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one real option, the Leary Alternative School, in the East Village, within walking distance of my cousin’s speakeasy. I had an interview scheduled with them that afternoon. Mr. Kipling would accompany me.
    I usually just wore my Holy Trinity uniform everywhere, but I didn’t think that would be appropriate for an interview at another school. I decided to wear the suit I had worn to Mickey and Sophia’s wedding.
    So, Leary. It was kind of artsy, if you know what I mean. No one wore uniforms. A lot of the classrooms didn’t have desks; kids sat in circles on the floor. Many of the male teachers had beards. One female teacher I saw wasn’t wearing any shoes. There was a distinct aroma to the place—clay? herbs? Obviously, it wasn’t what I was used to but I told myself that that wasn’t necessarily a bad thing.
    Mr. Kipling gave my name at the front desk and then we were pointed in the direction of a cluster of beanbag chairs. “Interesting place,” Mr. Kipling said to me while we waited. He lowered his voice. “Do you think you could see yourself making a go of it here, Anya?”
    What other choice did I have? There were public schools, but any good one had a long waiting list and many of my credits might not even count. I could end up in high school until I was twenty.
    After about a half hour, the headmaster, a curly-haired man in a brown corduroy suit, emerged from his office. “Come in, Anya. Stuart.” I bristled at hearing Mr. Kipling referred to by his first name. “Sorry to keep you folks waiting. I got a late start to my afternoon meditation. I’m the headmaster here, Sylvio Freeman. Everyone calls me Syl.”
    We went into his office, where there was a thick kilim rug in reds and oranges, and no furniture. “Have a seat.” Headmaster Syl indicated the rug.
    Syl poured us cups of licorice rooibos tea. “I’ve read all about you, Anya. Your academic record is perfectly drizzly though you should know we don’t give letter grades here.” He paused. “Forensic science. That’s your thing, right?”
    I nodded.
    “We don’t offer that subject, but there’s always independent study. In any case, I’d love to take you on.”
    “Oh, that’s wonderful,” Mr. Kipling said.
    “I ran the idea by my Board of Overseers,” Headmaster Syl continued. “The chocolate-daughter thing wasn’t a problem for them. We have kids from many different backgrounds. Unfortunately, well … See, we’re all about peace here. And the gun possession. Well, that’s a bit of a deal breaker. My board doesn’t want that kind of thing at Leary.”
    “We had to come down to hear this?” Mr. Kipling asked.
    “I wanted to meet Anya myself. And it’s not without hope, Stu. The folks on my board agreed that next year, when more time has passed, they’d be happy to reconsider her application.” Syl smiled at us. “Take a year off, Anya. Volunteer somewhere. Maybe take some classes in forensics at the university. Then come back to us.”
    A year was an eternity. All my friends would have graduated, even Gable Arsley. I stood and thanked Headmaster Syl for his time. Mr. Kipling was still struggling to get up from the floor, so I offered him my hand.
    On my way out the door, Headmaster Syl grabbed my arm. He lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “I’m involved with the pro-cacao movement. Maybe you’d like to speak at one of our rallies. I’m sure you’d have some superdeep insights.”
    At last, the real theme of this meeting. The real reason Mr. Kipling and I had been forced to drag ourselves downtown just for me to be rejected. This man was no better than my old history teacher Mr. Beery.
    “I’m trying to avoid making a public spectacle of myself these days, Mister … Uh, Syl,” I said.
    “Understood,” he said. “Though I wonder…” Syl furrowed his brow. “You are known, for better or for worse, and that’s power, my friend. If you’ve got a chess set, why play checkers?” Syl offered me his