![]() ![]() Now he brought his bike to a halt in front of 963 Claremont Street and stepped off it. If he’d done any better-straight A’s, for example-his friends might have begun to think he was weird. Straight A’s and B’s all the way up the line. Upshaw had scratched: “Todd is an extremely apt pupil.” He was, too. Her favorite was his final fourth-grade card, on which Mrs. She had kept all of Todd’s old school report cards in a folder. His mom had majored in French in college and had met Todd’s father when he desperately needed a tutor. ![]() His dad was an architectural engineer who made forty thousand dollars a year. ![]() He looked like the sort of boy who might whistle while he worked, and he often did so. They were the kind that come with your name printed inside-JACK AND MARY BURKE, OR DON AND SALLY, OR THE MURCHISONS. He also looked like the kind of kid who might sell greeting cards for premiums, and he had done that, too. He looked like the kind of kid who might have a paper route, and as a matter of fact, he did-he delivered the Santo Donato Clarion. He was smiling a summer vacation smile as he pedaled through the sun and shade not too far from his own house. He looked like the total all-American kid as he pedaled his twenty-six-inch Schwinn with the apehanger handlebars up the residential suburban street, and that’s just what he was: Todd Bowden, thirteen years old, five-feet-eight and a healthy one hundred and forty pounds, hair the color of ripe corn, blue eyes, white even teeth, lightly tanned skin marred by not even the first shadow of adolescent acne. ![]()
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