The Hunchback Assignments Read Online Free Page A

eyes and wailed. He rolled into a weeping, moaning ball, his hump pressed against his shirt.
    Mr. Socrates lowered the mirror. “I warned you that this would be a hard lesson. You are deformed. You are ugly. Remember this day, Modo. It’s the day you learned that you’ve been given an incredible gift. Your unsightly countenance may seem unbearable now, but because of it, the world will always underestimate you. Natural selection has endowed you with your second gift, your capacity to change your deformed features, an ability that other men can only dream of. It is a most wonderful and valuable asset. Together, we will develop it.”
    Modo had stopped listening. The ghastly image of his face had been burned into his vision. He let out a sharp cry and beat at his head and his hump, as if to pound the abnormalities back into his flesh. He kicked so hard he propelled himself back into the wall, knocking plaster loose.
    “Stop wailing!” Mr. Socrates commanded, and Modo tried to suppress his rasping. He calmed himself until heemitted only the occasional whimper, keeping his hands clamped over his face.
    He looked up from the floor. Their eyes were on him. Mrs. Finchley had been crying. Tharpa was, as always, unreadable, but Mr. Socrates, surprisingly, looked a little sad. “I know you are only five, but you must learn to control yourself,” he whispered. “You must.” He reached into the carpetbag at his feet and pulled out a flesh-colored object. Modo squinted at it, making out holes for eyes and a mouth. “I ordered this especially for you all the way from Venice. It is a mask. They are made from papier-mâché, so they’re very light. You’ll hardly know you’re wearing it.” He set the mask on the floor beside Modo. It had a straight nose and perfectly formed lips. Modo whimpered again.
    Mr. Socrates turned away, abruptly. “Do not comfort him, Mrs. Finchley. That is an order. He must learn to accept his appearance. Let us leave the boy now. We shall have tea. I’ve brought a sample from the Tea Derby, fresh from Foochow.” And with that he strode to the door, Tharpa and Mrs. Finchley at his heels. Mrs. Finchley glanced back, but Modo hid his face again.
    Through his blubbering, he heard the door lock behind them. After several seconds he reached out and touched the mask. It was cold and hard. He picked it up and explored the eyeholes, the two smaller holes for his nostrils. He pushed the mask onto his face, pressed his back against the wall, and wept.

3
Learning to Be Untouchable
    S weat dripped into Modo’s eyes as he climbed the rope to the skylight cupola. It was the twelfth time in the past hour that Tharpa had commanded him to “ascend with utmost speed.” Modo paused at the top, held on with one hand and with the other rubbed at his latest mask. With Mrs. Finchley’s help he’d constructed it from flour, water, paper pulp, and glue. He’d given it a devilish, grinning face.
    He leapt to a nearby rope, swung to the opposite wall, and climbed down, headfirst. “You are strong for a child of nine years,” Tharpa said in his formal English. Modo grinned with pride. On the ground his bowlegs and awkward form were clumsy, but his large hands were made for climbing. He flipped over a sawhorse and landed on his feet. “Zounds!” he said.
    Tharpa didn’t react, so Modo flipped again. “Zounds!”
    “Yes, yes, impressive,” Tharpa said, but Modo couldn’t tell if his instructor was mocking him. After five years of his tutelage, the Indian remained completely unreadable.
    Three days a week Tharpa would train Modo in what he called “the fighting arts.” The rest of the week was spent reading history, learning languages, and memorizing maps on which all the countries of the Empire were marked in red. As part of his schooling, Modo would dress up in costumes with Mrs. Finchley, perfecting accents and pretending to be other people. Her years as an actress made her a fine teacher. And Modo assumed he