Free The Tutor by Peter Abrahams Page A

switched off. “Completely defensible,” he said. “Your problem is the College Board doesn’t include a section for student defenses.”
    Brandon laughed.
    “And therefore?”
    Brandon shrugged.
    “Therefore, Brandon, you have to think like them.”
    “Like the College Board?”
    “Not so hard. Not hard at all, in fact. Imagine the kind of people who formulate these questions. Are they brilliant?”
    “I don’t know.”
    “Or are they smart?”
    “Smart.”
    “Smart, not brilliant. Do they listen to the Beatles? Or do they listen to Unka Death?”
    Brandon was stunned. Unka Death was practically brand-new. And Julian looked too old to know about rap, although not as old as Mom and Dad—there wasn’t a line on his face, his hair was thick, his stomach flat. The light changed, or Julian’s head shifted, because suddenly his eyes were like mirrors for a second, opaque and glittering. Brandon realized he’d been staring at Julian, maybe rudely, and looked away.
    “You must know someone at school,” Julian said, “maybe not the most entertaining of your friends, but he usually gets the right answer.”
    Sam. Not at his school; at Andover. But Sam.
    “Tip number two,” Julian said. “Think like him.”
    Fuck that.
    Then Julian added: “Just for the duration of the test. No one will ever know.”
    Brandon laughed, one of those single-beat laughs, mostly through the nose. Julian was kind of funny, in a sneaky way.
    Julian checked his watch. “Your ordeal is over.” He rose, gathered his materials. “For today.”
    Brandon got up too, rubbed his eyes, tried to recall if he was grounded or whether the SAT prep was the whole punishment for New York. An important question, since there was a keg party by the pond tonight. Through the window, he saw Ruby getting into Mom’s car, bow in hand, quiver on her belt. Julian was watching her too.
    “Your sister’s an archer?” he said.
    “I wouldn’t say that.”
    Ruby had trouble fitting in the bow, rode off with it sticking out the top of the window. It looked like Mom yelled something at her. It looked like Ruby yelled back.
    “What got her interested in archery?” Julian said.
    “Don’t ask me,” said Brandon. “She’s a bit of a pain, if you want to know.”
    Julian turned to him. “How so?”
    Brandon shrugged. “Did you have a little sister when you were growing up?”
    The opaque look returned to Julian’s eyes. “No,” he said.
    Dad came in, wearing his knee brace and tennis shorts, pulling on his polo shirt. “All done?”
    “All done,” Julian said, lowering his gaze for a moment to Dad’s bare midsection.
Hey, Dad was putting on weight.
    “How’d he do?”
    Julian turned to Brandon. “Did we make some progress?”
    Brandon shrugged.
    Dad came forward with a check, handed it to Julian. “And here’s a little extra for filling in.” He added a five-dollar bill, said, “Nice job, Bran,” and left the room.
    Julian gazed at the bill for a moment, like he was reading it carefully or something. Then he folded it in half, folded it again, put it in the pocket with the burned match.
    He held out his hand. “Good luck on the SAT.”
    They shook hands. Julian’s felt warm, almost hot.
    “Tip number three,” he said. “The College Board likes to make nice.”
    “So pick the Beatles answer?”
    “We have made progress,” Julian said.
    Brandon walked Julian to the front door, watched as he got on his bike. Julian pedaled down the driveway, stopped at the street, looked back. “The Beatles of ‘All You Need Is Love,’ ” he said. “Not ‘Helter Skelter.’ ” Then he rode off down Robin Road. It wasn’t much of a bike compared to Brandon’s, never used anymore, but Julian went very fast and was soon out of sight.

7
    S aturday had always meant sports: soccer, baseball, softball, volleyball, basketball, figure skating, even (for five minutes) hockey. By now, thank Christ, she was down to two:
    Tennis, the family sport, for