The Mysterious Case of the Allbright Academy (3 page)

N
ew-student orientation began on a Monday, and the returning students wouldn't arrive till Saturday. That gave us five days to settle in and bond with our fellow newcomers.

Monday morning, after we'd said good-bye to our parents, we all gathered in Willard Theater for the welcoming speeches. Zoë, J. D., and I sat together, but I kept a watchful eye out for Brooklyn (who I felt sure would have been accepted), and Cal (for whom I was keeping my fingers crossed).

At exactly nine—they're always very prompt at Allbright—a woman walked out onstage. She was tall—about six feet two in her spike heels—and slim and blonde. She could have been a high-fashion
model, except that she didn't have that starved, bored look you always see in the magazines. This woman, you could tell just by looking at her, was an important person. Everything about her was elegant and serious, from her slicked-back hair to her perfect manicure and her conservative pearl-gray suit.

She wished us good morning in a deep, velvety voice that reminded me of Ingrid Bergman's in
Casablanca
. After we pledged our allegiance to the enormous flag at the front of the room and sang the national anthem, we all sat down and the meeting got started.

“I am Dr. Katrina Bodempfedder,” the beautiful lady said, “headmistress at Allbright, and it's my great pleasure to welcome you here today.” She flashed a broad smile. Even from that distance I could tell that, like Allison, she had perfectly beautiful teeth. “And what an extraordinary group of young people you are! Over the next few months, as you get to know one another better, you will discover what I already know from reading your test results: that there is enough brainpower in this room to light up Las Vegas. Your talents are varied, but there is not a single person here who is not truly, extraordinarily gifted.” She shook her head at the wonder of it.

Um, I thought. Not exactly true. I knew for an
absolute, dead-solid fact that there were at least
two
people in the room who were not “truly, extraordinarily gifted”—and I was one of them. The other was sitting beside me, carefully folding a small square of paper torn from a corner of his orientation program into a tiny origami crane: my little brother, J. D.

I might as well get this out of the way right now. After all that testing, neither of us was accepted by the Allbright Academy. They'd only wanted Zoë.

So, naturally, you're wondering why, if that was the case, all three of us were sitting there in Willard Theater at the opening of new-student orientation. Well, the answer is simple. As Mom had predicted, Zoë refused to go without us—and especially not without J. D.

They're twins, after all. Though complete opposites, personality-wise, they are very close. And Zoë is incredibly loyal to the people she loves. As far as she was concerned, either we all went or we all stayed home. And she wouldn't budge, either, no matter how hard we tried to convince her she was passing up an amazing opportunity. Finally, Mom called the school to say that Zoë had decided to decline.

That should have been the end of the story, except that Zoë must have tested off the charts in
something
(what, exactly, I can't imagine—unless it was in being adorable; Zoë has never been a top student), and they wanted her desperately. So desperately, in fact, that they took us, too—all on full scholarship.

This felt kind of icky to me at first, getting into a school that hadn't really wanted me, just because I was Zoë's sister. But it didn't bother J. D. in the slightest.

“Who cares how we got in?” he'd said. “It's a cool place. We'll all be together. Be glad about it.” I'd decided to take his advice.

Dr. Bodempfedder folded her arms on the podium and leaned into the microphone. “And how fortunate,” she continued, “that you remarkable young people have the opportunity to attend this equally remarkable school, a place where your talents will be cultivated and your aspirations can take wings.”

Zoë was drinking this in with an expression of absolute rapture. I swear, when she gets that look on her face, she practically radiates light. J. D., on the other hand, was rolling his eyes and checking his shoulders for sprouting wings. I nudged him with my elbow.

“Be nice,” I said. J. D. shrugged and went back to his origami.

“We owe enormous thanks to Dr. Linnaeus Planck and Dr. Horace Gallow, whose vision and dedication made it all possible. Both, as I'm sure you know, are recipients of the Nobel Prize—in physics and chemistry respectively—the highest honor a scientist can win. Yet I believe both Dr. Planck and Dr. Gallow would tell you that, of all they have accomplished in their illustrious careers, they are proudest of founding this school.

“Dr. Planck retired nearly twenty years ago, but he was always here on opening day to welcome the new batch of ‘wonderlings.' Sadly, he's not well enough to do that anymore, and we miss his wit and wisdom here at Allbright.
However…
”—here she smiled to indicate a change of subject to something more upbeat—“Dr. Gallow is still very much with us. He continues to serve as the president of our board of directors and titular head of school. I don't say this just because he's my boss”—she paused here so we could laugh—“but he is one of the brightest, most dedicated human beings I have ever met. It is an honor for me to introduce him to you this morning. Dr. Gallow!”

Everybody clapped as a handsome gray-haired man came out onto the stage, shook Dr. Bodempfedder's hand, and took his place behind the podium.

“Good morning,” he said, adjusting the microphone and pushing his glasses up on his nose. He gazed out at us in silence for a moment, taking in our collective wonderfulness, like Midas admiring his gold. Then he smiled very broadly and got started. (In case you're wondering, his teeth weren't quite as nice as Dr. B's, but they were pretty nice all the same.)

“It's always such a thrill for me to welcome new students on opening day,” he said. “I know how much work went into bringing you here—a rigorous talent search on the part of our staff and board members, and an equally rigorous testing and admissions process for you.” (A polite titter of laughter from the students.) “And the results, as always, are spectacular. The talent here in this room, the promise of greatness to come—well, it just blows me away!”

Those adjectives were really piling up thick, I thought: talented, brilliant, smart, incredible, bright, gifted, exceptional, amazing, extraordinary, spectacular. Cheez! There was no end to it! What hope was there for somebody like me, who could more aptly be described as average, ordinary, regular, typical, or normal? I wondered if J. D. was thinking the same thing. Maybe that was the reason for the origami—to take his mind off the sea of
excellence we were nearly drowning in.

“There are, of course, plenty of other fine schools in this country,” Dr. Gallow was saying. “They too attract bright students—some of them as bright as you—who will get into the top universities and professional schools, and then spend their lives working in well-paid, prestigious professions. But here at Allbright, we expect something greater from our graduates. We hope you will think beyond an easy life of wealth and success. We hope you will choose a life of service. When I look out at your young faces, I see more than just a room full of talented children. I see the future of this country.

“Today America leads the world—but it may not lead it much longer. Did you realize that forty-two nations have lower infant mortality rates than we do? We're forty-eighth in the world in life expectancy. Our high-school students score
below average,
worldwide, in math, science, and problem-solving skills. How long before we join all those other great countries—Egypt, Greece, Rome, Spain, England—who once led the world and then fell behind and became irrelevant? Will China or India soon surpass us, to become the new superpower? Not if I can help it! That's the very reason Dr. Planck and I founded this school—to find you, the best and the brightest young people in America, and prepare you to take your place in the ranks of
this country's leaders. And when the torch is passed to you, be ready, be bold, be dedicated! Our future is in your hands!”

Wild applause. J. D. tore off another tiny square and began methodically folding it into a pineapple.

A
fter Dr. Gallow's rousing speech we were divided into groups by class. Zoë and J. D. stayed in the theater with the other sixth graders (they needed the space because sixth was the entering class and there were a lot of them). I headed for Wexler Hall, next door.

A tall man with a clipboard was waiting at the entrance. He checked off my name and pointed out the table of snacks against the far wall. Juice and brownies. Ah, yes—the famous Allbright brownies. I scurried over and took two.

I didn't recognize a soul. These kids had all tested in the fall, and though they knew one another from that weekend back in October, they
were complete strangers to me. Unfortunately, I've never been able to walk up to people I don't know and strike up a conversation. So I was just standing there alone, feeling awkward and studying my brownies like an idiot, when I spotted Brooklyn, waving and heading in my direction. Relief washed over me.

“Franny!” he said, with a rare big smile. “Some speech, huh? We're the future of the nation.”

“Very heavy stuff,” I agreed.

Brooklyn was craning his neck, searching the crowd. “Have you seen Cal yet?”

“No,” I said. “Do you know for sure she's here?”

“Yeah, I saw her name on the clipboard.”

People were already moving into the meeting room. “Maybe she's inside,” I said. “Let's go look.”

Brooklyn suddenly grabbed my arm. “Hold on!” he said. “I see your favorite person!” I followed his gaze and saw Prescott, leaning against the wall, wearing his trademark look of sullen disdain.

I said, very softly, “Ooof! Ooof!” and Brooklyn replied, “Ooof! Ooof!”

It was our little joke from those two days of testing the previous spring. Brooklyn and Cal and I had formed this cozy little trio—which left Prescott out, of course. And we'd felt kind of guilty about that. Yeah, okay, he'd been arrogant and unpleasant at first, but maybe it was just social anxiety or some
thing, your typical science-nerd awkwardness. So we actually tried to draw him in, to give him a chance to be part of the group. But he wasn't interested. He kept wandering off to be by himself, and when he was forced to be in the same room with us, he would pull out
Moby-Dick
or simply turn his back on us. Finally we just stopped trying and left him alone.

“What's
with
him, anyway?” Cal had asked at one point.

“He's very aloof,” Brooklyn had said, drawing out the “oof” in a funny way. He liked the sound of it, apparently, because he said it again, “Ooof…ooof!”

“‘Who let the dogs out?'” I couldn't resist. “‘Ooof…ooof!'”

It had sort of taken on a life of its own. Whenever we saw him coming, at least one of us would start
oof
ing. I know it sounds mean, but trust me, he had definitely asked for it.

“Well, well!” Brooklyn said. “The gang's all here.” And sure enough, there was Ms. Lollyheart.

“Ladies, gentlemen!” she hollered over the din. “Could you please take your seats now so we can get started?” Everyone put down juice glasses, finished their brownies, and made their way inside. Brooklyn and I sat near the back and continued our search for a dark, curly ponytail.

“Good morning!” The buzz quieted. “I'm Evelyn Lollyheart. You may remember me from your delightful two days of testing last year. For those who were too exhausted or too terrified to retain that information, I'm your all-purpose Allbright representative—by day, I'm assistant to the headmistress, by night I'm the girls' Mum over at Larkspur Cottage. And this week I'll be your orientation leader.

“I'd like to begin by inviting each of you to come up and introduce yourself to your new classmates. We need you to keep your remarks pretty short so it doesn't take all day. Just tell us your name, where you're from, and a little about what makes you special.

“Now, so you won't think I'm picking on anybody, we'll do this alphabetically. You A and B people—you're used to this by now. You can handle it.”

As it turned out, there weren't actually any A people, so the first to be called up was Prescott Bottomy III.

“Oooooooooooof!” whispered Brooklyn.

“Ooofity-oof,” I whispered back.

Prescott got up from his seat in slow motion and strolled up to the dais—like there was no need to hurry, his time was
so
much more important than ours.

“Hi,” he said, when he finally got up there, “I'm
Prescott, and I grew up in Boston. But my parents are on the Hopkins Med School faculty now, so we live in Baltimore. Roland Park, actually.” (Well, of course! Important to let us know that he lives in a ritzy part of town.) “My father is a hematologist/oncologist, and my mother is a cell biologist.

“Not surprisingly, I'm strong in science and math. I came in second in the National Math Exam last year. I'm also extremely good with computers. Actually, if we're being honest here—
are
we being honest here, Ms. Lollyheart?”

Ms. Lollyheart said that we were.

“Actually, I do well in the humanities and languages, too—pretty much across the board, grades-wise and testing-wise. I came in third in the National Latin Exam, for example.”

I expected Brooklyn to go “Ooof” again, but he didn't. He was staring up at the podium with that penetrating gaze of his, clearly amazed by Prescott's arrogance and the cluelessness he showed in expressing it so bluntly. Like Frankenstein's monster, you really had to wonder what had made him the way he was.

“Got any plans for the future, Prescott?” Ms. Lollyheart asked. “Will you be following your parents into the medical field?”

“Something like that, though I'd rather do research than treat patients.”

“Well, I think you'll be pleased with the level of science we teach here. You will be matched with a mentor—all of you will have mentors—someone who is doing high-caliber research, quite possibly at Hopkins. You'll also have the opportunity to do summer internships at medical labs. Might get your name on a paper or two before you even go to college. So, welcome to Allbright, Prescott.”

He nodded and slowly returned to his seat.

“Susan Carver,” Ms. Lollyheart called next.

Susan was from Philadelphia. She had founded a literary journal at her school that won first place nationally in her grade level; she was also the teen editor for the
Philadelphia Inquirer
. Her dream was to be the next Maureen Dowd, whoever that was.

Daniel Ellis followed. He was a history buff from Oakland, California, whose specialty was medieval Europe, with particular interest in the Cathars. I was amazed that somebody my age already had a specialty, and I wondered who the Cathars were.

With each progressive student, I was growing increasingly nervous. What was I supposed to say when my turn came? Exactly what special talent should I claim had brought me to Allbright—being Zoë's sister? I wasn't “the best” at anything. I wasn't ranked second, or third, or even two hundred and seventy-ninth in the nation in any subject whatsoever.

“Calpurnia Fiorello,” said Ms. Lollyheart. I sat
up straight and peered ahead. Brooklyn did too. How could we have missed her?

When she got up on the dais and turned around, I understood how: She'd lost maybe fifteen pounds, and her face was no longer round. Her eyebrows, noticeably heavy before, had been plucked. And the frizzy ponytail was gone; she'd had her hair straightened and cut in swingy layers. She even had on a little makeup. Cal Fiorello had had a makeover!

“Hi,” she said, “I'm Cal. And as you heard from Ms. Lollyheart, that's actually short for ‘Calpurnia'…”

“Wow, does she look great, or what?” I whispered to Brooklyn.

“I almost didn't recognize her.”

The transformation was truly dramatic, but it wasn't just the weight and the hair. The change in her looks had brought about inner changes too. I could see it in the way she carried herself, the tone of her voice, the expression on her face. There was a confidence and a poise that hadn't been there before, and I was glad to see that she no longer looked sad.

“…who was, by the way, Julius Caesar's wife. You know, the one who told him not to go to the senate on the Ides of March? But do men ever listen to their wives? Of course not!”

She got a big, friendly laugh.

“Anyway, I'm afraid I haven't won any national awards, as many of you have. But since my dad is in the Foreign Service, I've gotten to live all over the world, and that got me interested in languages. I picked up a little Hindi when I was at school in New Delhi and a fair amount of Bahasa in Jakarta. I started learning the Chinese characters when we lived in Hong Kong, but I was pretty young then, so I'm afraid I didn't get very far with speaking it. I was pretty much limited to ‘shopping Cantonese.'

“But I've been here at Allbright for three months now—I was in the summer program—and I've had the chance to work with a tutor five days a week…”

The summer program—of course! Cal had mentioned it the day we first met. It was one of the reasons her dad wanted her to go to Allbright. Maybe the school was responsible for her new look and personality. I remembered Allison in all her perfection and wondered if there really
was
something about Allbright that brought out the best in people.

“So now I've decided to switch from Cantonese to Mandarin,” Cal was saying, “and have been brushing up on my characters and getting a head start on speaking. I'm very excited. The language program here is awesome.”

“That's wonderful!” Ms. Lollyheart said. “Here in the U.S., I'm afraid we've fallen rather behind in
learning languages. The fact that English is so widely spoken has made us lazy. We desperately need young people like you, Cal. I hope you will try to stretch yourself and take on at least one other language besides Mandarin.”

“Actually, I've been giving some thought to Arabic.”

“Excellent choice! Thank you, Cal.”

As she returned to her seat, Cal spotted Brooklyn and me, and sent us a discreet little wave.

The next kid up was a playwright. He was followed by a political activist and a math genius. Finally it was Brooklyn's turn.

“Knock 'em dead!” I whispered.

“I'm Brooklyn Offloffalof,” he said. “And yes, I was born there.” The audience laughed, as I knew they would.

“I'm what you might call a hybrid,” he went on. “And no, I am not a car.”

Everybody giggled.

“I am the product of a Russian Jewish activist poet and an African-American Baptist police officer—and if that's not a hybrid, I don't know what is.

“Now naturally you're wondering how two such people managed to get together. Well, my father was invited to New York to receive an honorary degree from Columbia. Back in those days, in the eighties, Russians weren't free to travel unless they
had special permission from the government. And if you were a public figure—a ballet dancer, like Baryshnikov, or a writer, like my dad—they never let you travel alone. They wanted to make sure you didn't defect to the West. I mean, it was pretty grim in Russia back then. Who wouldn't rather stay in Canada or the U.S.?

“So, Dad went to New York, accompanied by a couple of bodyguards, who never left him alone for a second. But the ceremony was in this big hall full of people, and since the commencement speaker was some famous politician, lots of reporters were there, and security too. Dad didn't think his ‘handlers' would make a scene in such a public place—terrible press for the Russians—so he decided to make his move. Right in the middle of the ceremony, with everybody watching, Dad got up from his seat, walked over to ‘ze most beautifool policeman in the room,' and asked for political asylum.

“So Dad married his ‘beautifool policeman' and became an American citizen and moved to Brooklyn, which is where I got my name. He thought it was
so
poetic. My mom could not convince him that a name like Brooklyn was a terrible burden to place on a young child. He promised to let
her
name the next one.” Pause. “My sister's name is Junebug.”

Hilarious laughter.

“Was she born in June?” came a voice from the crowd.

“Of course.”

Brooklyn said all this in a deadpan voice that made it that much funnier. He waited for the laughing to subside, then continued in the same calm manner.

“Last year we moved to Baltimore, where my dad is poet-in-residence in the Hopkins Writing Seminars Program. My mom is with the Baltimore PD.”

“And you?” Ms. Lollyheart asked. “Besides having an obvious talent for telling stories, what would you say are your special gifts?”

“Well, first I need to say that my parents come from two of the most demonstrative cultures the world has ever produced, so nothing at our house is ever understated. We actually have exclamation points on our grocery lists: Kleenex! Potatoes! And any little disagreement can turn into this major drama. My dad will bring in the pogroms and the gulags (like they were my mom's fault) and she'll drag in slavery and Jim Crow (like they were his). You feel like you're watching the semifinals of the ‘International Suffering Playoffs.'

“Well, in a household like that—and with a name like Brooklyn—I could either spend my life hiding under the bed in terror, or I could pay
close attention and use it as material. I'm not really into hiding under beds, so I became a writer instead. My first book of poems is being published by Broadbrook Press in the spring. It's called
In the Shadow of the Bridge.
”

No wonder they had recruited him, I thought. Cheez Louise, I was
so
out of my depth! Not that I really had time to brood about this, unfortunately. We had passed Offloffalof and were moving on to Petersen. Either I was going to have to call my mom to come take me home, or I'd better pull myself together and come up with something to say.