I laugh. He looks good: ironed khakis and crisp white shirt, beige sweater tied over his shoulders. I smell spray starch, remember him once saying he did his own laundry — “Why should Marsha be saddled with my dirty clothes?” Such an intimate thing to disclose! Will and I would never discuss our laundry in public. But still, it's a fascinating perspective. I speculate which parent does Garth's, or if he does his own.
        Todd holds out his hand for the book. “Whatcha reading?”
        “There's this English boarding school where everybody gets to vote, kids as well as adults.”
        “I heard about that.” He riffles pages. “Spring or winter something, right?”
        Todd is a teacher, too. We are more in accord about our kids' difficulties than he and Marsha are, he claims, because she blames the kids, whereas we both blame the school system for trying to squeeze students into a one-size-fits-all mold.
        “It's called Summerhill.” I take out a cigarette. Reading, Todd holds up his hand. I light the smokes and fit one into the V of his fingers. He sucks deeply, leans back and blows perfect smoke rings. “Democracy for children — wouldn't you love to see that?”

        Over time, I accept the seminal fact that if my kids are going to benefit from free schools, I'll have to start one. I hover, trembling between exhilaration and terror.

        “Half the house! Are you nuts? Where we supposed to come up with that kind a money?”
        “It wouldn't cost much, Will.”
        “Are you kidding? We're barely treading water as it is.”
        “We can get a loan.”
        “How the hell am I supposed to remodel the house, working 24/7 paying off a loan?”
        “But I can't find any other venue.”

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