Accelerated

  “But isn’t that pretty risky?”

  “Five decades’ worth of research have proven it’s safe.”

  “But it’s speed, right? That can’t be good for a child.”

  “Speed is a street drug. Ritalin is a pharmaceutical,” she said. “In children with Attention Deficit Disorder, the stimulant in the drug usually has a reverse effect, calming them down. Nobody knows why exactly. It’s absolutely counterintuitive.”

  “So how often would he have to take it?”

  “We’re jumping ahead of ourselves. Why don’t we get a diagnosis first, then we can discuss what to do about it.”

  “I’m just curious.” He knew not to believe half the stuff on the Internet. He just didn’t know which half. He was sitting across from a qualified professional and he was going to get his money’s worth. “I know there are extended-release pills, right?”

  She uncrossed her legs, then recrossed them. “Okay, let’s talk about it now.” At whatever she was charging an hour, she should really lose the annoyed tone. “I never give extended-release in the beginning. I start with half a pill to make sure there’s no negative reaction. Then I raise the dose slowly until it gets to a therapeutic level. And even then, if there’s any problem, methylphenidate is metabolized completely after four hours.”

  “So after four hours what happens?”

  “He’d have to take another dose.” She sat back.

  He digested the information. “That means he’d have to take the medication during the school day. Everyone will know.”

  “Not necessarily. But I understand your concern. Does Toby have a problem sitting down at home and focusing on homework?”

  “Not usually,” he said.

  “If he’s not hyperactive …” she started.

  “He’s not hyperactive.” He sounded defensive.

  “So then he might have inattentive-type ADHD.”

  As if he was supposed to know what she was talking about.

  “It means that he’s unable to focus in distracting situations, like school. But at home, without his friends and all the visual stimuli of the classroom, he wouldn’t need the medication. I wouldn’t want to have him on medication more than he needed to be.”

  “Even though it’s safe.” Sean was being bratty, but she deserved it.

  “I’m quite conservative when it comes to medicating children,” she said, unfazed by the brattiness. “So yes, that’s right.”

  He liked that she’d called herself conservative.

  “Why don’t we finish the questionnaire so I can get Toby in here.”

  “Right. Sure.” He’d almost forgotten about Toby sitting out there alone.

  She wanted to know if Toby tended to misplace his shoes or his jacket and if his room was messy. He chuckled, assuming it was a joke.

  It turned out she wasn’t the joking type. She simply stared at him with an impenetrable expression until he stopped laughing.

  Despite the unsettling combination of attraction to the doctor and a generalized queasiness about what he was doing in her office, he did his best over the next fifteen minutes to answer her questions. Did Toby forget his backpack at home, did he hand his schoolwork in on time, was he squirmy or restless, was he impulsive, did he fail to finish what he started, was he easily frustrated? The hardest questions were about the tantrums. Yes, he had them, he said. No, it wasn’t typical. He mentioned the math packet and Jane’s pennies.

  Dr. Altherra—he wondered if he could call her Angela—was scribbling notes on her pad, nodding in encouragement.

  When she finished with him, she opened the door to the waiting room and told Toby to come in. He shot Sean a look of disgust as if to say, You left me there all alone. What is wrong with you?

  “Do you know why you’re here, Toby?” She focused only on Toby, as if Sean weren’t there at all.

  Toby shrugged. He was still in his down jacket, still wearing his backpack.

  “You must be boiling,” Sean said, unzipping him.

  Angela waited patiently for him to get comfortable. “Your dad wants to make sure you’re able to pay close enough attention at school. I’m going to ask him to step outside, if it’s all right with you. And we can talk for a few minutes.”

  Toby’s eyes widened. Sean nodded reassuringly. Toby looked at the ground and responded with a less than enthusiastic, “K.”

  “I’ll be right outside.” He gave Toby a pat on the back and took his turn in the waiting room. But sitting patiently was not easy. He moved his chair away from the wall and pressed his ear against it. He strained to hear, but an annoying contraption on the floor that looked like a smoke detector was emitting a fuzzy noise that made it impossible. He reached down and unplugged it, then pressed his ear against the wall again. The damn pre-war walls were too thick, Angela’s voice was so muffled he could only make out every third word: Toby … year … school … on. He couldn’t hear Toby’s response at all. It was more frustrating than enlightening. He picked up Newsweek. The cover type read, “The Boy Crisis: At Every Level of Education They’re Falling Behind. What To Do?”

  “Fabulous,” he said out loud and started reading.

  Finally, Dr. Altherra opened the door and ushered Toby out. “We had a nice talk about school and about home. Then Toby drew me a picture.”

  Toby held up an excellent drawing of Jess that somehow captured her toughness and vulnerability. “He had a lot of nice things to say about his new teacher,” Angela said. “But he said some of his other teachers consider him a troublemaker. He was very engaged and focused in the room with me, though.” She turned to Toby. “You’re a very bright young man.”

  He couldn’t tell what to make of the report. “So …”

  She handed him a bill. “I’ll need a check for $325,” she said.

  He took the bill and put it in his jacket pocket. She had an expectant look on her face. Then he realized. “Oh, you want that now?”

  “That would be great, thanks.” He wrote out the check and thought about the fact that they’d be eating ramen noodles for the next month. On the way out, he stuffed the Newsweek in his jacket and proceeded to Cyber Zone, where Toby destroyed him in Ghost Recon, as predicted.

  THE NEXT DAY TOBY’S CLASSROOM WAS PACKED WITH PARENTS who had arrived early to stake out prime real estate. The room was impossibly loud as they talked over each other. How did this many parents manage to get away from work at two o’clock in the afternoon? Especially in December, when parents were “invited” to attend holiday presentations, performances, or parties every other day. There was no way he could make it to everything. He’d already chosen to keep his job over hearing Toby try to squeak out “Twinkle Twinkle” on the recorder.

  He snaked his way through the parents, many of whom were typing furiously into Blackberries. He propped himself against a bookshelf in the back and eavesdropped on Cheryl and Lilly’s mom. “Don’s back here for a Board meeting tonight.” Cheryl faked a yawn. “Boring.”

  “Come by my place,” Lilly’s mom said. “We have lots of wine left over from the party.”

  Cheryl noticed Sean and winked. He looked away, wondering if anyone had seen. Luckily Jess was busy trying to quiet the group. “I’d like to welcome you to 3 B’s first annual extra-credit performance,” she said. Her dress wrapped around and tied at her waist. The engineering was so simple. Untie the belt, give her one good twirl and she’d be out of it. He pushed the thought from his mind when he saw how she smiled nervously at the roomful of power parents. “The assignment was to tell or show something that says something about who you are. Just so you know, I’ve never given this assignment with such a huge turnout. Every single student in the class wanted to join in. So I’ll stop talking now. We have a lot to get to.”

  She gestured to Kayla, who sprung up as if propelled by a trampoline. She handed her iPod to Jess. Glittery stars dotted its pink case. Jess hooked up the iPod to the Mac and Kayla flashed a prim smile. “This song describes me best because I have
such an optimistic personality.” She gave a theatrical nod and Jess pressed the play button. Soon, Annie was belting out: The sun’ll come out tomorrow. Sean shuddered. Bet your bottom dollar that tomorrow, there’ll be sun. Kayla started doing cartwheels and flips in the tiny space at the front of the room. She had a shit-eating grin on her face as she hurled her body through the air. At one point she picked up a long baton with streamers on the end and made some figure eights with it. Sean looked over at Kayla’s mother, whose plumped lips silently counted out the beats. She couldn’t have been more intent on the performance if she’d been up there herself.

  Next was Alexis. She passed out flyers from the “Bodies” exhibit at South Street Seaport and took great joy in describing exactly how each organ had been preserved for the show. Someone really ought to watch that kid. She was the type to put the cat in the microwave just to see what happened.

  Lilly tapped for her life in shiny tap shoes. Zack dribbled and twirled a basketball like a Harlem Globetrotter. Marcus illustrated how to use a solar oven he’d made from a shoebox and tin foil and Isaac displayed a scale recreation of the Acropolis he’d made out of Legos.

  Drew carried up an electric keyboard. “This is Für Elise by Beethoven,” he said, then played it flawlessly. “Can you tell us what Für Elise says about you?” Jess asked.

  His cheeks flushed and his eyes darted around the room. “Um, I … um …” he stuttered. “I forget.” Drew rushed back to his seat, mortified. Drew’s mother pressed her lips into a tight line of disapproval.

  “Well, you played it beautifully,” Jess said. She turned to address the whole class, making sure to avoid the glare Drew’s mother was aiming at her son. “Don’t forget, extra credit is just like any other work. It’s for you to do on your own. I can give your parents extra work, too, if they need more to do.”

  The parents laughed, uncomfortably.

  Finally, Toby stood up. Not only hadn’t Sean helped him, he had no idea what Toby had done for the show. He unrolled a truly impressive drawing of Calvin and pinned it to the bulletin board. In the picture, Calvin was dressed as a super hero with a super hero’s expression, body language, attitude. “I think who your friends are says a lot about you,” he said. “Calvin is my best friend, and I wanted him to be here today.”

  The room was quiet. Some of the parents dabbed the corners of their eyes with tissues. He was so proud of Toby just then, and thought about Melanie and Cal and what they must be going through. He decided to call them. He had to, no matter what Shineman said.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  RICK HAD BEEN STRUTTING AROUND BUZZ’S BEIGE-ON-BEIGE offices ever since the Reese Witherspoon cover had sold out on every newsstand across the country. Somehow, just before Gino was arrested in the south of France for shooting Jessica Simpson sunbathing topless, he’d managed to snap Reese topless and propped on her elbows, a studly unidentified Mediterranean man rubbing her back.

  It turned out that Gino had spent a total of three nights, not the standard one, in the Cap D’Antibes jail, for which he charged the magazine heavily. Gino’s trying tale of incarceration—which Rick conveniently leaked to E!—coupled with the money shots of Reese, had become the story of the moment. Now everyone was chasing Buzz, which made Rick immeasurably happy. Reese was planning to sue, but Rick wasn’t worried. That went with the territory when you were a sleazy tabloid.

  Rick floated across the industrial carpeting in presidential mode, one hand thrust into the pocket of his Dockers, the other administering gentle slaps of encouragement to underlings as he passed. He stopped at Sean’s cubicle and contorted his face with benevolence. Rick never truly smiled. Even now, what amounted to virtual beaming from Rick took the form of an athletic frown, the corners of his mouth pointing down, his eyes lit up with glee.

  “Life is good,” Rick said, enigmatically.

  Life was never good if you were Rick Hollingsworth. Life was depressing, unjust, unpleasant. It was something you endured. No matter how bad his own life seemed, he was always better off/ happier/less suicidal than Rick.

  “The company’s still high on us, huh?”

  “Understatement of the year.” Rick puffed his chest. “They are thrilled. Crandall’s thrilled. So thrilled,” he went on, “he’s invited us to dinner on Saturday. At the Townhouse.”

  “No shit?”

  “No shit,” Rick replied. Their hands met in a slow motion high five. He’d never met Art Crandall. Crandall was a Page Six staple. He owned three television stations and twelve magazines besides Buzz and was always in the middle of an affair, divorce, or hostile takeover and was known in the media world as a “colorful character.” One of Bradley’s most well-known alumni, he was a media mogul who people in the industry feared and courted simultaneously. Plus, if the write-ups were accurate, everyone from Mick Jagger to Obama to Bill Gates had stopped by the Townhouse in the past two months.

  “Seven thirty.” Rick winked. “Bring a date.”

  On his way home that afternoon, the streets were clogged with masses of humanity. The main thing was to maintain forward momentum. A wiry little guy with glasses tried to squeeze between him and a woman wearing running shoes and nylons, like a car trying to weave in and out of bumper-to-bumper traffic. Sean nailed him “accidentally” with his elbow. The guy tried from different angles, but ultimately gave up. Sean smiled. A small victory.

  His phone rang as he got to Grand Central. It was Dr. Altherra.

  “Do you have a moment to talk?” she asked in her soothing voice. He imagined the loose wisps of hair framing her face.

  “Sure,” he said, and tucked into a spot by the information booth. The wiry guy darted past.

  “I’ve spoken with the school about Toby and I’ve also read through their Conners scales. It seems that his behavior in school—and occasionally at home from what you and I discussed—is in keeping with a diagnosis of Attention Deficit Disorder, Inattentive Type. Though from what some of his teachers are saying—the music teacher in particular—it sounds like he may have some hyperactivity as well.”

  She had to be wrong. That could happen, he was sure of it.

  “Did I lose you?”

  “You said he was focused and engaged when you met him.”

  “Yes,” she said. “But that’s not counter-indicative for the diagnosis. For Toby and other children with Inattentive Type ADHD, they’re perfectly fine one-on-one and in small groups. They’re usually fine at home. But in distracting environments like school they find it hard to pay attention. That’s why the school’s reports are so important for the diagnosis.”

  The diagnosis. Altherra had had a few conversations, administered a questionnaire, and boom, Toby was diagnosed.

  “We live in New York. Everyone’s distracted.”

  “I’m not,” she said. Of course she wasn’t. She was perfect. “And I’m afraid Toby is more distractible than other children.”

  This diagnosis struck him as overly vague. Unscientific. What about lab results? A blood test? Empirical proof? “What about his mother leaving? You need to factor that into all this.”

  “I haven’t forgotten that.”

  Could the diagnosis be accurate? Could it be a result of something he’d done? Had some rogue gene from his screwed-up family snuck in and messed up Toby’s brain? His uncle Hutch had always struck him as overly antsy.

  “The good news is that there are proven ways to treat the problem,” Dr. Altherra said. “I think we talked about this in my office.”

  His head was spinning and there was nowhere to sit, just hoards of people rushing past him.

  “If you’re nervous about giving Toby Ritalin, I can tell you I’ve had a lot of success with another methylphenidate-based medication specifically designed for children, called Metattent Junior.”

  “Are you sure this is the right way to go?”

  “In my medical opinion? Definitely.”

  “I’m going to have to talk to Toby’s pediatrician about this.” He’d put
in a call to Dr. Jon, Toby’s pediatrician, three weeks ago, but Jon was getting harder and harder to reach. He was an Upper West Side liberal who hated private school, privilege, and parents who overreacted. Sean trusted him completely and always got a straight answer from the guy. If there was anyone who was going to tell him not to medicate his eight-year-old—to take it slow and explore less extreme options—it was going to be Jon.

  Unfortunately, Dr. Jon had overextended himself. In a city where the best doctors had virtually stopped taking insurance, Jon took any insurance card you dug out of your wallet. As a result it took weeks for him to return a call.

  “Great. You should do all the research you can. Not necessarily online, though. There’s a lot of misinformation out there.” She paused. “I can’t call in a prescription for a controlled substance, so I’ll pop it in the mail. Call if you have more questions.”

  He snapped the phone shut and stood in the middle of the craziness. The panic started somewhere in his chest and spread through his body like a swarm of red ants. He had no idea what to do. None of it was supposed to be this way. Major decisions like this required two parents. For the first time he realized how utterly alone he was. He flipped open the phone and scrolled down to Ellie’s number. His thumb hovered over the call button. His heart was racing and he squeegeed the sweat from his forehead with his forearm. No, he decided. He’d rather throw himself in front of a speeding Metro-North train than call Ellie and ask for her help.

  He called Dr. Jon’s office again. “No I do not want to leave a message.” His voice was loud, but none of the people around him seemed to notice. You had to blow a foghorn in Grand Central to get anyone’s attention. “I’ve left five. I need to speak to Jon today. Now.”

  The sheepish girl at the desk told him Jon was with patients and that the office closed at six. He left another message.

  He called twice more on his way to Madison Square Garden. He’d just keep calling until Jon was finished reattaching a severed digit or surgically removing an M&M from a four-year-old’s nostril or whatever pediatricians did.