Page 106 of What Boys Learn

“We found variation between the groups, but not as much as we would have hoped. Certainly not as much asIwould have hoped. It’s a stubborn population. Still, I got to know Ewan and other interesting men whom I continue to visit.”

Whom. The only other person I know who sayswhomis my English lit teacher.

“And imagine my pleasure,” he said, “when I found out Ewan had a sister. Imagine myextremepleasure when that sister ended up in one of my classes. I was tickled talking to her. Noting their similarities, their differences—not that I let her know I’d talked to Ewan. And then I found out she had a young son.”

He takes one hand off the steering wheel and places it over his heart.

“A son with behavioral problems,” he goes on. “That was clear from the very outset, when she’d rattle off her various excuses for missing class.” He slows down again, like he’s expecting me to tell him to exit. “Not too late!”

“No, I don’t think I want to go to Bosqueville,” I say.

“Then why didn’t you say so.”

• • •

We’re north of Madison when he finally puts on music. I thought I was going to die, going the whole way with nothing to listen to, no phone, neither of us talking about anything interesting. He plays with the dial, jazz to Bruce Springsteen to REM to classical to Taylor Swift.

“Like her?”

“Not really.”

He keeps fidgeting, keeps switching, which might be even worse than bad music or no music at all. I never noticed that “Matt” was so fidgety before. Worse than me.

He returns to the jazz station. “This better?”

“Yeah. It’s . . . relaxing.”

He looks over at me, smug as fuck. “It irritates you.”

“Not really.”

“You’re a bad liar, generally. An omitter, yes. That’s not the same. But don’t worry. It’s learnable. Everything is learnable, if you’re high intelligence, as we are.”

Dr. Matt is still staring at me. From our sessions, I know the guy can stare a long time. But we were sitting in his office before, just listening to the tick of the clock. This is different. I’m getting nervous now, seeing how close we are getting to the big semi ahead of us with the mud flaps and a chain dragging on the highway, throwing sparks.

“It’s easier to lie to my mom—omit, whatever—than to you.”

He smiles and makes this sort of gee-whiz face, tucking his chin down for a second. I guess he’s flattered.

“I just mean she’s gullible,” I say.

“She’s steered by her emotions. If she wants to believe something or avoid believing something, she’ll throw her whole heart into it. That makes her easy to deceive. Like most women.”

It’s another theme of his. Matt’s divorced. He told me that a while back, but he starts getting angry when it comes up and he never makes it to the end of his story.

“But you and I were talking about music,” he says. “I want you to think about something you like, something that relaxes you. Nice blue water at the bottom of the pool, a girl’s breasts, whatever.”

I crack up at “breasts,” but I can tell he’s serious.

“And stop digging the tips of your fingers into your jeans like you’re trying to pry your kneecaps off,” he says.

“Okay.” I hadn’t realized I was doing it. Relax the hands. Relax the jaw. Tits make me smile so I go for the water, instead. I’m down there, holding my breath, but it feels good. Weightless. Deep.

“Tell me you like jazz.”

He called me a shitty liar, so I try the truth. “I don’t like jazz.”

“No, Benjamin. You’re missing the point. Tell me youlikejazz.”