“Cognitive box,” his father said.
“Yeah, you know. A box built as a result of the ancestral dialectic. It might even be tribal,
although it’s kind of hilarious to think of a tribe of trustees. They go, ‘If we do this for him, we
might have to do it for another kid.’ That’s the box. It’s, like, handed down.”
“Received wisdom,” Eileen said.
“You nailed it, Mom. The trustees’ll
kick it to the wealthy alumni, the ones who made
mucho
megabucks thinking outside the box but still love the ol’ Broderick blue and white. Mr.
Greer will be the point man. At least I hope he will. The deal is, they help me now and I help
the school later on, when I’m rich and famous. I don’t actually care about being either of those
things, I’m
middle-class to the bone, but I might get rich anyway, as a side effect. Always
assuming I don’t contract some gross disease or get killed in a terrorist attack or something.”
“Don’t say things that invite sorrow,” Eileen said, and made the sign of the cross over the
littered table.
“Superstition, Mom,” Luke said indulgently.
“Humor me. And wipe your mouth. Pizza sauce. Looks like your gums are bleeding.”
Luke wiped his mouth.
Herb said, “According to Mr. Greer, certain interested
parties might indeed fund a
relocation move, and fund
us
for as long as sixteen months.”
“Did he tell you that the same people who’d front you might be able to help find you a new
job?” Luke’s eyes were sparkling. “A better one? Because one of the school’s alumni is Douglas
Finkel. He happens to own American Paper Products, and that’s close to your sweet spot. Your
hot zone. Where the rubber meets the r—”
“Finkel’s name actually came up,” Herb said. “Just in a speculative way.”
“Also . . .” Luke turned to his mother, eyes bright. “Boston is a buyer’s market right now
when it comes to teachers. Average starting salary for someone with your experience goes sixty-
five thou.”
“Son, how do you know these things?” Herb asked.
Luke shrugged. “Wikipedia, to start with. Then I trace down the major sources cited in the
Wikipedia articles. It’s basically a question of keeping current with the environment. My
environment is the Broderick School. I knew all of the trustees; the big money alumni I had to
look up.”
Eileen reached across the table, took what remained of the last pizza slice out of her son’s
hand, and put it back on the tin tray with the bits of leftover crust. “Lukey, even if this could
happen, wouldn’t you miss your friends?”
His eyes clouded. “Yeah. Especially Rolf. Maya, too. Although we can’t officially ask girls to
the spring dance, unofficially she’s my date. So yeah.
But
.”
They waited. Their son, always
verbal and often verbose, now seemed to struggle. He
started, stopped, started again, and stopped again. “I don’t know how to say it. I don’t know if I
can
say it.”
“Try,” Herb said. “We’ll have plenty of important discussions in the future, but this one is
the most important to date. So try.”
At the front of the restaurant, Richie Rocket put in his
hourly appearance and began
dancing to “Mambo Number 5.” Eileen watched as the silver space-suited figure beckoned to
the nearby tables with his gloved hands. Several little kids joined him, boogying to the music
and laughing while their parents looked on, snapped pictures, and applauded. Not so long ago
—five short years—Lukey had been one of those kids. Now they were talking about impossible
changes. She didn’t know how such a child as Luke had come from a couple like them, ordinary
people with ordinary aspirations and expectations, and sometimes she wished for different.
Sometimes she actively hated the role into which they had been cast, but she had never hated
Lukey, and never would. He was her baby, her one and only.
“Luke?” Herb said. Speaking very quietly. “Son?”
“It’s just what comes next,” Luke said. He raised his head and looked directly at them, his
eyes lighted with a brilliance his parents rarely saw. He hid that brilliance from them because he
knew it frightened them in a way a few rattling plates never could. “Don’t you see?
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