with whom he now lived were really foster parents, paid by the Welfare Department of the city of New York. A less dedicated or less imaginative teacher might have pressed for more details, but Miss Price was content with the rough outline. It was enough, in fact, to fill her with a sense of mission that shone from her eyes, as plain as love, from the first morning he joined the fourth grade. He arrived early and sat in the back row—his spine very straight, his ankles crossed precisely under the desk and his hands folded on the very center of its top, as if symmetry might make him less conspicuous—and while the other children were filing in and settling down, he received a long, expressionless stare from each of them. “We have a new classmate this morning,” Miss Price said, laboring the obvious in a way that made everybody want to giggle. “His name is Vincent Sabella and he comes from New York City. I know we’ll all do our best to make him feel at home.” This time they all swung around to stare at once, which caused him to duck his head slightly and shift his weight from one buttock to the other.
What do You think about Eleven Kinds Of Loneliness?
