Private schools never call themselves private schools. That would be a tad too snobbish, and while snobbishness is the foundation of their very existence, it would be much too revealing to admit it. That’s why they’re called independent schools. It captures the very essence of the pioneer spirit that drives parents to shell out seventeen thousand dollars a year to keep their children out of the dependent (or is it nonindependent?) public schools. It would be easier to make fun of L.A.’s network of private schools were the public school system not so dismal. How bad are the schools in L.A.? Put it this way: were it not for social promotion, no one would graduate at all and the kindergarten population alone would be the seventh-largest country in the world.
Still, Perry had mixed feelings about Crosswinds. But he liked its reputation as a progressive school. Some of the other independent schools, like Harvard-Westlake and Brentwood, were stifling in their stuffiness. Brentwood often gave detention to snuff out any creativity before it reached critical mass.
But Crosswinds was a virtual utopia of creativity, a liberal experiment gone right, a sea of children allowed to express themselves while learning. That was the good news. The bad news was that it was a rich utopia. The student phone directory was worth five hundred dollars to any good tabloid reporter, since it contained the unlisted numbers of so many stars and studio executives. They were generous parents, too. How many high schools have a planetarium?
How different are the rich? They’re different in obvious ways—Perry had already heard jokes about the student parking lot, and indeed, it looked like a convention of new SUV owners. They’re different in little ways, too. One teacher gleefully showed him the car pool list. Due to the enormous percentage of kids living under joint-custody arrangements, alternately spending three days with Dad and four with Mom one week, and then switching to four and three the next, scheduling car pools took the skills of an air-traffic controller. Some parents used Excel to keep it straight, and even then carpooling was so complicated that everyone was relieved when their children turned sixteen and could drive themselves.
Perry thought about Tim as he walked across the high school campus. This campus was called the upper campus. A few blocks away, there was the elementary school, the lower campus. But since this was Crosswinds, it was all, to use Tim’s favorite term, very upper L.A. That made this the upper upper campus, and the elementary school the upper lower campus. Tim would like that.
Perry was taking over an English class vacated when the regular teacher fell asleep in her own class, often before the students did. Interestingly, the school knew the teacher had a drug problem when they hired her. It was part of Crosswinds’ enlightened philosophy—giving people a second chance, being open-minded about their flaws and idiosyncrasies. But even at Crosswinds, passing out in class was not allowed—nor were teachers encouraged to take more drugs than their students—and that’s what she had done. Perry was a long-term substitute, but only a substitute. The other teacher would return, and Crosswinds was quite proud of that. What better lesson could it teach its students than to show how someone could triumph over adversity?
“You’ll want to address the issue in each of your classes,” suggested Bob Parrish, the earnest upper school’s director. “We don’t want to keep secrets from our community members. Encourage them to talk about it. I think you’ll be surprised how accepting they are.”
Perry decided to try it. As he stood awkwardly before his first-period English class for tenth graders, he wrote his name on the white board with a marker.
“I’m Perry Newman,” he said. Before he could continue, the class chanted back, “Hi, Perry,” as if they were in an AA meeting.
Undaunted, Perry went on. “I’ll be filling in for Toni Scheer while she recuperates—”
The class laughed loudly. “We know where she is,” said one student.
“Okay,” Perry said, correcting himself, “while she’s in rehab.”
“Do you know if she’s at Promises in Malibu?” asked Caitlin, the girl with the pierced eyebrow. “That would be so cool, because that’s where my older brother is right now.”
“Promises rocks,” agreed Alex, while the class nodded. Alex was wearing shoes he had fashioned from duct tape. As he had explained before school, he was testing them. If they lasted through the day, he’d think about marketing them at Urban Outfitters on the Santa Monica Promenade. He knew they’d sell like crazy, if he could just prove they were practical.
“What happened to your nose, Perry?” asked a student in regular shoes.
“I broke it playing basketball.” There were murmurs of approval throughout the class.
“Did you get your nose done, as long as you were there?” asked Caitlin.
“I decided to stick with my original nose,” answered Perry, and the murmurs of approval stopped.
“Well, at least you have nice hair,” offered Caitlin as something of a consolation prize. Any flattering comment about his hair invigorated Perry. It helped him justify the hundreds of dollars he spent on hair-care products.
“I understand all the tenth-grade classes are reading To Kill a Mockingbird,” said Perry, “but that every class moves at its own pace. Can anyone give me a sense of how far along you guys are?”
“I can,” said Alex. He took out a weathered yellow-and-black Cliffs Notes version of To Kill a Mockingbird and opened it to page ten. Holding it aloft, he said, “We’re right here.”
Perry knew exactly what that meant. In his briefcase under the desk, he had his own Cliffs Notes. He thought it might give him an edge with the smarter students.
“Okay, I think I know what you’re talking about,” said Perry. “Is everyone pretty much in the same place?”
“Not me,” said Caitlin mournfully. “My mother had a face peel that went very, very badly, so I haven’t been able to do any reading at all.”