EVERY MORNING the Birnbaum chauffeur, whose name was Monroe, drove the limousine up to the front of the house. Jeremiah would come down the grand staircase carrying his briefcase and wearing his school uniform — blazer, striped tie, gray pleated trousers and shiny black shoes. His parents would be waiting at the bottom to inspect him. They would make sure his tie was knotted properly, his shirt had no spots of juice on it, and his socks matched. Monroe was supposed to hop out of the limousine and open the back door, but he knew Jeremiah hated that. So he let Jeremiah open the door himself. Unless, of course, his parents were watching. “Where to, Jeremiah?” Monroe said one morning in October. He was supposed to call Jeremiah “Master Birnbaum,” but he knew Jeremiah didn’t like that, either. “Anywhere,” Jeremiah said. “São Paulo, Brazil.” “Tempting. How about school, instead?”
