They put away their trays, and the six of them walked together toward where the glass doors of the cafeteria led to the outdoors, Brad and Anton heading the procession. Anton noticed that several girls called out to Brad, but he barely seemed to notice them.
They played for fifteen minutes, and all that time, Anton felt like he was under the shadow of a large shady tree, one that offered him protection from the hot glare of everybody’s curiosity. Brad passed to him constantly, forcing Anton to keep his attention focused on the ball, until his muscle memory kicked in and he began to play his natural game. Then his lithe body sliced through the August heat, and even though he was sweating and flushed, he felt clean and laser-sharp as he chased the ball and maneuvered around the other kids, who suddenly looked thick and clumsy.
“Wow,” one of the boys said after they were done. “Where’d you learn to play like that?”
Anton simply shrugged and mumbled, “I don’t know,” but Brad beamed with pride and smacked his friend on the back.
In what seemed like seconds, word got around the playground that the new boy was a killer soccer player, and other kids wandered up to them as the bell went off and they began to stream into the building.
YEARS LATER, WHEN he would remember nothing else about that first day in school, Anton would remember this tableau: Brad puts his arm around Anton’s shoulder as the final bell rings and they push open the glass doors and enter the school building, two confident nine-year-olds who have just conquered the soccer field. The air-conditioned air that greets them is as sweet as a drop of dew on their flushed faces. Behind them, the chatter of the other students is already muted as they enter the building. They stand together for a second, and then Brad says, “I wish we were in the same classroom. Anyway, see you tomorrow?”
It is the casualness of the “See you tomorrow?” that makes the other boy blink back the embarrassing tears that sting his eyes. In it, there is a promise, not just of friendship but of something else—a promise of continuity, an acknowledgment that today was not an aberration.
And so, when Anton takes his seat, he is not thinking about Russia or China. His head is swimming with the tantalizing possibility that he has made a new friend.
CHAPTER EIGHT
The boy was flailing. Floundering. Failing. Fucking up.
Whatever you called it, the fact remained—Anton was not doing well at school. Delores was beside herself. She and Anton were spending longer hours at schoolwork, staying up well into the late evening. Every few weeks, she drove to school to meet with his teachers. Nothing was helping. In fact, he was regressing. David had tried talking to Anton repeatedly about whether something was wrong: Are the teachers mean to you? Are the other students teasing you? Do you miss your old school friends? To each question, Anton would shake his head.
In late October, Anton came home with a D in math. A frantic Delores met David at the door when he came in from work. “That’s it,” she said. “There’s no way he gets a D in math. This boy is a whiz. I tell you, he’s just not applying himself.”
It had been a long day at the courthouse, and David was exhausted. “What do you want me to do?” he asked.
“I’m gonna homeschool him,” Delores said. “That’s the only thing I can think of.”
“What does that do? How does it help?” He put his hand on his wife’s shoulder, but Delores shook it off. “I don’t know,” she snapped. “You have a better idea?”
He did not, not right then, but after they’d finished dinner and he’d retired to his study while Delores and Anton sat at the kitchen table going over homework, an idea presented itself. He rose from his chair and went back into the kitchen. He stood in the doorway and watched them for a second, took in the panic on Delores’s face, the sullenness on Anton’s.
“Okay,” he said to them both. “Here’s what we’re doing. We’re gonna take a quick family vacation this weekend. We leave for New Hampshire Friday afternoon.”
As he could’ve guessed, Delores frowned. “And how is Anton going to get his homework done?” she said. “He’s already behind.”
Anton came to life. “Yay,” he cried. “Where’re we going, David?”
“To a ski lodge,” he said. “To ski.”
The boy’s face fell. “I don’t know how,” he mumbled.
David grinned. “That’s why we’re going. You’re going to learn to ski.”
He ignored the fact that neither Anton nor Dee was thrilled. He had a plan, and he intended to execute it. Delores was wrong. Homeschooling would only isolate Anton, would reinforce whatever self-doubts he harbored. The secret to success, David believed, was success.
THEY TOOK TO the slopes early on Saturday morning, and the air was cold and thin. Anton had grumbled about waking up early, about leaving the warmth and comfort of the lodge, about being fed a light breakfast of hot chocolate and oatmeal. Still, his mood had recovered once he put on the jacket Delores had bought for him and slipped into the skis that they’d rented. He enjoyed being pulled up by the rope tow to the beginner’s slope and breathed in deeply as the three of them stood at the top of the hill, admiring the bluish mountains in the distance. He also listened intently as David gave him his first lesson.
The first time he landed on his back, Anton looked so nonplussed that David and Delores burst out laughing. Anton was a good sport and laughed, too, as David offered him a hand and helped him back onto his feet. He was eager to try again, and David could see the competitiveness in his eyes as smaller kids flew gracefully past. But again and again, he landed on his butt, his feet tangled up in the skis, and his face began to burn, although it was hard to say whether it was from the cold or embarrassment.
The seventh time Anton tried, he managed to ski downhill a few paces before his right ski somehow got under the left one and he flipped over and landed on his side. A boy with long brown hair streaked past, and David heard him jeer, but by the time he reached Anton, the young skier was long gone. “Your weight distribution was wrong,” David started to say, and then he noticed the tears streaming down Anton’s face. “Hey, hey, hey,” he said as he bent down. “What’s wrong, you hurt?”
Anton shook his head no but made no effort to lift himself off the snow. Delores skied down to where they were. “What happened? Anton, sweetheart, are you all right?” The boy shook his head. “Well, come on, then,” Delores said. “We gotta get you out of the way of other skiers.”
David watched as his wife helped the boy to his feet and dusted the snow off his parka. “Come on, honey,” she whispered, holding him to her side.
“He called me a loser,” Anton whimpered.
“Who? Who called you a loser?”
“That boy with the long hair. On his way down.”
“Oh, honey. He’s just being mean. Don’t let him get you down, okay?” She turned Anton toward her, one hand on each shoulder. “How about we go get more of that hot chocolate?”
Anton wiped his nose with the back of his gloved hand and nodded. “Sure.”