There were other reasons for telling the truth. I had because of my freakishness established early on a wary ascendancy over adults of seasoned determination, and not in spite of it. It was precisely my freakishness that made me acceptable at Corn Pone and at Yale; my oddness gave promise that one day I might add a footnote to their fame (were they ever wrong). And in situations where my background was known, I was accorded a certain esteem out of pity; my father had deserted me at a tender age.

Both areas I had exploited to the best of my ability; I discount those rare occasions when my customary success was blunted by rudeness. Even a freak can’t be expected to suffer fools gladly. (Here I go again.)

Chatterton continued to stare at me, a sly expression on his pelican face. He clacked his beak loudly.

“Valerie!” he yelled. “Hey, Valerie!” in a kind of malicious triumph. “Come here!”

Beyond the canvas curtain a tennis ball plopped on the court and dribbled into silence. The girl, still holding her racquet, appeared, her lovely face solemn. Chatterton swung his rheumy eyes back to me with a kind of grudging respect.

“I want you to meet an authentic prodigy,” he told her. “Two years younger than you, he’s getting his goddam doctorate and you can’t even sneak by algebra.”

“Jesus,” the girl said. “The way you yelled I thought it was some kind of big deal.”

The bland young man called Derek and Abby the ball boy came trailing along. They stood in the background like a couple of dithering supers on a summer theater stage who, disinterested in the action, had signed up just to be near the star. She gave off an aura of excitement just being there, turning the blighted patch around her into something more vivid than dirt. How does she manage it? The question crossed my mind, and such is my capacity for bullshitting myself that I thought, I swear I thought, Interesting thesis material.

Another and noxiously pervasive ambiance was in the air; immediately I traced it to Derek. He exuded the sharp spiced reek of some muscular toiletry—I visualized the spray can, crown and phallus emblazoned with an inspired trade name—CROTCH, perhaps, or GONAD, or TOAD REPELLANT.

Chatterton noticed it too. Curling his big nose indelicately, he jabbed his thumb toward Derek. “My sore back,” he said. I must admit I liked the old man for that.