“It would be beneficial to let him be with the fifth graders. Kids can get discouraged easily. We don’t want to get him started off in his new country on the wrong foot.”
“As I mentioned, he was born in the United States,” Kay said. “And you can hear him talk, he’s fluent. I don’t agree with holding him back. It will only impart low expectations. Kids are adaptable, they learn fast. He belongs with the other kids his age, in the sixth grade.”
“And your husband? Does he agree with all this?”
“Excuse me?”
“Certainly your husband has an opinion as well,” Principal Chester said.
“Developmentally, Daniel is academically above grade level. If you can recall Vygotsky, as an educator like yourself surely can, then you are aware that social interaction is fundamentally tied to a child’s cognitive development processes. Even if your school employs a transmissionist model, we can take into account that scaffolding teaching strategies among Daniel’s peer group will ensure that he can, and will, thrive in the appropriate sociocultural context. In other words, in the sixth grade.”
Principal Chester looked at the papers again. “Well, let’s not get ahead of ourselves.” He chuckled. “All that talk about models. I’m not sure I’m as well-versed in models as you are, Mrs. Wilkinson.”
“Dr. Wilkinson. I teach at Carlough.”
In the end, Principal Chester put Deming in sixth grade.
“That man’s a complete idiot,” Kay said, as they left the school.
DEMING’S FIRST WEEKS IN Ridgeborough were like sleepwalking, murky and addled, as if he’d wake up and be back in the Bronx with a finger snap. The bag of clothing Vivian had packed was the only thing he had left from the city, clothes Kay had washed and folded and placed in the dresser in his room. She took him to the mall to buy what she called a proper back-to-school wardrobe, the parking lot a wide expanse of blacktop bigger than any lot he had ever seen, its size more apparent because of its emptiness, only a few cars parked in the myriad spaces. They walked past stores as soprano saxophone trilled over the loudspeakers, and like at church, like the few people he’d seen on Oak Street, everyone else was white.
They passed stands selling jewelry, watches, baseball caps. “Let’s see,” Kay said. “What would an eleven-year-old boy wear?” She stopped in front of Hollister, Abercrombie & Fitch. “Do you like these stores?”
“I don’t know,” Deming said. Inside Abercrombie & Fitch were life-sized cardboard teenagers romping on a beach, girls with sun-streaked hair laughing in bikinis and boys holding surfboards against their muscled torsos. His mother had bought his clothes on Fordham Road, he and Michael getting two of the same shirt in different sizes and colors.
“Look.” Kay pointed to the cardboard cutouts. “It must hurt to smile like that.” She bared her teeth and struck the same pose as one of the bikinied girls, thighs lunging, arms raised. Deming watched her, not sure if he was supposed to laugh.
Cargo Pants. Boys’ Shorts. Classic Tees. Chinos, Polos, Hoodies. Kay held up clothing and Deming said, “Okay.” In the dressing room he removed his green shorts and gray T-shirt, took off the Yankees cap Leon had given him. Michael had the same pair of shorts in blue and a striped version of the gray shirt. Did Michael miss him, or was he was glad to have the bed to himself? Leon might have called from China. If Vivian moved, his mother would have no way of getting in touch with her, to let him know where she was.
Heart pounding, he zipped on Cargo Pants. He looked in the mirror and felt weird, misshaped.
“Can you come out here and show me?”
Kay gave him a brief once-over. “Do you like them? Do they fit?”
“Yeah.”
“So, do you want them? And these shirts here, I guess, too?”
“Okay.”
Kay handed the cashier a piece of paper and said she had a clothing voucher for foster children.
“We don’t take these,” the woman said. “Try Walmart or Target.”
“Oh.” Kay laughed. “It’s okay.” She put the paper back in her purse and took out her credit card. After signing the receipt, the shirts and pants folded inside a bag, she asked Deming, “Do you need anything else?”
Deming was puzzled at the enormity of the question. “What about sneakers?” he finally said.
Kay’s hand flew to her forehead. “Come on, Kay, get it together. Shoes, how could I forget about shoes? Can’t go to school barefoot, Principal Chester would not approve.”
At the Athlete’s Foot, Deming picked the most expensive pair of Nikes on the shelf, with puffy tongues and red and black stripes. Kay handed over her credit card and signed. What else could she buy him—a motorcycle, a computer? They wandered upstairs to the food court. Kay held the clothing bags, Deming the box with his new sneakers, and they shared a plate of cheese fries. He licked the hot yellow sauce from between the ridges of each fry. Crinkle-cut, they were called.
“Did you go to malls in New York City?” Kay’s skin had become pinker, perhaps from the heat of the fries. Deming looked at families eating at other tables, old couples walking arm-in-arm, teenagers counting change and pouring sodas.
“Why am I here?”
Kay picked up a fry. “Because—we have room for a child in our family. And you needed a family to stay with.” She grew even pinker. “Are you nervous about school?”
“Not really.”
At a nearby table sat a mother with two boys around his age, all of them soft and oversized—even their teeth were big—doing diligent damage to a pizza. He accidentally made eye contact with one of the boys, who glanced at his brother and snickered. Their mother stared at Kay and Deming as if they were standing on the street with their butts exposed.
He grabbed more fries and tried to ignore the family at the other table. He wanted to like Kay’s laughter, its bursting crescendo, and the easy way she bought him things.
She kept talking. “I know it’s scary, being the new kid. My family moved once when I was in the seventh grade, just two towns over, but it was a new school and I thought it was the end of the world, literally, that my world was going to end. It wasn’t that I liked my old school so much, not at all, but I was scared it would be worse. But you know what, I ended up making friends. Which was a miracle in itself. I mean, I was such a nerdy kid, a bespectacled bookworm. I loved reading so much I’d stay up all night with books and fall asleep in class the next day. I’d even stay inside during recess to read. As you can imagine, that didn’t win me any popularity awards. But you’re going to be okay, Daniel. You’re going to be fine.”