The Gifted School

by Bruce Holsinger

  Gonna sit here for two more moves, then capture that pawn, the knight plotted.

  I’m pinning the queen right now, speculated the rook. Does she even know her bishop can’t move or she’s freaking TOAST?

  Three, eight, twelve, sixteen pieces working together toward a common ass-kick, and Xander was all of them at once, thinking their networked thoughts, plotting against their common enemy. It wasn’t like that with people. Who knew what they were thinking?

  His mother, for instance. Whenever Tessa left the house these days, his mother started closing cabinets too hard and scrubbing the counter as if poison lurked in the granite.

  Tessa was just as bad. Not as bad as she used to be, like when she was thirteen, when she’d stop eating or make those little slits in her skin or swipe pills from their mom’s friends’ medicine cabinets and put them under her tongue and show them to Xander across the table. Now she was hardly ever around, and when she was around, she locked herself in her room, making her actually quite informative vlogs all the time. (Xander’s favorite so far was Episode #23: “Virginity Is Overrated.”)

  Sometimes Xander wished his mom and his sister would play chess with him more often, and not just for the company. When he played them at chess, it was the only time he knew what they were thinking, what they would do. Same with his friends and the parents of his friends. Once Xander had played someone two or three times, he knew the range of moves they would make; he knew what they could see on the board and what they couldn’t. Their limitations. Their personalities, even.

  Like Charlie and Aidan Unsworth-Chaudhury. They were twins and played a lot alike. But Xander knew the subtle differences between their games. Aidan wasn’t great but he was a lot better than Charlie, who was better than their dad, Beck, who was not nearly as good as their mom, Azra, but only a little worse than their stepmom, Sonja.

  In chess everyone had a pattern, a tendency. Average human players were invariably predictable. They had grooves in their brains, like furrows in a plowed field out in Beulah County. And the trick to being a great chess player, the masters said, was to be unpredictable. To get out of your groove.

  “Get out of your groove. Get out of your groove.”

  “What’s that, Xander?” asked Mr. Aker.

  Xander looked up, wide-eyed, realizing he’d been speaking aloud again. It happened, when he was in a groove like this. Other kids had filtered in from recess, and some of them were staring at him, smirking. Predictably.

  “Nothing.” Xander slipped his chess set into his bag.

  Once they were all back in their seats, Mr. Aker started talking about how serious planning for the science fair would start right after Thanksgiving recess and everyone needed a preliminary idea in two weeks. Xander had already decided he was going to do something about chess. “The Science of Chess,” maybe.

  Mr. Aker wanted him to work on spider genes. Why are spider populations exploding all over the world? Is it in their DNA? Spider genes were fine, but they weren’t as wicked as chess.

  For Thanksgiving they were going over to Emma Z’s, and that meant he might get to hang out with the twins, if they were there. A house full of people, nobody slamming doors and screaming at one another, and as much mashed potatoes as Xander could eat.

  Yes.

  Thanksgiving.

  Lots of pie. Lots of chess.

  You could learn a lot about people from chess.

  More than anyone would ever suspect.

  NINE

  ROSE

  The Zellar house was a stately Queen Anne that dominated Birch Street from a corner lot. White cornices and moldings, siding in a daring persimmon hue, two towers, a widow’s walk: the sort of home that inspired long sidewalk pauses of admiration from alumni and parents strolling through Old Crystal, thirty-two square blocks of dwellings built for Darlton University faculty but now occupied by software engineers, surgeons from the Medical Center, bedroom commuters to Denver law firms.

  Adding to the house’s luster was its minor place in the town’s history. A mayor back in the early twentieth century had commissioned the home from a Denver builder on the occasion of his daughter’s marriage. Samantha, after learning this backstory from the title documents, had applied to put the house on the state register of historic places, a status announced on a bronze plaque now displayed by the front door:

  TWENTY BIRCH

  A COLORADO HISTORICAL SOCIETY

  REGISTERED HOME

  A typo, Kev and Samantha had complained when the plaque arrived: it should say Twenty Birch Street.

  But the Zellars had kept the sign, turning the missing word into a domestic trademark. Now, whenever a gathering was held at the Zellar home, it took place at Twenty Birch. Never my house or our place, always Twenty Birch.

  We’re having a small fund-raiser at Twenty Birch for Senator Wicke, hope you can make it!

  But your living room is so tiny, Rose. Why don’t we have Emma Q’s birthday party at Twenty Birch?

  Are you all coming to Thanksgiving this year, at Twenty Birch? We’re having the whole Zellar clan.

  * * *

  —

  By the time Rose and her family arrived, a huge roast turkey was already sprawled on a platter, pies sat in neat ranks on the counter, and chamber music floated softly from hidden speakers. Four men were sampling home brew by the crackling fireplace; at Rose’s prodding Gareth drifted over reluctantly to join them. The coziness of the whole thing made Rose wish they’d left their laptops and their own grim living room a few hours earlier, avoiding another of their whispered spats.

  The holiday crowd gathered at Twenty Birch had grown since last year. In addition to Kev’s parents, his two younger brothers and his sister had flown in with their spouses and broods, a passel of cousins Rose had met several times but could never keep straight. The Zellar crew would leave the next morning for Steamboat Springs, where Kev’s parents, Edgar and Suze, had rented a house for a long weekend of skiing and snowboarding.

  Azra spied Rose through the throng and signaled her into the kitchen, where she stood with Samantha and Lauren sipping rosé.

  “Saved this just for us,” Samantha said, pouring a fourth glass. They toasted the holiday, the one quick moment the four of them would steal together, though Rose would remember it as the highlight of the day. Samantha never failed to go out of her way to make her friends feel special, at social events, at the rare fund-raiser Rose attended, even among her own extended family. Always a tasty wedge of cheese for them to sample, a bottle of something she’d set aside. They huddled over their wine until Samantha turned away to check on the gravy.

  When Kev called them to the table with some dings on a wineglass, Rose wandered down the hall, looking for Gareth. She passed the powder room, the guest suite, Kev’s study. Finally she reached the library, a high-ceilinged room lined with built-in bookcases. Gareth and Xander sat cross-legged on the window seat, playing chess.

  Rose stopped in the doorway and felt it, that familiar tug of disappointment in her husband for not mingling with other adults, though she supposed it was nice to see someone paying attention to Xander. As they moved their pieces around the board, the boy scribbled busily in his notebook. According to Lauren, her son kept scrupulous records of every game he’d ever played, whether at national tournaments or at birthday parties, transcribing every move into algebraic notation.

  She waited them out, knowing it wouldn’t take long.

  “I think you got me,” Gareth said a few moments later. “I’m oh for four.”

  “That’s correct,” Xander replied. They shook hands, then Xander turned his head and saw Rose.

  “Hello,” he said, giving her a disconcerting stare.

  She cleared her throat. “Dinner,” she told them. Gareth rose from the window seat and followed her while Xander lingered behind, completing his notes.

  * *
*

  —

  The adults filtered into the dining room around the long chestnut table, seven to a side with one at each end. Rose found her name tag, written out in careful calligraphy by Emma Z, next to Kev’s sister, Blakey, and directly across from Tessa, who had graduated to the adult table that year. Sixteen guests were gathered in the dining room, many more at the kids’ tables set up in the parlor.

  Kev stood at the foot of the table, a Denver Broncos apron dangling loosely from his neck. He welcomed everyone with a raised glass and a few off-color jokes before turning things over to his father, a retired physician from Richmond, Virginia, for a formal blessing.

  Edgar Zellar cleared his jowled throat for silence.

  “Heavenly Father, we thank you for your bounty, for the nourishing gifts laid before us and the hands that have prepared them in Your name and in the name of Your Son, our Savior Jesus Christ. We thank You as well for the loving presence of friends and for the health and well-being of our families, in my case”—he paused for effect, looking over at the kids’ tables—“thirteen perfect grandchildren, enough to insure the perpetuation of the Zellar line, especially if my eldest can manage one more.”

  Some lighthearted chuckles. Rose shared a pained look with Azra, three seats down on the opposite side. Her covered gaze shifted down to Samantha, that placid face taking her father-in-law’s ribbing without a flinch. Kev’s parents loved to tout the abundance of grandkids produced by their children. An even baker’s dozen, Edgar would quip; when can we expect our fourteenth? No surprise that Sam, wife of the eldest, had always been self-conscious about her only child, a rare chink in the Zellar armor and a subject that Kev’s parents and siblings alike would often raise in a gently chiding tone that would have made Rose’s head explode if anyone had questioned her most intimate choices in this way. Perhaps she was fortunate to have no living in-laws to please. Rose’s own folks were lower-middle-class Midwesterners with her elder brother still living in their basement, hardly in a position to judge.

  Samantha also came from humbler roots. A sister in Florida she rarely saw; her parents, like Gareth’s, both deceased. Understandable that she would cleave so unquestioningly to a family steeped in its own mythology, though when the Zellars gathered at Twenty Birch, the force of their collective self-regard could often be overwhelming.

  Rose studied her silver napkin ring as the patriarch finished his prayer.

  * * *

  —

  The school came up a few minutes after the blessing. Edgar was reaching around to refill wineglasses when he asked, “So, Rose, will y’all be putting in for this academy?”

  “What’s that, Edgar?”

  “It’s the new—Samantha, hon.” He raised his voice. “What’s that special school you were talking about with my eldest grandson? The gifted school.”

  The word gifted slashed like a guillotine through other topics. Around the table the talk ceased.

  “It’s called Crystal Academy, Dad,” Samantha said into the silence.

  “A private?” Azra asked, apparently as clueless as Rose.

  “No, actually.” Lauren leaned over the table, her short neck turtling out. “It’s a public magnet school for the exceptionally gifted.”

  “They’re hailing it as the Stuyvesant of the Rockies,” Kev said grandly.

  “A high school?” Rose’s question.

  “Grades six through eight in the lower school, and the upper school goes nine through twelve.”

  “Oh,” said Rose. Exceptionally gifted. Words to make the bones sing. This must be the mysterious “other option” Samantha had been hedging about at RockSalt last week. “What, a city school, just for Crystal kids?”

  “Oh no,” said Kev. “It’s a joint venture between the City of Crystal and the Four Counties.”

  “All five school districts?” Gareth asked. “But that’s a huge pool of eligible students.”

  “No kidding,” said Samantha. “Over a hundred thousand kids for just a thousand spots.”

  “The one percent,” Blakey observed snidely. Everyone laughed, but she was right: one in a hundred. Kev’s acerbic sister was enjoying the conversation, Rose could tell, watching the reactions among her sister-in-law’s friends as they parsed the news about the school.

  “How does admissions work?” Azra asked.

  “They’re doing it as a test-in.” Lauren: happily in the know. “A first round of CogPros in the districts starting in March, then more individualized assessments in a second round.”

  “CogPros?” someone asked.

  “Cognitive Proficiency test,” Lauren said knowingly. “It’s a standard IQ measure.”

  Over her wineglass Rose looked a question at Gareth, and he shrugged it right back. Neither of them had heard a word about this school.

  “Where are they building it?” Gareth asked.

  “The upper school will be out in Kendall County,” Kev answered. “But the lower school is going in the old Maple Hill Elementary site.”

  “About six blocks from here.” Samantha nodded vaguely west, in the direction of her back deck.

  “It’s a done deal,” said Kev. “The contractor’s an old buddy of mine, and they finalized the building permits last week. The refurbish kicks off in January. They’ll be up and running by July, hiring staff this spring for a fall opening. These guys are moving fast.”

  How do you know all this? The question never left Rose’s lips, because the Zellars always knew, and besides, Kev had served on the City Council for the last three years. Any major building project in town, let alone one as visible as a new magnet school, would already be on his radar.

  “So, Rose, will you apply for Emma Q?” Edgar asked, still pressing for an answer.

  “Who knows.” Rose was already seeing years of small classes, innovative pedagogy, Barnard admissions staff cooing in approval. “We might check it out.”

  “And what about you, Tessa? Think you’ll apply?”

  The questions came from Blakey. Kev’s sister was leaning over her plate, looking at Lauren’s daughter in a not entirely friendly way.

  Tessa, chewing, held up a finger. “I’m not really the gifted type,” she mumbled after she swallowed.

  “Well, you’re obviously a bright young lady,” Edgar said. His gaze wandered down to the top of her dress, a low-cut green velvet or velour, one of her own creations. “And everyone has gifts of some sort or another.”

  Tessa screwed up her face. “I like to draw, I guess.”

  “Do you now,” he said. “And what is it you like to draw, sweetie? Landscapes, that kind of thing?”

  “Mostly fashion. Like clothes, outfits.” She pushed a strand of hair behind her ear. “Shoes sometimes.”

  “Tessa has an incredible sense of style,” Azra put in from down the table. “Tessa, tell them what you told me the other day. At BloomAgain.” She looked around at everyone. “Tessa’s been working for me at the store.”

  Tessa shifted in her chair, and a flush crept up her neck. The table had remained silent, everyone curious about the exchange. Rose stole a look at Samantha, who had already started in on the rapid sequence of blinks she performed when impatient. (Wouldn’t do to have the Zellar Thanksgiving banter hijacked by an outsider, let alone a troubled young woman like Tessa Frye.)

  “You said you think of dressing as an art form,” Azra coaxed. “Like sculpture or painting, right? But instead of stone or canvas you’re working with people.”

  Tessa’s napkin was pressed to her lips. She removed it and started weaving it through her fingers. “Well”—she looked at Edgar—“it’s kind of hard to explain. Sometimes I can see the shapes of faces and I understand, like, exactly what kind of outfit would work with those cheeks, or that haircut. Or what colors people should be wearing to complement their eyes, or the shade of their skin. I also think about fabrics
a lot, like texture and density and the way things hang. Sometimes I think about what a pair of pants would sound like when the legs touch, depending on the fabric, the resonance of that. I remember my dad had this barn coat he always wore when I was little. It was made out of this thick cotton-wool blend that—”

  “And who’s that lucky fellow—your daddy?” Edgar surveyed the crowded table, assuming that one of the non-Zellar men there that day was Tessa’s father.

  “He’s dead,” Tessa said.

  “Goodness.” Edgar looked stricken. “I’m sorry, dear.”

  “That’s okay,” Tessa went on, more brightly now, opening up. “Anyway it was a cotton-wool blend that I’ve never seen in anything else since. When I scratched his pocket with my fingernail, it made this beautiful ringing sound, and I keep thinking if I got some of that cloth and made something with it, I could hear that same sound again. It’s stupid, but.”

  With her eyes still on Kev’s father, she forked a piece of turkey and chewed it slowly.

  “You do sound like a gifted young lady.” Edgar reached across Blakey’s plate to pat Tessa’s free hand. “Quite an imagination. Maybe you should apply for that school.”

  “That’s so nice,” said Tessa, blushing faintly over her food. “I could show you my sketches after we eat, if you want.”

  Then—

  “Hey Tessa?” Lauren barked sharply down the table. “Let’s just see if we can get you through junior year, okay? We’ll consider that a victory.”

  Tessa’s eyes flashed then dimmed. She looked down at her plate. The table went still, the only sound in Rose’s ears the clink of silver on china. From her angle Lauren’s face was obscured, but Azra and Gareth looked appalled, Samantha’s lips were pale and taut, and even the children had picked up on the sudden hush. Emma Zellar’s eyes roved from Tessa to Edgar to Lauren and back, missing nothing; and there was Q beside her, neck bent over her food, gobbling through a gravy-soaked pile of mashed potatoes.