“You never do homework.”
“Well, people can change,” she said, kicking again.
Xander went up to his mother’s study and played a game of online chess with a remarkably untalented Canadian man. When he got tired of that, he watched several of Tessa’s latest vlogs. Episode 129 was called “Pandora’s Box—or Pandora’s Bust?” He watched it, then watched it again, slowing it down this time. He took a screen shot and zoomed in.
Ew.
* * *
—
Later Xander wandered into the kitchen, starving, because dinner had tasted like dog anus. He poured himself a bowl of granola and added yogurt. Seven bites in he stopped mid-chew when he heard his mother out on the deck, through the screen door. She was back from her walk. He went around to the darkened living room and crept forward until he could hear.
“His stanine was seven,” she was saying. “They took nines and some eights.”
The person on the other end said something.
“His nonverbal was astronomical. It was the verbal that killed him. . . . Fortieth percentile, something like that. . . . No, that’s freaking remedial. . . . Well, it brought down the cumulative enough to sink him.”
She listened again, for longer this time. Her head was shaking in the moonlight, and there was a sadness on her face that Xander knew.
“It’s a public school, Mom. . . . No, they have to put a set standard in place and treat all scores the same way.”
Xander’s nana lived in Massachusetts. Apparently his Cognitive Proficiency test had not gone terrifically well.
“Of course we’ll appeal it. . . . I’ve got an appointment with the admissions folks next week. If we can demonstrate some remarkable capacity on Xander’s part . . . . No idea, Mom, maybe some kind of original, life-changing discovery? . . . Right, right. . . . I know, I know. But there might be a chance.”
Original, life-changing discovery. Xander looked above his mother’s head, up at the vast patterns in the stars.
“I know it is. . . . Believe me, Mom. . . . Absurd. I know.” She leaned over and her forehead dropped into an open hand. “Well, we tell ourselves that, don’t we? We always have. . . . But that’s the thing, his last real IQ test was in second grade. . . . I don’t know, Mom. Maybe he’s just a weird kid with a nut allergy and a big head.”
* * *
—
Xander walked back to his room and got into bed and put his hands around his skull. His head wasn’t that big. He’d even measured it with a measuring tape before and checked it against the percentile charts. Besides, BABIES BORN WITH BIG HEADS ARE LIKELY MORE INTELLIGENT, according to a convincing article he’d seen in Popular Science last year at the orthodontist. Plus, his dad’s head had been larger than average, or at least it looked that way in pictures.
Aquinas sniffed at his door. Xander helped the dog get his fat butt into bed and crawled in beside him. He squeezed a pillow with one arm and Aquinas with the other and looked out through the branches again, finding patterns he liked, lines and planes and surprising spirals among the stars—
His body shot up from the bed like a jack-in-the-box. He could see them now, the patterns, but also the surprises. What he didn’t know was what they meant, or whether they meant anything at all. But he could find out, couldn’t he? That was the whole point. So, how?
An experiment, a real experiment involving samples, and tests, and actual science, and—best of all—chess. Results he would easily be able to plot on a trifold so any idiot judge could understand them, even one who didn’t know what a zugzwang was.
A cloud covered the moon, and as his eyes traced the silver glints along its edges Xander ran through all the things he’d need to do to make it work.
There was a risk, of course. But good science always carries risk, Mr. Aker said.
Rolling away from the window, he faced the darkness of his room. His nerves thrummed so loudly he could almost hear them playing inside him like a banjo. Because, yeah, maybe he wasn’t a “voracious reader” like Emma Holland-Quinn. And maybe he couldn’t juggle a soccer ball a thousand times like Aidan Unsworth-Chaudhury.
But if there was one thing Xander knew about it was patterns. Like in Maróczy-Bogoljubow (London, 1922), one of his favorite matches of all time, especially that amazing moment when Bogoljubow begins his counterdefense and Maróczy goes for his throat, those moves that tell you everything you need to know about the two players.
P−R3 Q−K2
Q−Q3 R−KKt1
Kt−B5 B x Kt
Set rules and endless variation.
Sequences and strings.
Predictability and uncertainty.
How certain pieces behave. How shapes fit together.
The code, Xander thought. It’s all in the code.
Plus, it was simple. Almost too simple. But Mr. Aker would love it.
Original, life-changing discovery.
He went to sleep full of excitement about his plan. About these amazing things you can learn about people if you’re willing to experiment a little.
Who they are.
Maybe especially who they aren’t.
PART III
THE WHOLE CHILD
Profoundly gifted children are ones for whom intellectual stimulation and/or creative expression often are clearly emotional needs that may appear to be as intense as the physiological needs of hunger or thirst.
—JAMES T. WEBB,
Misdiagnosis and Dual Diagnoses of Gifted Children and Adults
THE CRYSTAL CAMERA
April 16, 2018
Opinions
WITH STARS UPON THARS
This week, based on the arbitrary results of a single standardized test, the local school districts of the City of Crystal and the Four Counties have divided thousands of local schoolchildren into two camps.
On one side are those few whose performance on the Cognitive Proficiency test (CogPro) yielded a high enough score to pass them into the second round of admissions evaluation for Crystal Academy, the Front Range’s newest magnet school for “exceptional learners,” slated to open this coming August.
On the other side are those tens of thousands of students already denied any chance of admission to the school on the basis of a single ninety-minute IQ test.
Since the combined school boards announced the founding of Crystal Academy last fall, this paper’s editorial staff has been divided on the whole concept of a magnet school for gifted children funded by public dollars.
Some feel strongly that gifted students represent a population with special needs—much the same as our neurodiverse students or those with physical disabilities—and that such needs are best met with additional resources designed to accommodate these unique abilities.
Others believe these same resources would be better spent on underserved student populations in need of remedial or compensatory education, or else spread out more evenly among those already being served by existing gifted-and-talented programs in our public schools.
What we can all agree on, however, is the need to safeguard against the inherent biases exhibited by standardized tests, such as the CogPro, as well as the us-versus-them mentality promoted by some of the school’s more avid supporters on the local school boards and City Council. So far we have heard nothing from the school boards about these difficult issues.
Worse yet, we have recently learned that the admissions process for the new gifted school will be overseen by an outside consulting firm, Dorne & Gardener, an outfit located in Washington, DC. Their work—funded at taxpayer expense—has so far been shrouded in secrecy, with little transparency regarding how the admissions process will account for differences of race, ethnicity, economic privilege, national origin, linguistic proficiency, and ability within and among the vast school-age population being evaluated.
How are parents
supposed to have confidence in this labyrinthine admissions process overseen by corporate interests with little or no investment in our community and its schools?
We can only hope that the elected officials on the school boards of Crystal and the Four Counties will honor the democratic and egalitarian values of public education as this new venture moves forward—and that their work will promote the best interests of all the students they were elected to serve.
Our children deserve better.
TWENTY-NINE
ROSE
When she got a glimpse of her husband’s legs out on the screened porch, Rose smiled and rolled her eyes, last night’s mischief still fresh on her skin. Her head throbbed with a mild hangover but her body felt oddly awakened, twingey and alive. She veered into the kitchen and poured herself a cup of coffee and took it to the porch door. Gareth was stretched out on the sun-faded chaise longue with a student’s journal opened on his lap.
He looked up at her, crinkling his eyes. “Hey you.”
“Hey yourself.”
He moved his legs to give her space at the end of the lounger. She stepped outside and breathed deeply to get the cool morning air oxygenating her blood. When she sat, he traced a finger up her spine. She shivered, liking his touch.
“You need to read something,” he said.
“Sounds ominous.” She sipped her coffee.
“Here.” He picked up a quartered copy of The Crystal Camera from the side table and handed it to her with the lead editorial facing up. WITH STARS UPON THARS, the title read. It took her half a minute to get through the unsigned piece, the consensus view of the paper’s editorial board. Predictable criticism of Crystal Academy for its elitism and bias, the us-versus-them mentality promoted by the school’s supporters. Nothing new there.
Then the editorial went after the school’s admissions process. Apparently—this was news to Rose—the second phase would be overseen by an outside consulting firm. The paper didn’t like it, and the editorial concluded with a full-throated rant against the academy as an assault on the democratic and egalitarian values of public education.
“Well.” She let the folded paper fall to her lap.
“What do you think?”
“For one thing, the results of the test aren’t arbitrary,” she said. “Every kid doesn’t have an equal chance of testing well. The results are systematic, not random. That’s Stats One-oh-one.”
He peered at her over his mug. “You’re thinking like a scientist. But to your average parent whose kid didn’t make the cut, they’re kind of a crock. And this stuff about corporate money? I had no idea.”
Neither had Rose, though she said nothing in reply.
“So do we really want to be putting Emma through another gauntlet like this?” he went on. “There’s a lot of bad blood out there.”
“Of course there is. Parents don’t like to have their kids judged against others. If Q hadn’t made the cut, we’d probably feel the same way.”
“I already do.”
“Oh really,” Rose said, bristling.
“Kind of. You saw how nervous Emma was the morning of the test. She barely ate her breakfast.”
“Well, she’s not exactly starving.”
“Wait, what?” His stare made her flinch.
“Just—nothing,” she said, ashamed. She started to rise, but Gareth reached out and tugged at the hem of her nightgown, keeping her on the chaise.
“Look, Rose.” Going into lecture mode. “I want us to be on the same page here. This school—I’m just not liking the vibe. I mean look at Lauren last night. She was a wreck, and for what? Because Xander might have to stay at one school for gifted kids rather than go to another school for gifted kids?”
“Yeah, but that’s just Lauren,” Rose protested. “Plus Odyssey costs her an arm and a leg, and Crystal Academy would be free.”
“So are all the other public schools. Besides, it’s not as if Q will suffer if she goes to Red Rocks as planned. The schools out here are already some of the best in the country, and then you hear high school kids like Tessa talking about all the stress, multiple APs a year, the massive amount of testing. So why add to that with something like Crystal Academy? It’s a pressure cooker inside a pressure cooker. Plus, Q loves the time she gets with Mr. Wilkins every week.”
“Who?”
“Um, Mr. Wilkins? The gifted-and-talented instructor she’s had at Donnelly for the last two years?”
“Oh, right.”
Gareth pursed his lips, a pious look. Rose felt her twelve-hour flush of lust cool back into the familiar mild repulsion she always felt toward her husband. Well that was quick.
She leaned away from him, trying to recover her composure. “Why don’t we ask Q what she wants?”
“You mean—”
“About Crystal Academy, the whole admissions process. If she wants to pull out, then fine. And if she wants to keep going, we let her.”
“Okay.” Gareth sounded suspicious. “But what if—”
“Speak of our little devil,” Rose said as their daughter appeared at the bottom of the stairs, dragging her favorite fleece blanket behind her. “Hey, sweetie, come on out,” she called through the door. Emma Q traipsed out onto the porch, rubbing her sleepy eyes with the back of a hand. Her button nose lifted into the air, she climbed up into Gareth’s lap and put her feet on Rose’s legs.
Rose stared at their daughter in a new way. One of her colleagues in neuropsychology who researched animal cognition claimed that the minds of dogs could distinguish among an almost infinite array of scents. Three hundred million olfactory receptors in their noses, while humans have only six million. As Q lay there bundled in her pajamas and blanket, Rose imagined her daughter’s neuronal receptors sifting the world, the thousand mingled scents of the outdoors.
“Rose. Rose.”
She looked up at Gareth.
“What are you thinking?”
Profoundly gifted. She was thinking that Emma Q got a 135. Their daughter had knocked the CogPro out of the goddamn park.
“About oatmeal. Do you want some, Q?” Rose touched her daughter’s nose with a fingertip.
Q said, “I’ll have cheese eggs, please, plus white toast,” and beautifully sniffed again. She turned to watch a squirrel hopping through the weeds in their postage-stamp backyard.
“So, before you eat,” Rose said, “we have something we wanted to talk to you about.”
“Is this the right time?” Gareth asked.
“Right time for what?” Q said.
“We can wait,” Rose answered lightly, but she knew her daughter.
“I don’t like waiting.” Q wriggled on Gareth’s lap. He looked over at Rose and shrugged.
“Well, okay then,” Rose said. “So listen, Emma. We got some news last night, about that test you took.”
“The CogPro?”
“That’s right. You did very well.”
“Really?”
“Really,” Gareth said behind her.
She bent her head back against his ribs and looked up at his chin. “How well, Daddy?”
“That’s not important.”
“You got a one-thirty-five,” Rose said.
“Jesus,” Gareth snapped. “Rose—”
“Really? A one-thirty-five?” Q said. “But that’s—that’s way higher than I got on any of the practice tests!”
“I know it is,” Rose said, patting her daughter’s blanketed knee. “You did just great. But Daddy wants—we want to make sure this is all okay with you. The testing, the admissions stuff with Crystal Academy. We want this to be your choice, Emma.”
“What your mother’s saying is that you don’t have to keep going with all this if you don’t want to,” Gareth assured her. “You’ve been looking forward to regular middle school all year, haven’t you?”
<
br /> “I—guess so,” Q said.
“You know a ton of kids who will be at Red Rocks, plus you could walk there just like you do to Donnelly now.”
“Right.” Q sat there for a moment, thinking it over. “But are you saying you don’t think I can get in? Because Z told me that’s what Xander said to Mom.”
“Of course not, Q, of course not,” Gareth said soothingly. He squeezed her arms. “We just want this to be your decision, not ours.”
Emma Q’s brow knotted into a little frown. Then suddenly her eyes widened. “Wait. Did Z make the cut?”
“She did,” Rose said.
Q’s shoulders slumped. “What was her score?”
“I didn’t ask,” Rose said. “And you shouldn’t either, sweetie, okay? No score-swapping this time.”
“But is she still applying?”
“As far as I know,” Rose said.
Q pushed herself off Gareth’s lap and let her blanket fall to the deck, where it puddled around her ankles. “Well, if Z’s still doing it, then I still am. Obvs.”
“You sure about that?” Gareth asked, though Rose could tell from the look on her husband’s face that he knew Emma Q wouldn’t budge—just as Rose had suspected.
“I’m sure,” Q said.
Rose stood and took Q’s hand. “Let’s go see about those cheese eggs.” She turned her back on Gareth to lead their daughter inside.
THIRTY
BECK
Azra handed him a glass of wine, and they settled together on her shady front stoop to wait for the twins, who’d left for a walk around the block with Roy. Beck knew he should be getting home, but it was nice up here, sitting with his ex-wife in front of the art-filled, mortgage-free house where she grew up, inherited when her folks died, and where he got to live for what he still regarded—secretly, guiltily—as the best ten years of his life. There was a cool, dry breeze coming in off the foothills and he’d rather have been drinking a hoppy pale ale but the wine was good, crisp and tart.
The Gifted School Page 17
