Life After Genius

by M. Ann Jacoby

  But his fears go unwarranted. As soon as Mr. Cheese touches down in the maze, he’s off and running. The presentation is a hit. Such a hit that Mr. Belknap has Mead repeat his presentation for the other seventh-grade science class, the one with Freddy Waseleski in it.

  Freddy stands over the maze with the other students and watches as Mr. Cheese goes through his paces. The whole time Mead expects the juvenile delinquent to reach in, grab the mouse by the neck, and strangle him. But he doesn’t; he just looks.

  The next day mead goes to clean out Mr. Cheese’s cage and sees some mysterious pellets in the bottom of it. After pulling out the soiled newspaper, he tosses the pellets in the trash but remains concerned. It isn’t until the following day that Mr. Cheese begins to show signs that something is not right.

  “I think Mr. Cheese has been poisoned,” Mead says to his mother. “He needs to go to the vet.”

  “Poisoned? By whom?”

  “This kid in school.”

  “What kid?”

  “Does it matter? I can’t win first prize if I show up without a mouse,” Mead says, knowing that this isn’t true. He only says it because he believes his mother cares more about his winning that prize than she does about saving the life of some filthy rodent.

  And it works. She takes him. Mr. Cheese runs in circles around the examining table because his left side has already become paralyzed. “The poison has been in his system too long,” the vet says. “All I can do is put the little guy out of his misery.” Afterward, the veterinarian asks Mead if he would like to take the mouse home.

  “No,” his mother answers for him. “That won’t be necessary. It wasn’t a pet.”

  “I’m sorry,” his father says when Mead gets home. “He was a cute little fella.”

  “I want to know the name of this boy you suspect poisoned your mouse,” his mother says. “I want to have a talk with his parents. He may have cost you a place in the county science fair. He should be punished.”

  “I don’t care about the stupid science fair,” Mead says, storms down the hall, and slams his door.

  BUT HE DOES WIN FIRST PLACE and his mother immediately loses interest in revenge. Mead offers half his winnings to his cousin, as promised.

  “Keep your money,” Percy says. “I don’t want it.”

  “A deal is a deal,” Mead says. “Take it.”

  And so Percy does. He pockets the fifty bucks and says, “So who’s the bastard who killed Mr. Cheese? I wanna wring his neck.”

  “I have no proof that he did it.”

  “It was that Waseleski kid, wasn’t it?”

  Mead says nothing.

  “I knew it. I’m gonna kick that guy’s butt.”

  “No!”

  “Why not?”

  “Because. He lost his mother.”

  “I didn’t know you were such a softy, cousin. Okay, fine, I won’t. If he ever does anything else to you, though, I’m gonna kick his butt for sure.”

  But it’s a lie. Mead is not a softy; he’s just scared to death of Freddy. And he knows that no matter how much his cousin may want to protect him, that when Mead needs him most, Percy won’t be there.

  ON SUNDAY, MEAD AND HIS PARENTS go to Uncle Martin’s house for dinner. It’s something they do pretty often so he doesn’t think much about it, not until Aunt Jewel opens the front door dressed all in black. “Come on, you,” she says, takes Mead by the hand, and leads him around to the backyard. Uncle Martin, Percy, and Lenny are all there, also dressed in black, standing over an open grave. It’s a small grave, just big enough for the green Stride Rite box Percy lowers into it. Mead has no idea whether or not Mr. Cheese is actually inside the box. But it doesn’t matter. Lenny throws a shovel of dirt over the box. “Would you like to say a few last words?” Aunt Jewel asks.

  Mead shakes his head. He couldn’t speak if he wanted to; he’s too choked up.

  “Then I will,” Mead’s mother says. “I’m sorry, Teddy. I didn’t know.”

  But he has no idea what her apology is for. Not knowing about Freddy? Making her son go to Mrs. Waseleski’s funeral? Letting the vet throw out Mr. Cheese? Or taking Mead to the basement of Wessman’s Funeral Parlor? And does she really expect him to forgive her for all that with a simple I’m sorry? Because he can’t; he just can’t.

  4

  FRESHMAN DISORIENTATION

  Chicago

  Three Years Before Graduation

  MEAD ORDERS THE HAM SALAD SANDWICH PLATE and the waitress places in front of him a pile of food large enough to feed a family of four for a week. Or at least that’s the way it looks to Mead, whose stomach has shrunk to the size of a pea, shriveled by a mixture of anxiety and excitement. He can still feel Aunt Jewel’s arms around him, hugging him goodbye as if he were leaving forever. Reluctant to let go. It was kind of embarrassing but at the same time it was kind of nice. Percy felt it too. That hug. Mead saw it in his cousin’s eyes. It was something Mead had never seen there before: a look of jealousy. When it was his turn to say goodbye, Percy chucked Mead on the arm and said, “Don’t drown in the ocean, cousin.”

  “Chicago is on a lake, not an ocean,” Mead said.

  “Still, it’s a lot bigger than the pond you’re used to swimming in.”

  “What pond? Snell’s Quarry?”

  “Just be careful,” he said and ruffled Mead’s hair.

  Mead finally got it, that Percy was talking in metaphor. Uncle Martin was more direct. “You’re gonna find it harder to wrap those college professors around your little finger than your father. Don’t worry, though; if you can’t handle it, you can always come back here.”

  But going back is not an option. Not to Mead. He is not just leaving home to go to college; he is leaving behind his entire past. All those verbal taunts from his so-called peers. All the meddlesome needling from his mother. And, most important, Freddy Waseleski. Mead is going to start over with a clean slate. It’s his turn now. For the first time in his life, he will be surrounded by his intellectual equals. No longer standing in the shadow of his popular cousin. Competing not on an athletic field but on the playing field of the mind. And to go along with this new life, he will take on a new name. He no longer wants to be known as Theodore or Ted. No longer wants his name to rhyme with either floor or dead. From here on out, he will be known simply as Mead.

  His mother reaches across the table and stuffs a paper napkin into the collar of his shirt. Mead pulls it out and glances up at the waitress, who is placing sodas on the table for him and his parents and smiling. “Mom,” he says. “Stop that.”

  “You’re going to get mayonnaise on your new shirt, Teddy.”

  “I am not.”

  “Not if you use this napkin,” she says and stuffs it back in his collar.

  “Dad,” Mead says. “Make her stop.”

  But the man is too busy reading his road map, committing to memory the exit ramp off the interstate that will take them to campus. And so Mead gives in. For the last time. Leaving the napkin in place, he picks up the ham sandwich, takes a bite, and a piece of lettuce falls out, bouncing off the napkin on its way to the floor.

  He chews but cannot swallow. Glances out the window as an eighteen-wheeler heads out of the Truck Stop Cafe parking lot back onto the interstate, heading south. Mead almost drops his sandwich, rips off the napkin, and runs after the truck. It is a comforting thought: ditching his parents and heading back home. After all, Mead is only fifteen. Way too young to be going off to college. And yet here he sits, about two hours outside of Chicago, the first Fegley ever to be accepted into a university. At any age. A fact that his mother has repeated so many times —to the butcher, to the postman, to her bridge partners, to her hairdresser, to anyone who will listen —that Mead has lost count. What he has not lost count of is how much his college education is going to cost his father, because his mother keeps reminding him. As if she were the one out there breaking her back to pay the tuition plus room and board instead of his father.

  But i
t is just a fleeting thought. Running back home. An irrational wave of fear. Complete foolishness. Because there is nothing for Mead to run back home to.

  He washes down the sandwich with a slug of soda and belches.

  “Teddy,” his mother says. “Where are your manners?”

  “Mead,” he says. “I go by Mead now.” He takes another bite.

  CHICAGO SOUNDS TO MEAD LIKE DAWN, the traffic and the people and the horns as noisy as the birds in High Grove chirping in a new day. Only in Chicago it seems that dawn lasts all day. His father parks in front of the dorm and tucks the braided rug Aunt Jewel gave Mead as a going-away present under his arm. “A little something to make your dorm room feel more like home,” she said as she handed it to him.

  “Put that back in the trunk,” his mother now says. “It’s an embarrassment.”

  “No,” Mead says, not having felt strongly one way or the other about the rug until his mother opened up her big yap. “I want it. The floor is probably hard and cold.”

  “So we’ll buy you another throw rug. A tasteful one.”

  “But I like this one,” Mead says.

  “It belongs in a farmhouse, Teddy, not a college dorm.”

  “Dad,” Mead says.

  “It is a gift, Alayne,” he says.

  “Fine,” she says. “Have it your way.” And she stomps off.

  MEAD’S ROOMMATE HAS ALREADY MOVED IN. Pete is his name. Pete Blankenship. He shakes Mead’s hand and says, “How old are you anyway?”

  “Sixteen next month.”

  “What are you, a genius or something?”

  “Teddy got a 1600 on his SATs,” Mead’s mother answers for him as she unzips his green-and-blue plaid suitcase.

  “Mead,” Mead says. “I prefer to be called Mead.”

  “Cool,” Pete says as Mead’s mother transfers her son’s underwear from his suitcase to the dresser. “So what room did you get assigned to for the big exam tomorrow?”

  “Room 1214 in Epps Hall,” Mead says, grabs his cotton briefs out of her hand and says, “Mother, I can do that.”

  “Hey, me, too,” Pete says. “We can walk over there together.”

  She turns back to the suitcase and lifts out a shirt and a pair of pants. Laying them over the back of the chair, she says, “I think you should wear these tomorrow.”

  “I can pick out my own clothes, Mother,” Mead says, takes them off the chair, and hangs them in the closet.

  She looks at Pete and says, “My son may be smart, but he doesn’t know the first thing about how to dress.” Then she takes the shirt and pants back out of the closet and lays them over the back of the chair as Mead’s father unfurls the rug on the floor.

  “Hey, cool rug,” Pete says.

  “Thanks,” Mead says. “My aunt gave it to me.”

  Mead’s mother rolls her eyes. Yes, Mead is going to like college life; he is going to like it a lot.

  HIS PARENTS TAKE HIM OUT TO DINNER. They will check into a hotel room afterward and start back to High Grove first thing tomorrow. It’s an upscale restaurant filled with several sets of parents and their departing offspring, the air tense with a mixture of excitement, fear, and sadness. “Make sure you go to bed early,” Mead’s mother says loud enough for the people at the next table to hear. “You have a test to take in the morning.”

  “I know, Mother,” Mead says. “You don’t have to remind me.”

  “I packed earplugs for you in case your roommate snores.”

  The guy sitting at the next table, who looks like a potential classmate, glances over at Mead and smiles. Embarrassed, Mead says, “I’ll be fine, Mother.”

  “Call and let us know how you did. After the test.”

  Mead rolls his eyeballs skyward to let the guy know that he knows that his mother is being annoying. That he is above such henpecking. “I won’t find out for a day or two. Not until it’s been graded.”

  “So call us then. It’s important that you do well on this test, Teddy.”

  “Alayne,” Mead’s father says. “Don’t worry. He’ll be fine.”

  At the coat check, on the way out, the guy from the next table bumps into Mead accidentally on purpose and says, “Chicago University, am I right?”

  “How did you know?”

  “The test. Tomorrow. Tell your mother not to worry. Your performance won’t be reflected in your permanent record. It’s just for placement.”

  “She knows. And she won’t be happy unless I place out of all the freshman level courses.”

  “Ah. She’s one of those mothers.”

  “There are others?” Mead says.

  “You bet,” the guy says and points his eyes at his own parents. “Good luck.”

  Moments later, Mead’s parents drop him off in front of the dorm and hug him goodbye. As they drive away, it hits Mead that they are really leaving. That for the first time in his life he will truly be on his own. For a moment he is paralyzed with fear, unable to move forward or backward. Then he remembers that he has a test to study for, snaps out of it, and heads up to his room.

  THIRTY HEADS ARE BOWED OVER THIRTY DESKS. Thirty pencils poised over thirty exams. Thirty brains firing off synapses like the Fourth of July. It is Mead’s second day at college and it is starting off with a bang, with a six-hour comprehensive exam before a single class has even been taken. Now this is Mead’s kind of school!

  Chicago University wants to know how much Theodore Mead Fegley of High Grove, Illinois, already knows. It does not want to waste his time teaching him introductory physics if he already knows the basics. It does not want to bother him with calculus if he has already mastered it. Neither does it want to inflict upon him any repetition of a dozen or so other subjects if he already has the knowledge. The university wants to give him credit —literally, four credits per course —for all the knowledge he has brought with him, and let him proceed from there.

  Mead has been sitting with Pete, along with twenty-eight of his other freshman peers, ten minutes into the comprehensive exam, when the door to the classroom bursts open and this tall, lanky kid with a mop of black hair comes charging through it. The same guy Mead spoke to at the restaurant last night.

  “Sorry I’m late,” he says to the professor in attendance and, by way of his loud voice, to all thirty students in the classroom. “I overslept. I just got back from France and my internal clock is all screwed up. Please forgive me. The name is Weinstein. Herman Weinstein.” And he thrusts his hand at the professor as if he were a salesman making a business call and not a student of higher education.

  “That’s quite all right, Mr. Weinstein,” the professor says and, instead of shaking his hand, gives Herman a copy of the exam, then motions for him to take a seat. The tall, lanky boy strides past Mead, seemingly without seeing him, and leaves a scent of Paris and romance in his wake, something Mead did not notice in the restaurant. He has never before met a guy who wears cologne. The men in High Grove tend to smell like fresh-cut hay or cow manure or husks of corn or some combination of all three. Herman walks all the way to the back of the room before taking a seat, scraping the feet of his chair across the floor as he gets comfortable, then leans back with one leg crossed over the other as if he were here to enjoy a cup of cappuccino rather than take an exam. Mead finds the young man’s presence distracting even after he settles down. He can smell his cologne from four desks away. He finds the boy’s whole demeanor to be rather insulting, something else Mead did not pick up on last night. As if being here is more of an inconvenience than an honor. Well, it’s an honor as far as Mead is concerned. To be here. In Chicago. On this campus. In this classroom. To be in the presence of so many like minds. It is a dream come true, as far as Mead is concerned. He would like to get up and change desks, to put as much distance as possible between himself and Mr. Paris France. But he doesn’t because to do so would be disruptive to the other students. And that would be rude. And Mead is not a rude person. Instead, he shifts position so as to block the young man from his sig
ht and goes back to work on his exam.

  Five hours later he is done. With fifty minutes to spare, he goes back over the entire exam, double-checking any answers about which he was unsure or conflicted. But that only takes another twenty minutes. So, quietly as possible, Mead pushes back his chair and gets up, tiptoes to the front of the classroom, and hands his exam to the professor, who glances up in surprise, first looking at his watch, then at the exam, then at Mead. “Thank you, Theodore,” he finally says. “You may go.”

  “Mead,” Mead says. “I prefer to go by Mead.”

  “Okay, Mead. You may go. Good luck.”

  When he gets to the door, Mead glances back over his shoulder. It is important to him, for some reason, that Mr. Paris France see him leave early. And he does. Herman raises his hand as if making a toast at a dinner party and smiles. Well, it’s not quite a smile; it’s more of a smirk. Mead smirks back then ducks out of the room still unsure as to whether the guy recognized him from last night or not.

  He heads back to his room to wait for Pete so they can go to dinner together and talk about the exam. They didn’t get to talk much last night. While Mead was having dinner with his parents, Pete apparently met up with some other students and didn’t get back to their room until pretty late. Mead suggested they review the periodic tables of the elements together —for the chemistry part of the exam —but Pete wasn’t interested. “If I don’t know that shit already, it’s not going to do me much good to try and learn it now,” he said, then fell into bed and off to sleep. Mead ended up studying alone.