The Mysterious Case of the Allbright Academy (11 page)

But first I wanted to finish with the Sharp family.

Now, I swear I wasn't snooping. It wasn't like reading your sister's diary or something. I just needed to know what they had in mind for us, in case it was something heinous. I closed my file and opened Zoë's.

This time I skipped the beige booklet and went straight for the summary letter.

As before, the recommendation section was handwritten in ink. I had to assume that the testing psychologists wrote the summaries, and then someone—almost certainly Dr. Bodempfedder—later analyzed the data and decided what to recommend. In Zoë's case it said, “
Extraordinary
perception/subjectivity/socialization scores.
Primary candidate for advancement!!!
Highest recommendation. Primrose, with
specials at all levels
.
Tag with red.
”

I put Zoë's paperwork back in the folder. I thought it was amazing that Allbright, the school for geniuses, valued Zoë's sweetness. And how fascinating that they actually thought she could get into Duke or Yale (now,
there
was a stretch!). And they had her going into politics! As my dad would say, yowza!

I did kind of see what they meant, though. Zoë was always getting elected to things—class monitor, student council. That's why she was at that leadership conference in the first place, the one in D.C. where she met Martha Evergood. I couldn't quite imagine Zoë taking an interest in government policy and stuff like that, but I guess they could teach it to her (maybe that was what “specials at all levels” meant). Maybe they thought Zoë had what Bill Clinton had, that inborn talent for connecting to people. Actually, now that I thought about it, she did. Holy cow! Did they want her to run for president?

I opened J. D.'s file last. It was a lot like mine, of course, though it wasn't tagged with colored tape. He too was “borderline” and not recommended for acceptance. And he too was “Accepted under special arrangement (See: Zoë Elizabeth Sharp, Frances Claire Sharp).” Below, where I had been assigned to
Cyclamen and a future as a journalist, J. D.'s said the following: “Testing pattern is impossible to analyze. Definite visionary.”

Visionaries, huh? So that's what they called kids like J. D., different, original kids with no obvious talent in a particular subject, like art or math. You couldn't predict how they'd turn out. They'd just wander along through life doing what interested them—until one day they'd decide to start Microsoft or invent an electric eyelash curler or write a book on the history of the buffalo nickel. No “moderation” was advised for them, because the school didn't have a clue how to lead them. I was pondering all this when I heard the dreaded sound of keys in a lock.

I leaped up, banging my head on the open filing cabinet. Despite the jolt of pain, I thought fast. It would take a good four seconds for me to slip our files back in the drawer and probably another five to close and lock it. Then I still needed time to run
over, slip the keys back into the Altoids tin, and hide in the closet. If, as I feared, this was either Ms. Lollyheart or Dr. Bodempfedder coming back to the office, there was no time to do all of those things.

I slid the drawer closed as quietly as I could, and with the Sharp family files under my arm and the keys in my fist, I dashed across the room and into the closet. I got there a mere two seconds before the door to the office opened and the light came on.

I
realized, sitting there in the dark on the floor of the closet, that I hadn't closed the door completely. I'd meant to, but I'd been in such a hurry and was so anxious not to make noise that I hadn't pulled it hard enough. It popped back open again. A thin shaft of light came in through the opening. Leaning forward, I realized that I could actually see through it. What I saw was Dr. Bodempfedder's back. She was sitting at her desk, punching numbers into her phone. It seemed to ring a long time before anybody answered.

“Horace,” Dr. Bodempfedder said in that low, throaty voice she has. “Where are you? Through customs yet? Halfway home? Great! How was Japan?”

She rotated her chair to the side, away from the desk, so I saw her in profile now. She had her right leg crossed over her left and was bouncing it nervously.

“Sounds wonderful.” Pause. “How was the speech? Did you manage that first part in Japanese?” Another pause. “Good for you! Listen, Horace—I know you must be exhausted, and I'm sorry to bother you, but I really need to talk to you tonight. Can you come over here?” Pause. “Yes, to my office.”

She uncrossed her legs and sat up straighter in her chair, both feet on the floor. “Of course I understand. I wouldn't be calling you at this hour if it wasn't extremely urgent. You've been out of pocket for a week, and frankly, next time you leave the country you need to give me your contact information. Horace, we've got some real problems here.”

She sighed heavily. “No. We really need to talk about it in person. There's quite a lot to say—and besides, your cell phone's not secure. I promise you, it's important.”

Dr. Gallow was apparently less than thrilled at the prospect of driving over to the campus to listen to Dr. B's problems after having been on a plane for—how long did it take to get to the U.S. from Japan? Who knew? A long, long time, that's for sure. But Dr. Bodempfedder wasn't giving up.

“All right,” she said, sounding exasperated. “I'll tell you this much: It seems the brownies are no longer effective…Yes, I mean the
entire school
.” There was another brief pause and then she added, “and…Horace,
listen
to me! Toby Bannerman seems to have gone off the reservation.” Now she leaned back in her chair and looked smug. She had gotten his attention with that one.

Toby Bannerman. TB. They had to be the same person. But why was he on a
reservation
? Or did she just mean he wasn't behaving himself somehow?

“Yes, there's quite a bit more,” she said tartly. “I
told
you it was important. All right. An hour? Fine.” She hung up.

Oh, wonderful! Now I was going to be stuck in that closet for umpteen million donkey's years—or at least for the hour it would take for Dr. Gallow to get there, plus probably another hour for them to have their little talk. I just prayed that Dr. Gallow wouldn't arrive wearing a coat he needed to hang up. No way could he fail to see me, sitting there on the floor. Maybe if I stood up and flattened myself against the wall, that would be better. At least I had a whole hour to decide.

As I sat there on the closet floor, going numb in the rear and needing to pee and listening to Dr. Bodempfedder pace around her office, I came up with something new to worry about: my cell phone.
What if my mom picked just this moment to give me a ring? What if Brooklyn started to wonder what was taking me so long, and called to find out?

I pictured Dr. B, stopping as she paced and cocking her head in the direction of the closet. Was that a
phone
she heard ringing in there? I imagined her opening the door, sweeping aside the Burberry raincoat, and freezing me to the wall with a killer stare. I pictured myself frantically trying to think up some explanation for why I was hiding in her closet (Oh, so sorry! I took a wrong turn and got lost in here. Then I fell asleep!).

No—it was too horrible even to consider. Unfortunately, I didn't have the option of turning off my phone, because that would make noise too. For mysterious reasons, cell-phone manufacturers have decided that people want their phones to make twinkly music when they're shutting down. I have to ask you: Why is that? So everybody in the room (or on the plane, or in the movie theater)
knows you're shutting off your cell phone
?

One good thing about imagining disasters in gory detail is that it keeps your mind occupied (in a dark and depressing sort of way) while you're waiting. And waiting. And waiting. Which is exactly what I did. Finally Dr. Gallow arrived.

“All right, what's this about the brownies?” was the first thing he said. I leaned over to peer through
the opening. He was standing by the desk—a raincoat over his arm. Oh, cheez! My goose, as they say, was roasted, basted, and sliced on a platter. I was just about to get up so I could flatten myself against the far wall, when I saw Dr. Gallow turn and walk over to the sitting area, drape his coat over one chair, and sit down in the other.

Phew!

“They're not working anymore,” Dr. Bodempfedder said.

Suddenly a brilliant thought popped into my head. This conversation not only promised to be really, really interesting, something I could tell the others about later if I survived this ordeal. It might also be absolutely, positively incriminating—the very proof we were looking for. I had a cell phone. Brooklyn had a cell phone. Cal had a tape recorder in her room for playing her Mandarin tapes. Slowly and carefully, I pulled out my phone and sent Brooklyn a text message: CAL TAPE RECORD MY INCOMING CALL!

“What do you mean?” Dr. Gallow was saying irritably. “Exactly how do you know they're not working?”

I waited a few seconds for Brooklyn to read the text message, then pushed speed dial, holding the phone tight to my ear in case Brooklyn answered with a loud “hello.” But all I heard was the softest
whisper. “Got your message. We saw the lights go on in the office, and Dr. Bodempfedder walking around in there. We're on the way to Larkspur now.”

I tapped the phone twice with my fingernail to signal okay. I figured Brooklyn could hear it, but certainly Dr. B and Dr. G, who were busy talking in loud voices, would not. Then I carefully set the phone down on the floor, near the spot where the door was ajar. I tried to angle it so it would pick up the best sound.

“The kids are behaving strangely.”

“You brought me here straight from the airport, after a grueling international flight, to tell me the kids are
behaving strangely
? Can you be a little more scientific about this, Katrina?”

“Achh!” she said. “No, Horace, I can't be
scientific
about this. It's not that kind of thing, but if you'd just shut up and listen, you'll see what I mean.”

Dr. Gallow heaved a big sigh. They reminded me of a pair of ten-year-olds having a fight. I wondered how long it would take for Cal to reach her room and get the tape recorder going. Hurry, hurry, I thought. I hated to lose any of this!

“They've started questioning their teachers and their PD counselors. Putting their feet on the furniture. Leaving their beds unmade. Even skipping classes! And it's not just the students, either. It's the teachers, too. Honestly, walking around Allbright,
you'd think you were at any other school, except that the campus is nicer. It's like nobody's moderated at all.”

“Have you checked with the kitchen?”

“Of
course
I checked with the kitchen! Do you think I'm slow-witted? They're still serving brownies, Horace. Nothing has changed. It's almost like the kids' bodies have somehow adapted to the moderation chemicals, and they're no longer having any effect.”

“Well, I'll take a box of Variant One over there tomorrow morning,” Dr. Gallow said. “If that doesn't set things right, I can triple the dose.”

“All right,” said Dr. B.

“Doesn't make sense, though, if it really is campus-wide. We've got new kids who've just been on the brownies for a few months, and others who've been on them for years. They wouldn't all adapt to it in the same way at the same time.”

“Maybe it was a bad batch,” said Dr. B.

“No. I haven't made a new batch since October. I'm working from the exact same chemicals I used last month and the month before.”

“Maybe they've gone bad.”

“Katrina, excuse me, but are you a chemist?”

Dr. B admitted she was not.

“Then stop finding fault with my lab techniques.”

“I'm doing nothing of the sort. I'm just searching for an explanation in a scientific way, as you suggested.”

“It has to be something going on in the kitchen, a new cook who's decided to make the brownies from scratch, something like that. I'll go over tomorrow and look into it. Probably nothing to worry about.”

I could hear from his voice that he was starting to feel better about the situation.

“So what's this about Toby Bannerman?” Dr. Gallow asked.

“Well, he called about the schedule for the board meeting. While we were on the phone, he mentioned that he's getting married.”

“Good. Finally.”

“Not to Helena, Horace. To somebody else.”

“That's impossible!”

“I'm afraid not. He and Helena split up—some time ago, apparently, though this was the first I'd heard of it.”

“What? Don't you have somebody keeping track of him? Good grief, Katrina, he's our top
graduate
! You didn't even know they'd broken up?”

“Of course I have somebody keeping track of him. Tom Carrolton, out there in Atlanta. His alumni counselor. He's very dutiful, sends us clippings from
the paper very regularly, every time Toby makes the news. But I can't ask him to go prying into Toby's private life and report back to us about it. He'd think it was really strange. What do you want to do? Hire a private eye?”

“Maybe we should. After all the work we put into Toby, we need to know every little thing that goes on in his life. I still can't believe he broke up with Helena!”

“Well, he did. And now he's engaged to this other girl, Tamara Rodriguez. Someone he met at Yale. She's an assistant public defender there in Atlanta.”

“Oh, perfect!” Dr. Gallow said bitterly. Clearly, he didn't think it was perfect at all.

“I know it's not what we'd planned for him,” Dr. B said. “That we'd chosen Helena for the part. But we can't make him marry her if he doesn't want to.”

“But it doesn't make
sense
, Katrina. Their psychological profiles lined up perfectly. We reinforced their relationship at every level. That much programming shouldn't unravel so easily.”

“He said they moved apart in their world views.”

“I
made
his world view!” Dr. Gallow shouted. “I made hers! How could they ‘move apart'?”

“Don't yell at me, Horace. I'm guessing Ms. Rodriguez had something to do with changing his world view.”

“But he was
programmed
! Meeting some bleeding heart in law school shouldn't have made a dent in all that work we did.”

“What do you want me to say? We always knew this might happen. I told you right from the beginning: We have seven years, max, to form them. Once they graduate, they're pretty much out of our control. We can bring them back for the occasional ‘seminar.' We can set them up with mentors who'll encourage them in the right direction. We can keep an eye on their progress through alumni counselors. And we can put the really important ones, like Toby, on the board of directors—get them here on campus four times a year, give them a booster dose of chemicals and reinforce their programming. We've done it all, Horace. I know you want to believe it's enough to keep them on track for life, but apparently it isn't.”

There was a long silence. Then Dr. Bodempfedder spoke again. “Listen, Horace, think of how many people you know who are radically different from their parents—who left the religion they were raised in or changed their political beliefs. If parents can't determine their own children's futures, why is it so surprising that we failed to do it?”

“Parents don't have Variant Two,” Dr. Gallow said, sourly. “And they have lots of outside influences to contend with—teachers, classmates, girlfriends,
the whole popular-culture thing. But our kids are isolated. We're the whole shebang—and we have them for seven years, Katrina! How many director lectures do I give them over that period of time? Two hundred and fifty, something in that ballpark? How could we
possibly
lose them after all that?”

“It's true we can imprint our students better than parents can,” Dr. B said. “And lots of our graduates seem to be moving along the path we set for them, at least as far as we can tell. But, Horace, Toby is an incredible young man. That's why we chose him. Maybe thinking for himself is too deep a part of his nature for him to stay programmed forever.”

“Well,” Dr. Gallow said, “it's not the end of the world, his breaking up with Helena. It might actually work to our advantage. A Hispanic First Lady, a Yale law grad—she could actually be an asset.”

“I agree. Except there's this other thing…”

“Katrina, is there no end to the bad news you have for me tonight?”

“Not really. Sorry. Toby said he's decided against running for office.”

“
What
?”

“He said he wants a normal life for his family. He doesn't see himself traipsing around Georgia, eating rubber chicken in tents and making promises he can't keep. That's the short version. He was quite eloquent about it, actually.”

Dr. Gallow slammed his hand on the coffee table. I was amazed it didn't break.

“I was ready to run him for Congress next year! Aggggh! I don't know what we're going to do about this, Katrina—it just
kills
me! He's the best we've ever had! He was perfect! Southern, brilliant, charming, handsome, son of a famous senator. Squeaky clean. Never so much as broke the speed limit. Ohhhhh, I cannot
believe
this!”