Calling Home by Michael Cadnum Read Free Book Online Page B

go.
    â€œDon’t go yet, I’m not finished. If I can sacrifice five minutes of my lunch, you can, too.” Mr. Lindner was a trim black man, dapper, with a collection of gold cuff links and dozens of shoes; I hardly ever saw him wear a pair of shoes I had seen before. He taught in a quiet voice, and could recite Cicero on Old Age or the Virtues of Children while staring at students as he paced among them. Most of what he did, in speech and dress, was calculated to prove how superior he was to any human being in the world, and no one argued with him. He was a short, slim, perfect man, and brilliant enough to wear his contempt easily, like a well-knit tie.
    I sat in a chair sideways, and waited for him to finish leafing through his grade book. “Why, Peter,” he began, enjoying the sound of his voice, “did you elect Latin? Of all the subjects in the world, why this one?”
    â€œI don’t know.” I didn’t know. It had sounded exotic, and I had read it easily for the first few months. Many of the words were like English words, like “villa” for house, to give an example, and anyone with a brain could stumble along. But now we were in deep waters, studying the subjunctive mood, and other such subjects, and I was lost.
    â€œIt isn’t the sort of language I would have expected you to want to learn.”
    â€œI thought it would be easier.”
    â€œIt is easy. Easy as walking across the room.” He stood and walked to the blackboard as if to show how a person could walk through Latin, striding across first, second, and third declension nouns as if they were so much hardwood floor. “As easy,” he said, erasing Vir/homo with a flick of the eraser, “as that. If, Peter. If. If the student studies.” He said the word “studies” so well that it stayed in the air, a kind of charm that kept both of us from moving.
    â€œYou have not been studying. I don’t know what your background is, or what you hope in terms of higher education.” He pronounced it “Ed-You-Caysh-ee-un,” and he let that word, too, wrap itself around me like a snake. “You are not stupid. Not at all.” He plucked a piece of chalk from the tray. “But you have not been”—and here he snapped the chalk in two and looked at me like I was the largest piece of bird dropping he had ever witnessed—“studying.”
    I cleared my throat, but I had nothing to say.
    â€œBy studying Latin you learn not only the language of Virgil, but you develop intellectual strength. You become more capable of learning other subjects. So that when I see you staring off in class, doped out of your mind, such as it is—”
    â€œNo. I’m not doped out of—I swear it.”
    â€œI don’t care, Peter.” He repeated very slowly, “I don’t care.”
    I fiddled with my books.
    â€œBut if you come to class in that condition again, I will throw you out. You may leave.”
    I forgot my locker combination for a moment, and spun the dial mindlessly. I had not smoked, swallowed, or in any other way taken in any drug known to man on that morning. But I was worried that I had appeared drugged. I would have to perk up; I would have to pay more attention to the expression I had on my face. Expressions are important. A person can look alert or stupid, and why not look alert if you have any choice in the matter. I should be supple enough to put on any expression I want to.
    Angela leaned against the locker at my elbow. “What did Lindner want?”
    â€œHe says I’m not paying attention in class.” My locker opened itself, and swung like it was a thing with a mind. “He was complaining about that. I guess I had a vacant expression on my face. Sometimes a person does, you know. Have a vacant expression. It doesn’t mean anything.”
    â€œThat guy’s a peckerhead. A jerk.”
    â€œNo, he’s not.