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Breeding Club 2: The Exile of Martens
“Just don’t look too obvious,” Mundi whispered.
“Obvious how?” Zia asked.
“Like you’re waiting for someone who’s in trouble,” Mundi said. “They can tell.”
“Who can tell?”
“People,” Mundi replied. “And dogs. If they have dogs with them. Dogs can smell fear.”
The trio fell silent until the thick hair on the top of Martens’ bobbing head came into view.
“That’s him, that’s him, behind the lady with the stroller!” Mundi whispered. “He’s just . . . walking like everything’s normal.”
“He’s grown another inch!” Tassa declared, voice cracking. “Please be sweet to him.”
The woman with the stroller went left, exposing Martens in all his understudied glory, and the three females waiting for him expelled their breath as one.
Martens kept his thick black hair professionally short, parted on the left. Beneath his hairline rested two thick black eyebrows above a pair of dark, intelligent eyes. He was wearing a black sweatshirt with “Princeton” spelled out in orange letters—something he’d been given during a National Merit visit the year before—loose-fitting jeans and a second sweatshirt, tied around his waist.
As soon as he saw Tassa and the girls, he smiled, did a sort of ironic hop and strode toward them, laughing and spreading his arms, the bookbag on his right shoulder swaying.
Was he trying not to be seen? Was he a fugitive from justice? Was a hitman or an anti-terrorist task force about to descend on him? If they were, he seemed completely unworried about it, and Tassa and her daughters quickly succumbed to his infectious familial joy, their furrowed brows and tight lips yielding to broad smiles and shouts of welcome.
During Martens’ retrieval of his trunk from the luggage carousel, and all the way to the car, and all the way home, Tassa caught up with her nephew, Zia and Mundi caught up with their cousin, they talked about his flight and the family back in New Jersey and the October weather there, and two things did not no black vans or helicopters swarmed around them, and no one asked why Aunt Galma had sent her son to live with them. Throughout, Martens was his usual charming self, joking with the girls, flirting lightly with Tassa—just enough to assure her she looked younger than her age, prettier than other moms, and her cooking was remembered with fondness.
Only once they neared their subdivision did Tassa turn the conversation to slightly more practical matters.
“So, Martens,” she began, “what are we going to do about your schooling?”
“He’s coming to Country Day with us,” Mundi declared. “We know everyone there, and he’ll so fit in.”
“He can probably teach some of the classes,” Zia asserted.
“I’ll be studying online,” Martens said. “I’ve found a school.”
“You’re not in high school anymore?” Mundi asked, her disappointment obvious.
“I am,” he said. “It’s online. A national program. American Scholar. I’m on the biology track.”
“American Scholar? That’s the name of your high school?”
“It’s not really like a high school, with a name,” Martens said. “American Scholar is the name of the Institute. They pull in all kinds of teachers, do all kinds of programs. High school, college level. Even some graduate courses.
“Obvious how?” Zia asked.
“Like you’re waiting for someone who’s in trouble,” Mundi said. “They can tell.”
“Who can tell?”
“People,” Mundi replied. “And dogs. If they have dogs with them. Dogs can smell fear.”
The trio fell silent until the thick hair on the top of Martens’ bobbing head came into view.
“That’s him, that’s him, behind the lady with the stroller!” Mundi whispered. “He’s just . . . walking like everything’s normal.”
“He’s grown another inch!” Tassa declared, voice cracking. “Please be sweet to him.”
The woman with the stroller went left, exposing Martens in all his understudied glory, and the three females waiting for him expelled their breath as one.
Martens kept his thick black hair professionally short, parted on the left. Beneath his hairline rested two thick black eyebrows above a pair of dark, intelligent eyes. He was wearing a black sweatshirt with “Princeton” spelled out in orange letters—something he’d been given during a National Merit visit the year before—loose-fitting jeans and a second sweatshirt, tied around his waist.
As soon as he saw Tassa and the girls, he smiled, did a sort of ironic hop and strode toward them, laughing and spreading his arms, the bookbag on his right shoulder swaying.
Was he trying not to be seen? Was he a fugitive from justice? Was a hitman or an anti-terrorist task force about to descend on him? If they were, he seemed completely unworried about it, and Tassa and her daughters quickly succumbed to his infectious familial joy, their furrowed brows and tight lips yielding to broad smiles and shouts of welcome.
During Martens’ retrieval of his trunk from the luggage carousel, and all the way to the car, and all the way home, Tassa caught up with her nephew, Zia and Mundi caught up with their cousin, they talked about his flight and the family back in New Jersey and the October weather there, and two things did not no black vans or helicopters swarmed around them, and no one asked why Aunt Galma had sent her son to live with them. Throughout, Martens was his usual charming self, joking with the girls, flirting lightly with Tassa—just enough to assure her she looked younger than her age, prettier than other moms, and her cooking was remembered with fondness.
Only once they neared their subdivision did Tassa turn the conversation to slightly more practical matters.
“So, Martens,” she began, “what are we going to do about your schooling?”
“He’s coming to Country Day with us,” Mundi declared. “We know everyone there, and he’ll so fit in.”
“He can probably teach some of the classes,” Zia asserted.
“I’ll be studying online,” Martens said. “I’ve found a school.”
“You’re not in high school anymore?” Mundi asked, her disappointment obvious.
“I am,” he said. “It’s online. A national program. American Scholar. I’m on the biology track.”
“American Scholar? That’s the name of your high school?”
“It’s not really like a high school, with a name,” Martens said. “American Scholar is the name of the Institute. They pull in all kinds of teachers, do all kinds of programs. High school, college level. Even some graduate courses.
201 pages, Kindle Edition
Published March 1, 2024
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