PROLOGUS

A one-word chant had been the start: Freak. As the circle tightened around the nine-year-old boy, the chant got louder and the pointing fingers became fists.

          This was new. Nothing like this had happened in his previous school, but he’d heard about such behavior from television and some of the others with whom he’d attended the Montessori School.

          Because the boy’s mind worked faster than the average person could comprehend, he already knew exactly what was going to happen, why, and how. He winced, waiting for the first blow.

          Seven against one. The chant had become four-letter words spat like bile from the mouths of the attackers as they punched, kicked, shoved, the inequity of numbers apparently meaningless to the lot of them. As was the fact that they were thirteen and fourteen years old and much, much bigger than their victim.

          When they were done, the boy lay bleeding and barely conscious on the concrete schoolyard basketball court. None of the older boys returned to check and make sure he was even alive. Why would they?

          A chilly September breeze finally brought the boy back to sufficient awareness for him to try getting up. He struggled against an even balance between confusion, sorrow, and pain, but made it to his feet. Odd as it may have looked, he smiled. Not an idiotic smile or a happy one. Grim, ironic, something like that.

          Because while the ones who had hurt him most likely believed they’d achieved some kind of victory, the boy knew he’d eventually beat them all on a totally different level. For one thing, he could have told them not only the names of the three bones he could feel had been broken, but their Latin names, the names of the muscles that moved them, and what his body was doing to deal with the trauma of those injuries.

          He’d have to tell his mother, naturally, but he’d insist that it had been an accident so she wouldn’t feel guilty about making him leave the other school to attend this one – for his social development, she and his father had explained. He knew they believed they were doing the best possible thing, and couldn’t bring himself to shatter that well-intentioned decision. After all, how could they possibly have foreseen something like this?

          When he was a block from his house, he stopped to lean against a tree and catch his breath. He was hurting very badly, the endorphins that had shielded him from the initial onset of agony fading. He bit back a cry and closed his eyes.

          And in the darkness afforded by tear-stung lids, something began to grow, to form, something new, ugly, and powerful. Too weak from his hurts to ward it off or think it away, he gave in to it, let it happen, and by the time he could open his eyes and start walking again, he knew its name.

          Fury.

          

ONE

Another day, another argument.

Marion Kenton came from a world where one did not raise one’s voice in anger. She grew up in an atmosphere where tact, good manners, and kind words were the arbiters of dispute. Shouting was, in that world, a serious breach of etiquette. Yet here, in her own home, the men in her life had somehow thrown away these unwritten rules in favor of loud, emotional outbursts.

Ryan was a wonderful husband despite this, and her son, Rowan, was an amazing child. But the day Rowan had started expressing opinions that contradicted his father’s (as only a teenager can) this vociferous form of arguing had been born. Cordial at first, their disagreements had eventually escalated into all-out war, until they could no longer be in the same room for more than five minutes without a battle erupting.

She covered her ears against the noise of the raging argument occurring in the library and crossed the foyer to the formal sitting room. So much for finding something to read, she thought, closing the double doors behind her.

The relative silence of this room was a relief. Noise of this sort gave her headaches, so she decided a retreat was in order. Generally, the large, sunny chamber was the domain of Marion’s mother, Agatha, Duchess of Langesley, but she knew the woman wouldn’t object to company.

“It isn’t right, my dear,” the older woman said, her voice still rich and commanding despite her years. She was seated in her usual place on the far side of the room in a deeply padded saffron brocade chair that her grandchildren laughingly called, “The Throne.”

“You heard them, then.”

“I’m old, not deaf.”

“Yes, mother, I know.” She sighed and went to one of the charming arched windows that looked out on their massive, immaculately landscaped front lawn. “But there’s nothing I can do about it, is there.”

“Stop pouting and come here, girl. No one’s asking you to do anything.”

Obediently, she left the window and sat delicately on the edge of the love seat adjacent to her mother’s chair. Marion was a very beautiful woman who carried herself with all the grace expected of a Duchess’ daughter, and men reacted to this with instinctive politeness, opening doors for her, some even tipping their hats, a practice that was so obsolete it even surprised the ones doing it.

Ryan Kenton, the eldest son of one of Boston’s “better” families, had fallen in love with her within seconds of being introduced. Despite being only one of many suitors, he had managed to win her heart with his rather boyish manner, genuine good-heartedness, and (although Marion never would have willingly admitted it) extreme good looks. The Duchess had experienced some doubts about him at first, but he’d proven himself a worthy match – until three years ago, when the disputes with Rowan had begun.

“I simply do not understand that husband of yours,” the older woman continued. “He knows how such behavior makes you feel, yet he doesn’t seem to care. All that matters to him is winning the argument, regardless of the toll it takes on your health!”

“Oh, mother, let’s not be melodramatic about this. It bothers me, yes, but I’m not exactly pining away or experiencing the constant onset of fatal diseases.”

“No, you’re not, and that isn’t what I meant. I’m talking about the headaches and the fact that you find yourself unable to eat for hours afterward.”

Marion slid back so she could rest against the cushions behind her. “You can’t blame him exclusively, you know,” she pointed out. “Rowan isn’t a baby any more, and should take some of that responsibility.”

“No, he’s what – fifteen now? Hmph. Fifteen going on thirty. I cannot for the life of me understand why you didn’t either keep him in that special school or let him start at the University when he was younger. Public education in this country tends to fill children’s heads with all kinds of nonsense, and it wasn’t until he attended the local high school that he and Ryan began having so many differences of opinion.”

“Fifteen.” She nodded in agreement, knowing exactly what her mother meant. At fifteen, Rowan was a college sophomore, could speak eight languages fluently, knew every bone and organ in the human body by name and location, had the artistic skills of a young Da Vinci, had written several papers on quantum physics just for fun, and probably would have graduated long before now had she and Ryan not insisted that he leave the rarified atmosphere of the Montessori school and try getting along in a regular one. Ryan believed the boy would never develop properly unless he was among others of his own age, while Marion, ever conscious of the social ramifications of one’s actions, agreed he would be an outcast among students six to eight years older.

With the belief that a four-year age gap between Rowan and the other students would be less noticeable, he’d been transferred into the eighth grade at a nearby public school when he was nine, despite passing a college entrance exam earlier that same year.

After one week, Marion had realized their mistake, but the boy’s stoic denial that the bruises on his arms and face had anything to do with him being a victim of bullying, had won her silence. She said nothing to Ryan about their son’s intellect making him the target of every mean-spirited child in the school, and she’d backed Rowan’s insistence that school was great and that he didn’t want to leave. It almost broke her heart.

By the time he was thirteen, his teachers had refused to try to teach him any more – he already knew more than they did – so they enrolled him in college as a freshman. He stopped coming home with black eyes, lacerations and broken bones, but even so, Marion had her suspicions. Perhaps it was the way he would sigh, his expression full of misery, or the barely-contained fury she saw in his eyes when he thought no one was looking.

“We were only trying to help him, mother,” she continued. “Being a genius of his caliber can’t be easy, and we wanted him to make friends among his own age group.”

“And did he?”

She shrugged, not wishing to travel down that particular track, and asked her mother if she wanted some tea. Before the older woman could answer, the muffled voices on the other side of the foyer suddenly became louder.

“You little hypocrite!” Ryan bellowed. He had opened the door and stepped out of the library, his words painfully clear. “How dare you stand there and pontificate about the ‘evil rich’ and how unfair it is that they have so much when others have so little, while you live comfortably in a twenty-five-room mansion, the spoiled oldest son of a wealthy family! Why don’t you get the hell out and live with them?! Then we’d see how sorry you’d feel, you goddam fool!”

The women heard him stomp to the front door, and slam it behind him as he left. This was followed by utter silence and Marion headed for the door, frowning.

“And where are you off to?” her mother demanded.

“I just want to see – ”

“Leave it be, Marion. They have to reconcile their own differences.”

Marion hesitated, but then gave her mother a sad smile. “They don’t know how.”

Marion was right, of course, and Lady Agatha was momentarily silenced, giving her daughter the time she needed to leave before words could be found to stop her.

Not knowing what to expect, Marion slipped through the door Ryan had left open. Everything appeared normal from where she stood, and she released the sigh of relief that she hadn’t known she’d been holding. Father and son had not resorted to throwing things at each other – this time. The room was quiet now, except for the comfortable ticking of the grandfather clock in the corner by one of the windows.

Rowan sat, slumped in an armchair next to the fireplace, a look of deep brooding darkening his features. Marion felt an involuntary flush of pride as she gazed at his handsome young face. He had inherited the thick black hair and pleasant features from his father, but his height came from her side of the family. He was already as tall as his father’s five-feet-eleven-inches, and would be taller still by the time he stopped growing.

The boy seemed to sense her presence, and looked up.

Marion had unusual, deep grey eyes, while Ryan’s were green. Rowan, however, perhaps through a recessive gene, had somehow inherited eyes that were a beautiful, serene shade of light greyish blue that, while not exactly odd, did cause many people to do a double-take. And for their easy beauty, the color of his eyes always made Marion smile.

She smiled now as she came further into the room and asked him if he was okay.

Rowan sat straighter and said, “Father was right, you know.”

“Whatever are you talking about?”

“He called me a hypocrite, and he’s absolutely right.” Rowan looked away, one elbow on the arm of the chair, as he chewed thoughtfully on his thumbnail.

As usual, Marion had no idea what they’d been arguing over, so she addressed the matter that had brought her here. “Rowan, please listen to me.” She stood a little straighter, folding her hands in front of her like a schoolgirl preparing to give a recitation. “You and your father have got to be more understanding of each other’s points of view. Being older, he’s much more set in his thinking, so you have to be more flexible. As the psychiatrists explained, your special level of intellect puts you on the same level as your father in many ways, but you must recognize that he has had more life experiences that grant him a fuller view of the world. This gives him a perspective you don’t have right now, you see. And while I’m sure the things you argue about are very important to you both, nothing is so very important that it should be allowed to destroy the bonds of affection that hold a family together.”

Rowan regarded her with what looked like a mixture of remorse and amusement; Marion had eloquently made an important point that he could not ignore, and she knew it.

The tiniest of smiles flickered at the corner of his mouth, vanishing almost as soon as it appeared. “I’ve overheard you telling father that our disagreements disturb you, that they give you severe headaches, and that at times you want to run away. But I didn’t take it seriously until now. I’m sorry.” He got up gave her a light kiss on the forehead. “I know we should stop quarreling.”

“Well, it certainly isn’t pleasant to hear.”

Rowan walked to the fireplace and stared blindly into the cold ashes.

He really is a good son, Marion thought.

“Look.” He turned to face her again. “I just – I guess I was getting so caught up that I didn’t think about how all the yelling was making you feel.” He thrust his hands into the pockets of his blazer and stared at the floor.

She wanted to go to him then, to hug him and tell him it was all right, the way she used to when he was small. Then she thought, Ah, but he isn’t small anymore. He’s almost a man now, and should be able to work this one out by himself. So she waited and watched him struggle with his feelings.

Finally, he looked up and with resolve said, “Mother, no matter how much I disagree with Father’s views, I promise to keep quiet and avoid any argument with him, and maybe. . .he’ll stop wanting to fight, too.”

She did go to him then, and they embraced with mutual relief, the crisis appearing to be resolved for the time being.

“Well, congratulations!” piped Marion’s mother from the doorway, startling them both. “There’s hope for the boy after all!” Without waiting for a response, she chuckled and returned to the sitting room.

Rowan and Marion stared at each other in surprise, and then broke into pleasant laughter.

“Come, let’s have some tea,” Marion suggested.

He grinned, put an arm around her shoulders, and they left the library.

Thank goodness Edmund and Charlotte have no opinions, the woman thought as they entered the kitchen.

Had these other two of her children heard this, they would have been appalled at her innocent view of them. Rowan, on the other hand, just would have laughed.

 

∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞

 

After storming out of the house, Ryan had gone to the kennels, retrieved his two dogs, and headed for the woods. He owned these woods, and was grateful for their comforting presence. But it disturbed him that he had needed to seek such solitary outings more and more frequently these days.

“Damn that boy!” he now exclaimed into the stillness. One of the dogs raised a questioning muzzle at this outburst, whining. Ryan looked down at the setter’s auburn head, shaking his own. “It’s all right, girl,” he murmured, scratching her silky ears.

Ryan would never admit it to anyone else, but the main reason he responded so violently to his son’s outbursts was, quite simply, that Rowan frightened him. Normally, the boy was a quiet, sensitive individual whose pleasant personality and unusual intellect made him easy company. However, if Rowan felt strongly about something, he abruptly changed. His entire body would become taut with an intense fury that went beyond any emotion Ryan ever experienced, or what he thought a boy of fifteen should be capable of feeling.

The rage in those otherwise peaceful eyes was terrifying because it was so unexpected. He assumed that Marion had never seen her son in this state and couldn’t possibly know the paralyzing effect it had on those subjected to it. For this reason, he rarely discussed the situation with her.

But Marion had seen that look, even if it had never been directed at her, which softened its impact considerably. Ryan didn’t know this, however, and the only way he was able to deal with these confrontations was to become loud and offensive. It was either that, or cower in fear, something he would never allow himself to do.

The man uttered a helpless laugh at his predicament. Rowan had turned fifteen only two months ago. If he could elicit that much fear in a grown man at this tender age, what would he be capable of when he reached adulthood? And the other question, of course, was why? Why so deep an anger in one so young? This wasn’t the first time he’d wondered about this. During the one or two brief discussions he’d had with her on the matter, she seemed reluctant to deal with it. So he came to the conclusion that perhaps it was because the boy was so different from his peers, and had always struggled to make or keep friends. But while this might account for it in part, he was sure Rowan suffered in other ways, and told no one. Pride keeps its secrets well.

Had his position as a Representative not required that he spend months at a time in Washington, D.C. while Congress was in session, he would have seen the black eyes, the bruises, the bloody noses and nasty cuts. He also would have seen the rage in his son’s eyes when these things happened and then none of Rowan’s fury would have been a mystery.

One good thing that had grown out of the man’s ignorance was, ironically, Rowan’s extensive knowledge of self-defense. On those occasions when Ryan came home in time to see his son sporting a cast, he’d been told that the boy had been clumsy yet again, and that he had a slight coordination problem due to growth spurts and fell out of something from time to time.

Believing that lessons in various forms of self-defense would improve his son’s grace and balance, he had enrolled the boy in boxing, karate, fencing, horseback riding, and – to Rowan’s complete horror – ballroom dancing. Since he actually had wonderful coordination, he excelled at all of these disciplines (including the dancing, even though he hated it).

Still, because bullies always attacked him in packs, he’d always been outnumbered and he never bothered using these skills. Rowan figured that he’d wait for a situation in which the odds of victory were better. Only it never came, so he repressed his frustration, shoving it tightly into the same place where he kept his anger and his mangled sense of justice. There, they blended together and fermented. When he and his father would argue, small quantities of this violent brew would come to the surface and be vented, but the source and its vast reserves remained hidden.

So Ryan remained clueless and confused about the boy’s behavior, and while he used these walks through the woods for the purpose of calming his own anger, he found that at last he was sick of it all. It was time to find a solution.

He picked up a branch lying in the path and flung it far off into the trees. The dogs bounded after it, crashing with hysterical dog-joy through the sun-speckled springtime undergrowth.

The boy was unquestionably right about many things, he admitted, such as corrupt party politics practiced by Ryan’s peers – and even, at times, by him. But this was the sad truth about any government, and back door deals were something that couldn’t be avoided when the need for power was evident. Eventually, Rowan would have to reconcile himself with these realities, especially if he wished to pursue a career in law

However, while the boy still lived at home, that temper of his would have to be watched, and its emergence avoided by a more careful, diplomatic means of discussing politics. Perhaps they should simply stay away from all volatile topics completely.

Bumping into each other as they ran, the dogs returned, the younger one dropping the branch at Ryan’s feet. He smiled at their expectant faces, but shook his head. “We have to go back now,” he said, turning. As they left the shelter of the woods and headed for the kennels, Ryan concluded that one day his son would grow up and cease to view life through the lens of roseate idealism. Meanwhile, their political discussions would be kept to a minimum. Rowan’s temper was simply too much to handle.

Ryan made sure that the dogs had enough water and secured their kennels before entering the house through one of the back doors that led into the kitchen. He was calmer now, and began humming tunelessly as he peered over the cook’s shoulder and into the large pot of soup she was stirring.

“Ah!” He breathed deeply of the aroma, enjoying it. “What’s tonight’s poison, Francine?”

The woman gave him a sideways scowl. “Poison, indeed, Monsieur!” she chided with mock reproach. “For such naughtiness, I do not tell you! I only say that you have just now missed your wife and son.”

“And what were they doing in here?” he asked, grinning at her attempt to appear stern.

“Having the tea.”

“I see. Thank you, Francine.” He gave her a friendly pat on her hefty shoulder and went out, leaving her to finish the “potage.”

By the time he reached the foyer, his equanimity was more or less restored. He headed back into the library, intending to finish the paperwork that had been interrupted by his confrontation with Rowan. His office was upstairs, but its atmosphere was more business-like, and at the moment, he preferred the quiet, familiar ambiance of this room.

“Hello, Father.”

Charlotte had emerged from the sitting room and walked up to him. Like her mother, she was tall and delicate, her thirteen-year-old features already promising great beauty. “How was your day?” she asked, kissing him on the cheek.

Ryan smiled. “Oh, it had its ups and downs. Where is your mother?”

She shrugged and casually plucked a small twig from the sleeve of his tweed jacket. “I believe she’s getting ready for dinner.”

“Never mind, missy. I have some work to do. There’s plenty of time for me to change before the meal.”

“All right, but please don’t get so wrapped up that you forget, like you did yesterday.” She turned away with a grin. “I have to get some flowers for the table,” she tossed over her shoulder, heading off to the moderate-sized greenhouse attached to the south side of the house. “See you at dinner.”

Ryan watched her affectionately until she disappeared, and then he went into the library. His mind turned to the bill he would reintroduce to Congress when the new session began. The contents of this bill had sparked the latest argument with Rowan and he ended up revisiting that unpleasant scene despite his resolve otherwise.

Sitting comfortably behind a massive antique desk near one of the windows, he pulled out a notepad from a side drawer. Some of the bill’s phrasing needed revision before he submitted the work. He struggled to concentrate on the purpose of the legislation, which was to cut unnecessary Welfare spending and make the current laws much less complicated. His first attempt had been a resounding failure because of those, like his son, who either couldn’t see or couldn’t be bothered to pick apart the current system that assisted those who didn’t need it, while ignoring those who did and were denied because of ridiculous technicalities that were written into the statutes. As far as Ryan was concerned, the present state of the system did nothing but plunge too many of its recipients deeper into a mentality of hopeless entitlement that kept them at the poverty level forever. How could Rowan possibly understand that? Ryan had been right about the boy’s hypocrisy and he knew it. More to the point, so had Rowan. That had been plain enough by the look of open chagrin on his son’s face.

He thoughtfully tapped his lips with the top of his pen, then started to write. To Ryan, using the computer to work out his thoughts was more distracting than helpful. His typing skills were awful and by the time he could peck out a sentence, he’d lost his entire train of thought. As a result, he had long ago opted for pen and paper. Once the basic wording was finished, he would type it in, using the word processor’s edit features to polish it before e-mailing it to his office in Washington when he was at home. When he was in D.C., his secretary took care of all that.

Sometimes when he was home on break, Charlotte would type for him, or Edmund, who was the quintessential computer geek. Rowan’s younger brother was a rather cute and personable geek, who had no problem making friends, all of them from different sectors of the student population. Charlotte too, was well-liked. Her sweet nature and natural beauty made her the center of everyone’s attention. They were both highly intelligent, but neither came near Rowan’s level of genius, which probably had a great deal to do with their more easy-going personalities.

He looked down at the sentence he’d been writing and laughed: “The current state of hypocrisy is, of necessity, a naive boy. . .” Chuckling, he tore the paper off the pad, wadded it up and tossed it into the waste basket by the side of the desk. “Concentrate, Kenton,” he advised himself, starting over.

About ten minutes before dinner, Edmund wandered into the library. “Oh, hi,” the boy said. “You didn’t happen to see a book with a disgusting pink cover lying around, did you?”

“No – sorry.” Ryan glanced over at the grandfather clock and got to his feet, stretching. “Glad you came in – I would have worked through dinner again.”

“What’s that?” Edmund gestured toward the paper-strewn desk.

“Part of a bill for reintroduction.”

His interest obviously fading, the boy nodded politely. Even though he was in the sixth grade, Edmund had already decided to be a programmer in the nuclear chemistry field, so law and politics simply didn’t hold him in thrall the way it did his father and older brother.

“What’s the book?” Ryan queried, gathering his papers.

“Latin grammar stuff. Never mind. . .I think I left it in the bathroom.” He started to leave, but hesitated at the door. “I don’t know what you said to Rowan, but he’s sure acting all subdued suddenly.”

“Subdued? What are you talking about?”

“I don’t know.” He shrugged. “I guess you’ll see.”

At first, Ryan detected no difference in his oldest son, other than the reticence that always followed a major argument. But as the meal progressed, he realized Rowan was saying nothing at all to anyone, and was pushing food around his plate with an uncharacteristic lack of appetite.

While dessert was served, Ryan said, “You’ll be happy to know, Marion, that I finally got the wording for that welfare bill set down in a satisfactory manner.”

His wife’s eyes flicked briefly to Rowan, but the boy just smiled weakly at his father. “I’m glad to hear that, Ryan,” she replied. “Perhaps we’ll see more of you before you leave for Washington in another week or so?”

“Yes, love, you shall.”

“What do you hope to accomplish with the legislation?” asked Charlotte, knowing full well that a huge quarrel would ensue, but not caring. Her brother’s uncustomary silence was getting on her nerves.

“I just want to see the system cleaned up, honey.”

Rowan’s jaw tightened, but he said nothing.

“Missed your cue, Ro,” muttered Edmund.

“Hm?” Rowan regarded his younger brother in mild surprise. “I wasn’t aware that this was a play.”

“Forget it.” Edmund shook his head and dug into his sorbet.

When dinner ended, Mr. Kenton called Rowan into the library and asked him to sit down.

“Son,” he began, pacing in front of him, “I know damned well you haven’t suddenly come over to my way of thinking, so what’s bothering you? That was the first time you’ve been without some hot rejoinder to a stated opinion of mine, and I can’t help wondering why.”

Rowan ran a hand through his thick hair and sighed. “Listen,” he said after a moment, “it’s true. I still don’t agree with your opinions, but I’ve decided not to fight with you anymore.”

“Why is that?”

The boy looked up at his father for a long moment. “Because it’s hurting mother and destroying our family. That’s why.” He pushed himself to his feet. “I will say this, though: while I feel you’re totally incorrect about the way you handle many issues, you were absolutely right about me. I’m a hypocrite.”

“We’re all hypocrites in one way or another, Rowan.”

“Maybe. However, I might be able to do something about myself.”

“Oh? In what way?”

Rowan shrugged and went slowly to the door, his expression thoughtful. “I’m not sure, but. . .I’ll come up with something. Good night.”

He went out, leaving his father encouraged if somewhat baffled. Ryan missed the good relationship they’d enjoyed before all the bickering and fighting had begun, and it looked as if now there might be a reconciliation.

“Okay, Rowan,” he told the absent boy, “if you want a truce, you’ve got it.”

TWO

Rowan’s American Education class met every other Monday and Wednesday from eight o’clock to nine-thirty in the morning and alternated with Statistics. Like so many other students, he found Monday mornings disagreeable because no matter how early he went to bed the night before, he simply could not get himself moving the next day. Because of what had occurred over the weekend, this particular Monday was one of the worst. The words his father flung angrily at him two days before continued to bother him, and he’d hardly slept at all since.

Hypocrite – that’s what he was, all right. Well-dressed, well-fed, living in a lovely, three-story, twenty-five-room mansion on the outskirts of Boston, his weekly allowance alone more than some people earned in a month. What right do I have to carry on about the miserable state of the poor? he asked himself for maybe the hundredth time, rubbing tired eyes.

“Hey!” hissed the young man sitting in the desk next to his. “Wake up!”

Rowan regarded his friend with a rueful grin. Somehow, Walter always looked wide-awake and energetic on Mondays, even after a full weekend of partying. It was something Rowan knew little about personally, but he heard enough about it from his friend. With a nod of thanks, the boy opened his notebook and gave the Professor his weary attention.

“ . . .three basic classes of people,” Dr. Winston was saying. “As you’ve probably observed yourself, these are the lower, middle and upper classes, yes? But now, these are subdivided as follows.” He turned and scrawled out the subdivisions on the old-fashioned blackboard that still graced the lecture hall.

Rowan copied them down dutifully. Then he reread his notes and muttered, “Good God.”

“Mr. Kenton? You wish to contribute an opinion?”

Startled, Rowan stared down the rows of students to the man who was standing at the foot of the amphitheater-like room with his arms crossed, eyebrows raised. Rowan shrugged and replied, “Well, um, excuse me for being blunt, sir, but you have ears like a bloody bat.”

The class laughed and Walter gave him an appreciative punch on the arm; Dr. Winston favored him with a deferential nod and waited for the general amusement to die down.

“Well said, Mr. Kenton,” the Professor continued when there was silence again. “However, my acute hearing aside, I believe you had something pertinent on your mind, yes?”

Rowan leaned back, one hand tapping his pen on the page of notes, and with the other, waved in the direction of the board. “It’s this class business,” he said. “It just struck me how ridiculous the whole thing is. I mean, in today’s society, who cares? We have a massive tax system that pretty much tries to equalize everyone, and then there are the ones who have a whole lot who know how to get around it and keep themselves separate by their income anyway. And yes, my father is one of them, which is how I know. Seriously, sir, aren’t there really only two classes? There’s the upper-upper, middle-upper and lower-upper, which is actually just one thing – rich. And then there’s everyone else, and while not all are dirt-poor, most are struggling. So what’s the point in studying the old models when we have only to look around and see what’s really happening?”

“Let me see if I understand you,” Dr. Winston answered, hitching himself onto the edge of his desk and crossing his arms again, the fingers holding the chalk turning it end over end as he spoke. “We have, to your way of thinking, become a two-class society, yes? That may or may not be, but what exactly are you trying to say? That it’s a good thing, or a bad thing? And do your personal observations take into account those who are poor because they’re too lazy to work, as well as those who choose poverty because they, too, know how to play the system? And what of those who are poor because they chose to live beyond their means and ended up losing everything? Into what class or category do those people fall?”

Rowan blinked. He took a deep breath. He nodded. When he replied, his answer was, “Yes, we have become a two-class society. What I’m trying to say is that it makes no sense. And no, I do not think it’s a good thing. As far as taking into account those who are poor because they’re too lazy to work, being lazy isn’t necessarily relevant, because such people exist in the upper classes as well, only they are supported by relatives, and thus never seek assistance from the State. Whether or not they know how to play the system, though, they still aren’t rich. Regarding those who have foolishly chosen to live beyond their means, if that’s the case, then they were never rich to begin with, or the outcome of their lifestyle would have been different. The category these all fall into because of this is the lower-class category.”

But that wasn’t how he expressed his answer; rather, it came out, “We have; that it makes no sense; it’s not a good thing; yes, but it isn’t necessarily relevant because they exist in the upper classes as well, supported by relatives and don’t seek assistance from the State; whether they do or not, they’re still not rich; they were never rich to begin with or the outcome of their lifestyle would have been different; and the lower-class category.”

The class went dead silent. Most of the students were having a hard time keeping up with Rowan’s logic, not to mention his rapid-fire response minus any reference to the questions he was answering. The Professor regarded him with a calculating look, having comprehended both.

“What do you recommend, then, young man? Have you any suggestions at all that might bring about an equitable solution?”

“A different kind of education, perhaps, and maybe.” Once again, he’d answered the only way his mind seemed comfortable with – response without reference, since he thought too swiftly to be bothered repeating the questions. Rowan shifted to a more comfortable position and continued, “I think the main reason such disparities exist is because neither class understands the other and both think they’re somehow superior, while at the same time defensive because they believe they owe the other an apology for who they are. Still, both take pride in who and what they are and look with condescension on the other. If they could just see how we’re one nation with the same goal of mutual opportunity and the ability to live as a free community, money and power would stop being such polarizing factors.”

“Are you suggesting Socialism as a solution?”

Rowan looked horrified. “Not at all! Socialism, from all that I’ve read and seen, makes the class distinction even more obvious. Under that system, the upper class shrinks from several thousand families to a few hundred individuals, and the rest of the country pays their bills.”

“Well!” The Professor got off the desk. “That’s a rather simplified version of Socialism, to be sure, but you have nonetheless presented quite an interesting way of considering the problem, Mr. Kenton. I personally shall take some time to work with it and see how it might fit into a societal solution.”

“That’s our little genius!” crowed a student sitting several rows away.

“And that’s quite enough, Mr. Richards,” Winston shot back, glaring. “It wouldn’t hurt for you to try using your mind to come up with intelligent ideas like Mr. Kenton’s.”

Michael Richards gave the man an ugly look but didn’t answer, then turned his venomous stare on Rowan, who made a studied attempt at ignoring him.

The nine-thirty bell shattered a suddenly tense atmosphere, followed by the noise of one hundred and thirty-two seats being vacated. Having been struck by a very interesting thought, one that could prove to be the way to respond to his father’s accurate and rather painful accusation, Rowan stayed in place amid the orderly chaos.

“Class is over, Aristotle.”

“Huh?” Rowan looked up to find Walter waiting for him. “Oh. Uh, yeah, listen, I need to talk to Dr. Winston. See you in math, okay?”

Walter shrugged and left the row the other way. “Later, then,” he called over his shoulder.

“Ah, Mr. Kenton – still here, are you?” said the Professor when the room had cleared. “I have another class in ten minutes – ”

“I know sir, but I have to ask you a question, if it’s all right.” He walked down the steps to the front of the room.

The Professor was fond of the fifteen-year-old, the youngest student attending the University. Aware that the boy had actually been accepted there at the age of 9, he had often wondered how Rowan was able to put up with being so far ahead, forcing him to work at this required, slower pace. Still, it wasn’t the lad’s unusual I.Q. that Winston found so intriguing, but rather his remarkable insight and uncommon maturity. Every other accelerated student he’d taught over the years had displayed a tedious lack of both these qualities, and was consumed by pride in his or her intellect. These youngers were therefore arrogant and, frankly, annoying. Rowan, on the other hand, was only too cognizant of his ignorance about many of life’s issues, and this made him vulnerable and easy to work with. Now, seeing the boy was deeply perturbed about something, he leaned back against his desk, gladly giving Rowan his full attention. “So what’s on your mind, young man?”

Rowan launched into an abbreviated account of his argument with his father on Saturday and its conclusion. “His description of me as a hypocrite made me really think. I. . .I may have come up with something.” He took a deep breath before continuing. “When this term ends, I’d like to take a year’s leave of absence, during which I propose to learn the, um, harsher realities of life.”

“I don’t think I understand.”

“I’m studying to be a criminal lawyer and I don’t want to represent only the rich.” He frowned, shaking his head. “As the son of a wealthy Congressman, I honestly can’t even begin to comprehend what life is like for people to whom affluence extends no further than the ability to purchase a new pair of shoes. What’s it like to be truly poor, Dr. Winston? To be so desperately impoverished that one has to resort to theft or worse? I mean, I can sit in front of our expensive flat-screen TV in a cozy armchair and watch specials about starving children and rat-infested tenements and all that, and yes, I get an awareness of the problem from such things, but damn it, how will I ever know unless I live that way, too? My father said I should get the hell out and live with them. . .” He stopped to stare blankly at the blackboard for a second before asking, “How can I represent people I don’t understand?”

After a long, reflective pause, Dr. Winston said, “My boy, I think you care more deeply about others than they would ever care about you. That’s a reality you must also accept. But here’s another – you’re a minor, Mr. Kenton, and if you leave home, which is what I understand you want to do, you’ll be tracked down and returned to your family.”

Rowan considered this, recognizing that his father’s wealth could buy an entire police department to go and find him if it came to that, and nodded. “True, but that doesn’t mean I shouldn’t try.”

“Rowan, listen. I don’t believe you fully comprehend the negative possibilities of what you’re proposing. And I really don’t think your father meant that you should literally go and live among the poor, unless of course it was as part of something like the Peace Corps or some similar organization.”

“No, that’s not what he meant. Besides, if I were part of that, I might have to do without, but I’d be part of an organization with others in charge of things giving my time there some structure and rules, and I’d know that at any time, I could returning to my comfortable life here.”

“And wouldn’t you be doing that anyway, if you took off to wherever it is you think you should go to learn these, ‘harsher realities’? Eventually you would have to go home.”

The boy was suddenly confused. He’d thought he’d had a good idea, but now … “I see I’ll have to think this through a little more.”

“You do that my boy, and if you come up with a good way to pull it off, I’ll help you all I can. Fair?”

“Fair. Thank you, Dr. Winston.”

The man smiled. “You are most welcome, as is my incoming class.” He raised his brows at the students beginning to trickle into the lecture hall at the top of the stairs.

“I’m gone.” Rowan grinned and headed back up and out of the room, not quite satisfied but feeling better. He had a goal now at least, and something with which to work, and for him that meant the problem was practically solved.

 

∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞

 

Walter Chase had met Rowan on his first day at the University; the younger boy had looked totally lost as he’d wandered the corridors. At first, Walter thought he was visiting and trying to locate an older brother or sister. But when he’d asked, the boy had explained that no, he wasn’t visiting, he was a student, and that he was merely memorizing the layout of the building and classroom numbers. Then he’d grinned, said he’d probably sounded like a lunatic, and introduced himself.

While it was obvious that the boy wasn’t as old as most college students, Walter thought Rowan was at least sixteen – it was a shock when he later discovered this likeable kid was only thirteen. But by then, they’d become better acquainted and Walter found himself liking Rowan Kenton more and more. He had even invited him to his apartment to meet his younger sister, Connie. She was the same age as Rowan, and he figured it might do him some good to meet a girl who shared the same innocence level. Eventually, he got to know his unusual classmate well enough to win his confidence and discover the source of the boy’s mysterious melancholy. Rowan told him about the way he’d been treated by his peers his whole life, and expressed a deep desire to be accepted for who he was, not hated for who he wasn’t.

As for Connie, she very quickly developed a massive crush on the good-looking youngster, but found it difficult to talk to him. His mind worked too quickly and he was so far ahead of her in terms of knowledge and understanding that he often had to repeat himself. To his credit, he did so with no display of annoyance or condescension. He used simpler terms and clearer explanations as best he could to make her understand what he was telling her. Oddly enough, he was the one embarrassed by this necessity, not her – yet another reason Walter liked him so much.

Not long after meeting him, Walter began to notice that certain other students resented a boy who could out-think, out-argue and out-rank them every time, even though they were so much older and should have been more mature. Some stopped talking to him, but four in particular were flat out venomous to Rowan, and bullied him at every turn. After a while, having realized that their verbal baiting was only making them look stupid, they got physical and began shoving him around. They’d knock his books out of his arms, crash into him “by accident,” and generally do everything they could to intimidate him.

But Rowan was made of much sterner stuff, and after years of enduring exactly this kind of treatment – and worse – he acted as though these fools didn’t even exist. When they’d shove him, he’d keep walking. When they’d grab his belongings and throw them to the floor, he’d pick them up and keep walking. When they crashed into him, he hid the pain behind a bland stare and kept going. Walter tried talking to the four bullies, but they told him to mind his own business or one day his sister might not make it home with her virginity intact, provided that she still had it. Walter was fairly big and athletic and he knew how to fight well, but he knew that if he pounded these idiots, he’d be the one in trouble. So he told them to keep his sister out of it unless they wanted to die, and ignored them from that point on.

All of this made him very protective of Rowan, and when they met for lunch that afternoon, he warned him that Michael Richards, the leader of the four antagonists, was pissed off about what had happened in American Ed that morning.

“Why? What did I do? I mean, yeah, Dr. Winston got aggravated with him, but I didn’t say a word to him!”

“You didn’t have to, Rowan. The fact that Winston compared his behavior to yours was enough.”

“Crap. Well, what the hell. I can’t do anything about it. If he wants to get all bent out of shape, let him. Listen, I have to talk to you about an idea I got.”

Walter knew better than to try and get past Rowan’s continuing let-it-be attitude, so while consuming three hamburgers, he listened to the boy’s thoughts about living in poverty for a year.

“Why a year?” he asked when Rowan finished.

“I figure I’ll need at least that long to really understand it.”

“Any idea where you’ll go to do this?”

“No. Yes. I don’t know. South End of Boston is pretty poor, isn’t it? Or I could go to Manhattan.”

“Okay. That’s nuts. Have you heard your accent lately? What do you think the people in South End are going to do? Welcome you with open arms and say, ‘Yo, rich kid! Come hang out with us, man!’?  Come on, Rowan, get real. You’re way too smart to believe you could get away with that.”

“I don’t know what I believe, Walter. I have to do something different, and soon. The Dean called me into his office on Friday, did I tell you?”

“Uh, no.”

“Well, he did. He told me that I had already wasted my time as a sophomore and he wants me to sign up for Senior classes next semester. So if I do that, I’ll be getting ready to graduate this time next year and then, if my application is accepted, I’ll be in Law School when I’m still sixteen. So do the math; how old will I be when I take – and hopefully pass – the Bar Exam? When will I get the opportunity to learn the stuff I need to know about poverty and all that? After I’m a lawyer?”

Walter sighed. “I get it, but right now, you’re also too young to be wandering off on your own.”

“I understand things people twice my age don’t, so why can’t I do the things they do?”

“Now you sound like a two-year-old.”

Mildly furious, Rowan compressed his lips, and then the corners of his mouth turned up, and a moment later he was laughing. “I sure do!” he said. “Wow.”

Walter grinned at him, glad the boy could laugh at himself so easily. “You’re a piece of work, Kenton.”

“So I’ve been told.”

The bell went off and they got up, taking their trays to the conveyor belt that led into the cafeteria kitchen.

“See you after school?” Walter asked before heading away to his next class.

“Sure. Meet you out in front.”

“You bet.”

The last few classes were uneventful, but Rowan couldn’t help noticing the way Michael Richards and the two of his friends who shared his classes were glaring in his direction. He ignored them as usual, but wondered if that was making things worse. On the other hand, what would be the point in responding? That would make them angry, too.

Whatever.

Walter was waiting for him when he left the campus at four-thirty. As they walked in companionable silence down Commonwealth Avenue, Walter found himself wondering why Rowan was suddenly so adamant about understanding indigence to such a great degree. He asked this aloud, and Rowan explained it was something he believed he had to know.

They soon reached the stop where Rowan caught the bus every day. He enjoyed public transportation; it gave him an opportunity to be completely anonymous, to relax into his mind without explanations to anybody.

              “Listen.” Walter shifted the stack of books under his arm as they started to slip. “I’ll see you tomorrow, and we can talk about this some more, okay?”

“You bet.”

“And by the way – ” the older boy turned and started to leave, walking backwards as he spoke. “Keep an eye out for those four morons. I heard from several sources that they’re after you.”

Rowan frowned but thanked his friend for the warning. In what way were they “after” him?

Ten minutes later when the bus still hadn’t come, he found out.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Moonlight.”

The boy stiffened, pushing himself away from the side of the glass shelter where he’d been leaning. Michael Richards had approached from behind and was giving him a nasty leer.

Rowan backed up a step and bumped into someone else.

“Going somewhere?” asked this individual with quiet sarcasm. He was a student named Phillip Ellsworth, a very tall, solidly built member of the football team.

Rowan reverted to his usual means of defense: he didn’t answer.

“We thought you might want some company.”

Not yours, Richards, he thought, but remained silent.

“Want to play with us?” Ellsworth asked, coming around to stand beside Richards.

“We’re going for a little ride – and so are you.”

Again, he didn’t answer, but this time he shook his head. The gesture was one of disbelief, but they clearly misinterpreted it as meaning “no.”

“Don’t be a snotty little boy,” warned Richards.

Wondering why on this day in particular no one else was waiting for the bus, Rowan looked quickly down the street, thinking he might get away from them if he could get past them fast enough.

Just then a car pulled into the bus lane and the back door opened. Ellsworth grabbed Rowan’s left arm while Richards took his right, and they yanked him further away from the shelter, causing his books to fall.

Instinctively, Rowan pulled back and they nearly lost their grip, but William Kraft, a teammate who had been in the back seat, got out and smashed him across his face. Stunned, Rowan sagged, and they hauled him into the car. Ellsworth got in the back with Kraft. They sat one on either side of Rowan who was coming to, and pinned him in to keep him from reaching one of the doors. Richards was in the front passenger seat, and with a squeal of tires they peeled away from the curb, heading for the southern outskirts of the city. No one spoke, least of all Rowan, who was still gathering his wits and was too enraged to say anything. A half-hour of driving gave him time to realize the seriousness of his situation, and fury was joined by genuine fear.

Eventually, they reached a rural area where a mile or more stretched between houses. The driver, a husky young man named Peter McIvers, glanced into the rear-view mirror, locking gazes with Kraft and Ellsworth. They gave him a quick nod; he nodded back, and then looked sideways at Richards for confirmation.

“This is it,” Richards told him quietly, and he turned the car down a brightly shaded lane. Woods grew thick on either side of the narrow road that was, Rowan noted, devoid of human life.

As McIvers parked on a wide gravel shoulder, Rowan was shoved out of the car. He landed on his hands and knees, the gravel cutting into his palms; his captors grabbed him by the arms before he could get up and half-dragged him toward a path leading into the woods.

Several minutes later they reached a clearing, and the four made a tight circle around their prey.  Rowan glared defiance at them, determined that he would remain silent, no matter what they said or did. If they were hoping to see him piss himself or cry with fright, they would be sorely disappointed.

“All right, Mr. Moonlight,” Richards said, continuing to use the nickname they’d childishly given him because of his startling eyes. “In case you’re wondering, we brought you here to teach you a lesson.”

Rowan, terrified yet resigned, stared blindly past him and waited.

“That’s right you little bastard,” added Ellsworth. “You think you’re so damned wonderful cuz you’re a fifteen-year-old college Sophomore! Well, that doesn’t give you the right to treat us like we’re your equals.” He really wasn’t the brightest of the four.

“In other words,” McIvers clarified from behind him, “we’re your betters, and we believe it’s time you learned a little respect.”

Respect? thought Rowan. I don’t respect cowards.

Richards gave a curt nod, and Kraft grasped both of Rowans arms and held them painfully against the small of his back.

Here it comes, he warned himself, tensing.

With a hard, cruel smile, Richards swung back a fist and hit Rowan squarely in the pit of his stomach with all the force he could muster. The younger boy had tightened his abdominal muscles automatically, so the first blow didn’t hurt that much. But Richards immediately followed the shot with his other fist and struck further up and to the left. This time it did hurt – a lot. Rowan winced, and before he could recover, another smashing blow connected in the same place. He felt more than heard his ribs crack, and it took all his will not to cry out.

“That’s for embarrassing me in class today,” Richards spat venomously. Richards moved aside for Phillip Ellsworth to come forward.

“You know, Kenton, ever since you started attending the University, you’ve been nothing but a pain in the ass.” Ellsworth was practically spitting. “Just ‘cause you’re a freak with a photographic memory, you think you can come along and take all the honors we have to bust our tails to get! Well, here’s the bottom line, shit-head: you start blowing a few exams and keep your damned mouth shut in class, ‘cause if you don’t, you might find yourself taking another ride with us, and next time, you’ll get lots worse. You got that?”

Rowan kept his expression blank. He would not be intimidated by their jealous threats, and he refused to make a sound despite a sudden urge to laugh – or how difficult the sharp, throbbing pain in his side was making it to stay quiet.

“Phil asked you a question, you little creep,” Kraft growled into his right ear.

Silence.

Without warning, Ellsworth back-handed Rowan across his face, his heavy school ring leaving a deep scratch along Rowan’s cheekbone where Kraft had struck him earlier. The boy blinked, steeling his mind against this new pain, and remained mute.

“Damn you to hell, Kenton!” Ellsworth, enraged by the boy’s continued lack of response, lost his temper completely. “Let him go!” he barked at Kraft, who immediately complied. As soon as he was released, Ellsworth threw Rowan to the ground. “You freaking bastard!” he screamed and kicked Rowan in his already wounded left side. As the boy doubled up in agony, he was kicked again, and he felt someone grasp his right ankle and pull off his shoe, followed quickly by the left. Helpless to stop them, Rowan heard a soft crash where they were flung into the undergrowth behind him.

Their hands patted at his body and Rowan’s cell phone was taken from his jacket.  Someone threw it on the ground next to his head and a foot came down on it, smashing it beyond all hope of use or repair.

“Get up!” McIvers, snarled viciously and kicked him in his already battered chest, and the boy felt another rib crack. “Now!”

Rowan tried to rise, but the searing agony in his side grew sharper. A familiar, high-pitched ringing filled the inside of his head, and the spring-green brilliance around him became mottled with spots of hideous grey. He tried to fight it, but after a futile effort to rise, he gave in to the closing darkness and endless waves of pain to collapse into oblivion.

Slowly, he became aware of voices above him, a few broken words, – someone was saying, “Leave him. He’ll be okay. . .” The voices faded in and out like a poor radio reception.

“No one will know. . .word against ours. . .”

“. . .if he says anything. . .maybe we ought to shut him up for good. . .”

“. . .see if he’s still breathing. . .” Someone rolled him onto his back, and the pain knocked him out completely.

 When Rowan finally regained full consciousness, it was dark with glittering points of starlight winking coldly at him in the circle of sky framed by the ring of trees. At first he thought he was dreaming, but when he tried to move, the sudden, cruel pain brought back his memory.

“Oh, God,” he moaned softly, closing his eyes and feeling sick.

After several minutes, he looked up again and thought, I can’t stay here all night. I have to get up.

Mustering his strength, he rolled to his right, uninjured side and got slowly to his knees. It was suddenly more difficult to breathe, confirming that more than one rib was broken. After a number of agonizing tries, he finally managed to stand. “Where are my shoes?” he wondered aloud, groggily aware of the cool dampness beneath his feet. He recalled that they’d been thrown somewhere into the tangled brush, and knew that there was no way he could find them in the dark. He reached for his cell phone, but only a crumpled piece of tissue remained in his pocket, and he remembered that someone had destroyed it.

He took an experimental step forward and fell, and had to endure the exhausting and terribly hurtful process of getting back to his feet. Seconds passed like eons as he struggled down the moon-silver path and back to the road. Only the night sounds of the countryside greeted his ears, the chirruping of the first spring crickets whirring in counterpoint with his throbbing side. His sense of direction and simple luck got him headed in the right direction.  Survival meant that he couldn’t afford to wonder whether or not he’d make it back, although he had a pretty good idea how far he was from Boston.

As he swayed and stumbled along the road, the pain became a deceptive numbness and his mind drifted as he decided nothing mattered. Nothing except the need to keep going, keep moving, one foot in front of the other, one step at a time. It became a mantra that kept him upright every time he faltered. Occasionally, his mind would focus sufficiently for him to wonder why there was no traffic. Was it late? Once or twice he found himself out in the middle of the road; if a car had come by it would have struck him, a realization that had made him head back to the gravel shoulder. Sharp, small stones cut into his feet and shredded his socks. He wanted to stop, to lie down and rest, but he knew that if he did he would be unable to get back up again. So he kept walking. Slowly, painfully, one foot in front of the other, one step at a time.

As the sky lightened, he saw the woods had grown sparse around him, and at last he found a fairly large intersection. Not daring to pause for too long, he glanced down the crossing road in both directions. To his right, open countryside stretched into grey; to his left, the tops of buildings could be seen several miles away.

A city. People. Help.

He turned left, hoping the city was Boston. The pain in his side was challenged by that of his lacerated feet, and the side of his face hurt and felt stiff with dried blood.

Nobody likes you,

Everybody hates you,

Go eat worms and die!

The old, singsong taunt echoed through his weary mind. He could still hear the voices of his eighth grade classmates, see their faces distorted by the ugliness of those words and the attitude behind them.

A car approached but didn’t stop, didn’t even slow down. He blinked at the after-image of its headlights that were still necessary in the semi-darkness of early dawn.

The taunt began again, providing a cadence by which to walk.

Nobody likes you,

Everybody hates you. . .

One-two, one-two, one step at a time –

Go eat worms and die!

The voices had become deeper, meaner. Michael Richards and his friends were chanting them now, over and over. He tripped over a large stone, destroying the sock and tearing off a toenail, and he further bruised the palms of his hands on stony ground that had replaced the gravel.

“Nobody likes me, everybody hates me, I’ll go eat worms and die. . .” His own voice this time – not his current one, but how he had murmured it as a child, alone and miserable in his room, huddled on the floor in a corner.

“Self-pity is destructive, Rowan,” his father had once told him, a long time before, and he’d wondered which caused the greater destruction: self-pity or the cruelty that encouraged it.

Sobbing with pain, he labored once more to his feet.

“Keep going!” he whispered fiercely, barely able to breathe.

Several more cars passed in both directions. None of them stopped. Most of them were heading for the city.

Nobody likes you,

Everybody hates you –

“Shut up!” Rowan halted, clutching his side in anguish. Another sob tried to escape, but he swallowed it – God, he was thirsty! And so very, very tired and cold. Still he wasn’t sleepy, and his vision began to clear considerably. He forced himself to straighten, preparing to continue. But then a car coming toward him did slow, and pulled over onto the shoulder where it stopped a few feet in front of him.

It was Phillip Ellsworth’s car.

From the passenger side, Michael Richards got out and beckoned to Rowan with one hand. “Get in,” he ordered.

Rowan took a step backward, too exhausted to run and in too much pain to speak.

Richards rolled his eyes. “Aw, come on, damn it! We’re not going to hurt you again, and you’ll never make it home like this!”

Nobody likes me,

Everybody hates me –

Rowan stared down at his bloodied feet and shook his head.

“Look, we just wanted to make sure you weren’t dead. I mean, none of us wants to go to jail forever over a shit like you, right?”

The younger boy almost laughed at that, but couldn’t.

Nobody likes me –

He raised his head, took as deep a breath as he could, and began walking. And walking. Past Richards, past the car. One foot in front of the other, one step at a time.

“You are so not going to make it, Kenton,” Richards called after him. “You look half-dead already!”

Go eat worms and die!

He wanted to say that aloud. Couldn’t.

You go eat them Richards, he suggested silently. Stop telling me what to do and do it yourself. Moron.

One foot in front of the other, one step at a time.

And then the sun was fully up and he was somehow among tall buildings, but these were not the ones with which he was familiar. Most were run down, many looking deserted. Was this even Boston? Had he gone the wrong way after all?

Did he care?

A street sign caught his attention, but he had to squint slightly to read it – his vision was going again.

I know that street name, he told himself, and suddenly knew where he was. This was the very part of Boston someone like Rowan would have to be suicidal to travel in unaccompanied – South End. This was the place where all those poor, poor people lived. The poor people he wanted to help. The same poor people who would happily murder him if they knew who he was. If he hadn’t been so far beyond feeling at that point, he would have felt deeply afraid. But nothing mattered anymore. Nope. Rich, poor, what the hell. Pain was pain regardless.

The bottoms of his socks no longer existed, and the skin on the soles of his feet was scraped and bloody. His clothes were dirty, his face battered, his eyes vacant – people had begun to stare, but no one came near him. So he kept walking, walking through and out of the most dangerous part of town, immune to harm by the harm already done.

This route took him around the outside of the city’s center as he made his way toward the posh neighborhood where he’d grown up. Had he continued straight and into the heart of Boston instead, he would have been picked up by the police who had been cruising the streets searching for him, and his ordeal would have ended much sooner. It didn’t occur to him that when he didn’t return home the day before, everyone would start looking for him. All that did occur to him was that if he stopped, he’d probably fall down and never get up again.

One foot in front of the other, one step at a time.

When Rowan got home at last, it was late afternoon. He leaned briefly against one of the marble pillars that stood on either side of the driveway, his breath coming in short, ragged, tormented gasps.  Strangely, the gates were open but he didn’t care enough to wonder why. He forced himself to move forward again, slowly, staggering, and less than half-conscious, oblivious to the police cars parked by the house. The front door opened as he reached it. Swaying slightly, he saw through a fog that his mother was standing there, a look of horror on her usually placid features.

“I made it,” he managed hoarsely.

“My God!” she burst out, extending a hand that he waved away.

“No, I can – ” The dull ache in his side unexpectedly became piercing; he clutched at the injury and sank to one knee, trying desperately to breathe. Strong arms lifted him gently to his feet, and he realized that his father had come out, too.

“Call the doctor,” he heard the man say in a tight voice. With great care, Rowan was helped into the house and taken into a nearby room – he didn’t know which one, didn’t care – and lowered onto something soft. He squinted up and saw his father leaning over him, a deep scowl accenting the dark circles under his eyes.

“You look awful,” Rowan got out.

“I look awful!” replied Mr. Kenton, shocked. He nearly laughed. “You don’t look too terrific yourself, son.”

“I s’pose not.”

Safe at last, the boy smiled slightly and drifted off into a feverish sleep.

 

∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞

 

Walter was scowling. That was the second thing Rowan noticed when he woke up. The first had been that he was in his room in bed, propped halfway up in a sitting position against stiff pillows.  Those two facts – that he was in bed, and that Walter was sitting there looking like he wanted to commit murder – didn’t make sense.

“Am I awake?” he asked tentatively.

Walter looked up, and then leaned back in the chair with a sigh. “Yeah. And it’s about time, too,” he said, his expression easing. “I’ve missed a lot of classes during the past two days, pal.”

“Two days?!” Rowan began to sit up further, but stopped as his side protested. “Ow! Damnation, Walter!” He winced. “Two whole days?”

“Since I’ve been allowed to visit – three altogether. Are you going to tell me what happened?”

Rowan took a slow, deep breath, finding to his relief that he could do so without too much discomfort. His ribs were tightly bandaged, and he could feel something thick and soft around his feet.

He looked away from his friend and shook his head, remembering fully. “No, Walter. It doesn’t matter.”

“Doesn’t matter! You mean to tell me – ” He stopped, his jaw tightening. “I see. So they did do it.”

“They?” echoed Rowan innocently.

Walter got up and dragged his chair closer to the side of the bed, sitting down again with a look of determination. “Yes, ‘they.’ And don’t pretend you don’t know who I mean. At first everyone thought you’d been abducted, especially when the police found your schoolbooks scattered on the sidewalk by the bus stop. After you came home looking like you’d lost a fight with a truck, we all assumed you were in some kind of car accident. The police are still trying to find out where and with whom and all that. But I had a feeling. . .anyhow, I didn’t share my suspicions with your parents because I honestly didn’t think the jackasses would do something as stupid as this, and didn’t want to start trouble where there wasn’t any, you know? So are you going to let those jerks get away with it?”

Rowan nodded.

“But why? They almost killed you, Rowan! Have you any idea how badly you’re hurt?”

With a look of disbelief, he said, “Yeah, I think I do. I was there, remember? But how in hell can I prove anything? It’s my word against theirs, and in court, that’s all that counts: no proof, no case.”

“What about motive, huh? Or DNA? That scratch on your face had to have left skin on something of theirs.”

Rowan just shook his head, too tired to even think about going after his attackers.

Walter looked down at his shoes, thinking. When he raised his head, he found Rowan staring off into space, an expression of deep misery in his eyes. “What is it, Ro?” he asked softly.

“Walter, why do they hate me so much? I can’t help what I am. It’s not my fault I was born with a. . .a greater capacity for learning. And it’s always been the same, too, like I told you. Always that one group of kids who despised me because it takes less effort for me to do well in school – damn. Maybe I should start acting like a moron.” He looked unhappily at Walter, knowing his friend had no real answers, but wishing with everything in him that he did.

“Don’t you dare. You think I hang out with fifteen-year-olds all the time? Uh, no. It’s because you act and think like someone so much older that I enjoy your company, but I swear, if you give in to the pressure and start behaving like a little kid, I’m outta here!”

A slow smile spread across the younger boy’s features and he looked away. “Don’t make me laugh, Walter. It hurts too much.”

Neither could have said why Rowan would find the older boy’s words amusing, but there was a unique understanding between them.

Walter just smiled back and yawned. “When’re you going to tell your family about some of that stuff you were talking about?  You know, the whole living in poverty thing?”

“Well, I was going to talk to them about it when I got home last night, er, I mean the other night, but now I think I’d better wait a bit.”

“Hmm. Good idea.”

“By the way, today’s Friday, yes?” Rowan continued, shifting his position carefully so he could draw up his knees, “That gives me a few days, then. . .guess I’ll see you in school Monday.”

“Oh really! How do you propose to manage that?”

“What do you mean? I’m going to get up, get dressed, and go.”

“Uh, right. And who’s going to pick you up every time you keel over?”

“I’m going to school on Monday, Walter,” he replied with finality. “There’s a statistics exam, and I’m not going to miss it because those idiots decided to beat me up.”

“Which reminds me.” Walter stood and walked to the window, looking out on the wide stretch of backyard. “First, why didn’t you call someone to help you get home, and second, why didn’t you fight back? I know you didn’t,” he added as he turned around, leaning a shoulder against the wall, “because none of the darlings had so much as a scratch.”

“I didn’t call anyone because they broke my phone. And you’re right. I didn’t fight back.”

“Why not?”

“Let’s see. . .well, I wasn’t about to lower myself to their level for one thing, and, uh, oh yeah – I was outnumbered four to one. So maybe one or two of them might be hurting for a few days if I had, but I probably would have been beaten to death as a result.”

Walter shook his head, highly upset, and was about to reply when he saw Rowan go dead white.

“Hey! Are you okay?”

The boy closed his eyes, giving a slight nod.

“Like hell you are – what’s wrong?”

“Just tired. . .”

“Sure. Okay. I’m going to go now and let you get some rest. I’ll, uh, send in your mom or the nurse or something.”

Rowan opened his eyes, slightly surprised. “Nurse?”

His friend shrugged. “They decided against bringing you to the hospital – Charlotte told me your mother said something about you being better cared-for right here.”

“Figures. Anyway, thanks, Walter. See you tomorrow, maybe?”

The older boy nodded, his smile resigned, and left.

THREE

Rowan spent the weekend between sleeping and fending off questions from his parents and the police. When the investigating officer started getting annoyed with the boy’s evasiveness, Rowan told him he needed to sleep again, that he couldn’t breathe, and to be kind enough to send in the nurse. Walter came by once on Saturday, but had some studying to do on Sunday and couldn’t make it back. In spite of visits and the aggravating way the police kept asking him questions, those two days of bed-rest did wonders for Rowan, and on Monday morning he was fully dressed and washed when his father came into his room to check on him.

“Well!” exclaimed Mr. Kenton with a mixture of surprise and uncertainty. “You’re feeling better today, I see.”

“Much better.” He was searching through his desk drawer for his math books which he found under a pile of sketches. He took them out, placing them gingerly on top of the desk before shutting the drawer.

 “What are you doing, Rowan?”

“Getting ready for school – I have a major statistics exam today.”

“I see. Well, I’m afraid you’ll have to make it up at a later date, or maybe take it online.”

“Professor Groton doesn’t do that with these tests – the smaller ones yes, but not these.”

“Fine – then do a makeup when you’re better.”

Rowan turned and faced his father. “No, I will not. I’m going to school.”

“You heard the doctor yesterday. Put your things away and get back into bed. Besides, the police still want some kind of final statement from you about what happened so they know how to proceed with their investigation. They know you haven’t told them everything.”

“I don’t want an investigation. I told you that.”

“Yes, you did, but the police won’t leave it alone unless you tell them something besides ‘I don’t want an investigation’. Who are you protecting, anyway?”

“No one who’s worth it. Look, I had hoped to avoid telling you this, but I wasn’t in any kind of accident, as I believe you and Mother were assuming. I got beaten up by four of my classmates.”

“What?! Rowan! Why didn’t you tell – ”

“Let me finish,” the boy interrupted. “This term ends in a few months, and I will not let them keep me from completing the semester on time. Call it pride, revenge, anger, whatever you like, but I am going to school today, and that’s that.”

“How about calling it stupidity,” his father suggested dryly. “I can understand how you must feel, but for heaven’s sake! Your life and health are far more important than finishing the semester with everyone else, and anyone who would do you that much harm needs to be prosecuted!”

“Actually, I think I did a lot of the damage myself by walking home. And I don’t feel like dealing with the whole stupid ordeal of court cases, lawyers, my word against theirs, and all that.”

“Whatever, son. Now please go back to bed; we can talk later about what happened. In the meantime, I’ll think of something to tell the police.” Ryan pointed sternly to the carefully made bed. “I’m serious – get back in that bed. Please don’t force me to physically hold you here.”

With a careful sigh, the boy picked up his books; he had known he’d have a hard time getting out of the house, but was determined that nothing – and no one – would stop him. He knew only too well that in his present condition he couldn’t fight back if his father chose to use force. But he had made up his mind that one way or another, he would get to class.

“I’m going, Father. If you want to keep me from leaving, you’ll have to hurt me to do it.”

Torn between a desire to keep Rowan from causing himself further damage and the prospect of inflicting more pain and injuring the boy himself, Ryan Kenton caved to the unfair power of emotional blackmail. He stared helplessly at his son, hoping desperately that Rowan would see that as his father, he was only concerned for the boy’s well-being. However, Rowan was more like his father than the man cared to acknowledge – willful, headstrong, stubborn – and after several long, tense moments of silent battle, the boy limped slowly past his father and out of the room.

“Rowan!” Mr. Kenton called, feeling impotent in the face of tenacity greater than his own.

“I’ll be home by five,” the boy called back as he eased down the stairs.

As soon as he heard the front door close, Mr. Kenton swiftly made his way down to the side of the house that opened into the breezeway attaching it to a large, stable-like garage. His chauffeur was sitting in a folding chair near the largest of Ryan’s four cars.

“Hello, Congressman,” the man greeted with a smile.

“Hello, George – listen, I need a big favor.”

“Sure, anything you like, sir.” George rose from the chair.

“I – it’s Rowan.” Ryan hesitated. “He was injured as you know, and I’m afraid he’s gone off to school before I could stop him.”

“I’m sorry, Congressman. How can I help?”

“Would you follow him – make sure he gets there and back in one piece? He only left a few minutes ago, so you should be able to catch up pretty easily. He likes to take the bus, which I believe you also know; maybe you could follow to make sure he gets on it okay, then return later to see he catches the one coming back.”

“Be glad to, sir.” George gave him a friendly grin. “This magazine wasn’t very interesting and I was hoping there’d be something to do today. I’ll take care of it immediately.”

“Thanks, George. Remind me to give you a raise.”

“That’s not necessary, sir. Just glad to help.”

Ryan clapped his driver gratefully on one shoulder, then watched with only partial relief as the Mercedes slid out of the garage and down the driveway.

“If anything happens to that boy . . .” Ryan turned abruptly and went back into the house.

 

∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞

 

The corridors of the Math and Sciences Building were unusually quiet, hushed by the solemnity of exam day. Rowan was late, but wasn’t worried about it. Since he knew the material well, the test was the least of his concerns. Michael Richards was also in this class and he knew that might be a problem. Rowan hobbled past doors left ajar along the hallway, and he could see students bent over their desks, concentrating on their papers. When he entered the test room (exams were never given in the amphitheater, since it was too easy to cheat in that setting), the Test Monitor stood and handed him a sheet of paper with the exam questions and a blue-covered answer booklet. Rowan nodded a thank-you, went to an empty desk, and slid cautiously and with considerable relief into the chair. His feet and side were throbbing horribly by this time; he closed his eyes and breathed slowly, hoping it would get no worse. The long walk out of his neighborhood, followed by a jolting bus ride, had certainly been no help and the walk from the bus stop all the way across campus had nearly destroyed his determination. But he’d stopped often and taken his time, absolutely refusing to be defeated.

He opened his eyes, drew a pen from his shirt pocket, and looked at the first question. “In a study conducted by the Department of Vital Statistics. . .” His mind immediately clicked into what he called its “file mode,” and after a brief mental search, he could clearly see the page in his text book that corresponded with the question. He began writing quickly, copying as it were, the information from the image in his mind that was as distinct for him as its physical counterpart would be for somebody else.

When Rowan studied, it was always in two parts: memorization first, then meticulous note-taking about how the material fit with the topic and itself. The numbers were ridiculously easy for him to calculate, and when he got to the essay section, which called for comparisons and conclusions of the facts and figures, he knew exactly what to write. He finished the test only a moment before the teacher announced the end of the allotted test time.

Booklets were handed in accompanied by familiar sighs and suppressed murmurs. Rowan got up stiffly and dropped his booklet onto the growing stack on the teacher’s desk, then headed to the door, hoping he’d have time to get to his math class on the second floor.

“Hey, Mr. Moonlight, cut yourself shaving?”

Rowan turned to find Richards coming toward him.

“So how, uh, how’d you do on the test?” the large bully asked casually.

“It was simple.”

“Oh yeah? Think you passed?”

“Easily.”

Richards leaned closer as they went out into the corridor and said in a low voice, “For your sake, you’d better be wrong about that, Kenton.”

Rowan shook his head and laughed, strolling casually away down the hall. It cost him a considerable amount of pain to pull this off, but the look on Richards’ face – after all, he’d seen just how far gone Rowan had been only a week ago – was so worth it. By the time he got to the top of the stairs at the other end of the hallway, he was very sore from the effort it took to appear uninjured. A knot of students stood outside the room, waiting for the previous class to end, Walter among them.

“Hello,” said Rowan, nonchalant as he came up behind him.

Walter turned, and his expression immediately turned wrathful. “You idiot! What the hell are you – ”

“Shut up, please. I told you I’d be here today.”

“Rowan! Where were you all last week?” The girl who asked had spotted him from several people away, and was now weaving around a group of chatting girls.

“Hi, Jane.” He smiled at her as she got closer.

“What happened to your gorgeous face?” She was staring with dismay and curiosity at the healing gash on his cheekbone. It still looked painful and was surrounded by a purplish bruise.

“Nothing – it’s just a dumb scratch.” He really needed to sit down.

“Well, uh, if you come around to my dorm after class, I’ll make it feel better,” she told him suggestively. Like most of the girls who knew Rowan, she was strongly attracted to the striking-looking boy despite the considerable age gap; it was easy to forget exactly how young he was.

“I’m sure you could.” Rowan simultaneously grinned and blushed. “Unfortunately, I’m not feeling well enough for that kind of activity.” As if I’d ever engaged in anything even remotely like what she’s implying, he thought ruefully. And I desperately need to get off my feet.

“Oh, geez.” Walter rolled his eyes.

“What happened to you anyway?” she repeated. “There was something on the news about you being missing – what happened?”

“Yeah Rowan, what happened? Did you walk into a door or something?” Phillip Ellsworth had been standing nearby regarding the boy in some amazement, shocked that he’d recovered so quickly. Covering his surprise with a sarcastic smirk, he crossed his arms, and waited for Rowan’s reply. A growing silence slid along the corridor as the other students turned to watch. They all knew Ellsworth detested this prodigious youngster, and that he and several others were constantly trying to bait him.

“A door?” Rowan echoed with an edge in his tone that went deeper than anyone except Walter understood. “Oh, no, not a door, Ellsworth. Nothing as intelligent as that.” And suddenly he was glad he was standing.

Ellsworth uttered a low, ugly laugh and turned away. The clever insult had stung and was also rather incriminating. He had no desire to give away the fact that he had been in any way involved in the boy’s injury.

The bell rang, and students began to emerge from the classroom. Amid the shuffling and muted conversations, Walter said, “I’d like to bust that bastard in the mouth, you know that? Regardless of what you say, you still could have gotten him arrested, and you didn’t, but he’s too stupid to even realize you saved his ass after what he did – ”

“Let it go, Walter.” Rowan stepped sideways to avoid being jolted by a passing student. “He’s not worth the energy.”

The older boy growled an unintelligible remark as they entered the classroom, and when they’d taken their seats, he returned to his earlier source of annoyance. “I don’t believe you. Three fractured ribs, both feet cut to ribbons, a gash on your face and a big old bruise that probably happened separately from that cut, and you come breezing back to school as if all you had was a skinned knee!”

“You sound like my mother.”

“I do, huh? I bet she had plenty to say about you coming to school.”

“She didn’t know.”

The math professor rapped on his desk for silence; Walter narrowed his gaze, shifting his attention from Rowan to the class, the last before a final exam on Wednesday, and decided to continue their conversation later.

Halfway through the period, Ellsworth nudged the young man sitting to his right and surreptitiously passed him a note. It read, “When we’re going out, bump into Kenton on his left side. Hit him ‘accidentally’ with your books or something, but hit him hard.” When the other student gave Ellsworth a questioning look, he grabbed the note back.

“Just do it!” he whispered fiercely, and his classmate acquiesced with a shrug. He’d done similar “jobs” for both him and Richards in the past and knew that both of them could get downright vicious if crossed.

Class ended an hour and fifteen minutes later with the teacher admonishing his students to study hard for the exam. Rowan got up carefully, relieved that it was over, and thinking he could skip the rest and go home a little early. He was almost at the end of the aisle when someone began passing him hastily on the left seemed to suddenly lose his footing. He toppled sideways and the edges of his heavy textbooks slammed into Rowan’s injured ribs.

“Hey, sorry, man,” the student mumbled, and took off.

With a sharp intake of breath, Rowan had collapsed into the nearest chair, his eyes closing in anguish as he struggled desperately to avoid passing out. The horrible ringing in his ears began again, overriding all sounds around him. Only by a supreme effort did he succeed in staying conscious; the ringing eventually faded and he opened his eyes. Several people, including his professor, Walter and Jane were standing around him, wearing expressions of concern and fear. Rowan carefully sat straight, his eyes glittering with outrage, pain, and fury – he knew Ellsworth had been responsible somehow, and he grew cold with the rise of intense hostility.

“I’m all right,” he told the group with tight deliberation. “I had a slight accident last week and it still hurts, is all. I’m fine now.” Still somewhat shaky, he got out of the chair, but then stood more firmly as Walter handed him back the books that had fallen to the floor.

“Have you seen a doctor?” asked the professor, worried.

“Yes, and really, I’m okay – I’m just going to go home now.”

“Well all right,” the professor replied doubtfully, moving aside to let Rowan pass. “But please take it slow, Mr. Kenton.”

“Thank you. I will.”

Walter stayed close to his friend now as they left, making certain to guard his vulnerable side. Rowan said nothing until they were out of the building and most of the way to the bus stop.

“What the hell, Walter,” he said then, too upset to realize his friend was missing his own next class. “How much more. . .that bastard!” He stopped walking, his eyes brimming with despair.

“Who? Who are you talking about?”

“Phillip Ellsworth, of course. I honestly think I’d like to kill him!”

“Whoa! Back up!” Walter stared in shock at Rowan, whose expression was suddenly very different from the way the boy usually looked during his occasional outbursts of temper. For while the boy could actually be a little frightening at such moments, he now almost looked capable of doing what he’d said. “Wait – you’re the one who told me he wasn’t worth the energy. What the hell did he do now? What’s changed?”

“Everything. I know damn well that kid didn’t just happen to trip and fall into me like that. I also know he does other nasty little favors for Richards, McIvers and some others, and this was just another one. No one has ever made me this angry, Walter – no one!”

“Does this mean you’re going to start bashing anyone who gives you a hard time from now on?”

It took a second, but the storm in the younger boy’s eyes subsided a little, and he shook his head, relenting. “Of course not. But I’ll tell you something – I will not be pushed around anymore. Not by Ellsworth, Richards, or anyone else.”

They started walking again, Walter silent as he thought about this abrupt change in his friend. It was certainly understandable; Rowan had taken a hell of a lot of abuse from Richards and his imbecilic companions during the past year and a half. Their latest attack had been by far the most serious, and it looked as though they’d finally gotten through Rowan’s extraordinarily thick wall of tolerance. He almost hoped Richards, Ellsworth, or one of the others would be foolish enough to try something else – after Rowan was completely recovered of course. For a fifteen-year-old, the boy was tall and fairly well muscled. From attending several of Rowan’s boxing and karate classes, he knew the kid could hold his own in a fair fight, even against a larger opponent. He found himself wondering what would happen if Rowan ever combined his skill as a fighter with all that pent-up anger. The answer he came up with was pretty scary.

They had reached the bus stop, and instead of turning to leave, Walter went inside the shelter with Rowan and sat down. “I’ll wait with you.”

“Okay, thanks. I really. . .hold it.” Rowan got up carefully from the bench to peer over the advertising poster on the adjacent glass wall. He looked back at Walter with a weary smile. “Never mind, it won’t be necessary. Come on.”

Puzzled, the older boy followed him back outside where Rowan waved at a dark blue Mercedes coming slowly down the street.

Determined to troll the area until Rowan finally left the campus, George had been circling the block for the past twenty minutes. He saw the boy and his friend enter the bus shelter and realizing he’d been spotted, slid the car up to the curb, lowered the window, and gave Rowan a sheepish grin. “Good afternoon, Mr. Kenton. Would you like a ride?”

Rowan smiled unreservedly, the dark rage in his eyes gone. “Thanks, George. Walter?” Questioning, he turned and Walter laughed.

“I have to get back to class.”

“Oh right – just thought I’d ask.”

“Well, thanks, bro-sky. I’ll give you a call tomorrow.” Walter waited until his friend had eased himself into the front seat, grateful that the boy’s family driver had come by. Despite his energetic display of anger, Rowan still looked ashen and not at all in any condition to be riding the bus. When the car pulled away, Walter turned and headed back to the campus.

Poor Rowan he mused, thinking how his singular type of genius had forced him into adulthood way too early. He’s still a kid, dammit. He should be allowed to enjoy his teens and do all the fun, nutty stuff I did at his age, and. . .oh, well. Nobody ever said life was fair.

FOUR

“It simply is not fair.” Rowan was propped up in a pillowed chair on the veranda, glowering at his father who was pacing before him.

“No, it’s not. But it’s also not your responsibility.”

“Whose is it, then?”

Ryan shrugged. “I’m pretty sure it’s their own responsibility son, unless they’re severely disabled either mentally or physically.”

The subject was poverty again, and Rowan had broached it as a preface to telling his father his idea about spending his Junior year among the poor.

“How could that be true?” the boy demanded. “I mean, if they were capable of helping themselves, they would, and poverty would cease to exist!”

The man shook his head at the boy’s naiveté. “Not necessarily. But then, you certainly have no way of understanding that.”

“Maybe not now, but I propose to find out.” His father had just given him the perfect opening, and he braced himself for what would be said next.

Frowning, Ryan leaned back against the wrought-iron railing. “How do you propose to find out?”

Rowan took a deep breath. “I’d like to take a year’s leave of absence from school, and take you up on your suggestion about getting away from all of this – ” he waved a hand at the opulence around him, “ – to go live among the poor.”

“Live among. . .what? Good grief, Rowan, I didn’t mean that literally!”

“No? Well, I took it literally. You were right, you know. As you pointed out, Father, I can’t very well speak in defense of such people when I haven’t the experience that would give me the authority to do so.”

“Okay, look. For one thing, these are human beings you’re talking about, not some creatures to be treated like test subjects in a lab experiment. As far as the authority to speak on behalf of others, that simply comes from having the right education and not necessarily a working knowledge of how they live. Just dealing with people who need lawyers is often the best education, so none of what you’re saying makes sense. Besides, how would you do this thing? Get an apartment in the bad section of town?”

“Maybe.”

Ryan gave him a look of utter disbelief. “Are you serious? The minute you opened your mouth they’d know what you are and eat you alive! ”

“Well fine then, I’ll go somewhere else, like Manhattan or Los Angeles.”

“You know, for someone so insanely intelligent, you can be awfully stupid.” It was clear that Ryan was starting to get angry. “Tell me something – how are you going to live? Where are you going to get money to eat? No one’s going to hire a homeless fifteen-year-old no matter where you go.”

 “I’ll go on Welfare, of course. It would be the perfect way to prove which one of us is right on that issue.”

“Uh-huh. And what will you do until you get your first Welfare check? Assuming, of course, that they don’t arrest you as a runaway. You’re a minor, remember? You could lie, and try to get away with it, but that brings us back to my question – what will you do until you get that check?”

“Live on the street, I guess.”

“Live on the street. As if you know how to do that.”

“I can figure it out.”

Ryan heaved a sigh to hold in his temper; losing it would only make Rowan angry, and an epic argument would ensue. He really wanted to dismiss the entire discussion as childish nonsense and walk away. They hadn’t had a fight in nearly two weeks now, and Ryan didn’t want to break their truce. “No, Rowan, you can’t. You’ve never experienced real hunger, son, and this isn’t the way to start. Try going on a fast for about five days and see how you handle it.”

“A fast? That doesn’t seem very pertinent.” Rowan’s expression made it clear that he couldn’t see the point. “It’s temporary and won’t help at all.”

Ryan rolled his eyes, exasperated. His son was too myopic at this point to see the wisdom in this suggestion, and the man wracked his brain for one the boy could see as wise – and logical. “How about this: go volunteer in one of Boston’s free clinics. I’m sure you’d see plenty there to help you understand – ”

“It wouldn’t be the same, Father. I’d see everything from too limited a perspective, especially since I’d be coming home every day.”

“Listen, son,” he said, no longer pretending to consider the idea, “I don’t want to hear any more about this asinine scheme. It’s illogical. A perfect example of how ignorant you are about the system is your belief that you can get on Welfare in the first place. You have to have an address, a social security number, and some kind of identification – all of which will provide them with a huge laugh when they realize who you are.” Ryan raised his voice to take on a mocking tone. “Oh, look! The filthy rich Congressman’s son wants to go on Welfare!” He pushed away from the railing and started toward the French doors leading inside. “And if you think you’re going to get your way on this one, you can damn well think again, because I will use force!” So saying, he went in, leaving Rowan in near-despair.

It looked as though he’d have to do the one thing he dreaded most – run away from home. The doctor told him it would take another month for his fractures to heal, and when they finally did, he would get strong again. At that point he would use his allowance to buy some necessities and a train ticket, after which he’d write his parents a note of explanation and apology and then leave.

“Damnation!” He pounded on the arm of the chair with a fist. Why did his father have to be so bloody unreasonable? he wanted to know, the thought that perhaps it was he who was being unreasonable this time not even occurring to him. Thus the days passed with Rowan growing more and more restless and perturbed.

Before returning to Washington for the new session, his father had refused to speak with him on any subject vaguely resembling the poverty issue, but it was easy to tell the man wasn’t insensitive to the boy’s inner turmoil. He simply had no intention of budging.

But then, neither did Rowan. As soon as he was well enough he began to exercise, slowly building up to the more strenuous activities of boxing and karate. He practiced hard every day, using these disciplines as a way to hold down his frustration, and by the time school ended, he was stronger than he’d been before his attack. He’d also grown a half-inch and was starting to slim down. He’d never been truly heavy, but rich food, a life of easy living, and a great deal of sitting at his desk or in front of an easel had given him some pudginess around the middle. Now the pudge was gone, his muscles were toned, and he actually felt proud of how he looked. He began to stand up when he did his paintings – his ability in art was as brilliant as his intellect – and used the treadmill’s bookstand so he could jog and study at the same time when he was in the exercise room. When he went to the gym in downtown Boston where he took his lessons, he had George drop him off right outside the city limit and jogged the rest of the way.

All of this activity was also giving him a bigger appetite, and he wondered how he’d handle being hungry once he was on his own. So when school had been out for a few weeks, he decided to take his father’s suggestion and fast for five days. When his mother asked him what he was doing, he said he was detoxing, and fasting was the best way to do it. He wasn’t really lying, he told himself. Not entirely. He made it through a day and a half before giving in and having an apple, which soon led to an orange, then a bagel, and before he knew it, he had jogged the several miles into the center of Boston for a burger and fries. The bottle of water he substituted for his usual soft drink did little to assuage his guilty conscience, but he told himself this was only a first attempt, that he’d try again in a few days.

 Feeling better with a little food in his stomach, Rowan used his new cell to call Walter. The last day of classes had been the first day of Walter’s summer job, and while he knew his friend’s hours were full-time, he figured it was late enough in the day that he might be either headed home or ending his shift.

“Rowan! What’s up?” asked the older boy cheerfully.

“Not much. I’m in town – you off work yet?”

“Just clocked out. Where are you?”

Rowan told him, and Walter pointed out that since he was only about four blocks from his apartment, he should just head over there. Connie, he said, should be home to let him in.

Smiling, Rowan paid for his food and walked through the early summer warmth to his friend’s home. Connie buzzed him through the glass doors as soon as he identified himself. She and her brother still lived in their parents’ lovely co-op apartment. Mr. and Mrs. Chase had been killed in an automobile accident several years earlier, leaving Walter to take care of his younger sister. Fortunately, they’d also left a nice amount of money in trust for their educations, as well as the apartment and a comfortable insurance payout. Once the taxes were paid on everything, however, it became clear that Walter would have to work in order to maintain the savings account at viable levels.

As soon as she opened the door, Connie’s eyes went wide. She hadn’t seen Rowan since before his injury and his new, buff self was a very pleasant surprise, nicely enhanced by a tight sleeveless tank top and jogging shorts. “Wow, you look great!” she exclaimed, stepping back for him to enter.

 “Um, thanks.” He gave her a half-grin, not used to compliments – at least not genuine ones from his own age group. “Sorry if I’m a little sweaty.”

“Sweaty is cool,” she said, grinning back. “When did you start working out?”

“Not too long ago. How’ve you been, Connie?”

“Fine. I got a job walking dogs. You want something to drink?”

“Water?”

“You got it.” She went into the kitchen, rather quickly, Rowan thought, and returned a moment later with a cold bottle of purified water.

“Thanks.” He took it from her and their hands touched, which set off a spark that only Connie felt.

She giggled, cleared her throat, blushed madly, and told him to have a seat. “I, uh, I guess you’re here to see Walter?”

“Yeah – I have to talk to him about something. He said he was just getting off work and to come over. So, what about this job? Whose dogs do you walk?”

Pleased that he cared enough to ask, she said it was for a woman downstairs as well as for an old friend of her parents, a woman who lived in the next building over. “It pays pretty well, too,” she added, smiling.

“That’s very cool. What kind of dogs are they?”

“Well, let’s see. . .two toy poodles – that’s the lady downstairs – and a Great Dane.”

Rowan gaped, then laughed. “Aren’t you afraid the Great Dane might accidentally inhale one of the poodles?”

She thought that was hilarious and doubled over with laughter as the mental image replayed several times in her mind. “Oh, God!” she finally managed, “I hope not!”

“Yeah, that might put an end to your career in a hurry.”

She sighed, under control once more. “You’re so funny, Rowan.” She chuckled some more and leaned back. They were sitting on opposite ends of the sofa, and while she wanted to offer him something to eat, she was too comfortable to get up. Still, she did want to be polite. “You hungry?”

“No, actually I’m stuffed. I had way too much to eat only a little while ago.” He shook his head, his expression rueful. “I was supposed to be fasting – started yesterday, and everything was fine, but then I kind of had to have something, and before I knew it, I was downtown stuffing my face like hamburgers were going to be outlawed tomorrow.”

“Why would you go on a fast? Did you change religions or something?”

He raised an eyebrow. “Religions! No, no. I’m just trying to get in shape and it seemed like a lot of people fast when they’re, uh, doing that.”

“I’d say you’ve done a heck of a good job so far,” she replied, staring involuntarily at his hard midsection and the well-defined six-pack visible through his cotton shirt.

“I suppose, but I’d like to get a little stronger.”

“What for?”

He wasn’t sure how to answer that. Had Walter told her what he wanted to do? Probably not, or she wouldn’t have asked. Well, he’d have to come up with a reason – or not.

“Hey, is Rowan here yet?” Walter called from the front hall, and the boy blessed his friend’s timing.

“We’re in the livingroom,” Connie called back.

Walter came in a moment later and Rowan stood up.

“Damn, bro-sky! You’re even more ripped than the last time I saw you! What was that, two weeks ago?”

Rowan just rolled his eyes, caught between pride and embarrassment.

“Listen, I have to get ready to go walk Mrs. Dalrymple’s dogs,” said Connie. “Supper is in the refrigerator – just nuke it.”

“Why? What time are you coming home?”

She looked at her watch. “Uh, it’s five-fifteen now, I have to go get the dogs by five-thirty and walk them for an hour, then bring them back. . .I’d say six forty-five. Don’t tell me you can wait until then!”

“No you’re right, I’m already starving. Rowan?”

“No thanks. I ate just before coming over, remember?”

Connie had disappeared into her room, but came out soon after in a lightweight jogging suit. “See you guys later,” she called and left.

“Come talk to me while I get my food,” Walter suggested.

Rowan followed him into the large, modern kitchen and sat at the table. At Walter’s urging, he talked about his latest plans for leaving home. He’d settled on Manhattan as his destination, mostly because he figured no one would be able to find him there easily.

“I don’t know,” Walter said, taking out a plate and silverware. “I mean, you couldn’t handle those four creeps, much less the kind of trouble you’re bound to meet on the streets in New York.”

“That’s only because I didn’t fight back,” Rowan explained, pointing out that he had also been relatively out of shape back then. “This would be different.”

“Yeah. There could be more than four of them, and they’ll probably have guns or knives or something.”

“Maybe, or maybe not. Whatever, I’ll figure it out.”

“Are you really going to just run away? That’s not cool, Rowan. Your parents love you and it’ll tear them apart.”

“I’ll keep in touch – I just won’t say where I am.”

“Oh yeah? What about that nice little GPS chip in your cell?”

“I’m leaving it home and getting one of those pre-paid secure phones before I leave so no one can trace me.”

“Hm.” The microwave beeped several times and Walter took out the container. Dumping its contents on his plate, he sat down, took a mouthful, and said, “How do you know you haven’t already had one embedded under your skin, eh?”

“Okay, that’s just creepy.”

He grinned and took another mouthful.

Rowan sat back, smiling at his friend and realizing he was going to have to do this thing completely unsupported. Even the University had given him a hard time, telling him that they’d allow the leave of absence as long as he produced a letter of consent from Mr. and Mrs. Kenton, signed and notarized, stipulating that he would be doing this under some kind of minimal supervision. He decided to change the subject since there was no point in continuing it with another person who probably thought he was nuts. The singsong words, “You’ll shoot your eye out,” from that old Christmas movie crossed his mind, so he just asked Walter what subjects he’d be taking next semester, and not long after, he jogged home.

In the middle of July, Ryan was supposed to come home for a short summer break, but a special session was called unexpectedly, and he wouldn’t be back until the middle of August. To Rowan, this presented the perfect opportunity to leave. Had his father been there, he would have figured out what his son was up to and put a guard around the house or some such thing.

His mind now made up, he spent several days making the final preparations – buying a new phone, purchasing a one-way ticket to Penn Station in New York, and obtaining something suitably neutral to wear.

He was ready a week later, and decided to leave early Saturday morning of the following week, on the last Saturday in July. That Friday night, he set the alarm on his phone for 2:30 a.m. the next morning, which ended up being unnecessary, since he spent the whole night fighting with his conscience, and when the alarm when off, he was still awake.

Alert with sleepless exhaustion, he got out of bed and went to his computer where he wrote short notes to his brother and sister – to Edmund, he wrote that if anything terrible happened and he didn’t make it back, the younger boy could have all of his CDs and DVDs, his books, I-pod, I-phone and game systems, and any clothes he wanted from his closet. To Charlotte, he wrote that she could have all of his paintings and painting supplies. He told them both that he loved them very much and asked that they not think ill of him for what he was doing.

Then he typed a much longer letter that read:

 

Dear Father and Mother:

As you are aware, my ambition is to be a defense attorney and work in criminal law. I chose this field because I’ve always believed that every person who becomes involved in a crime – be it by knowledge or circumstance – has the right to the best possible counsel. His or her financial position should never be a factor, especially if the accused is innocent.

Many people have told me that I am an idealist when it comes to these matters, and I most probably am, but it is this very fact that urges me to go out and have my eyes opened, as it were, to stark reality. If I am to defend individuals accused of committing crimes, then I must be able first to ascertain whether or not any such person is innocent, or whether he or she is merely an expert liar. Then I have to be able to prove that person’s innocence. I absolutely refuse to provide legal defense to someone who is guilty, no matter how much money is offered. Representation, yes, defense, no. I am not striving to become a lawyer just to get rich. I’ll probably earn more from my paintings.

In any event, I tried to appeal to you, Father, so I wouldn’t have to run away like this; the last thing I want to do is cause you both a lot of worry and misery. But having done my best to use reason and receiving threats in return, I can see no other way (not that I’m blaming you for my actions). Your unhappiness over this will make any personal triumphs I achieve somewhat empty, but they are triumphs I must achieve nonetheless. So all I can do is beg you to try and understand that what I’m doing means more to me than almost anything else in my life right now.

Father, there are many things that you don’t know about me, things I wanted Mother to keep secret because it would have hurt you terribly to know you’d been unable to protect me from them. Mother, I give you permission to tell him – he needs to know because it will enable his understanding of the depth of my passion for this. Tell him the true reason I had broken bones, and how relieved we were when the bruises on my face were gone before he came home.

I have a great deal more at stake than just wanting to be a good lawyer. There are others out there who are suffering because they were born with – or without – special talents, and are judged harshly for things they can’t control. I need to help them too, in order to heal what is broken in me.

I know I’m a minor, but the number fifteen means nothing to me in light of everything else. I feel trapped by my age since it defines only those whose minds have grown at the same rate as their bodies. Unfortunately, my mind didn’t bother waiting, and the fact is, I’ll be taking my bar exam before I turn twenty, which will make me the youngest lawyer in Boston. This means I have to be free of my youthful ignorance (something you’ve made a major point of, Father) sooner than the average person.

I understand there are some serious risks involved here, but I’m willing to take them even though I know you would rather I didn’t. And I also know that I might lose a year of school, but if I take a re-entry exam when I get back and include a thesis documenting and chronicling everything I learned and experienced, perhaps I could continue as a Senior where I’d left off. (Remember I was told I should skip Junior year altogether?) I can also go to the library to get online and keep up with the curriculum if necessary.

I promise to stay in touch with you. I’m leaving my cell phone here, but I did purchase another with a secured line that Father can’t have traced with which I’ll call as often as I can. I love you both very much, and will miss you horribly, but I have to do this. Try to understand, and if you can’t, at least try to forgive me. I’m not telling you where I’ve gone, only that it’s a place where I know I can learn. If all goes as planned, I’ll be back on or near this date next year. I love you.

 

He did a quick spell check, read it over three times before making one or two changes, and finally printed out all three letters. He read the one to his parents once more and had to stop before the end because he couldn’t see through a sudden wash of tears.

“Damn it!” he exclaimed softly, wiping a sleeve over his eyes.

He signed them, tiptoed down the hall to his brother’s room, and slid the note under his door. He did the same with Charlotte’s, and returned to his room. The last letter he folded carefully and slipped it into an envelope that he placed on his pillow. And that was it. The moonlight, eclipsed by the light of his computer monitor, exploded through the window when he turned the machine off, and he was reminded suddenly of Michael Richards and his stupid nickname for him.

“All the more reason to go,” he muttered.

It was four-thirty in the morning, and he needed to be at the train station by eight. He exchanged his pajamas for the used black sweatshirt and faded jeans he’d picked up at the Salvation Army a few days before. He had also purchased a used pair of running shoes and a pair of thin black socks. He knew he’d be hot as hell in this outfit, but would be grateful for it when winter set in.

Wallet. Can’t take a wallet, he reminded himself. He went to his dresser where he always put that item after getting undressed, and removed the train ticket and five dollars, leaving everything else – his picture I.D., several hundred-dollar bills, two credit cards and a few business cards from various stores. He was leaving behind his outward identity, and going to a place where nobody knew him, knew anything about him, or cared one way or the other. He was going to reinvent himself, start over, and maybe find a way to get along despite what he considered a debilitating I.Q. All he had to do was think before he spoke, use words in a simpler manner, and never let on to anyone how much he really knew about things.

After double-checking everything, he left his room. Without looking back, he went softly downstairs. The front door clicked loudly when opened or closed, so he went to the back of the house and out through the solarium. Once in the backyard he could walk safely through the shadows of the expensive landscaping and out to the road.

The early morning air was cool for the end of July, but since his sweatshirt was still too warm for the weather, he rolled up his sleeves and trotted easily down the roads winding through the mansion-strewn neighborhood, reaching the center of Boston minutes before six o’clock. He bought a cup of coffee and a roll, the last items he expected to buy for a while, and sat on a bench near the train station to enjoy them.

He knew that waiting for an eight o’clock train meant that he was risking discovery, but he also knew there was little chance anyone would be searching for him so soon. His mother rarely checked on him before ten during summer break, and both his brother and sister never got up before nine, so Rowan knew he’d be gone long before he was missed.

As he boarded the train less than two hours later, he found himself glancing around to see if there were any police officers getting on, too. When none did, he relaxed into his seat, telling himself this was life, not some B movie.

He hoped.

FIVE

The train ride took four hours and would have been boring if not for the tight anticipation Rowan felt as he drew closer to his destination. He was still fighting residual guilt about the way he’d left home, but told himself that as soon as he called from New York, things would be better for everyone. Maybe. Or not.

He shook his head and thought about the first and only other time he’d gone to Manhattan. Two years before he had seen the City from the back seat of a chauffeur-driven Rolls Royce and the windows of their hotel room. He wondered how it would appear through the narrow windows of a speeding train. Thinking of that other visit, he remembered feeling distinctly conspicuous in his expensive, beautifully tailored suit – a tourist visiting New York City to see a Broadway play with his touristy cousins and a stuffy, nervous chaperone. He looked down at his second-hand outfit and smiled. No one would take any special notice of him now, he thought, and stared back out the window.

Walter had been upset about Rowan’s departure, but had covered his feelings with an attitude of nonchalance. Rowan had called him two days earlier to let him know he was finally leaving, and it had been obvious from the outset of the call that his friend did not share his enthusiasm in the least.

“Well, I’ll miss you and all that,” Walter had concluded unemotionally, “and Connie will be devastated, of course.”

“At least wish me good luck, Walter,” Rowan had pleaded. “I’ll miss you, too, along with Connie and my family, but I have to go.”

“I know. I do wish you luck, Rowan. God knows you’ll need it down there, so take care, okay? And I’ll, uh, see you next year.”

Rowan sighed, his thoughts returning to the present. Around him, the sound of conversations merged hypnotically with the clacking of train wheels and the low rumble of its powerful engine carrying him away from everything he knew. He had one dollar and seventy-eight cents left from the five, and he was totally on his own now. He almost regretted the cell phone, but it was hardly a sacrifice for him after what he was going to be putting his family through. He’d purchased enough minutes for a year’s worth of two-minute calls once a week, and hoped nothing would happen to the phone in the meantime, since he would be penniless and unable to replace it.

From the rear of the coach, the conductor’s approach was heralded by his monotone call for tickets. Rowan shifted and pulled his from a back pocket.

Boston – New York.

He almost wished he could keep it to hang in a frame over the desk in his first law office.

“Tickets, please.”

With a last look at the words, Rowan passed it to the conductor, who punched it, shoved it mechanically into a pocket, then turned to the passenger across the aisle.

Rowan dozed on and off during the remainder of the trip as his sleepless week finally caught up with him, waking fully when the train was gliding through the outer sections of the City. He watched intently as

Impressum

Verlag: BookRix GmbH & Co. KG

Tag der Veröffentlichung: 17.05.2013
ISBN: 978-3-7309-2798-4

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