The Tutor Read Free Page B

know the difference, and a ten ninety SAT and a three three from West Mill High tells the Ivies not to even look at him. It’s probably programmed in their computers.”
    “There’s always Amherst or someplace like that,” Scott said.
    “Amherst? Are you dreaming? Forget Amherst. You can forget Trinity, for God’s sake.”
    “Forget Trinity?”
    “Forget NYU, forget BC, forget BU, even. Don’t you get it? The SAT ranks every kid in the nation. Seventy-fifth percentile means there are hundreds of thousands ahead of him, maybe millions. The good schools can fill their classes without going anywhere near Brandon. We screwed up.”
    “How?”
    “In our usual way—by not seeing this coming.”
    “What could we have done?”
    “Made him retake the PSAT for starters.”
    “The PSAT?”
    Come on, Scott.
“Don’t you remember? He felt sick, supposedly, and left after five minutes.”
    “I don’t see—”
    “So we never got a score, and the PSAT tracks the SAT. We’ve missed a whole year.”
    “Of what?”
    “Preparation,” Linda said. “Maybe at boarding school.”
    “But we discussed that. We didn’t want him to go away. And he didn’t want to go away. And don’t we believe in public education?”
    “Don’t we believe in Brandon first? And you left out not being able to afford it.”
    Pause. “So what are we going to do?”
    “I don’t know. Get him right into an SAT prep course, that’s one thing.”
    “Maybe he just had a bad day.”
    “I hope to God that’s it, but we can’t take the chance. We should probably have his IQ tested, just to see what we have the right to expect.”
    There was a long silence. She could feel his resistance, not thought out, something deep in his character, genetic. Tom’s DNA was different. That thought just popped up, nothing she could do.
    “We’re talking about Brandon’s future,” Linda said. “What his life’s going to be when he’s on his own, when he’s our age.”
    More silence. Then Scott said: “Sam’s in the ninety-ninth percentile?”
    “Correct. Harvard, Brown, Williams—they’re going to be beating down his door.”
    At that moment, Tom came into Scott’s office, raised his eyebrows, pointed to his watch.
    “Gotta go,” Scott said.

    T here were lots of things Ruby didn’t like about school, but Mad Minute was the worst. “All right,” said Ms. Freleng, welcoming them back from recess. “Time for Mad Minute.” Like it was a treat, going to the circus or the beach. Ms. Freleng passed out the papers, everybody getting a sheet covered with rows of multiplication problems.
    “Wait for it,” said Ms. Freleng, taking out her stupid stopwatch. “Three, two, one . . . go!”
    Ruby gazed down at the sheet. First question: thirty-seven times ninety-two. Christ on a crutch.
Seven times two is
—she liked that expression, Christ on a crutch, although she really didn’t get what it meant—
fourteen, write the four and carry one. Seven times nine is . . . fifty-six?
This was one of the tricky ones.
Sixty-three! Got it. Plus one makes four. Skip a space. Three times two is . . .
There was also shit on a stick. She liked that too. She became aware of her hand moving along the rows of numbers, attacking the problems on its own.
    Eight times seven. There’s your fifty-six. Write down the six, carry the . . . Crutch
was a bit like
cross
, and Christ had died on a cross. Another thing Ruby didn’t like was turning the pages of one of the art books in the living room and suddenly coming across a painting of the crucifixion. She’d be willing to bet that
crutch
meant “cross,” or had been
cross
at one time, or something like that. And that crown of thorns. She felt prickling all around her head.
    Her hand plowed on.
Six times nine makes fifty—
    “Time’s up, class. Pencils down.”
    Six. Write six, carry the five.
    “Everybody. Pencils down this instant.”
    Not six. Four. Fifty-four. Why the hell—
    “Everybody includes