Code Orange

O
n Friday, Mr. Lynch walked around the classroom making sure everybody had written down the due date in their assignment books. Luckily he started at the far side, giving Mitty Blake time to whisper to his best friend,“Due date for what?”

“Notes for the term paper,” whispered Derek. “The one you've been working on for four weeks?”

Mitty hadn't even chosen a topic yet.

But Mr. Lynch had been teaching for years. He had encountered many Mittys. So although the paper itself didn't have to be turned in until February 18, on this coming Monday, February 2, each student in advanced biology had to submit an outline, ten pages of notes and a bibliography including four physical books.

“
Books
?” said Mitty, stunned. He was sure this had not
been mentioned before. “Mr. Lynch, nobody uses books anymore. They're useless, especially in science. Facts change too fast.”

“Books,” repeated Mr. Lynch. “This is to prevent you people from doing a hundred percent of your research online.”

Mitty had done zero percent anywhere, but he had certainly planned—insofar as Mitty had plans, which he didn't—to do his research online. So he said,“Mr. Lynch, an actual book is out of date before it gets printed. Anyway, a good scientist does laboratory research.”

“We did laboratory research last fall, Mitty,” said Mr. Lynch. “I don't recall that you threw yourself into your project. I recall that you received a passing grade only through the efforts of the rest of your team. A scientist, Mitty, has to be able to dig through the published research of others. A scientist has to grasp the background and history of things. That means books.”

Mitty was willing to grasp the background and history of rock music. On a slow day, he could listen to Nirvana or Pearl Jam. But the background and history of
disease
?

Because that was the depressing topic of this assignment: infectious disease.

“Each of you,” Mr. Lynch had said, so many weeks ago that Mitty could barely remember it, “will choose an infectious disease of plants, animals or humans. You will study the disease in history and its ancient treatments or lack of them. If the disease has a specific history for us here in New York City—for example, during the yellow fever epidemics of the 1700s, people sometimes died at the rate of three hundred per city block per day—you will cover that. Other sections of your paper: description
and course of the disease, current treatments and ongoing research. Finally, if your disease has an application in bioterrorism, you will cover that also.”

Even Mitty had awakened briefly to the exciting possibility of bioterrorism.

Derek of course had wanted to be an exception to the rules. “Can we research bioterrorism only? I want to do anthrax but specifically Ottilie Lundgren, the ninety-four-year-old woman who died of anthrax in 2001 when she opened her mail. She's FBI case number 184. It's impossible for me to use books. No book has been written about her yet. All my research has to be online.” Derek warmed to a favorite topic. “I can solve her mystery. I believe everything is online now, every clue I need, and I can nail her murderer.”

“I would be proud of you,” Mr. Lynch had said, without sarcasm,“and you may focus on Ottilie Lundgren, but all that will do is make your paper longer. You still have to include everything I described and you still must have four books. Remember, class, that I too know how to use Amazon.com. I too can pull up a title that looks useful and stick it in a bibliography without actually reading the book. I too can open up the free first chapter and find something to put in my notes. I will know if you actually read a book or if you are cheating.”

Mr. Lynch was one of the few teachers who admitted that even here at St. Raphael's, a Manhattan prep school for the rich and/or brilliant (Mitty fell into the first category), there was such a thing as cheating. Other teachers skirted this possibility as if it were anthrax-laced mail.

Right away, rare cool African diseases like Ebola and Lassa fever had been chosen by eager students. Two
other kids also wanted anthrax but promised not to invade Derek's territory by mentioning Ottilie Lundgren. As the days went by people began discussing their topics with excitement, as if they were genuinely interested. One girl had been allowed to choose “Immunization: Does It or Does It Not Cause Autism?” Mitty would get autism just thinking about that. Another girl really did pick a plant disease and was deep into corn blight. Olivia, whom Mitty adored, had chosen typhoid fever and was already so advanced in her research that she was using the library of Columbia University's medical school, because every other library in New York City was too limited. Mitty hadn't been inside any library in the city of New York.

As soon as Mr. Lynch finished ranting, Mitty slumped down in his seat. He had perfected the technique of listening to music on his iPod while a teacher talked. It was easy if he wore long sleeves. He kept the iPod in its armband and ran the cord down his arm and into his hand. Cupping the earpiece in his palm, he would rest his head on the same hand and listen to his music. His eyes stayed fixed on his teachers, who tended to be fond of him because he seemed so interested.

Mitty's main interest was music. His life plan was to become a rock concert reviewer, the world's best job, and to prepare for this career, he had to buy, listen to and memorize everything out there. He really didn't have time for term papers. He certainly didn't have time for books.

Mr. Lynch extended his hand for Mitty's assignment calendar.

Every fall, St. Raphael's handed these out. There were
people who filled them in. Mitty was not one of them. He usually tossed his calendar in the garbage in September, because he wouldn't be making any entries. It was kind of amazing that the thing was still in his backpack, but then Mitty mainly used his backpack to carry snacks and hardly ever examined the debris at the bottom. With a degree of pride, he held out the February page, on which he had just scribbled the right words.

“No other teacher in the entire school has given you a single assignment for February of 2004?” asked Mr. Lynch, handing the calendar back.

Mitty made it a policy not to answer dangerous questions, so he just smiled in a friendly fashion.

“Persons,” said Mr. Lynch, looking hard at Mitty, “having a low quiz average who do not hand in their ten pages of notes on Monday will be transferred out of this section and into a regular biology class.”

This was not a threat biology-wise, because Mitty certainly didn't care what or even if he learned, but if he got transferred he would no longer be in a class with Olivia Clark.

Olivia was the pinnacle of studious activity. When Olivia faced an exam, she divided her efforts carefully over the correct number of evenings. She never slacked off and never lost focus. She was light-years ahead of everybody. Olivia had been nagging him to start his biology paper, which—because this was advanced biology— was supposed to be an advanced paper as well.

Mitty didn't deserve to be in anything advanced. He was in this class only because his father and mother had put pressure on the school, since their life plan for him involved a brilliant high school career, an awesome
college acceptance and then medical school. They attributed his academic slump to attention deficit disorder, laziness, hormones and bad teachers. None of these had anything to do with it. Mitty just had other plans.

The moment school ended, Mitty bounded out of St. Raphael's and looked for his parents, who would be waiting in the car, motor idling, his father itching to accelerate. Mitty leaped into the backseat, slammed the door and forgot the whole concept of assignments.

Every weekend, the Blakes went to their place in the country. (When you lived in Manhattan, the “country” was anywhere more than twenty miles from downtown.)

This particular weekend was perfect. It wasn't until Sunday afternoon, February 1, 2004, at about four o'clock, that he remembered homework, because he was thinking of Olivia. She was unquestionably at her desk in New York, sitting between towers of books, her long thin fingers racing over the keyboard of her laptop, her long dark hair falling around her shoulders.

Mitty moaned. He too should be writing. Where was he supposed to get books at four o'clock on a Sunday afternoon?

Connecticut had assets. Not only did Mitty have a huge bedroom with several closets, a basement full of tools and a media room full of DVDs, but he even had his own side of the garage, his own basketball hoop, his own creek for fishing, his own bikes and ATV. Still, at times like this, Connecticut had only drawbacks.

In New York City, Mitty just walked out the door and everything was right there: every conceivable store and restaurant, and on the sidewalk, Mitty's favorite shopping
area, he could pick up sunglasses, watches and baseball caps to replace the ones he had almost certainly lost during the week. And not only was everything right there, everything was always open. Just to test this, Mitty and his dad would sometimes get a hot dog, sushi or a toothbrush at three a.m.

If he were in the city, he'd just cross the street and head down the block to a huge Barnes & Noble. In the science and medicine section, he'd copy bibliography material, scribble enough sentences to keep Mr. Lynch happy, and then take the escalator to the café on the top floor, buy a pastry and watch people reading magazines, a more pleasant hobby than actually reading a magazine himself.

But Mitty was not in New York.

The country didn't even have bookstores unless you had time to drive for miles, and Mitty didn't drive yet. He could ask his parents to take him, but then he'd have to admit he had not yet started a project due in sixteen hours. They wouldn't understand that sixteen hours was plenty of time. Subtract eight for sleep—or ten, which was more like Mitty on a weekend—and that left eight or else six hours, and anybody could take a page or two of notes per hour …
if
they had books to take notes
from
.

If only his family had stayed in the city this weekend. Of course, if they had, Mitty still wouldn't have been working on his paper. He'd have been hanging out with Derek or else with Olivia. They didn't do well together; they were separate activities. And if he'd been in New York, Mitty would have been completely distracted by the city in winter, when everything good happened; the best concerts and bands, the best basketball and hockey, the biggest Christmas tree and the brightest lights. He
and Derek would have gone to Madison Square Garden. He and Olivia—well, actually, he and Olivia had not yet done anything on their own. He liked her so much he needed lots of other people around to dilute how much he liked her.

If he wanted to stay in the advanced class with her, he'd better get launched.

He didn't rush into it.

First he put on a CD of his current favorite rock band, Widespread Panic. He had heard them live last year at the Beacon Theatre. His apartment was close to Lincoln Center, so his parents could easily attend the symphony, opera and ballet. This excellent location was also close to a venue for real music, the Beacon, whose only drawback was being so close to home that Mitty couldn't take the subway. Mitty loved the subway.