8 Plus 1 by Robert Cormier Read Free Book Online Page A

dismissing the subject quickly. “What do you think of Jane, Dad?” he asked. “Isn’t she something?”
    “Right now, I’d rather talk about algebra, Mike.”
    “I know, I know,” he said, sighing. “And I know you’re blaming my rotten marks on Jane and all the time I spend with her. Maybe I’ve been goofing off, but she’s worth a warning card in algebra.”
    “Not to me, she isn’t,” I replied. “She’s a sweet girl, Mike, but she’s transient in your life. Here today, gone tomorrow. But your marks are important for the future—for college, scholarships. You can’t afford to flunk subjects, Mike.”
    “She’s not transient, Dad. I mean, she’s here today, and she’ll be here tomorrow.”
    “How long have you been going out with her?”
    “Four months and three days,” he said.
    “That’s some kind of record for you, isn’t it?” I asked.
    “She’s keeping score,” he said. “She reminds me every day.” Although we were in touching distance, he was suddenly far away. “That Jane. She’s really something …”
    I had an opportunity to see her through Mike’seyes one Sunday afternoon when she poked her head into the den, blinked her eyes, smiled tentatively and said, “Hi, Mr. Croft.”
    I gave up my struggle with the newspaper and let the various sections fall like collapsed tents to the floor.
    “May I come in?” she asked.
    We had never exchanged more than pleasant greetings, and I studied her as she entered and then sat, Buddha-like, on the floor. Her long hair sparkled with cleanliness. As she pushed it back, I saw a constellation of acne on her forehead, but this only made her seem more human and less a model for shampoo on a television commercial. At Mike’s age, I could have been dazzled by a girl like her.
    “Well,” I said, noticing finally that she carried a loose-leaf binder in her hands.
    “Wow,” she said, drawing out the word, like a sigh. “Mr. Croft, I know I shouldn’t be bothering you, but …”
    I tried to disguise my own sigh: I knew what she wanted. Although the company that employs me deals with art objects, and although I was an art major in college years ago, I am now involved in administrative affairs and have not touched brush or crayon for years.
    She held out the binder. “I’ve got to show these to someone. Someone who
knows
, who’s heavy in art. Like, my art teacher is a spaz.”
    “A spaz?”
    “You know. Hopeless, a wipe-out.”
    And anyway, I thought, whether your teacher is a spaz or not, the way to a boy’s heart is probablythrough the approbation of his father. I looked at her sketches. Landscapes. The same tree in every sketch. And everything perfect. But too perfect. The trees as alike as strings on a harp. Like painting by numbers. Yet she was obviously talented. Like thousands, millions of others. We talked awhile about her work, and I was encouraging, of course. It was a pleasant conversation. Her
wows
and
heavies
weren’t as irritating when she flashed that smile at the same time.
    “I really appreciate this, Mr. Croft,” she said, getting up. “How can I thank you?”
    By letting Mike get his mind back on algebra. But I said nothing, merely nodded at her appreciation.
    Later, passing the kitchen doorway, I saw her with Ellie. They were discussing recipes. Jane was wowing all over the place as Ellie described her special coffeecake recipe: The way to a boy’s heart is also through his mother’s kitchen.
    But apparently Jane encountered a detour. At dinner a few nights later, Mike announced that he had volunteered to become photographer for the school yearbook.
    “You actually volunteered for something that’s got nothing to do with girls or basketball?” Julie asked.
    Mike ignored her. “It’s going to take up a lot of time, but my counselor at school thinks the extracurricular activity will help my scholarship chances.”
    “How about algebra?” I asked.
    He had anticipated the question. “I got an A
minus
in