The Hunchback Assignments Read Online Free Page B

was a fine student, for she praised him regularly.
    Modo could now effortlessly list the order of precedence, from Queen Victoria down to gentlemen allowed to bear arms, and who should be seated next to whom at a dinner party. Why Mrs. Finchley wanted him to know such trivial matters, he couldn’t imagine.
    Once a week, Mr. Socrates would visit carrying a photograph or a portrait and he’d set it on an easel in front of Modo. “You must become this person,” he’d say, and Modo, with all the willpower and imagination he could muster, would visualize his body shifting and the structure of his face changing until, finally, painfully, his bones would actually move. More often than not, Modo failed to sustain the transformation, and moments later slipped back to his ugly self. But, once in a while, he would shift his shape so completely that his eyebrows, nose, and lips were similar to the person in the portrait, and he would manage to hold the look for as long as ten minutes.
    On those rare days when Modo succeeded, Mr. Socrateswould dole out a smattering of praise. Modo could feed on one passing “That was satisfactory” for a week, enthusiastically practicing at night in bed, shifting his face, his shape, hoping to receive another compliment when next they met.
    At one session, feeling brave, Modo asked, “Why do I have this ability?”
    “Chameleons modify their color according to their surroundings,” Mr. Socrates explained. “Hares change their brown summer coat to white for the winter. I’ve seen species of fish that glow to hypnotize their prey. It’s the perfect survival skill, Modo, to bewitch your enemies, to blend in with your friends. It’s an adaptive transformation. Mother Nature has given you this gift.”
    Mr. Socrates kept calling it a gift, but Modo wasn’t so sure. He thought of the hours he’d spent changing his face and body, always reverting to his original form. Why couldn’t he be changed forever? Mother Nature had been cruel to him.
    He understood that a son should learn from his father. He had been told about being abandoned as a baby, so he had no father, but still he yearned for his master’s attention. He wondered what Mr. Socrates did when he wasn’t at Ravenscroft. Sometimes months would pass without the usual weekly visit and he’d explain his absence with a lesson, such as, “I was visiting Afghanistan. Point it out on the map.”
    He was away now, and had been for over a month, but Tharpa had arrived like clockwork.
    “You do not need to wear your mask for me, Modo,”Tharpa said. “It is made for the outside world. You will not always be able to hide behind it when you fight.”
    Modo undid the knots and removed the mask, setting it on a table. He felt naked. This was not a face for the world to see, Mr. Socrates had told him so. At the master’s insistence, Mrs. Finchley had long ago hung a mirror in the bedroom. Modo still had not grown used to his own reflection.
    “Now, let us spar,” Tharpa directed and cracked his knuckles.
    Modo raised his fists.
    “Not boxing, nor savate.” Tharpa reached for two long bamboo swords. “
Kenjutsu.
”
    He tossed Modo a sword and immediately swung at him, forcing him to parry. They moved side to side, slowly. The
tick
and
tack
rhythm was mesmerizing to Modo, so much so that he was completely surprised when Tharpa kicked at a small stool and sent it into Modo’s knee.
    “Anything can be a weapon, Modo. Even your own breath.”
    Modo laughed, but Tharpa looked quite serious. A second later he smiled. “It depends on what you eat, of course. Garlic and onions: very dangerous.”
    This time Modo truly guffawed and at that moment Tharpa swung a blow toward his head that Modo parried with ease. “Laughter relaxes the muscles,” Tharpa said. “Your technique is more natural now. Anger tightens them.”
    Modo struck back and Tharpa parried the blow.
    “How long will I have to stay inside Ravenscroft?” Modo asked.
    “Sahib will