The Gifted School

by Bruce Holsinger

  FORTY-EIGHT

  ROSE

  Putting together major grant proposals had always made Rose feel like a coin spiraling around a funnel, moving slowly at first as she surveyed the problem from above, accelerating as she began to tick off action items, spinning madly as she neared her deadline, waiting for the final drop. Her lab staff could feel the vortex of the final sleepless weeks about to suck them in. Data to crunch, controls to design, a whole raft of scientific and budgetary expectations to meet. There had been other major grant applications in her career but never for this amount of money, never with so many eyes focused on her work.

  The past week had been filled with one minor disaster after another, from a miscalculated facility costing that affected half the budget to a disagreement with a potential co-investigator at Johns Hopkins. Then, that morning, one of her postdocs, the problematic Franklin Barnes, had transmitted some old erroneous data during a Skype session with the director of a computational neurology center in Berlin. After the Skype call Rose had admonished him in front of the staff. Nothing major, and he’d deserved it, but now she had to deal with his bruised ego along with his sloppy work. She spent the early afternoon checking in on everyone’s progress, trying to cheer on her team.

  By three her nerves were shot. She retreated into her office to stare out through the blinds into the lab. A mug of fresh coffee steamed on her desk. Leaning back in her chair, she looked at the mug and read, probably for the ten thousandth time, the words printed in a flowery font on the forest green ceramic.

  Friends are the siblings God never gave us.

  Azra had had the corny saying printed on four mugs she’d presented one spring evening ten years ago. They’d been gathered around a patio table at a downtown bar when she pulled out four small boxes wrapped in crepe paper and tied with white ribbons. “I know this is kind of hokey, you guys, but I got us all a gift.”

  “That is so sweet.” Samantha leaned over to give her a hug.

  “Thank you, Azra,” said Lauren, looking solemn.

  “What’s the occasion?” Rose asked.

  Azra smiled shyly. “Well, I don’t know if you guys realize this, but today is our one-year anniversary.”

  “Wait, seriously?” said Sam.

  “May twelfth. Our first coffee-and-bagels klatch with the babies.”

  “Over at Twenty Birch.” Sam gave the table a happy slap. “That’s right. We were in the sunroom.”

  “For some reason that date stuck in my head, and I wanted to mark it for us. So I got these.” Azra nodded down at the boxes.

  They opened them and found their mugs, each a different hue. Burgundy for Samantha, teal blue for Lauren, a forest green for Rose, and Azra gave herself mustard yellow. They cooed appropriately as they read the proverb out loud. Friends are the siblings God never gave us.

  “Who said that?” Rose asked Azra.

  “Found it on ReadyQuotes. Some ancient Chinese proverb.”

  “Hey, if the shoe fits,” said Samantha, and they all laughed, loose and happy and close.

  “No, but seriously, you guys.” Azra looked around at them. “You know I’m an only child, and you have no idea what this group means to me.” They all teared up, even Lauren. Their fingers joined along the circumference of the table. “You’re my sisters now. So thank you.”

  “Let’s drink to that,” Samantha said as their hands unclasped. She poured half her cosmo into her new burgundy mug and raised it. “To friendship.”

  The others likewise decanted their cocktails and raised their colorful mugs, a ceramic rainbow over the table.

  “To friendship.”

  * * *

  —

  Anniversary mugs, like Friday run one of their cherished traditions. Every year, on or about the twelfth of May, someone would order up mugs in the same four colors and emblazoned with a carefully curated quote. The sayings were often saccharine, sometimes funny or irreverent, but they always rang true.

  One of the most beautiful qualities of friendship is to understand and to be understood. (Seneca)

  One loyal friend is worth ten thousand relatives. (Euripides)

  Friends cherish one another’s hopes, are kind to one another’s dreams. (Thoreau)

  Friends are the best to turn to when you’re having a rough day. (Justin Bieber)

  That year was Rose’s turn, and she had already chosen just the right quote, though she didn’t know if she’d have the nerve to get it put on four mugs and hand them out. Azra had emailed it to her years before when she was upset with Samantha over some slight long since forgotten, and she had vowed to save it for just the right anniversary. It fit the present occasion like a neoprene glove.

  True friends stab you in the front. (Oscar Wilde)

  She sipped her coffee, still hot, and finished it in a single gulp that scalded her throat.

  * * *

  —

  At four she allowed herself a glimpse at her phone. Five texts, the most recent one from Gareth.

  Read your email!!!!

  Rose eye-skipped through several dozen messages until she found her husband’s, forwarding something from Beck. The link took her to a Facebook page for a group calling itself ALPACA, for Alliance of Parents Against Crystal Academy. The page had four hundred and twenty-seven likes so far. The most recent post had just gone up.

  Elaine Steiner Could someone please repost the info on the organizational meeting for the town hall? Totally disorganized here . . .

  2 mins.

  Toni Andriesen, Administrator Check the Events tab at the top of the page, Elaine—everything you need to know about the meeting is in there.

  Elaine Steiner Thanks, Toni!!

  Rose clicked on the Events tab and found a post about the ALPACA meeting at the home of Steve Markley and Toni Andriesen. Rose knew them: Toni was a member of City Council, serving alongside Kev Zellar. Her husband, Steve, was on the med school faculty; pulmonology, maybe. She went back to the main page to read other recent posts.

  Tracy Ingham Here’s a great piece from Better Parenting magazine about the dangers of “gifted” labels in elementary schools. Really helpful perspective here! Key sentence: “In short, gifted programs may be doing our brightest children more harm than good.”

  55 mins.

  Nancy Wooden Wait, seriously? I’m absolutely appalled at the lack of knowledge displayed in this article, and I say this as a longtime advocate for gifted children and a practicing child psychologist. The author seems to have done no informed reading whatsoever on the subject, despite the extensive peer-reviewed research arguing for the efficacy of TAG programs in the public schools. Would anyone on this list say that a physically disabled student in a wheelchair shouldn’t be provided with accommodations that meet his or her specific needs? Should children with learning disabilities be denied specialists trained to deliver instruction to this population? Then why should gifted children not be given adequate resources to address the unique abilities and attributes that set them apart from their classmates?

  Corbin Shaw elitist much?

  Tracy Ingham I’m sorry but comparing a kid who scored well on an IQ test with a kid in a wheelchair is offensive as hell.

  Nancy Wooden That’s not what I’m doing and you know it, Tracy Ingham. My problem with Crystal Academy is that it will divert much-needed resources from the EXISTING gifted-and-talented programs in our public schools. THAT’S the real scandal here.

  Ron Borton No, the real scandal is the government shelling out more taxpayer money so the snowflakes up in Pink Quartz can have another cream puff to brag about on college applications.

  Mark Yopps Let’s face it, most “peer-reviewed research” is a crock. Why do we need some social scientist to tell us what we already know?

  The ALPACA Facebook page was like a political blog, thick with self-righteous moms, libertarian trolls, mansplain
ers. Rose scrolled down through six or seven more contributions until she found a particularly worrisome post.

  Len Blick I don’t want to spread false rumors, but has anyone else been hearing things about Bitsy Leighton, the new head of school? I have it from a reliable source that she’s been hanging out with a select group of parents, giving them advice on portfolio preparation, admissions particulars, etc. Something about an exclusive party at some rich parent’s house? I find the secretive processes surrounding Crystal Academy quite disturbing, especially given all the lip service to openness, transparency, equity, etc. The hypocrisy on the part of these PUBLIC SCHOOL administrators is stunning. They’re supposed to be working for us!!!!!

  3 hrs.

  Mary Riggins could not agree more. triple like!

  Tekla Rabinowitz geez is that really true? Is that even legal???

  Carter Dempsey WTAF?

  Mary Nielsen yup

  Olivia Kim No words.

  Toni Andriesen, Administrator Frankly I’m not sure about this—it’s a pretty harsh rumor to be spreading if it’s based on secondhand information, especially about a female leader new to our community. Let’s stick to the facts, which are bad enough.

  Len Blick The fact remains, if she’s showing favoritism to certain parents over others during the portfolio review process, we need to know why. Hope we can add this to our list of questions/demands for the organizational meeting.

  Toni Andriesen, Administrator Done!

  Carter Dempsey I would take Len’s suggestion one step further. Any parents who attended an event like that should have their children automatically disqualified from admission to Crystal Academy. Period.

  The last comment had already garnered sixty-three likes.

  The whole exchange was like a chop to the sternum. Rose stared at the screen, seeing Bitsy Leighton on the stage, at the dean’s fund-raiser, imagining how she would react when she saw this vicious piece of public gossip so soon after her move to Crystal Valley. Suddenly the fresh-from-California head of school was hosting parties for the parents she liked, playing favorites, giving some children unfair advantage over others. A mean and ugly distortion of the truth; though it was undeniable that Rose had been trying to take advantage of a personal connection to Leighton through her dean.

  She looked at the post again, tempted to write a lengthy explanation in response, tell everyone in the ALPACA group how wrong they were. Instead she picked up her office extension. The silly charade had gone on long enough. As Leighton’s phone rang Rose imagined standing in front of a dozen school administrators, mocking up a presentation on a nonexistent research project, faking her way through a phony set of questions and objectives. Nipping this thing in the bud was definitely the right decision.

  “Bitsy Leighton.”

  Rose opened her mouth to speak—then froze.

  “Hello? . . . Um, hello? . . . Who is this, please?”

  Rose slowly set the receiver in the cradle and closed her eyes. Why hadn’t she spoken—and confessed? Would caller ID pick up her lab number, identify her as the caller? What must Bitsy Leighton be thinking right now, with some rando making prank calls to her office in the school district?

  She looked down at the handset, appalled. Her palm had made sweat prints on the phone.

  * * *

  —

  Only an hour went by before Rose, unable to resist the masochistic lure of all that parental anger and angst, checked the ALPACA page again. More likes, more hand-wringing, more polemics against the admissions process.

  Toni Andriesen I wanted to share this very reassuring update on a prior thread. Dr. Leighton has posted a statement on the Crystal Academy home page about the party in question. I take her at her word, and I think the rest of us should as well. Link is below.

  27 mins.

  Rose clicked on the link to the school’s web page and read Leighton’s statement.

  To Members of the City of Crystal and Four Counties Communities:

  In the last twenty-four hours a rumor has spread that I have been “socializing” with a number of parents seeking admission to Crystal Academy for their children. It is true that I attended a social event at which several such parents were also present, including one of the hosts. The event in question was a medical school function at the house of my cousin and my goddaughter, an eighth-grade girl I have known since birth. While I understand how some might have received such an impression, clearly I was not attending the party in an official capacity as head of school. Any parents present at the party who believe otherwise are sorely mistaken.

  I also want to assure the community that I personally will play no role in the admissions process, which is being handled exclusively by Dorne & Gardener through a procedure designed to insure the utmost integrity.

  Please feel free to contact me directly for further clarification.

  Regards,

  Dr. Elizabeth Leighton

  Founding Head of School

  Crystal Academy

  “Jesus,” Rose muttered. The words sorely mistaken flailed at her like a ruler on the knuckles. It was nearly dark when she left the building to grab a sandwich at the student union, a new moon hiding somewhere above. The bats were out as she returned to the lab. Hunting spring bugs, falling through the night.

  * * *

  —

  Many hours later she clicked off her desk lamp and sent a quick safety text to Gareth, letting him know she was on her way home. As she passed the Sub-Zero on her way out of the lab she stopped, seized with an almost childish longing. She set down her bag and pulled a tray from the back of the freezer. The slide she selected was a dated one, a cortex sample from an earlier grant, the tissue probably four years old. The freezing glass edges burned her fingertips as she took the slide to the microscope room.

  With the TEM powered up, she slipped the glass slide into the holder and zoomed in and there it was: the invisible zing of countless electrons creating a frozen dance of green and blue. The sight of cells laid out like this was always propulsive, inspiring, slightly terrifying. You thought you knew what you would see, but the cells changed even as they stayed the same. You learned more, you noticed more, you changed along with them. This looking always brought back to Rose her first enchantment with the human brain, long before she knew how much of her life would be devoted to understanding the great intricacies of this majestic organ’s life and health, its engines and its pathologies, the mysteries of its work. Rose could go weeks without looking at a cell or euthanizing a mouse, months without touching a patient’s hand. Running a lab required a certain detachment from the raw material of her research. She forgot how much she missed it, and sometimes it was good to check in.

  A guilty pleasure, this gazing down on a brain sliver without a research agenda or an article to write. To feel like a child again, when all you wanted to do was look.

  FORTY-NINE

  XANDER

  On Thursdays Xander carpooled from Odyssey with Jebanny Ford, a fourth grader. Jebanny’s mother was a fast and kind of crazy driver, so Xander almost always got home before Tessa. A bonus, because Tessa could be grumpy after school. But usually he had a good twenty minutes or so to himself.

  Sometimes, though, Tessa got home first if she skipped her last class or got a ride or biked extra fast. And today he had to get home first, but there was a traffic jam on Range Parkway, a bunch of rescue vehicles up ahead in a sea of colored light. By the time they got past the accident and pulled up in front of the town house, Tessa was just coasting into the garage.

  Xander leapt out of the car and pounded up the front steps. Eight small packages were lined up on the porch. He unlocked the front door and gathered them all up awkwardly in his arms.

  He heard Tessa coming upstairs through the laundry room. Aquinas lumbered in, shoved his big nose at Xander’s balls, and knocked him off balance. The packages fell
to the floor. One of them slid off down the hall and hit Tessa in the right foot.

  She bent down and picked up the stray package, glancing at the shipping label. She looked at the other packages sprawled on the floor of the front hallway. “What’s all this crap?”

  “Stuff for my portfolio.” He started gathering up the other packages. When he stood, she was holding out the eighth one, not looking at it, just staring at him.

  “Thanks.” Xander grabbed the package between his chin and chest.

  “There’s cookies, little brother,” she said, still looking at him strangely. “A no-nut kind.”

  “Which variety?”

  “Mint Milanos.”

  “That is my all-time favorite kind of cookie.”

  “I am aware of that, little brother.”

  “Oh.”

  “So you’d better hurry.”

  Xander took the packages back to his room, shut them in his underwear drawer, and went back to the kitchen. Tessa put two cookies on a paper towel and set them in front of him.