Martin handed my father and me copies of the Spindrift School brochure. “It looks more like an old mansion than a school,” I said. “An eclectic Queen Anne. How can it be a school?” “Everything about it is unorthodox. You’ll see as you read,” he said. I glanced at my father to show him my skepticism. Not that I was afraid of going to a school away from home, but a part of me was hoping he would say, “It won’t be that long before she’s completely away from us. Why rush it?” “As you can see, the grounds are beautiful,” Mr. Martin continued in a seller’s tone, as if he were getting a commission. It occurred to me that maybe he was. Maybe I was being exploited and victimized once again. “It’s fenced and walled in, a very private place with the most sophisticated technological security. As you will see, it has most anything any really good school or college would. Turn the page. See that modern laboratory, that computer room, and look at that library. There are a thousand volumes, covering law, science, literature, anything you can possibly think of researching, plus the most up-to-date internet access, of course.”
