The Valeditztorian (23 page)

“Hey, don’t look so disappoint
ed. I did bring some treats.”

Reaching into my
jacket pocket, I draw out the white paper bag. When she lunges for it, I whisk my hand over my head.

“Oh, no
you don’t. Remember last week, when you promised to do your homework, if I gave you a treat?”

“Yeah,” she says.

“And then you ate the entire bag of candy, but you still didn’t do any homework?”

Aimee
gives me a sulky look and kicks the floor with her foot.

“I guess
.”

“So today
, you have to do the homework first. For each problem that you finish, I’ll give you one piece of candy.”

“One piece
? That’s it?” she whines.

“One piece per problem
. That’s the deal. But the candy in this bag is pretty awesome. Sour peaches, Swedish fish, a couple chocolate truffles….”

“Oh, fine,” she interrupts
. “I’ll do some problems.”

“Great
. Where’s your homework?”

Aimee shrugs
. For the next half hour we pick through scattered books and piles of clothing strewn about the floor of her room. Eventually we locate a crumpled math worksheet hidden underneath her comforter. Miraculously, the sheet is current and contains this week’s homework problems—fairly complicated long division requiring the use of multiple decimal places.

“Okay, Aimee,” I say
. “Let’s get started. I’ll watch, and if you get stuck, just ask for help.”

Aimee
scoffs at me, as though offended by the suggestion that she might require assistance. At first I doubt her abilities, but in less time than it takes to chew a Swedish fish, she completes four out of 20 problems. Pulling a calculator from my pocket, I check her work for accuracy. Every problem is correct, down to the last decimal place. My goodness. The kid must have a calculator for a brain.

“See?”
she says. “Boring.”

Aimee
throws down the pencil, crossing her arms over her chest.

“I’m impressed,” I say
. “You did a fantastic job with those problems.”

Aimee smirks
in a self-satisfied way.

“I am
in a special class for kids with advanced math skills, you know.”

“That’s great,” I say.

“No it’s not. The class is stupid.”

“Even if you think the work is
stupid, or easy, you still need to hand it in,” I say.

“First, the candy,” says Aimee
.

Fair is fair
. She holds out her palm.

“I did four problems, so that’s four pieces.”

When I open the bag, Aimee chooses two chocolate truffles, a sour peach, and a whopper, shoving them into her mouth in quick succession.

“Hey, slow down
there,” I say. “If you choke to death, your mom will probably fire me.”

Aimee can’t say anything
because her mouth is completely stuffed with candy. When a bit of chocolate oozes over the corner of her lips, I reach for a tissue and wipe away the sticky dribbles. Wow. That’s probably the most maternal thing I’ve ever done.

“When you’re done eating,” I say, “why don’t you finish the
rest of the math problems? Then we can take a look at the reading assignments.”

That’s a
ssuming we can find the reading assignments in her disheveled bedroom. Aimee shakes her head vigorously as she swallows.

“No, way
. I’m not doing any more math problems. You can see that I understand this stuff, right?”

“Yes, but even if you understand everything, you’re not going to pass your classes at school if you don’t finish your homework and han
d it in. Until the work is completed, I’m not giving you anymore candy.”

“That’s okay,” she says
. “I don’t want any more candy.”

“You don’t?”

“No.”

Uh, oh
. I’m completely out of creative ideas to motivate this stubborn kid. It’s time to seek inspiration, right from the source.

So I ask her, “Is there anything reasonable that
I can do, to convince you to finish your homework?”

Ai
mee smiles, “Sure there is.”

“What
?” I ask.

I hope I’m not going to regret this question.

“Take me to Serendipity
. My mom never has time to bring me there.”

“Umm, I’m not sure whether tha
t’s kosher, Aimee. I mean, are we even allowed to leave the building? I don’t know whether my tutoring company has a policy on field trips.”

“I know what we should do,” says Aimee.

“What?”

“We should ask Maria.”

“Uh, ok….”

B
efore I even finish uttering the word, Aimee bolts out of the room like a jack rabbit.

In the hallway, I listen as
Aimee questions Maria in rapid-fire Spanish. Her accent is perfect, though I’ve got no idea what she’s saying. Maria shrugs, picks up the phone, and dials a number. Holding the phone to her ear, another brief conversation ensues, again in Spanish.

Replacing the phone, Maria looks at me
.

“Meesus Santos says ees fine eef you take Aimee
.”

Hopefully Maria’s ear canals a
re still functioning properly. Aimee certainly doesn’t seem concerned that her sitter might’ve gotten the wrong message. At Maria’s pronouncement, the child claps her hands together and leaps about a foot in the air.

Once we’re out of the buil
ding and headed downtown, with no prompting whatsoever, Aimee confesses, “I told Maria that you were taking me to tutoring headquarters, to work on practice tests.”

I gasp,
“You didn’t!”

“Yup, I did.”

“Then we should turn around and go right back home,” I say, coming to an abrupt halt.

“Oh, please Emma
. Let’s keep going.”

Her little face looks up at me with such
desperation that I can’t refuse her.

“Alright, the
n. We’ll go, just this once. But no more lying, okay?”

“Okay
, no more lying,” she says, and I don’t believe her at all.

Ignoring my inclination to shuttle this devious child straight home, I grasp Aimee’s hand in mine, and she pr
actically skips all the way downtown. Along the way I pray that we don’t run into her mother. Sometimes Manhattan feels like a very small island.

Trying to keep up with Aim
ee, I’m reminded of a fateful afternoon in junior high school, the one and only time I cut class. I hated middle school. During those awkward, early adolescent years my acne was hideous, and I often felt like crawling under a rock with the centipedes. Toward the end of one sunny, April afternoon in seventh grade, I gazed out the window during woodworking class. Disgusted with the uneven, giant clothespin I was failing to properly construct, as well as the painful splinter embedded in my thumb, I decided I’d had enough. When the teacher turned his back, I crept quietly out the door and made my way toward a school exit. No one noticed when I took off in the direction of the woods behind the playing fields. Sprinting away from school, with the wind in my hair, my spirits soared with the sudden rush of freedom. The experience was so liberating that I might’ve kept running forever; yet a life of perpetual truancy wasn’t to be. Before hitting the woods, I ran straight into the principal.

Having just relieved himself on a
nearby tree, caught in the act of zipping up his pants, Mr. Doolittle shot me an angry look.

“Emma Silberlight,” he said, shaking his finger a
t me, “you head straight back to class, young lady.”

“Yes, sir,” I said, too sh
ocked by the recent sight of his gluteal cleft to manage anything more witty.

N
o further consequences ensued, presumably because I could’ve told on him as well. Though both of us kept quiet, the incident nicely demonstrates my tendency to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. Given this encounter, and my history in general, I’m worried that the present escapade with Aimee might elicit unforeseen repercussions.

When we arrive
at Serendipity, Aimee’s cheeks are flushed pink, her elfin eyes sparkling with joyful mischievousness. Luckily the place isn’t crowded, and the maitre de immediately seats us at a great table in the back. Situated under a giant, green and blue stained-glass chandelier, the space is bathed in ocean colors, recalling visions of an idyllic Caribbean island I once visited with my parents.

Once we’ve studied
our menus, a handsome, dark-haired young waiter, who’s presumably killing time between acting (or possibly modeling) jobs, takes our order.

“What can I get for you, young lady?” he asks Aimee.

“I’ll have a mint chocolate chip sundae with hot fudge, whipped cream, and Oreos.”

“Would you like a cherry on top?” he asks.

“Okay,” she answers.

“Yes on the cherry,”
he says, marking his notepad.

Oh, yes
. Without warning I find myself picturing this hunk of a man in my bedroom, naked and covered in whipped cream, holding a cherry between his lips.

“And how about you?” he says, looking at me.

Despite the salacious images racing through my mind, I manage to order a vanilla sundae with marshmallow topping.

“Would you like anything else?” he asks me, smiling
.

“Just your phone number,” I say
.

The words are out before I can stop them, and I nearly clap my hand over my mouth in
surprise. Usually I’m not so bold. Perhaps my brazen escape with Aimee has fueled this shameless behavior. Luckily the waiter is a good sport about it.

“Unfortunately, m
y number isn’t on the menu, since my partner doesn’t usually like me giving it out.”

He winks at me flirtatiously
.

“But I’m flattered you asked.”

Partner. Oh, well. All the hot ones are gay.

While waiting for her
ice cream, Aimee pulls a deck of cards from her jacket pocket and expertly shuffles them.

“Do you always carry
cards?” I ask.

“Yup
. At school, I play solitaire under my desk when I’m bored. My last deck got confiscated by the teacher. Do you know how to play spit?”

“No
pe. I’ve heard of it, but I’ve never played it. You can teach me, though.”

“Sure
thing.”

Once
Aimee explains the basics of the game, we’re off.

When I was younger, I loved to play cards with my parents
. The three of us would sit around for hours, playing family favorites like casino and gin rummy. Due to extensive experience, I consider myself a decent card player. Yet after two rounds of spit with Aimee, I’m solidly demolished. The child has impressive hand-eye coordination, much better than my own. As I watch Aimee’s fingers flipping between the cards, I wonder why she’s neglecting her schoolwork. Certainly not because she doesn’t understand it. The kid is probably better at math than me. Though I’d love to ponder this mystery further, my thoughts are diverted by the arrival of our ice cream.

For the next
few minutes, we’re too busy eating to say anything. Wolfing down her sundae, Aimee glances in my direction and smiles, crinkling the tip of her nose. Involuntarily, the hand carrying my ice cream pauses. I know that I’ve seen her somewhere before. Why does this child look so familiar? My inability to connect the dots is starting to get annoying.

“What’s wrong?”
Aimee asks.

“Nothing,” I say.

“You just stopped eating
. Are you full? If you can’t finish your sundae, I’ll help you out when I’m done with mine.”

“No, I’m not full.”

“Then why’d you stop?”

“I was
just wondering whether we met one another at some point in the past, before I started tutoring you.”

“No
. I don’t think so,” she says. “I’m really good at remembering people, and I’m sure that I met you for the very first time in my apartment last week.”

“You’re probably right
. Can I ask you a different question that I’ve been thinking about?”

“Okay
,” she says, shoveling ice cream into her mouth.

“I’ve been meaning
to ask you about a photograph that’s in your room, the one where you’re standing between your parents, holding a tennis ball.”

Aimee nods.

“The one on my mirror,” she says.

“Right, that one
. In the picture, your parents look really tan, but you don’t. Can you tell me why your skin color is so much lighter than theirs?”