Life After Genius

by M. Ann Jacoby

  “See, I told you there was nothing to worry about.”

  “And I’m sixteen now, have been for six weeks. I’ve started shaving, too. Last month, in fact. Bought a razor and everything.”

  She laughs. “That’s great, Mead. Sounds like things are working out for you.”

  And it gives him a burst of confidence. Her laugh. So he says, “How come I never see you in the cafeteria anymore?”

  “Oh. I got a part-time job working in the administrative office.”

  Mead is relieved to hear this, to know that she has not been avoiding him after all. “I enjoyed it,” he says. “That lunch.”

  She smiles. “Yeah, so did I.”

  “Maybe we could do it again sometime. Lunch.”

  “I’d like that,” she says. “I’d like that a lot.” Then glances at her watch. “Oh, shoot. I’m late. I’ll see you around, Mead, okay?” And she rushes off.

  He watches her go, her long brown hair bouncing around her shoulders as she hurries away. He has a date. He actually asked a girl out and she accepted. It only dawns on him later, when he is lying in bed unable to sleep, that he forgot to pick an exact day.

  THOSE A’S CATAPULT MEAD right onto the Dean’s List and get him an invitation to the big man’s office. As Mead sits outside the dean’s wood-paneled sanctuary, he cannot help but wish that his mother were here to witness the moment. To see all her hard work and dedication come to fruition. She would be tickled to death. And she would probably tell him to sit up straight and tuck in his shirt, so he does just that.

  “He’s ready to see you now,” the secretary says. “You can go right in.”

  Dean Falconia is a tall, thin man with very straight posture and a quiet air of confidence about him that reminds Mead of his dad. He likes him right off.

  “It’s an honor to finally meet you,” the dean says as he shakes Mead’s hand and gestures for him to sit down. “It’s rare for us to have a matriculating student as young as yourself. Even rarer for one to do so well in his first quarter.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “I just wanted to congratulate you, Theodore, to tell you face-to-face how proud and excited I am to have you here at Chicago University. Keep up the good work, son. You’re off to a fine start.”

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

  “I understand that your father runs his own business.”

  “Yes, sir, he does, sir.”

  “That’s hard work, running one’s own business, and he has obviously passed that work ethic onto you. You’re lucky to have been given such a good role model.”

  “I suppose, sir.”

  The dean stands up; their meeting is over. “If ever you need anything, Mead, or have any questions, I hope you won’t hesitate to call on me.”

  “I won’t, sir. Thank you, sir.” And he shakes the dean’s hand once more.

  ON THE WAY OUT OF THE BUILDING, he sees him again. Herman Weinstein. The guy is leaning against the stoop, staring off into space, waiting for who knows what. They exchange a look but Mead does not nod. Not this time. He acts as if he does not recognize Herman and keeps going. At the bottom of the steps, though, Mead cannot resist turning back to see if Herman is looking at him. But the guy is gone. MEAD RIDES THE TRAIN HOME FOR CHRISTMAS. He has been gone only a couple of months but it feels like years. He can hardly wait to tell his mother about Dr. Kustrup and the Dean’s List and the Institute for Advanced Study. He will spring the good news on her over supper when his dad and Uncle Martin and Aunt Jewel and Percy are all over at the house, sitting around the table, eager to hear tales from the first Fegley ever to attend a university, everyone hanging on his every word. Mead will start with a brief description of each course, followed by a quick summary of what he learned. Build up the suspense. Make it clear how hard he has studied. Then he will hit them with the Dean’s List. That’s the part that will most impress his mother. What he will not mention is Cynthia. Because it is too soon. He will save that news for his next visit home, after they have been dating awhile. For now he wants his family to focus exclusively on his academic achievements. Only that is not how it happens.

  “He did what?” Mead says.

  “Packed his bag and took off,” Mead’s mother says. “Last week. There was no note or anything. He just disappeared —poof —without a clue.” She is stuffing a twenty-pound turkey as she talks, filling its ass with bread crumbs. “Your aunt and uncle are worried. They don’t know what to think, where to look for him. They’ve just been worried sick.”

  So he did it. Percy actually did it. He packed his bags and ran off to join a minor league baseball team just the way he said he was going to. Mead thought his cousin was bluffing. After all, that was five years ago. A lifetime ago. They were just kids, dreaming out loud. Truth be told, Mead didn’t think Percy had it in him to just up and leave without telling anyone. After all, his cousin has everything a person could possibly want right here in High Grove. Great parents, loads of friends, local fame. Isn’t that enough? Why is Percy being so greedy? It’s supposed to be Mead’s turn now to take center stage and get all the glory. Mead’s turn to be the most popular guy in town. He’s waited a long time for this, through nine long years of torture from his fellow classmates. It isn’t fair.

  Poor Aunt Jewel, she must be freaking out. Mead should say something. He should speak up and tell his mother that he knows where Percy is. He should put his aunt and uncle out of their misery. But Mead gave Percy his word: He promised his cousin that he would not tell. And so he doesn’t.

  “I want you to be extra courteous this evening,” his mother says. “Sensitive to what your aunt and uncle are going through.”

  “What? Like usually I’m not?”

  The front doorbell rings. “That must be them now,” his mother says, ignoring his sarcastic comment. “Answer the door for me, will you, Teddy?”

  “Mead, Mom. I like to be called Mead now.”

  “Go,” she says and waves him out of the kitchen with her oven mitt.

  “Well, look at you,” Aunt Jewel says when Mead opens the door. “The big university boy all grown up. College must be agreeing with you. You look great, Teddy. Come here, dear, and give your old aunt a hug. Doesn’t he look great, Martin?”

  “Hmph,” Mead’s uncle says and brushes past them into the living room.

  He almost says something right then and there, almost tells his aunt and uncle where Percy is, to put their troubled minds at ease. But a promise is a promise. Besides, if he were to tell, he wouldn’t know if he was doing it for his aunt or uncle or for himself, as a way to get back at Percy for breaking their unwritten agreement, for trying to retain the title of “most popular boy in High Grove” beyond its natural expiration date. So Mead keeps his mouth shut. After all, he did not come home to talk about his cousin; he came home to talk about himself.

  “I’ve been assigned to this faculty advisor,” Mead says once everyone is seated around the table, “who believes that I have what it will take to be invited to study at this elite institute in Princeton where Einstein himself once taught.”

  “That’s wonderful, dear,” his Aunt Jewel says and pats his hand.

  “But hardly a surprise,” his mother says. “Tell us more about this institute, Teddy.”

  “He’s run off with some harebrained idea of joining a ball club,” Martin says. “I’ll bet my life on it. I thought some sense had gotten knocked into that boy’s head when they passed him over for the draft. Some busybody scout must’ve encouraged him to try and get signed on as a free agent. I’ve got half a mind to hop in the car, drive down to Houston, and drag that boy back home by the collar.”

  “I’d have to advise against that,” Mead’s dad says. “First off, you don’t know that he’s in Houston. And secondly, he’d just turn right around and go back. I think you should let this thing play itself out, Martin. Let Percy come back on his own. In his own time.”

  “Lynn’s right,” Mead’s mother says. �
�I mean, what’re the odds that he’s actually good enough to get signed as a free agent anyway? Now, Teddy, tell us about that institute.”

  Martin slams down his fork. “And what makes you think that my son is not good enough, Alayne?”

  “Calm down, Martin, I’m just being supportive. You just said yourself that you don’t want him playing professional ball. So Teddy, as you were saying.”

  “I don’t want him to not play because he isn’t good enough,” Martin says. “He is damn well good enough. I don’t want him to play because he belongs here. In High Grove. Working alongside his old man.”

  Mead’s mother shakes her head. “Well, now you’re just not making sense.”

  “Oh, I’m making sense, all right, I’m making plenty of sense. It’s a family tradition, Fegley Brothers. A way of life passed down for one generation to the next. But then I guess you wouldn’t get it, would you?” And he glares at Mead.

  “By the way,” Mead says, pleased to have the floor again. “Does everyone here know that I completed my freshman year of college in one week?”

  “I’m just saying,” Mead’s dad says, “give Percy some time. Playing on that level entails a lot of physical and mental stress. I’m not sure he’s prepared for it, that Percy knows what’ll be expected of him. He’ll come home when he figures that out, when he realizes he’s in over his head.”

  “And I made the Dean’s List,” Mead says. “It’s really quite an honor.”

  Martin shoves back his chair and stands up. “In over his head? Have you ever seen my son pitch? He could never get in over his head.”

  Mead excuses himself from the supper table but no one notices, except maybe his mother. He goes to his room and closes the door. Next break he’ll just stay in Chicago.

  MEAD KNOCKS ON DR. KUSTRUP’S OFFICE DOOR. “Come in, come in,” the professor says and waves him into the office. It isn’t until after Mead has entered that he sees the professor already has a guest, none other than Herman Weinstein.

  “I’m sorry,” Mead says and starts to back out. “I didn’t realize you were busy. I must be early. I’ll just wait out here in the hall until you’re done.” But when he checks his watch, he sees that he has arrived right on time.

  “You’re not early at all, Mr. Fegley,” Dr. Kustrup says. “Mr. Weinstein and I were just chatting about the skiing conditions in the Alps and lost track of time. Please, have a seat. This is great, actually; it’s about time you two met. Mr. Weinstein here is my other protégé. I feel quite blessed to have the both of you under my tutelage at one time, quite blessed indeed. You two should get acquainted. You have a lot in common, you know, what with both of you breezing through your comprehensives and diving straight into your sophomore years. Well, Mr. Weinstein here needed a little brushing up on his calculus, but I’ve caught him up to speed and now he, too, is on the fast track to an early graduation. Please, Mr. Fegley, sit down.”

  Mead is surprised. He wouldn’t have taken Mr. Weinstein for an exceptional student of academe. Cocky, yes. A little bit creepy, absolutely. But exceptional? No. The guy stands up and extends his hand. “Please,” he says, “call me Herman. And you are?”

  “Here to work out a course schedule for next quarter,” Mead says and lets the guy’s hand hang unattended in the air.

  “Apparently I’ve overstayed my welcome,” Herman says. Then, smooth as silk, as if it was what he intended all along, he pats Mead on the shoulder, then reaches across the professor’s desk and shakes his hand instead. “I’ll talk with you later, Frank. Ciao.” Then he turns back to Mead and says, “He’s all yours, Mead. Take it away.” And leaves. And Mead wonders how it is that Herman Weinstein knows that he does not like to be called Theodore.

  “Mr. Fegley,” Dr. Kustrup says after Herman has left. “Speaking to you as your faculty advisor, and as a friend, allow me to suggest that you might want to brush up on your social skills. It just so happens that Herman’s father is someone who could be of considerable importance to you down the line. The dean of all things possible and impossible. That’s what Herman likes to call him. In other words, the man has connections, very important connections. He could be quite influential in deciding whether or not you someday get an invitation to attend the Institute for Advanced Study in Princeton.”

  “Oh,” Mead says, “that explains it.”

  “Explains what?”

  Why the guy has such a cocky, better-than-thou attitude, that’s what. But Mead keeps this observation to himself. “Thank you, sir, for the tip. About my social skills, I mean. And about Mr. Weinstein. I’ll keep them both in mind.”

  MEAD LOOKS FOR HER IN THE CAFETERIA. While walking across campus. In the library. He even strolls through the administrative building a couple of times hoping that he will run into her in the hall. But Cynthia is nowhere to be found. Mead has almost convinced himself that she has dropped out of college —gone back home to Virginia —when he sees her exiting the student center. “Cynthia,” he calls out and waves his hand over his head. She looks up and smiles and his confidence grows. “I’ve been looking all over for you,” he says once he has caught up to her. “I forgot to pick a day. For our lunch. Last time we talked.”

  “That’s so sweet,” she says. “That you remember.”

  “Of course I remember. I haven’t thought about anything else since. Well, you know, except about my coursework. So when do you want to do it?” Mead says and blushes because he knows what that might sound like and that is not what he means, not at all. “Lunch, I mean. When do you want to do lunch?”

  She smiles again. “I’m sorry, I can’t.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I’m afraid I might have given you the wrong impression before. I like you, Mead, I really do. You’re smart and funny and sweet, but you’re only sixteen. I mean, my little brother is sixteen. I’m flattered. Really, I am. But it just wouldn’t work out. You and me. Dating. I’m sorry.”

  Mead feels dizzy. He thinks maybe he has heard wrong and yet he knows he has heard right. That he is being rejected. Again. Because of his age. Because he does not fit in. Does not conform to some preordained mold. Only this is worse. Worse than spitballs, worse than name-calling, worse than having his head flushed down the toilet.

  Cynthia places her hand on his arm. “Don’t worry, Mead, you’re a nice guy, a really nice guy. In a few years the right girl will come along, you’ll see.” Then she leaves. But the touch of her hand lingers, burns a hole straight through Mead’s heart.

  HE STUDIES AT THE LIBRARY until it closes at midnight then heads back to the dorm. Mead hates Saturday night. It only serves to remind him of how much he does not fit in. Dr. Kustrup suggested he work on his social skills but Mead’s problem has nothing to do with social skills. Not one goddamned thing. His problem is his age and no amount of effort on Mead’s behalf will ever change the simple fact that he has always been too young to socialize with his academic peers.

  Music greets him even before he opens the front door, escaping from a window on an upper floor as if a mental patient is crying out for help. He enters the dorm and the music gets louder, throbbing through his body as if someone is pounding on his head with a hammer. Mead reaches for the doorknob to his room feeling like a gambler at a slot machine. Will Pete be in there with his gaggle of rowdy friends? Or are they hanging out in Rick’s room tonight? In which case Mead will be able to enjoy at least a modicum of peace and quiet. Mead crosses his fingers and opens the door. Jackpot, the room is empty.

  He grabs his toiletries and heads down the hall to the bathroom. Someone is in the shower, could be male or female. He brushes his teeth and hopes it is female, hopes she did not hear him come in. If he is lucky, he will get a quick glimpse of her body before she notes his presence and covers herself up. That is all he is hoping for, a quick glimpse. That’s all he needs. He can take it from there.

  His mouth is full of mint-flavored paste when the shower shuts off and a girl steps around the corner, his luck still holdin
g. She either does not know he is here or does not care as she takes her towel and proceeds to dry her hair. Mead stops brushing and watches her, or rather her reflection in the mirror. He wonders what Cynthia is doing right now, if she is spending her Saturday night with some age-appropriate date, making out in some dorm room with a twenty-year-old undergraduate with a mediocre grade point average and a questionable future.

  “Lights out!” the resident advisor yells out in the hall. “All stereos off. Now!”

  The dorm goes silent, quiet enough to hear the water running in the sink. To hear Mead’s heart pounding against his chest as he continues to stare at the naked girl. One or the other causes her to lift her eyes and, when she does, she sees Mead looking back.

  “Oops,” she says. “I didn’t realize anyone else was here, otherwise I’d have been more discreet.” And she proceeds to cover herself with the towel. Mead drops his eyes, ashamed. A moment later she taps him on the shoulder and he looks up. “Your face,” she says and points at the mirror, then leaves. Mead checks out his reflection and sees a swath of toothpaste extending all the way from his mouth to his left ear.

  AN ENVELOPE ARRIVES IN MEAD’S MAILBOX, postmarked Houston, Texas. He knows who sent it even before he opens the envelope and finds inside a snapshot of Percy wearing a minor league baseball uniform, a bat slung over his right shoulder, a smile plastered across his face. On the back of the snapshot he has scrawled, “Hey, cousin, we did it. We both got away. I’m a free agent! Yours, Percy.”

  Mead tucks the snapshot inside his Concepts of Math textbook and closes it.

  So it turns out that Mead’s father was wrong. It seems that this whole professional baseball thing is neither too physically nor too mentally challenging for Percy to handle after all. Well, one thing is for certain: Percy is not going to give up the helm without a fight. Mead is going to have to do more than simply graduate from college in order to outshine his cousin. Way more. Because even Mead knows that being a math major is nothing compared to being a major league ballplayer. Not in the eyes of the citizens of High Grove, Illinois. No way. Not that Percy is there yet. But the possibility grows stronger every day. Which means that Mead has got to stay on top of his own game. He has got to make sure that, come hell or high water, he will get into that exclusive institute in Princeton where Albert Einstein himself once taught.