The Gifted School

by Bruce Holsinger

“Wouldn’t miss it,” she said.

  Then Carl looked intently at her. “I understand we’ll be bulking up your lab for the NIH scheme.”

  “Yes, I’m thrilled,” said Rose. “And really grateful to the administration for the support.”

  “It’s well deserved, from everything Mitch tells me.”

  “I appreciate that.” Rose beamed, looking fondly at her chair. “He’s been incredibly supportive.”

  Mitch nodded again, and though he participated in their exchange, smiling in the right places, he was acting reserved tonight, not his gregarious self, his eyes slotting away into the crowd whenever she opened her mouth. As the conversation went on Rose started to feel her chair’s coolness of manner as a solid thing, like the stainless-steel railing behind her.

  Soon Mitch’s wife, Sherry, came by. Time to leave, she told him. An event in Denver, at a gallery downtown. Unlike Mitch she seemed fine, breezy and talkative. They bid the dean goodnight, and Mitch pecked Rose’s cheek, but again the gesture felt cursory, almost brusque.

  * * *

  —

  Shortly after nine o’clock, and still no Samantha. Carl gave a short speech and a toast to welcome everyone, thanking the doctors for their hard work, donors for supporting the campaign with their time and wealth. As the crowd parted Rose, to her horror, found herself a few feet from Bitsy Leighton. The head of school was helping herself to a napkin of treats from the dessert table, her long fingers pincering a truffle. Rose felt a small explosion in her skull and tried to edge away. Just then Bitsy turned and saw her.

  “Well, hello there, Rose.”

  “Hi, Bitsy,” Rose said, with a pained smile. Bitsy bit into her truffle. Desperate to fill the lull, Rose added, “I forgot to ask the other day how you’re liking Crystal so far.”

  “I’m commuting in,” said Bitsy. “We have a place out in Elmont.”

  “Oh,” Rose replied, surprised. Elmont was at the eastern edge of Beulah County, not far from Q’s riding stable. “I’d have thought you’d want something closer in, near the academy.”

  Bitsy raised an eyebrow. “I’m on a public school salary. Have you checked out real estate around here lately?”

  “Oh yes.” I live in a 1,200-square-foot house and my husband is unemployed, she wanted to shout.

  “We also wanted to be in a more diverse community. The air’s a little thin in town.”

  “It is that,” Rose replied, eternally self-conscious, like everyone in Crystal, about the city’s demographic, the open secret of a town the rest of the state dismissed as a lefty enclave. Pink Quartz, they call it. Mao of the Mountains. Vlad’s Valley. One of the most politically progressive towns in America with one of the least diverse populations.

  “So you’ll drive your kids in with you, to the academy?”

  “Why would I do that?”

  “Oh, I just thought—since you’re head of school—”

  “My children aren’t profoundly gifted, not like the academy kids will be. Ours will go to the Beulah County schools and do the regular TAG program out there. That’s assuming they test in.”

  “How many do you have?”

  “Two.”

  “And what are their ages?”

  “Fourteen and sixteen. So they have a few years on Chloe.” Carl Wingate’s daughter.

  “She’s their first cousin?”

  “Second, and I’m first cousins with Carl. He and Vince are the ones who talked me into applying and relocating.”

  “Nice to have family in a new place.”

  “That’s right.” She leaned over her plate and bisected another truffle with her long teeth. “You know, Rose,” she continued, chewing, “I should apologize. I’ve been meaning to follow up with you about that study you’re proposing on our first intake kids. Now that the first cut is over I’d love to get a drill-down on that.”

  “Oh—oh yes, of course,” Rose stumbled, “though at this point it’s really just an undeveloped idea.”

  “It sounded splendid when you pitched it to me. Can I take you to lunch next week to discuss it, or perhaps you could come in and talk to some of my colleagues?”

  “Of course. That would be lovely.” Rose pulled out her phone to exchange numbers, though inside she was panicking at the thought of digging this hole any deeper. She promised herself right then to email Bitsy on Monday and tell her the study was off. She could make up some half-true excuse, maybe claim she was too busy preparing an NIH grant, which happened to be the case. But this crazy fabrication had gone far enough.

  “Oh, wonderful.” Bitsy looked toward the house. “My goddaughter is about to play.”

  They peered into the glassed-in living room, where a crowd had gathered in a wide circle around a grand piano. Bitsy made her way inside, and Rose stayed with her until they were both pushed into the second row of guests. Gareth stood over by the kitchen, leaning on a half wall. They settled in for what Rose assumed would be a few minutes of basic stuff, something suitable for an eighth grader being trotted out for her parents’ friends.

  The dean’s daughter shifted on the piano bench and reached her legs out for the pedals. Bitsy tilted slightly toward Rose and grazed her arm with two cool fingertips. “You’ve heard Chloe play?”

  “I haven’t,” Rose said.

  Bitsy sniffed a chuckle through her nose just as Chloe touched the keys. Chopin, a mazurka. Within the first two measures the room went from mildly charmed to stunned. Chloe’s maturing hands splayed and reached for the keys, filling her fathers’ house with chromatic ascents, flights of color and contrast. Her left hand kept the mazurka’s dancy beat at certain points, at others joining her right hand for a flourish of blended rhythms.

  Rose looked around at the faces of her fellow guests. Awe, incredulity, knowing admiration from the few already acquainted with Chloe’s skills. Mostly, from fellow parents in the crowd, Rose saw a kind of surprise that was also a subtle sadness like hers, a grim acknowledgment of the lack they all shared.

  This girl was a prodigy; this girl was gifted as hell.

  * * *

  —

  Shortly after ten Carl and Vince walked them to the door. Though the party was still humming, Gareth, as always, preferred an early night. They were saying their final goodbyes on the driveway when they heard a group of late guests approaching from the canyon road. A crunch of gravel, a spill of familiar laughter. In a moment the foursome emerged from the darkness, happy and backslapping. Samantha and Kev, and Azra with Glen.

  “I hope we’re not too late,” Samantha called ahead.

  “Are you kidding?” Vince stepped forward and wrapped her in a hug. “We’re just getting started here.”

  “The cover band’s showing up at midnight,” Carl quipped, and Samantha’s group shared the kind of loose laughter that comes with long evenings in company you enjoy.

  Their unexpected intimacy hit Rose like a brick, this violation of an unspoken rule. Double dates were rare in their group, in part because of Lauren’s enduring singlehood, in part because Gareth and Kev just didn’t click. Mostly they all went out of their way to avoid making anyone feel excluded, as Rose did right now.

  They had enjoyed Thai food, Azra said, and seen a film. “And child-free!” she sang as she spun around, exuberant and annoyingly beautiful, arms in the air, hands splashing at the night. “Tessa is over with Emma Z and the twins.”

  “At your house?” Gareth asked.

  “No, at Twenty Birch,” said Samantha, with a self-conscious shrug. “Given how things are going, we thought we’d give her another shot.”

  “My influence.” Azra wrapped her arms around Glen’s slim waist. He reached out a hand and grabbed her hip bone. An intimate, casually sexy gesture; Rose couldn’t imagine Gareth touching her that way, not that she’d ever want him to.

  “That’s great,” Rose said weak
ly, coming off tired and sour. “I’m so sorry we have to leave.”

  Gareth palmed her shoulder, ready to move down the driveway. She shrugged him off as Carl waved goodbye and started heading back in with Samantha at his side. Azra and Glen followed with Vince between them, guiding them along.

  But Kev lingered behind, sending a text or an email. “So, Doc, is Bitsy Leighton here?” he asked her without looking up. “Want to buttonhole her if I can.”

  “She’s inside,” said Rose.

  “I hear she’s a Tiger.” Kev slipped his phone away and straightened his sport coat with a jerk of the lapels. “Class of Ninety-five.”

  “A what?”

  “Princeton. We overlapped by two years. Wonder if we ever hooked up at Reunions.”

  “Jesus, Kev,” said Rose.

  Kev snickered dirtily. “Once a Tiger always a Tiger.”

  Rose, still feeling bitter and small, imagined clawing out his eyes.

  “Well, the barkeep calls. I should get in.” Kev rubbed his palms together and strode for the door. “Drive safely, my friends,” he called back.

  Rose watched him go inside, her blood at a simmer, her temper inflamed by Samantha’s confident intimacy with the dean, Azra’s ecstatic twirling in the night, and Bitsy Leighton’s presence within. The party would now hum along without them.

  She turned away from the beautiful house and saw Gareth standing by the car watching her, his gaze darkened, his lips tugged back in what looked like a snarl. As he turned to open the door she heard him say, mockingly and under his breath, “Go, Tigers.”

  A Touch of Tessa:

  One Girl's Survival Guide to Junior Year

  A Video Blog

  Episode #186: UM, WTF?

  . . . 164 views . . .

  [Computer screen displaying monthly statement from Front Range Equities in names of Kevin and Samantha Zellar, 20 Birch Street, Crystal, Colorado.]

  TESSA: God these people are loaded. Check out this investment account, you guys. [Zoom in on balance of $10,245,876.90.] Don’t you love the ninety cents at the end? And this is probably just part of it, I mean ten million dollars and here I am logged in. It’s amazing, you know? A guy like Kev, so smart about money and computer stuff. “Why go with one of these commission-based index fund managers when you could open an E*TRADE account yourself?” and “I’m telling ya, Tessa, don’t go in for that cryptocurrency BS, it’s all about to collapse.” Um, okay, Kev, I won’t, and here’s one for you: don’t store your passwords on your computer screen. [Line of yellow stickies across top of monitor: passwords for bank account, Netflix, Amazon, etc.] He even leaves his email program open and I’m like, whaaaaah? Aww, but look at these sweet messages from Samantha, though, all flirty. And oh wow, he’s planning a surprise vacay for her forty-fifth next month. Hawaii! What a guy, what a guy. Let’s see, let’s see, let’s see . . .

  [Scrolls down in-box and pauses on email from Bitsy Leighton, City of Crystal School District. Subject: Crystal Academy Admissions Results, Round One.]

  Oh snap, this is the same letter I got. [Clicks email open; camera wobbles, blurs.] Yadda yadda— [gasps] Wait. Wait wait wait wait wait. No. Fucking. Way. [Camera wobbles again.] Look at this you guys. Just look at this.

  [Sharpens on last paragraph. Reads:]

  “We regret to inform you that your child has not scored sufficiently high on the CogPro to be advanced to the next round in the admissions process. Should you wish to appeal this decision to the admissions committee, details of the appeals procedures can be found on our website at the URL below. We will conduct another round of assessment at the end of the next academic year to fill any additional spots in your child’s cohort, though we expect only a very small number of seats to be available at that time.”

  [Camera reverses to Tessa’s face, lit by glow from monitor.]

  Okay, officially blown away, but you know what? Also totally unsurprised. Because I’ve always thought Emma Z was kind of—not slow, but just not that bright. I mean you compare her to my brother and she’s an idiot, but that’s true of everybody. No, I mean like in comparison to Emma Q, or even the twins, Emma Z just isn’t that smart. Not the sharpest tack in the box. Not the brightest bulb in the socket. She doesn’t read, she’s not—I don’t know—sparky when you talk to her, like the others. But these people, the Zellars, they treat her like she’s the second coming of everything. And it’s all lies, just like her CogPro score. One-forty-five my sweet white ass. I knew that was bullshit when Z told me last week. So pathetic. And they give me shit for swiping some pills or whatever? Well . . . screw that. [Splash of headlights on window.] Oh shit, they’re home. Bye, you guys.

  FORTY

  XANDER

  The clock by his bed read 2:26. He listened for a sound from Tessa’s room, because she fidgeted a lot when she was awake, thumped their shared wall with her feet or her butt. But when she was asleep, Tessa was like a car in the driveway.

  Nothing.

  The next thing Xander listened for was his mother. She was hardly ever awake in the middle of the night, but you never knew if she had to pee.

  Nothing.

  He swung off the bed. Aquinas lifted his head but Xander wasn’t worried. He’d already taken the dog’s collar off so he wouldn’t make any noise, and Aquinas couldn’t get off the bed by himself anymore. He wouldn’t even whine.

  Xander tiptoed from his room and down the hall to the front door. In the darkness he felt for his mother’s purse and took her wallet, then crept up the stairs to her office computer. He opened the browser and went to Amazon, which had a basic version of what he needed.

  He had to order eight of the kits, and they weren’t cheap. His mother would definitely notice the charge when she did the bills. She’d ask him about it, they’d probably have a “family meeting” in the kitchen, and for once his mother would have something to be as mad at Xander about as she always was at Tessa.

  But he had timed the purchase carefully. His mother’s credit card bill arrived around the fifteenth of every month, meaning she wouldn’t see the charges for three weeks. By then his science fair project would be done, and he’d be admitted, so he was pretty sure his mother wouldn’t sweat the money.

  Xander logged out, went back down the stairs, and returned the wallet. In the kitchen he poured himself a glass of water. He wasn’t thirsty but if anyone heard him walking around the house at 2:47 a.m., he needed an excuse.

  Back in his bedroom Aquinas had hardly moved. Xander climbed in next to his fat dog and closed his eyes.

  FORTY-ONE

  ROSE

  His name was Logan. He had lost his fine motor coordination at four, his hearing at five, at six his ability to walk. He had died blind and demented three days before his seventh birthday. The boy’s diseased brain survived now in the form of paraffin sections on slides taken from his cerebral cortex.

  The sections, though, had buckled. Their appearance was wrinkled and warped, the result of sloppy slide preparation by Franklin Barnes, one of Rose’s postdocs—the second time this had happened in a month.

  When Rose stepped out of the microscope room, she saw Franklin chatting up one of her graduate students in the far corner of the lab. He had the young woman boxed in by the centrifuge stand, with his right hand on the counter, his left toying with an instrument rack near her head.

  Rose, raising her voice, said, “Franklin, could you come into my office, please?”

  The lab fell silent. He looked slowly over at her and didn’t bother to hide a smirk.

  Franklin was a type every female scientist knows, a mildly toxic young man who couldn’t stand being supervised by a more capable woman. He behaved himself for the most part, but every now and then Rose would catch him undermining her authority in the lab, always in subtle, deniable ways. A whispered bit of mansplaining to the grad students, a minor protocol spat
with a more senior postdoc.

  In her office she spoke to him about the mishap, more sharply than she’d intended. But the stakes could not have been higher—for the lab, for Rose, and, she tried to make Franklin see, for himself. In the end he apologized for the poor slide preparation and promised to be more careful next time.

  “Please do,” she said, ignoring his tight lips, his stiffened jaw. After she dismissed him she checked her phone. A missed call from Emma Q’s school, a voice mail asking her to phone the principal’s office.

  * * *

  —

  We need you to come in,” the principal’s assistant told her. “Today if possible.”

  Words no parent ever wanted to hear from a school administrator. Rose leaned back in her desk chair and looked through the slatted blinds into the lab. She’d been hoping the grads and postdocs might all push through until seven or even eight this evening, but she couldn’t ask her staff to stay late if she had to cut out in midafternoon.

  “And you can’t give me any indication over the phone what this is about?”

  “All I can say at this point is we’re looking at a bullying incident involving your daughter.”

  “Oh no.” She wondered who could be antagonizing Emma. One of the bigger girls, probably, or that awful Keith Duggan.

  “So right after the closing bell?” the admin asked.

  Rose said, “We’ll see you then.”

  At three-thirty she met Gareth just outside the principal’s office, leaving no time to prepare themselves before Sue Willis directed them to a circular table in the corner of her office suite. Willis was young to hold a principalship, favoring phrases like “differentiated instruction,” “interpersonal intelligence,” and “motivational openings” when talking about her work in the City of Crystal School District. But she was also edgy and smart, with a no-nonsense approach to administration that Rose, not a PTA type, had admired from afar.