the bricks toward the front of the house and Robin Road. He heard a toilet flush as he went by.
But no need to go all the way to the street, because halfway across the front lawn Julian caught the number on the mailbox: 37. He’d homed in exactly on target, like the kind of missile yet to be perfected. He leaned his bike against a lightpost beside the front walkway, removed the green plastic A-Plus Tutorial folder from the carrier, approached the front door.
Black, solid, with solid brass fittings. Julian took out one of his new business cards, put a solid businesslike expression on his face. As he rang the bell he noticed the welcome mat. It actually said
welcome
, the word entwined with daisies. Daisies! His mood, not the best since the failure—not failure, how could that word apply?—to find the word that came after
deceive
, lifted. He heard footsteps coming from the other side of the door, felt his solid businesslike expression altering slightly, striking an added note or two of amiability. From the tiny house in the backyard came the cawing of the crow.
6
L inda opened the door. A tall man stood on the threshold.
“Yes?” she said.
The man had a friendly smile. “Julian Sawyer,” he said. “From A-Plus Tutorial. I’m here for Brandon’s SAT prep.”
“You are?” said Linda. “We were expecting someone named Sally.”
“Sick today, I’m afraid.” He gave her a business card with a mortarboard logo on the front. The shape of his hand caught her eye—a Michelangelo study come to life. “Margie has sent me in her stead.”
Not a good start, Linda thought. The reason she’d chosen A-Plus in the first place was this Margie woman’s recommendation of Sally’s skills with reluctant boys, uncooperative boys, the insanely hostile. Sally was a junior at Trinity, a lacrosse star with five brothers. This man was—what? Too old to be a student, even a graduate student. When she thought of tutors, Linda thought of college kids or schoolmarms, not this. He wasn’t right for the part—not that he didn’t look intelligent, far from it—certainly wouldn’t be right in Brandon’s eyes; Brandon, at that moment sulking in his bedroom, headphones clamped on tight.
“I appreciate your coming at the last minute and everything,” Linda said. She glanced past him, looking for his car, spotted only a mountain bike leaning against the lightpost. “The problem is that Brandon’s not what you’d call enthusiastic about this idea.”
“The sacrilege of it.”
“Sacrilege?”
“Schooling, on a Saturday.”
“Exactly. And Margie thought that since Sally—”
Scott came up from behind her with a handful of Ruby’s blue-and-yellow feathered arrows. “Where’s her bow?” he said. Then he noticed the substitute tutor, whose name Linda realized she had failed to catch. The first lesson was critical: how to postpone it until Sally was available without being rude to him?
“This gentleman’s from the tutoring place,” Linda said.
“I thought—”
“She’s sick.” Linda noticed with surprise that the two men were about the same height, Scott slightly taller if anything, which meant that the other man wasn’t even six feet. “The problem is—”
A cry—Ruby’s cry—and Zippy shot out from the side walkway, his leash flying free.
“Not again,” said Scott. He dropped one of the arrows. Bending to pick it up, he lost control of them all.
At the same moment Ruby appeared, also on the run, her hair in that ridiculous devil do, her jacket missing. Zippy tore across the street, Ruby following, calling, “Zippy, Zippy!” Oh, God. Ruby wasn’t going to . . . and she didn’t. Didn’t stop, didn’t look left or right. The burst of fright Linda felt in her chest couldn’t have been more powerful if a car had indeed been coming.
“Ruby!”
Then Linda was running too. Zippy bounded onto the Strombolis’ lawn, headed straight to their rosebushes, the glory of Robin Road every summer, now
But no need to go all the way to the street, because halfway across the front lawn Julian caught the number on the mailbox: 37. He’d homed in exactly on target, like the kind of missile yet to be perfected. He leaned his bike against a lightpost beside the front walkway, removed the green plastic A-Plus Tutorial folder from the carrier, approached the front door.
Black, solid, with solid brass fittings. Julian took out one of his new business cards, put a solid businesslike expression on his face. As he rang the bell he noticed the welcome mat. It actually said
welcome
, the word entwined with daisies. Daisies! His mood, not the best since the failure—not failure, how could that word apply?—to find the word that came after
deceive
, lifted. He heard footsteps coming from the other side of the door, felt his solid businesslike expression altering slightly, striking an added note or two of amiability. From the tiny house in the backyard came the cawing of the crow.
6
L inda opened the door. A tall man stood on the threshold.
“Yes?” she said.
The man had a friendly smile. “Julian Sawyer,” he said. “From A-Plus Tutorial. I’m here for Brandon’s SAT prep.”
“You are?” said Linda. “We were expecting someone named Sally.”
“Sick today, I’m afraid.” He gave her a business card with a mortarboard logo on the front. The shape of his hand caught her eye—a Michelangelo study come to life. “Margie has sent me in her stead.”
Not a good start, Linda thought. The reason she’d chosen A-Plus in the first place was this Margie woman’s recommendation of Sally’s skills with reluctant boys, uncooperative boys, the insanely hostile. Sally was a junior at Trinity, a lacrosse star with five brothers. This man was—what? Too old to be a student, even a graduate student. When she thought of tutors, Linda thought of college kids or schoolmarms, not this. He wasn’t right for the part—not that he didn’t look intelligent, far from it—certainly wouldn’t be right in Brandon’s eyes; Brandon, at that moment sulking in his bedroom, headphones clamped on tight.
“I appreciate your coming at the last minute and everything,” Linda said. She glanced past him, looking for his car, spotted only a mountain bike leaning against the lightpost. “The problem is that Brandon’s not what you’d call enthusiastic about this idea.”
“The sacrilege of it.”
“Sacrilege?”
“Schooling, on a Saturday.”
“Exactly. And Margie thought that since Sally—”
Scott came up from behind her with a handful of Ruby’s blue-and-yellow feathered arrows. “Where’s her bow?” he said. Then he noticed the substitute tutor, whose name Linda realized she had failed to catch. The first lesson was critical: how to postpone it until Sally was available without being rude to him?
“This gentleman’s from the tutoring place,” Linda said.
“I thought—”
“She’s sick.” Linda noticed with surprise that the two men were about the same height, Scott slightly taller if anything, which meant that the other man wasn’t even six feet. “The problem is—”
A cry—Ruby’s cry—and Zippy shot out from the side walkway, his leash flying free.
“Not again,” said Scott. He dropped one of the arrows. Bending to pick it up, he lost control of them all.
At the same moment Ruby appeared, also on the run, her hair in that ridiculous devil do, her jacket missing. Zippy tore across the street, Ruby following, calling, “Zippy, Zippy!” Oh, God. Ruby wasn’t going to . . . and she didn’t. Didn’t stop, didn’t look left or right. The burst of fright Linda felt in her chest couldn’t have been more powerful if a car had indeed been coming.
“Ruby!”
Then Linda was running too. Zippy bounded onto the Strombolis’ lawn, headed straight to their rosebushes, the glory of Robin Road every summer, now
Similar Books
