Dr. Lewin looked at her and said nothing for what seemed to Charlotte ten or fifteen seconds, although of course it wasn’t nearly that long.

“Thank you,” he said. Then he turned to the rest of the class. “That’s precisely why. Flaubert never simply explained a key point if he could show it instead, and to show it he needed a point of view, and as”—he turned toward Charlotte, but since he had no idea what her name was, he simply gestured in her direction—“has just said…”

Dr. Lewin continued in this vein, implicitly verifying the superiority of her intellect, but Charlotte kept her head lowered and didn’t dare look at him. Her cheeks were burning. She was overcome by a familiar feeling: guilt. The rest of the class would resent her, this freshman girl who had turned up in their midst and made them look bad.

She kept her eyes turned down toward Madame Bovary and made out like she was busy taking notes in her spiral notebook. The class discussion continued with the same fits, stops, silences, and starts as before. Gradually it deteriorated into Dr. Lewin asking students about nothing more than how the plot was developed. The girls—there weren’t many—supplied most of the answers.

By and by Dr. Lewin was saying, “In chapter eleven, Charles, who’s not even a surgeon, attempts a radical operation that’s supposed to correct the clubfoot of a stable hand named Hippolyte. He botches it and ruins his reputation, which becomes a turning point in the book. Now, can someone tell me what drives Charles, who is not exactly a cutting-edge medical pioneer—if you’ll pardon the unintentional pun—to attempt something so risky?”

The usual silence…Then, in a suddenly lively voice, Dr. Lewin said, “Yes! Mr. Johanssen?”

Charlotte looked up, and the professor was pointing toward the rear of the class. His sallow face had brightened. It was the first time he had called a student by name. Charlotte craned about to see who this Mr. Johanssen might be. In the back of the room, a big boy, a giant of a boy, was just lowering his hand. His neck was a thick white column rising up out of a muscular torso only barely obscured by his T-shirt. His head was practically shaved on the sides and had just a little crew cut crop of blond hair on top.

“He did it,” said the giant, “because his wife had all these ambitions, and the thing is—”

“Hey! Jojo read the book!” It was a gigantic black youth in the row in front of the white giant; he was so twisted about that Charlotte could see only the back of his completely shaved head. “The man read the book!”

“Aw-right!” said another huge black youth with a shaved head who was sitting next to the white giant, whereupon the two black giants bumped each other’s fists together in a celebratory gesture called “pounding.” “Outta sight!”

A third black giant, next to the second one, joined in. “Go go, Jojo! You the man!” Now all three were exchanging fist pounds. “Where’s Charles at? We got us another scholar!”…“Awwww yeah!”

All three had turned toward the white giant, Jojo, and were holding out their fists so he could join in this merry mockery of scholasticism.

The white giant started to raise his fist, then withdrew it. He started to smile, but the smile turned into lips parted in bewilderment. He crossed his arms in front of his chest as if to rescue his hands from their ribaldry, but then he summoned up a smile, as if to say he was amused, too.

“All right, gentlemen,” said Dr. Lewin in a placating tone, “let’s see if we can’t settle down. Thank you…Mr. Johanssen? As you were saying.”

“Lemme see,” said Mr. Johanssen, “lemme see…” He adopted a faint smirk as he reflected. “Oh yeah. He did the operation because…his wife wanted some money to buy some stuff?” He now smiled, as if sounding ignorant was funny.

Dr. Lewin spoke coldly this time. “I don’t think so, Mr. Johanssen. It’s made quite clear that he charged no fee for the operation.” He turned his gaze away from Mr. Johanssen and looked for other hands.

Charlotte was aghast. It was obvious that the boy had been serious when he raised his hand and started to answer the question. Moreover, he was right on target. Emma Bovary’s social ambitions were at the bottom of it. And then he’d decided to play the fool.

Her eyes scanned the leaded-glass windows…the arches, the carvings, the ceiling murals…the treasures of Dupont University. Whatever was taking place in this grand old room, she couldn’t comprehend.

After class she tarried, hoping to have a word with Dr. Lewin. That wasn’t difficult. Nobody else stuck around. He was stuffing his papers into a nylon backpack. Yet another subteen touch. His childish ensemble made him look not more youthful but more decrepit. Somehow it underscored the scoliotic slump of his shoulders, the concavity of his chest, the hirsute tabescence of his limbs.

“Dr. Lewin? Excuse me—”

“Yes?”

“My name’s Charlotte Simmons. I’m in your class.”

A dry smile. “I’m well aware. By the way, here at Dupont we don’t use ‘Professor’ or ‘Doctor.’ Everybody is ‘Mister’—or ‘Miz’ or ‘Mrs.’ Unless you’re referring to a medical doctor.”

“I’m sorry…Mr. Lewin…I didn’t know that.”

“Oh, it’s just a harmless bit of reverse snobbery, actually. The idea is, if you’re teaching at Dupont, of course you have a doctorate. Anyway, that’s the custom. But I cut you off.”

“Sir, I’m—well, I guess I’m sort of confused.” Her voice sounded so mousy and hoarse, from nervousness. “I thought we were reading Madame Bovary in French, but everybody else is reading it in English, and I read it in French.”

Mr. Lewin flipped his glasses down from the crest of his forehead and studied her for a moment. “What year are you, Ms. Simmons?”

“I’m a freshman.”

“Ah. Advanced Placement.”

“Yes, sir.”

Big sigh. Then his entire demeanor changed, and he looked at her with a world-weary but confidential smile. “My dear…We’re not supposed to call you that—I gather it’s considered demeaning to the female student—but anyway—I don’t think this is the course for you.”

Charlotte was taken aback. “Why?”

Mr. Lewin pursed his lips and slid them back and forth across his teeth. “To be perfectly honest with you, you’re overqualified.”

“Overqualified?”

“This course is designed for upperclassmen who are…uhmmm…linguafrankly challenged but nevertheless have to fulfill their language requirements some way. You’re obviously a very bright young woman. I’m sure you can figure out who most of these students are.”

Charlotte’s mouth fell open slightly. “I liked the title so much. It sounded wonderful.”

“Well—I’m sorry. I completely understand. I wish someone had red-flagged it for you. I’m not particularly enthusiastic about teaching this course myself, but it seems to be a necessary thing. One tries to think of it as community service.”

Jojo didn’t hurry anywhere after he left the class. His next class wasn’t for another hour, and breaks between classes gave him just about his only opportunities to stroll about the campus and…be noticed. It wasn’t something he thought about consciously. It was more like a mild addiction. What was best—and it happened a lot—was when some student he had never laid eyes on before would hail him with a “Go go, Jojo!” and a big grin and a little wave, which was in fact a salute.

It was one of those September days when the air is nice and dry and the sunshine is warm, toasty, and gentle, even to fair skin like his. He had a warm feeling inside, too. Treyshawn, André, and Curtis had treated him like…one of them. They’d even wanted to pound him. Mr. Lewin had gotten a little frosted off…but they had treated him like one of them.

Fiske Hall, the building he had just departed, was right on the Great Yard. Everywhere you looked were the old-fashioned stone buildings that said “Dupont” even to people who had seen them only in photographs. The famous library tower was right over there…All over the Yard’s lush green lawn, students were hustling along the walkways to their next classes. Jojo stood on a walkway pondering the matter of which direction would satisfy his urge quickest…He could already see, or thought he could see, some students nudging each other and discreetly pointing out his famous towering figure. Yes, it was a good feeling…His eminence at this particular crossroads of American college life, the Great Yard at Dupont, was incalculable…What an awesome day it was. He filled his lungs with the perfect air…He opened his very pores to the perfect sunshine…It wasn’t a question of whether, but when, some student would salute and sing out Go go, Jojo!