Mr. Snow said, “I don’t know what to do with you, Jon. This class is an elective. This is all you needed to graduate and you blew it. You’re a bright kid and you write well—when and if you get around to do it. You might even have some talent lurking in that thick skull of yours. If you’d done even half the assignments, you’d have passed with no problem. Why are you doing this?”
Jon shrugged. “The topics are boring. I can’t relate.”
“You can’t relate. Are you kidding me?”
“What do you want me to say?”
“Where’s this horseshit coming from? That’s what I don’t get. You did well at Climp, until your junior year. I know because I called the school and checked. Now your GPA is in the toilet. I don’t think you’ve lost any IQ points, so what gives?”
Jon shrugged. He kept his eyes pinned on Mr. Snow’s but his expression was blank.
Mr. Snow stared at him. “Are you having problems at home?”
“Not really.”
“You want to talk about it?”
“There’s nothing to talk about.”
Mr. Snow closed his eyes for a beat and tried another tack. “You have plans for college?”
“City College maybe. I haven’t decided yet.”
“Well, you better pull your thumb out. If you don’t get into some college, you risk being called up.”
“I thought they were mostly taking older guys.”
“You want to take that chance? The last two years, they’ve bumped up the draft to thirty-five thousand a month. That’s a lot of young men.”
“Yes, sir. I’m aware of that,” he said, polite but unyielding.
Mr. Snow set the grade book aside. “Do you like to write? I’m asking because when you bother to do it, you’re not half bad.”
“Writing’s okay. I like it pretty well. I mean, not all the time, but sometimes.”
Mr. Snow studied him. “Here’s what I’m willing to do. I’ll set you up in an independent-studies program, just the two of us. You turn in the work and you’ll pass. I guarantee it. Mr. Albertson might even let you go through the graduation ceremony. He can leave your diploma blank and we’ll take care of it at the end of summer school, assuming you haven’t dropped the ball.”
“What would I have to do?”
“Well, Jon, this is a writing class. You’d have to write, as wacky as that might seem. If you’re bored with my topics, you can tackle your own.”
“Like what?”
“That’s up to you. You can’t have it both ways. You either do the pieces I assign or you come up with your own. At the end of each week, you turn in everything you’ve done, and I mean everything—false starts, cross-outs, bad paragraphs, ideas that bomb. The first time you fail to deliver, you’re out. Do we have a deal?”
“I’ll think about it,” Jon said.
“I’m making a sales pitch. The offer’s on the table for ten minutes.” Mr. Snow glanced pointedly at his watch.
“Okay, fine. We have a deal.” Jon was thinking it would be a breeze. He liked Mr. Snow. The guy was blunt and aggressive and Jon trusted him. “When would I have to start?”
Mr. Snow said, “The day school gets out. After that, you report to me here every Friday morning at nine.”
Jon got to his feet and ambled to the door. As he was leaving the room, Mr. Snow said, “You’re welcome.”
Jon closed the door behind him, but he was smiling.
The Friday morning Lionel, Mona, and the girls left in the limousine for LAX, Jon managed to look somber and contrite. He’d been excluded from the family fun, but he was taking his punishment like a man. Mona knew he was faking, but that was his intention. Lionel gave him a big hug, like there was oh-so-much affection between them. His dad patted his shoulder. “You take care,” he said. “You have everything you need?”
“Hot water would be nice.”
Lionel frowned. “I thought we bought you a new water heater. I mentioned it to Mona after our last chat, but that was months ago.”
“I guess she forgot.” Jon’s tone was neutral and the gaze he fixed on his father was without guile.
Lionel flashed an irritated look at her and then said, “Call the plumber. Mona has the number in her Rolodex. Tell him we need an eighty-gallon water heater and the charge comes to me. The two of you can work out a time for the installation, but make it soon.”
“Thanks.”