By Virgine Linhart
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Extra info for Le jour où mon père s’est tu
Susan returns from her shopping expedition and joins me at Key Auditorium, a concert hall that seats about six hundred people. Upper-class students and parents of the freshmen are ﬁling through the auditorium’s side and back doors. The freshmen and the faculty are nowhere to be seen. They are probably somewhere in the bowels of Mellon Hall, robing up for this grand event. The upperclassmen have that look of conﬁdence that says, “I’ve been here before. ” The parents are looking extremely fatigued from moving books, computers, televisions, clothes, and mini-refrigerators into the residence halls all day.
Unlike Phil and Garret, Christopher responds to my question with more than a monosyllable. Indeed, he seems happy to talk to me, for which I am grateful. As we walk to the Quad, Christopher tells me that he was very active in his church’s youth fellowship and toyed with the idea of attending Wheaton College. ” Christopher tells me that his friends passed on some St. John’s admissions brochures and he immediately fell in love with the place. He feels that his ﬁnal decision to attend St. John’s was providential.
He is a tall kid, maybe six feet, two inches, with a spaced-out look that reminds me of a young Albert Einstein. He seems to be so smart that he cannot communicate with common earthlings like you and me. His full head of brown hair is a picture of chaos, and he is generally unkempt. I introduce myself and he reluctantly tells me that his name is Phil, but he doesn’t say much more than this, even though I try to engage him in a conversation. Maybe he isn’t accustomed to speaking with adults. Maybe he is nervous.
Le jour où mon père s’est tu by Virgine Linhart