The Tutor by Peter Abrahams Read Free Book Online

Friday night keg party in the woods after the Old Mill game, or was he mixing it up with geometry? Months ago, or weeks, anyway, hard to remember.
    “First, Brandon, I want you to understand that your father and I both know you’re very bright.”
    “Big brain in there, kid,” said Scott.
    “The problem is, some very bright kids haven’t yet learned the skills that allow them to show how bright they are on these kinds of tests.”
    Yakety fuckin’ yak. Where the hell was this going? And all of a sudden, with that funny way beer had, he needed to piss.
    “Do you understand the relationship of the SAT to college acceptance?” Linda said.
    “Is that a trick question?” Brandon said.
    “Hey,” said Scott. “This is serious.”
    “Colleges make you take it,” Brandon said.
    “Right,” said Linda. “But I meant the numerical relationship. I did a little research today. Guess what the median SAT score for last year’s freshman class at Yale was.”
    “Three thousand.”
    “It’s out of sixteen hundred, Brandon.”
    “Sixteen oh one.”
    “Knock it off,” said Scott. Those little pink anger patches that hardly ever appeared on his cheeks were just visible now.
    “Fourteen thirty,” said Linda. She was looking at him with big eyes, like she was trying to hypnotize him or something.
    “Who wants to go to Yale?” Brandon said.
    Linda got up, went out to the garage. Brandon heard her car door open and close. Scott sat back in his chair, kind of like he was on a break. Linda returned with a stack of thick books.
College, College, College,
it said on every one. She leafed through the top book.
    “Twelve thousand and forty-six applicants wanted to go to Yale last year. They accepted eighteen percent.”
    “Good for them,” said Brandon.
    “Or take Brown,” said Linda. “Providence is nice, remember?” She found the page. “Fourteen thousand nine hundred applied, eighteen percent accepted. Average verbal six ninety, average math six ninety.”
    “What’s so nice about Providence?” Brandon said.
    “Federal Hill? The restaurant we went to after that tournament?”
    “The food sucked.”
    “Damn it,” Scott said. He grabbed one of the books, whipped through, stabbing schools with his index finger. “Amherst—six ninety-eight verbal, seven hundred math. Haverford—middle fifty percent range, verbal six forty to seven twenty, math six thirty to seven thirty. Dartmouth—seven eleven, seven oh four. BU, BU for Christ’s sake—six thirty, six thirty-two.” He looked up at Brandon. Mom was watching from the other side. Crosshairs.
    “What does it say for UConn?” he said.
    “What is that supposed to mean?” said Scott.
    “You both went there.”
    “Things were different then,” Linda said.
    “How? You guys went to UConn, you’re successful.”
    “You’re missing the point,” Linda said. “Nowadays it’s vital to get into a top college. Do you know what a difference it makes if you’ve got Princeton or Stanford or somewhere on your resume? I see it all the time. And as you must realize from just this brief survey, even someplace like BU is going to be a stretch for you if things keep up the way they are.”
    “Okay, okay,” Brandon said, standing up. “I’ll do better next time.”
    “Great, Brandon,” said Linda.
    “What we were hoping you’d say,” said Scott.
    “Hey, no problem,” said Brandon, rolling up a quick moo shu pork to go. Was that all it took? Those were the magic words?
I’ll do better?
You never knew.
    “We’ll sign you up for an SAT prep course tomorrow,” Linda said. “Kaplan or Princeton Review? Completely your choice.”
    “About what?” Brandon, already out of there in his mind and really needing to piss, missed that one.
    “Which course to take,” Linda said. “I checked the Web sites. They’re both twice a week, one night and Saturday mornings, which shouldn’t affect tennis, and of course we’ll want to fit in community service at some