On a recent plane trip, I sat next to a hip young man, about 20 years old with an earring and an iPod, who was doing something that many young people don’t. He was reading a serious book on politics and history. Ever on the lookout for success stories, I struck up a conversation about his education. Turns out, his account of how he educated himself caused me to wonder, again: Do schools help students master intelligent behaviors that lead to success in life? Or not?

Here’s the thumbnail: After spending two years at a community college, the young man had just won a prestigious, full-ride Regents scholarship to the University of California at Irvine. Attending a two-year college out of high school had been his choice, he told me. Each of his three older siblings had graduated with 4.3 grade point averages from his highly regarded suburban high school—and he noticed that they all ended up hating high school. Too focused on grades, they felt stressed and time pressured. And, in an ironic twist, his sister was not accepted by the college of her choice because she hadn’t participated in extracurricular activities. He also told me that earning a 4.3 G.P.A. wasn’t a motivating challenge for him. “It’s easy enough to get good grades in high school,” he shrugged. “You just study all the time and don’t do anything else.”

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My earliest years of high school teaching were spent in a student support class working with what I called the artists, rebels, and misfits. Included in this group, as a sort of flag bearer, was a boy named Cody, a big, tough 15-year-old with a keen look in his eye. I liked him immediately, but he had a reputation that was probably deserved. If there was a fight in the hallway, Cody was usually there—and he seemed to have something to do with it. The assistant principal never could gain a conviction, though. Back in elementary school, Cody had mastered plausible denial.

In his first year of high school, Cody failed nearly every class, and by his sophomore year, he was completely disengaged. However, in the middle of tenth grade, something caught my eye: Cody always carried a wad of cash in his pocket, usually amounting to more than a hundred dollars. The assistant principal said it was drug money. But I asked Cody about it one day, and he had a surprising explanation: He was the acclaimed master mechanic in his neighborhood. He fixed cars and motorcycles for friends and neighbors—and they paid him in cash. 

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