  “Meesus Santos says ees fine eef you take Aimee.”

  Hopefully Maria’s ear canals are still functioning properly. Aimee certainly doesn’t seem concerned that her sitter might’ve gotten the wrong message. At Maria’s pronouncement, the child claps her hands together and leaps about a foot in the air.

  Once we’re out of the building and headed downtown, with no prompting whatsoever, Aimee confesses, “I told Maria that you were taking me to tutoring headquarters, to work on practice tests.”

  I gasp, “You didn’t!”

  “Yup, I did.”

  “Then we should turn around and go right back home,” I say, coming to an abrupt halt.

  “Oh, please Emma. Let’s keep going.”

  Her little face looks up at me with such desperation that I can’t refuse her.

  “Alright, then. We’ll go, just this once. But no more lying, okay?”

  “Okay, no more lying,” she says, and I don’t believe her at all.

  Ignoring my inclination to shuttle this devious child straight home, I grasp Aimee’s hand in mine, and she practically skips all the way downtown. Along the way I pray that we don’t run into her mother. Sometimes Manhattan feels like a very small island.

  Trying to keep up with Aimee, I’m reminded of a fateful afternoon in junior high school, the one and only time I cut class. I hated middle school. During those awkward, early adolescent years my acne was hideous
, and I often felt like crawling under a rock with the centipedes. Toward the end of one sunny, April afternoon in seventh grade, I gazed out the window during woodworking class. Disgusted with the uneven, giant clothespin I was failing to properly construct, as well as the painful splinter embedded in my thumb, I decided I’d had enough. When the teacher turned his back, I crept quietly out the door and made my way toward a school exit. No one noticed when I took off in the direction of the woods behind the playing fields. Sprinting away from school, with the wind in my hair, my spirits soared with the sudden rush of freedom. The experience was so liberating that I might’ve kept running forever; yet a life of perpetual truancy wasn’t to be. Before hitting the woods, I ran straight into the principal.

  Having just relieved himself on a nearby tree, caught in the act of zipping up his pants, Mr. Doolittle shot me an angry look.

  “Emma Silberlight,” he said, shaking his finger at me, “you head straight back to class, young lady.”

  “Yes, sir,” I said, too shocked by the recent sight of his gluteal cleft to manage anything more witty.

  No further consequences ensued, presumably because I could’ve told on him as well. Though both of us kept quiet, the incident nicely demonstrates my tendency to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. Given this encounter, and my history in general, I’m worried that the present escapade with Aimee might elicit unforeseen repercussions.

  When we arrive at Serendipity, Aimee’s cheeks are flushed pink, her elfin eyes sparkling with joyful mischievousness. Luckily the place isn’t crowded, and the maitre de immediately seats us at a great table in the back. Situated under a giant, green and blue stained-glass chandelier, the space is bathed in ocean colors, recalling visions of an idyllic Caribbean island I once visited with my parents.

  Once we’ve studied our menus, a handsome, dark-haired young waiter, who’s presumably killing time between acting (or possibly modeling) jobs, takes our order.

  “What can I get for you, young lady?” he asks Aimee.

  “I’ll have a mint chocolate chip sundae with hot fudge, whipped cream, and Oreos.”

  “Would you like a cherry on top?” he asks.

  “Okay,” she answers.

  “Yes on the cherry,” he says, marking his notepad.

  Oh, yes. Without warning I find myself picturing this hunk of a man in my bedroom, naked and covered in whipped cream, holding a cherry between his lips.

  “And how about you?” he says, looking at me.

  Despite the salacious images racing through my mind, I manage to order a vanilla sundae with marshmallow topping.

  “Would you like anything else?” he asks me, smiling.

  “Just your phone number,” I say.

  The words are out before I can stop them, and I nearly clap my hand over my mouth in surprise. Usually I’m not so bold. Perhaps my brazen escape with Aimee has fueled this shameless behavior. Luckily the waiter is a good sport about it.

  “Unfortunately, my number isn’t on the menu, since my partner doesn’t usually like me giving it out.”

  He winks at me flirtatiously.

  “But I’m flattered you asked.”

  Partner. Oh, well. All the hot ones are gay.

  While waiting for her ice cream, Aimee pulls a deck of cards from her jacket pocket and expertly shuffles them.

  “Do you always carry cards?” I ask.

  “Yup. At school, I play solitaire under my desk when I’m bored. My last deck got confiscated by the teacher. Do you know how to play spit?”

  “Nope. I’ve heard of it, but I’ve never played it. You can teach me, though.”

  “Sure thing.”

  Once Aimee explains the basics of the game, we’re off.

  When I was younger, I loved to play cards with my parents. The three of us would sit around for hours, playing family favorites like casino and gin rummy. Due to extensive experience, I consider myself a decent card player. Yet after two rounds of spit with Aimee, I’m solidly demolished. The child has impressive hand-eye coordination, much better than my own. As I watch Aimee’s fingers flipping between the cards, I wonder why she’s neglecting her schoolwork. Certainly not because she doesn’t understand it. The kid is probably better at math than me. Though I’d love to ponder this mystery further, my thoughts are diverted by the arrival of our ice cream.

  For the next few minutes, we’re too busy eating to say anything. Wolfing down her sundae, Aimee glances in my direction and smiles, crinkling the tip of her nose. Involuntarily, the hand carrying my ice cream pauses. I know that I’ve seen her somewhere before. Why does this child look so familiar? My inability to connect the dots is starting to get annoying.

  “What’s wrong?” Aimee asks.

  “Nothing,” I say.

  “You just stopped eating. Are you full? If you can’t finish your sundae, I’ll help you out when I’m done with mine.”

  “No, I’m not full.”

  “Then why’d you stop?”

  “I was just wondering whether we met one another at some point in the past, before I started tutoring you.”

  “No. I don’t think so,” she says. “I’m really good at remembering people, and I’m sure that I met you for the very first time in my apartment last week.”

  “You’re probably right. Can I ask you a different question that I’ve been thinking about?”

  “Okay,” she says, shoveling ice cream into her mouth.

  “I’ve been meaning to ask you about a photograph that’s in your room, the one where you’re standing between your parents, holding a tennis ball.”

  Aimee nods.

  “The one on my mirror,” she says.

  “Right, that one. In the picture, your parents look really tan, but you don’t. Can you tell me why your skin color is so much lighter than theirs?”

  “My parents were born in Argentina, and I was born here.”

  “But that shouldn’t make any difference. I mean, you’re their daughter, so you should still look like them, right?”

  “In the summertime, my mom makes me use a lot of sun block. I burn easily, so she slathers that disgusting stuff all over me. Yuck.”

  Since I’m not getting anywhere, I attempt to ask the question more directly.

  “Aimee, is there a reason why you don’t look anything like your parents?”

  She laughs.

  “Oh, that’s an easy one. I was adopted.”

  “I see.”

  In truth I’m not sure what to make of this new piece of information. Maybe the fact that she was adopted has something to do with Aimee’s mental health issues. During my pediatrics rotation, I encountered a number of adopted children with psychological problems.

  The adoptive parents would always make comments like, “We’re not really sure, but we think her biological mother was a schizophrenic,” or “We heard the father committed suicide, but we don’t know any details.”

  Aimee grabs a whipped cream-covered Oreo and says, “My mom’s always saying that it’s a good thing I’m not biologically related to my dad.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Because my dad is sick.”

  I lick some sticky-sweet marshmallow sauce off my spoon.

  “What’s the matter with him?”

  Aimee takes a big bite of ice cream, then suddenly flexes her neck, grabbing her temples.

  “Ow!” she shouts.

  “What’s wrong?” I ask.

  “Brain freeze,” she says with her eyes shut tight.

  “Ooh…I hate that.”

  I wait a few moments for her to recover.

  “So what’s the matter with your dad?” I ask again.

  The child looks up at me with a world of sadness in her eyes.

  “This whole year, he’s been really sick. I keep asking my parents to tell me what’s wrong, but they won’t. I think he might be dying.”

  “Oh, Aimee. I’m really sorry to hear that.”

  I’m at a loss for what to say next. Other t
han family pets, no one close to me has died. In fifth grade, I had a goldfish that died while I was away at summer camp. Although my parents secretly replaced it, thinking I wouldn’t notice, I immediately discovered the ruse once I got home. In the aftermath, I was so furious at them for not telling me the truth that I wouldn’t speak to them for days. So much drama over one little goldfish. I can’t begin to imagine the emotional challenges of Aimee’s situation.

  To fill the silence I take a sip of water.

  Though I hadn’t planned on doing psychological counseling when I took this job, I’m beginning to sense that in order to get Aimee back on track with her schoolwork, I’ll need to better understand her family situation.

  “Aimee,” I say, “I’ve been to your house twice now, and I’ve never seen your parents. Where are they?”

  “My dad’s been stuck at the hospital for the past month, and now my Mom’s spending all of her time there, too.”

  “Do you have any other family members in the city who can help out?”

  “I have some cousins in Texas, but nobody else lives around here.”

  “Is that why you’re always home with Maria?”

  “Yeah,” she says dejectedly. “I’m stuck at home with her, and all she ever does is clean our apartment. She never takes me anywhere.”

  “That sounds pretty lonely.”

  Aimee nods in agreement.

  “My mom used to bring me to the hospital,” she says, “but now she won’t let me go there.”

  As the remainder of my sundae melts, Aimee’s school problems begin to make sense. With both of her parents practically living at the hospital, she must be desperate for attention, either positive or negative.

  This gives me an idea.

  “Do you know where your dad is admitted?” I ask.

  “What’s ‘admitted?’”

  I clarify, “Which hospital is he staying at?”

  “Memorial Sloan-Kettering.”

  “Would you like to go visit him?” I say.

  Aimee’s eyes go wide as saucers, and I immediately regret my offer. Obviously, I have no authority here, yet something about this particular course of action feels unavoidable. From the standpoint of motivating Aimee, I’m finally visualizing a key bargaining chip, one that’s going to be much more effective than candy or ice cream sundaes.