hooded in plastic. Without a pause, like a madman with a plan, Zippy started attacking the plastic.
“Zippy!” Ruby dove for his leash, caught it, tried to drag him away, but couldn’t. Zippy yanked the plastic free.
“Zippy!” Linda called, from halfway across the street.
Zippy seized the rosebush at the base of its stem, started tugging at it in fury, growling and jerking his head from side to side. The Strombolis’ front door opened and Mr. Stromboli came out in a purple robe and slippers, a golf club in his hand. He ran too, surprisingly fast for such a fat man, raising the club high. Ruby, now on her feet, saw him coming, screamed in terror, got tangled in the leash, fell. Zippy strained at the rosebush, blind to everything else. Linda shouted something at Mr. Stromboli, she didn’t know what.
Then suddenly the substitute tutor was on the Strombolis’ lawn, not running, just there. Ten or fifteen feet from Zippy, he said: “Heel.”
Zippy stopped what he was doing at once. His head came up, swiveled. He saw the substitute tutor, trotted over and stood beside him, tail wagging. Everyone else—Linda, Ruby, Mr. Stromboli—froze. It was strangely quiet, like after a jackhammer stops. The substitute tutor helped Ruby to her feet, handed her the leash, then knelt at the rosebush, digging around a little with his hands—Linda could actually hear his fingers in the dirt—repositioning the roots. He replaced the tattered plastic, walked over to Mr. Stromboli, said something Linda didn’t catch. Mr. Stromboli replied, the substitute tutor nodded, they shook hands. Mr. Stromboli walked back to his house. Mrs. Stromboli was on her way out, also in a robe, although not carrying a golf club. He spun her around and they both went inside.
The tutor turned to Linda: “No harm done,” he said.
She didn’t know what to say. For one thing, she still couldn’t come up with his name.
B randon, headphones back on, Unka Death in his ears, sat at the dining-room table, watching the tutor guy grade his evaluation test.
Call me Julian,
he’d said, and added some joke about another guy with a weird name, Ishmael or something, a joke Brandon didn’t get. Julian: a gay name for sure, but he didn’t seem gay, not literally, not whatever the other term was either, when it’s just a metaphor or something. He hadn’t said much after that, sitting quietly in Dad’s chair at the end of the table while Brandon took the test. For a while he’d gazed at some words on a memo pad, pen in hand although he never wrote anything. Later he’d got up and examined the collage on the wall behind the sideboard, mostly tennis pictures of the kids, none recent: Ruby, Brandon, Adam. After that he’d taken a look at the bottles in the wine rack. That’s where he’d been—standing behind Brandon—when he’d said, “Time’s up,” startling him a little and taking the test booklet away.
Unka Death was something else. And his video was fucking incredible. That girl in the gold shorts and the white old lady wig? He thought about her every night.
Fuck you good as new all we do then it’s through
The job you got, the brains you spew
Ya horn-hoppin momma just about—
Brandon became aware of the tutor looking at him, lips moving, smoothing the test booklet under his hand. He lowered the headphones, Unka Death rapping on tinnily around his neck.
“. . . projecting the results to a full-length test,” Julian was saying, “you did a little better in math this time and about the same on the verbal.”
Hey! The tutor guy had one of those soul patches under his lower lip, which was kind of cool.
“Interested in your exact scores?” he said. He also had a great speaking voice, like an actor.
“I guess.”
The tutor guy checked his paperwork. “Six hundred math, five hundred verbal, eleven hundred total score.”
Six hundred. Didn’t sound so bad. What was his name? Julian, but not gay. Brandon waited for him to say, “Not
“Zippy!” Ruby dove for his leash, caught it, tried to drag him away, but couldn’t. Zippy yanked the plastic free.
“Zippy!” Linda called, from halfway across the street.
Zippy seized the rosebush at the base of its stem, started tugging at it in fury, growling and jerking his head from side to side. The Strombolis’ front door opened and Mr. Stromboli came out in a purple robe and slippers, a golf club in his hand. He ran too, surprisingly fast for such a fat man, raising the club high. Ruby, now on her feet, saw him coming, screamed in terror, got tangled in the leash, fell. Zippy strained at the rosebush, blind to everything else. Linda shouted something at Mr. Stromboli, she didn’t know what.
Then suddenly the substitute tutor was on the Strombolis’ lawn, not running, just there. Ten or fifteen feet from Zippy, he said: “Heel.”
Zippy stopped what he was doing at once. His head came up, swiveled. He saw the substitute tutor, trotted over and stood beside him, tail wagging. Everyone else—Linda, Ruby, Mr. Stromboli—froze. It was strangely quiet, like after a jackhammer stops. The substitute tutor helped Ruby to her feet, handed her the leash, then knelt at the rosebush, digging around a little with his hands—Linda could actually hear his fingers in the dirt—repositioning the roots. He replaced the tattered plastic, walked over to Mr. Stromboli, said something Linda didn’t catch. Mr. Stromboli replied, the substitute tutor nodded, they shook hands. Mr. Stromboli walked back to his house. Mrs. Stromboli was on her way out, also in a robe, although not carrying a golf club. He spun her around and they both went inside.
The tutor turned to Linda: “No harm done,” he said.
She didn’t know what to say. For one thing, she still couldn’t come up with his name.
B randon, headphones back on, Unka Death in his ears, sat at the dining-room table, watching the tutor guy grade his evaluation test.
Call me Julian,
he’d said, and added some joke about another guy with a weird name, Ishmael or something, a joke Brandon didn’t get. Julian: a gay name for sure, but he didn’t seem gay, not literally, not whatever the other term was either, when it’s just a metaphor or something. He hadn’t said much after that, sitting quietly in Dad’s chair at the end of the table while Brandon took the test. For a while he’d gazed at some words on a memo pad, pen in hand although he never wrote anything. Later he’d got up and examined the collage on the wall behind the sideboard, mostly tennis pictures of the kids, none recent: Ruby, Brandon, Adam. After that he’d taken a look at the bottles in the wine rack. That’s where he’d been—standing behind Brandon—when he’d said, “Time’s up,” startling him a little and taking the test booklet away.
Unka Death was something else. And his video was fucking incredible. That girl in the gold shorts and the white old lady wig? He thought about her every night.
Fuck you good as new all we do then it’s through
The job you got, the brains you spew
Ya horn-hoppin momma just about—
Brandon became aware of the tutor looking at him, lips moving, smoothing the test booklet under his hand. He lowered the headphones, Unka Death rapping on tinnily around his neck.
“. . . projecting the results to a full-length test,” Julian was saying, “you did a little better in math this time and about the same on the verbal.”
Hey! The tutor guy had one of those soul patches under his lower lip, which was kind of cool.
“Interested in your exact scores?” he said. He also had a great speaking voice, like an actor.
“I guess.”
The tutor guy checked his paperwork. “Six hundred math, five hundred verbal, eleven hundred total score.”
Six hundred. Didn’t sound so bad. What was his name? Julian, but not gay. Brandon waited for him to say, “Not
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