The Tutor

by Peter Abrahams

  Ms. Belsey, the principal, entered. “Pardon the interruption, Mr. Monson. Do you have Brandon Gardner here?”

  “Yup.”

  “May I borrow him for a few minutes?”

  “Borrow them all,” said Mr. Monson.

  Ms. Belsey smiled a tight little smile that showed no teeth and hardly moved her lips. “Brandon?” she said. He rose. She crooked her finger. He followed her out into the hall, thinking of Trish’s mural with Mr. Kranepool, the parking lot security guy, licking Ms. Belsey’s hairy legs. Glancing down, he saw that Ms. Belsey’s legs, clothed in sheer stockings, were smooth and hairless, actually kind of nice, like she worked out after school. But funnily enough, there was Mr. Kranepool out in the hall. Plus Mr. Brack, the gym teacher.

  “What’s up?” said Brandon.

  “Mind showing us your locker?” said Ms. Belsey.

  “My locker?” said Brandon. “How come?”

  “We’ll get to that,” said Ms. Belsey. Mr. Kranepool, and Mr. Brack stepped up on either side of him.

  Brandon shrugged. “Whatever,” he said.

  His locker was 817, down the stairs and around the corner by the guidance office. Frankie J was coming the other way.

  “Dude,” he said. “Whassup?”

  “If you don’t hear from me by sundown, call the cops,” said Brandon. Maybe the coolest thing he’d ever said, and to just the right person for spreading it around. But why not? There was nothing bad in his locker.

  Frankie J laughed and kept going.

  The cops were already there, two of them, standing in front of locker number 817. One held a German shepherd on a leash; the other wore sergeant stripes on his sleeve.

  “Open your locker please, Brandon,” said Ms. Belsey.

  “Why?”

  “Because the courts have ruled that under certain circumstances we have the right to open it, and therefore it would look better if you did the opening yourself.”

  That sounded like bullshit to Brandon. “What circumstances?” he said. Being in the clear was a nice feeling.

  “If we have reason to believe, which we do, that there are illegal substances inside,” said Ms. Belsey. “Especially if confirmed by the K-9 unit, a confirmation that I believe has been made, Sergeant D’Amario?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” said the sergeant. He looked at Brandon. “Hello, Brandon. Didn’t know we’d be getting together again so soon. How’s your dad?”

  Sergeant D’Amario: who knew Dewey was selling crack, who was ten times smarter than him and Dewey put together. Confirmed by the K-9 unit—how could that be? Brandon had a crazy thought: he wished that his sister was there beside him.

  “He’s good,” Brandon said.

  “Your dad was a big man on campus at West Mill High,” said Sergeant D’Amario. “Captain of the tennis team, if I remember right. I’m sure he’d want you to do the right thing.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Open the locker.”

  At that moment, Brandon thought of Unka Death, in a coma at some hospital in New York. Fuck you, good as new, all we do, then it’s through. He started to say Nope, changed it to a plain “No.” And felt his spine stiffen.

  “Mr. Kranepool?” said Ms. Belsey.

  Mr. Kranepool flipped some pages on his clipboard, mouthing, “Eight one seven,” like the retard he was, checked the corresponding numbers—each locker had its own permanent combination—and dialed it on the four brass counters. He opened the locker.

  “Show us where it is,” said Ms. Belsey. “You can still make things easier for yourself.”

  Brandon said nothing.

  They all stared into the locker. On the top shelf lay a comb, hair gel, and some scratched CDs; on the hooks hung his backpack and his varsity jacket; on the floor was all kinds of shit—old tennis shoes, a single hiking boot, books, papers, someone’s belt.

  “Do we have your consent for this legal search?” said Sergeant D’Amario.

  “No,” said Brandon. He was shaking a little now, but his voice sounded steady. There was nothing in there, whatever the dog thought.

  Sergeant D’Amario nodded to the other cop. The other cop pulled on surgical gloves and emptied the locker while Sergeant D’Amario held the leash. The cop dumped out the backpack, searched every compartment, shook out the tennis shoes and the boot, took the hair gel apart. He went through all the papers and the books.

  That left the jacket. The cop removed it, dug his hands in the pockets, patted the lining inside. Then he gave it a shake and patted the lining again. After that he turned it inside out and tried once more. The adults exchanged blank looks. Sergeant D’Amario handed the other cop a little folding knife.

  “What the hell?” said Brandon. He should have said What the fuck? but he wasn’t brave enough.

  “Language, please,” said Ms. Belsey.

  The cop cut through the stitches at the bottom of the lining, extending a little hole already there, and thrust his hand up inside. He turned to Sergeant D’Amario and shook his head.

  Sergeant D’Amario knelt, went through the books and papers again. “What’s this?” he said.

  “We’ve lost our dog,” said Brandon. “Like it says.”

  D’Amario rose in a hurry. “What was that?”

  Brandon said nothing.

  “Pat him down,” D’Amario said.

  “Face the wall,” said the other cop.

  Brandon faced the wall. Something savage woke inside him. He made himself be still.

  “Hands up, legs apart.”

  Brandon raised his hands, spread his legs. The cop patted him down.

  “Nothin’,” he said.

  Brandon turned. He could have looked them in the eye forever.

  “I guess there’s been some mistake,” said Ms. Belsey, picking the jacket off the floor. “We’ll have this resewn for you by dismissal time, Brandon.”

  “You think I’d wear it now?” said Brandon, and his goddamn voice betrayed him, cracking a little. “It’s shit.” He walked away before anyone could do anything, leaving the whole mess for them to deal with, kept walking down the hall and right out of West Mill High.

  Brandon started toward the student parking lot because that was what he always did. When was dismissal? Half an hour or so. He headed for Dewey’s car. For the first ten or twenty yards, he was almost crying, maybe even did a little. Then he got control; good thing, because a car rolled up alongside and someone said: “Out already, Brandon?”

  Mom’s Jeep, with Julian at the wheel. The college visit: he wasn’t in the mood.

  “Your mom told me noon,” Julian said.

  “Then you’re early,” said Brandon.

  “To ensure a good start,” said Julian. He glanced up at the school doors. “No one else seems to be coming out yet.”

  Brandon shrugged, got in the car, moving the Fiske, Princeton Review, and Insider’s college guides out of the way.

  Julian was watching him. “You’re not in trouble, are you?” he said.

  Brandon took a deep breath, almost a shuddering one. “For what?”

  Julian licked his lips. “Leaving school too soon.”

  “No.”

  “Because you look a little distraught, if you don’t mind my saying so.”

  “Let’s just go,” Brandon said.

  Julian put the car in drive and stepped on the gas, maybe a little roughly, from the gear-grinding sound. “If there is some difficulty at school,” he said, “you know you can rely on my discretion.”

  “Thanks, Julian. I got out a little early, that’s all.”

  “Very well,” said Julian.

  They drove in silence for a while, came to 91. “Where are we going?” Brandon said.

  “I thought we’d look at Amherst first. A reach at this stage, but why not see what a reach looks like? We can check out Trinity on the way back.”

  “I thought Trinity was a reach too.”

  “Not with the way you’re improving.”

  “Y
eah?” For the first time, Brandon thought that maybe college might not be such a bad thing after all. At least he’d be out of West Mill High. Then he had an idea. “What if we went the other way.”

  “South?”

  “To New York. What’s in New York?”

  “Columbia. NYU.”

  “Reaches?”

  “Columbia, certainly.”

  “But no more than Amherst, right?”

  “Probably not.”

  “Then let’s go to New York.”

  Julian pulled over to the side of the road, switched off the motor. He turned to Brandon. Brandon felt Julian’s intelligence, like his mind was being scanned. “Not impossible, Brandon,” Julian said, “but first I’d have to be sure there will be no ramifications from your early dismissal.”

  “Jesus Christ,” said Brandon. “You’re just like all the others.”

  Julian’s eyes changed a little, a brief glint, then darkness. “Is that really your opinion?”

  “I guess not,” said Brandon. “They opened up my locker, Julian, the cops and everything, looking for drugs.”

  “My God,” said Julian. “Did they have a warrant?”

  “They don’t need one. It’s happened to other kids before.”

  “Outrageous,” said Julian. He shook his head. “But I hope that at least the search itself wasn’t too invasive.”

  “They didn’t strip me or anything like that. But if cutting the lining out of my jacket makes it invasive, then it was.”

  “They did that?”

  Brandon nodded. There was a silence. Brandon felt himself starting to shake again. He wanted to punch somebody—D’Amario, the cop who’d patted him down, Ms. Belsey, Mr. Kranepool, Mr. Brack, all of them. Even compared with him and all his fuckups, they were worse, dirty even. Compared to someone like Trish, they were scum. And the K-9 dog, a complete bluff. Ruby was right: D’Amario would do anything to keep crack out of West Mill.

  “That must have come as a shock,” said Julian, “when they cut the lining.”

  “It was like they expected to find something there.”

  “It goes without saying that their search was unsuccessful?”

  That question mark at the end made Brandon mad. “You think I’m a drug dealer?”

  “Of course not, Brandon. I’m on your side, as I thought you knew.” He turned the key. “Let’s hit the big city.”

  They drove to New York, saw NYU first, then Columbia. Lots of the kids looked weird, but some were okay.

  “There’s one more thing I’d like to see,” said Brandon.

  “What’s that?”

  “Beth Israel.”

  “But it’s a hospital.”

  “Unka Death’s inside.”

  “Ah.”

  Julian drove across town to Beth Israel, double-parked on a side street while Brandon got out. The vigil was taking place in a little park across the street from the hospital. Brandon joined the—what would you call them, vigilantes? he thought, suddenly understanding both words at once. There were hundreds of them, some in NYU or Columbia T-shirts. They gazed up at the hospital, passing around joints and beer cans, sometimes chanting: “Fuck you, good as new, all we do, then it’s through.”

  The rap echoed off the stone walls of the hospital. “I think he’s in that corner room up there,” said a girl beside Brandon.

  “Where that nurse waved a while ago?” he said.

  The girl gave him a look. A college girl, no doubt about it. “Yes,” she said.

  Brandon said the first thing that came into his head: “I hope she’s wearing the gold shorts.”

  The girl laughed, one of those bursts, the surprised kind. There was life after West Mill High. He was going to have to work his butt off, but it wasn’t out of the question. Already he could handle ramifications in ordinary conversation.

  Brandon got back in the car. They drove across the bridge, up into Connecticut, taillights glowing endlessly ahead. Julian looked tired: fun things tired adults out just as much as work. He was gripping the steering wheel too hard, just like Mom.

  “Thanks, Julian,” Brandon said. “You’ve been a big help.”

  “My pleasure,” said Julian. His grip got a little tighter.

  28

  Standardized tests were great. Maybe not the tests themselves, which went on and on, especially the math—halfway through Ruby had been down to answers only, leaving the questions unread—but who could be upset about all the arguing they caused, and the half-day conferences that resulted?

  The bus rolled to a stop. The flashing lights went on and Mr. V. glanced in the mirror. Ruby saw momentary disappointment on his face, probably at the sight of the lone truck behind them. Mr. V. lived for long backups.

  “Chin up,” he said.

  Ruby tilted up her chin, got off the bus. Normally on a half day she’d take out a recipe book and bake fudge, just to establish the right mood. Then maybe she’d practice the saxophone for a while. When was the last time she’d touched it? And the next Hot Jazz performance, at an old-folks home, was less than two weeks away. Those old folks loved “It Don’t Mean a Thing”—they tapped their old feet and beat time on their walkers—and Ruby sometimes had trouble with the slur after the eighth rest in the seventh measure; she didn’t want to let the old folks down. After that she might put on a CD, real loud, and dance around the house like a banshee, or dervish, whichever it was. The dancing always got Zippy going like crazy—once he’d tried to take a bite out of the toaster.

  But none of that today. Today was for finding him.

  First, she checked the messages. Lots for Brandon—from Trish, Dewey, Frankie J, other kids whose names she didn’t recognize—but nothing about Zippy. Then she was hungry. She opened the fridge, took out peanut butter, Marshmallow Fluff—and how about a little jam, just to add that healthy fruit element? Three kinds—blueberry, apricot and, over by itself on the top shelf, strawberry, the French one Julian liked. Strawberry wasn’t her favorite and she couldn’t reach it anyway. She chose blueberry, whipped up a glass of chocolate milk for that all-important calcium element, sat down to lunch.

  Mom called just as she was washing up. That was nice.

  “What are you doing this afternoon?” Mom said. That was nice too.

  “Looking for Zippy,” Ruby said. “Did you know Julian smokes?”

  “What makes you think that?”

  “I saw him out smoking last night.”

  “Cigarettes?” Mom was quick.

  “Yeah.”

  Mom lost interest right away. How did that fit in with the quick part? “Lots of people smoke,” she said.

  “I know,” said Ruby. “But Julian?”

  Phones rang in the background at Mom’s end. “See you tonight,” said Mom. “And Ruby?”

  “Yeah?”

  “There may come a time when you’ll have to start coming to terms with . . .” Mom left the rest unsaid; maybe she could sense through the wires the reaction that was already building in Ruby.

  Beep.

  “I’ve got another call,” Ruby said.

  “Bye.”

  “Bye.”

  “Hi.”

  “Hey.” Kyla. “Wanna hit sometime this afternoon? My dad could pick you up.”

  Tennis on a free afternoon, completely voluntary? Madness. “Can’t,” said Ruby. “Some other time.” Like a year starting with three.

  “I’ll have to hit with my dad,” said Kyla.

  Ruby knew how bad that could be, but didn’t relent. “He’s got a half day too?”

  “He takes them whenever he wants now.”

  “You’re rich, huh?”

  “I think so.”

  “How was Paris?”

  “We went to the Eiffel Tower,” Kyla said. “There were some college boys. Big Green—is that Dartmouth? They peed off the top deck.”

  Dartmouth—was it on Mom and Dad’s wish list for Bran? “What are you eating?” Ruby said.

  “Gummy bears.”
>
  Ruby hated gummy bears. Why didn’t they just include dental floss in the packages? She listened to Kyla chew.

  “Hear about Problem?” Kyla said.

  “The guy from That Thang Thing?”

  “Yeah. He shot Unka Death.”

  “Killed him, you mean?”

  “He’s in a coma,” Kyla said. “And Problem’s in jail.”

  “What happened?”

  “They were in a strip club.” Ruby waited for more explanation, but none came. “It’s on TV right now,” Kyla said.

  “Later.”

  “Later.”

  Ruby went down to the entertainment center, switched on the TV. She ripped through the channels—woman with the red-framed glasses, Molto Mario, shopping, nun, ab cruncher, skateboarding, Hitler—found Problem. He was rapping onstage in one of those orange prison jumpsuits, the gold AK-47 medallion bouncing on his thick chest. Were they letting him perform in jail, or was this from before, the jumpsuit part of his image, a part that came true?

  The announcer was talking but Ruby couldn’t concentrate. Something was bothering her, something that had flashed by as she’d torn through the channels, somewhere around the nun. Ruby hit the channel down button, went back more slowly.

  WWII, WWF, ab cruncher, nun and—there it was. A picture of someone she knew: Jeanette. They had her name up there, and under that Old Mill, CT. Ruby turned up the volume.

  “. . . did not appear for work on Monday and is now considered missing. Police are asking anyone with information to please call—” Then came a number, and they moved onto the next story. Ruby raced through the channels, found nothing more about Jeanette.

  She called Mom, got her voice mail. She called Dad; not yet back from lunch. She went upstairs, found Mom’s address book, called Jeanette’s number.

  “In case I didn’t reach everybody,” said Jeanette, “there’ll be no archery the twenty-third and twenty-fourth.” The Atlantis weekend. “Classes as normal next Saturday. If you need to leave a message, wait for the tone.”

  The tone came. Then silence. Ruby spoke into it. “Jeanette? This is Ruby. I hope you’re all right.” Then more silence. After a few seconds, Ruby said, “Bye,” and hung up.