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Show 97, Jeffries, Islamorada [Section 2] Stupid, Clayton agreed. Benumbed, obtuse, dense, though in this case not accurate to say crass or brutish. "Your boy. . .he's a bit of a queer customer." Her crest, he topknot was up. "I won't have him called a queer!" She threatened from her first baritone range. "Quite rightly, Mrs. Mincer," Clayton began, "thus we refer to him as erratic and outlandish. . ." Was there a word for this, Clayton wondered, for this nervousness--logorrhea, maybe, when the words come up to rush past like the textbook idiot savant recalling his railroad car numbers. "Well." She turned on the English teacher, Coach sighing audibly in relief. "Now what about that low mark of his in English, and in that slow group yet." "I thought, traditionally, C was the average grade." "No. Not these days. B is average. A if he really tries." "I see." "You're new here, Mr. Clayton, maybe you have not had time to get into the records; I'm in possession of certain test scores. . Figures lie, Mrs. Mincer, and by the commutative principle-- "He could grow up to be anything," the boy's mother continued. "He's a convincing talker, another Jefferson Davis, he could be president of the United States--" |
