The Gifted School

by Bruce Holsinger

  Around midnight Rose had been sitting up in bed watching a vlog shot in her own kitchen when the screen filled with an error message: Video no longer available. But just before the notification something in the episode had caught her attention, hooked her eye. A flicker of navy blue, down in the lower corner of the screen, below Tessa’s elbow. Rose couldn’t put her finger on what it was, and when she tried to restart the video, the whole vlog seemed to be down.

  Soon after midnight Lauren sent out a group text informing her friends that Tessa had, at Lauren’s insistence, changed the settings to disallow the public viewing of her channel. Promptly enough to avert total disaster, perhaps, though Tessa’s violation of all of their newfound trust was a cold reality these families and friends would have to face.

  And now, with trust foremost on her mind, Rose sat at the kitchen table nursing herself with a cup of coffee and staring at Atik Yupanqui’s navy blue binder—the subject of that morning’s dream, the object that had caught her attention in Tessa’s vlog before it was closed down. The portfolio due days ago at the lower school.

  She opened the cover and flipped numbly through the glossy pages, looking at the boy’s extraordinary origami arrays. Cars, trucks, trains, houses, whole villages of animals. Unbelievable, what this kid could do with a piece of paper and his fingers.

  Rose would take the binder in on Monday, of course, explain to Bitsy Leighton what she’d done. Silea had a broken elbow, had just gone through surgery, and the family had nothing. Surely the admissions process would allow for such extenuating circumstances. A frank confession would go a small way toward making up for Rose’s betrayal of Silea’s faith in her: that simple but trusting request to an employer to deliver the portfolio by the deadline.

  As she drained the mug her eyes wandered to the stack of papers that Gareth—she assumed it was Gareth—had placed on top of Atik’s binder. She tugged at one of the printed papers, recognizing his handwriting in the margin. She looked at the first page.

  WHAT MAKES A GREAT LEADER?

  BY EMMA ZELLAR

  Emma Z’s essay, for her portfolio. Four double-spaced pages of the girl’s youthful ramblings on “the qualities of a great leader,” the combination of “discipline, drive, and determination” required of a successful manager or boss. Rose marveled at the absurdity of a fifth-grade girl spouting off in the language of leadership studies, a jargon she’d learned as a junior auditor in a class at Darlton.

  The whole thing was a joke, and Rose wanted to laugh—but couldn’t. Because what she immediately recognized was Gareth’s careful edits. They covered the page in a tangle of red ink. Correcting Z’s grammar, suggesting stronger verbs, retooling her sentences to give them the kind of spark Z’s pedestrian prose otherwise lacked. As if Emma Zellar were one of his students, in her early twenties rather than her tweens.

  At the bottom of the third page he’d written her a note.

  This is really wonderful, Emma Z! I’ve made a few suggestions for revision, and we can discuss it more if you want. Great work!!!! Gareth

  A few suggestions? Gareth had virtually rewritten the paper from top to bottom. If Z followed his editorial insertions and deletions, her revised paper would read like a little gem, the work of a budding corporate prodigy.

  Rose set the paper down, full of quiet fury at her husband for giving Z such detailed and expert assistance with her portfolio submission. Didn’t he realize that this was a zero-sum game? Didn’t he understand that the admissions process was, in fact, an intense and brutal competition? That the Emmas were likely vying for the same spot at Crystal Academy?

  As if Z needed any more help with admissions than her privileged situation had already afforded her. A test tutor for the CogPro. A glossy portfolio on her leadership skills. Now Rose’s own husband lending her his expertise while their daughter sat fingertipping her way through the latest juvenile crap on her Kindle. Wonderful, just wonderful.

  * * *

  —

  Two hours later, as Gareth fixed breakfast for Emma while Rose huddled in bed over her laptop, her phone dinged.

  Are we still doing this, guys?

  A text from Samantha. Perfect timing, as always.

  It was Azra who replied first: We should cancel.

  Rose went next: Agreed.

  Then, a moment later, from Lauren: Absolutely not. I need a Bloody Mary and it’s our anniversary! Plus I have Tessa’s phone lol

  Rose stared at the text. Lauren could be so tone-deaf, taking her daughter’s serial invasions of their privacy lightly enough for an lol—and if Tessa’s mother felt like she could handle their long-scheduled brunch after yesterday’s revelations, who were her friends to refuse? Lauren almost seemed to be enjoying the whole thing. These embarrassments, these exposures. Rose squeezed her phone until her knuckles ached, longing to stay in bed, to surrender her bit part in this ridiculous charade.

  SIXTY-TWO

  ROSE

  The bag of anniversary mugs thunked heavily against her knee. Today marked their eleventh full year in this tangled friendship, and the brunch had been on their calendars for months, though even while trudging the last block of the Emerald Mall, Rose considered blowing it off. The plan was to troop up Maple Hill afterward for the open house at the lower school, which started at one. Kids, spouses, and exes would meet them there. Rose was locked in for at least three hours. Three hours of griping, of jealous suspicions; three hours of a crowded schoolyard and hallways, all under the distorting pall of Tessa’s vlog.

  Fifty feet short of the restaurant someone leaned against a brick wall, smoking. Rose walked by and did a double take. Azra, holding a cigarette for the first time in years.

  “Hey,” she said as Rose approached. Her voice was husky, her body framed in a window with smoke curling up from her slim fingers.

  Rose stopped a yard short. “When did you start . . . you know.” Rose noodled a hand.

  Azra shrugged. “Yesterday around eight. Want one?”

  Rose declined the offer. They watched a squirrel on the bricks nibbling away at a piece of popcorn, shifting the puffy fragment around in its tiny paws like a steering wheel. Looking at the squirrel, Azra said, “So, I need to ask you.”

  “Shoot.”

  “That video of Beck. The boys are so upset. But—do you think something happened between them? That he could have done something with Tessa—to Tessa?”

  Rose considered it with a squint. “You know Beck better than anyone. What do you think?”

  “Don’t get therapeutic on me, Rose, please? I need to figure this out. Beck and I have had a great relationship since the divorce, you know that. He’s basically a good guy, he loves our boys. But do I need to get a lawyer? Do I need to be worried about protecting my kids if things go further south with him?”

  Rose said, “I don’t know, sweetie. I don’t want to give you false reassurance, but Gareth is positive that nothing happened. Not that the video itself isn’t pretty damning, about his judgment at least. But an actual—physical thing? I just can’t see it.”

  “Yeah,” Azra said, wiping at a tear. “I’m sure Gareth’s right.” She took a long, final drag and kept her eyes fixed on Rose as the smoke billowed out the side of her mouth. The butt fell from her fingers to the bricks and her right foot squished it dead. She started to say something else but then looked over Rose’s shoulder. Rose turned and saw Lauren approaching from Crystal Books across the mall, backpack humped high on her shoulders.

  “Well, don’t be so happy to see me, you guys,” Lauren said, catching their glum looks. Her hands waved away the lingering smoke. Her face was grim, but there was an eerie sparkle in her eyes. “Let’s go in, shall we?”

  * * *

  —

  Samantha threw her jacket over a chair and dropped her bag on the floor. Still standing, she loudly ordered an Oyster Bloody Mary from a passing server, then collapsed
in her seat, performing a chirpy normalcy, though beneath it, Rose could tell, she was just as agitated as the rest of them. She herded them into ordering shrimp skewers and an eggplant dish, and all of them sat on the edges of their seats.

  As the waitress arrived with their drinks Lauren started to text, eyebrows angled into a sharp frown, then set down her phone.

  “How is Tessa doing?” Rose leaned in, though the others had heard her say Tessa’s name, and now all three of them listened intently for news.

  “She’s—not doing well,” Lauren said. “I took away her phone last night, so she can’t do her vlogs, at least, and she swears she’s going to write apologies to everyone. To all of you. Again.”

  Lauren flushed, and impulsively Rose clutched her arm, as did Azra on her other side. They sat in silence for a long moment. Rose remembered Tessa’s last series of apologies, which had arrived in the form of handwritten letters from her rehab facility.

  “She’s going to be okay, Lauren,” Azra said. “I was harsh with her yesterday at Beck’s, but I didn’t fire her, and I don’t intend to. There haven’t been drugs this time, right?” Lauren shook her head. “And she’s been amazing with our customers, Sonja says she’s incredible with Roy. She’s a teenager and she’s made another mistake.”

  “Several of them,” Samantha said, looking angrily away. “She violated our trust again, our sense of privacy. Filming our homes, our kids. Our goddamn investment account.”

  “That’s true, Sam,” Azra allowed. “But some embarrassing videos that she thought were private? It’s not the end of the world here. And she’s a teenager. How many of us didn’t make big mistakes when we were sixteen?”

  Or forty-six, Rose thought bitterly, thinking of Bitsy Leighton, her chair, her dean.

  “Well, maybe she’s doing us a favor,” Samantha said. “We can use all this as an excuse to take the kids’ phones away. Kev’s been looking for one.”

  Rose and Azra laughed, but Lauren stayed stone-faced. She wouldn’t look at Samantha. Instead her eyes remained focused on her glass as she said, “Apparently she told Xander she’s moving to New York. A sixth-floor walk-up.”

  Azra said, “God, I remember that time she ran away when she was, what, thirteen?”

  “No, she was twelve,” Rose corrected her. “Just about the Emmas’ age. And she ended up—”

  “At my place, hiding out in the doghouse all night,” said Azra. “She and our old collie Beecham came to the back door at the same time for breakfast. His tail was wagging, and Tessa had the biggest smile on her face, like she’d just gotten away with murder.”

  “Always doing her own thing,” said Rose.

  “Tell me about it.” Lauren perked up. “And Azra helped her put a portfolio together of her designs. I can’t thank you enough.”

  Azra freed her hands and raised her mimosa. “To Tessa,” she said. Samantha and Lauren started to lift their glasses.

  “Wait.” Rose reached down along the wall for the bag hidden there. She set it on the table and handed out the anniversary gifts. The women all dutifully unwrapped the boxes and set their mugs on the table. Rose read the year’s friendship quote out loud. “Being honest may not get you a lot of friends but it’ll always get you the right ones. John Lennon.” She decanted the rest of her Bloody Mary into the new mug and raised it for a toast.

  But the mood around the table had subtly shifted. Azra held her mug high, but Lauren was staring at Samantha, waiting for something.

  Uh-oh, thought Rose. All the feelings from Friday run came flooding back.

  “I saw it, Samantha,” Lauren said. “Episode—what was it—one-eighty-six? Title: ‘Um, WTF?’ Is that ringing a bell for you?”

  “Missed that one,” Rose said lightly.

  “What is going on, you guys?” Azra asked.

  Samantha sat stiffly in her chair with her hands clasped around the new mug. She stared somewhere over Rose’s left shoulder. Her eyes started to flutter, but she controlled the impulse to cry by sucking in her smooth cheeks and filling her lungs with air. Finally she took a quick drink of her Bloody Mary, like a calming shot—from her glass, not the still empty mug.

  “Fine.” She huffed out a sigh. “Emma Z didn’t make the cut.”

  “What are you talking about?” Azra said dismissively. “They don’t even announce until next month. Nobody knows about admissions decisions yet.” She looked around the table for affirmation.

  Samantha said, “That’s not what I’m talking about.”

  Rose knew before Sam said it, could feel her jaw loosen, her mouth fall open.

  “I’m talking about the first cut,” Samantha went on. “The CogPro.”

  “What do you mean?” Azra still wasn’t getting it.

  Sam sighed. “Emma Z didn’t score high enough. She was eliminated weeks ago.”

  Rose stared at her while adding up a few weeks of lies. How fragile, this family, she thought, and how sad: the pressure of all that Zellar perfection, those Zellar genes. “Exactly how long have you known?” she managed to ask.

  Samantha gave her a plaintive look. “Since I cut my hand on that champagne flute, Rose. I’ve known for—a while.”

  Though she hadn’t been the first to lie about it, Samantha told them. That would be Kev, who’d listed his own email address under first point of contact. When he received the bad news about the CogPro, he texted Samantha right away, telling her that Emma Z had made the cut. Just lied impulsively, Samantha put it, like the president. He even lied to their daughter, telling Emma Z she’d earned a ridiculously high score when in reality her CogPro put her around the eightieth percentile. Samantha only learned about the deception the day Rose came over after the Gifted Club debacle. Then she started lying too, covering for her husband, trying to whack down the moles of his stupidity.

  “And it’s gotten even worse since I found out,” Samantha said. “Kev was so panicked that he started exploring an ADHD accommodation.”

  “ADHD?” Azra couldn’t keep the disgust out of her voice. “Since when has Emma Z been diagnosed with ADHD?”

  “Since never, okay? That was part of my husband’s brilliant plan, to take her in and get her officially assessed. So she could get time and a half on a retest.”

  “You have got to be kidding,” said Rose. “That is just—”

  “Pathetic,” Samantha said. “I know, and how do you think I feel? My husband was lying to me for weeks. But that didn’t stop him from putting a portfolio together, oh no, and now we’re getting guff about that.”

  “How so?” Rose asked, selfishly alarmed.

  “Because Emma Z got paid help on it from some associate dean in the leadership school at Darlton. Kev gave him a consulting fee. A consulting fee!”

  “Geez,” Azra said.

  Samantha rested her cheeks in her hands and glumly shook her head. “Kev won’t give it up. This whole thing has made him absolutely insane.”

  I know the feeling, Rose wanted to say.

  “But why would he do all that?” Azra asked.

  “Because he thinks—” Samantha winced. “He actually said it’s all for me. He somehow thinks that getting Z into Crystal Academy is so important to me that he’ll move mountains to make it happen, and I just don’t know where he’s been getting that idea. I think it’s some weird Freudian thing with his dad and his siblings. I frankly don’t give a damn anymore.”

  Rose almost spit out her drink.

  “Even before this I’d been warning him we should pull out of the admissions process.” She looked at Rose. “That’s what I was telling you the other day. We could have stepped away gracefully and no one would have known, especially poor Z, who, thanks to my clueless husband, now knows that she didn’t score high enough to make the cut and that her parents have been lying about it. But now Kev’s insisting there’s still a chance, I mean, he’s eve
n taking Emma Z to the open house as we speak. Kev’s been like a man on a mission, and I’m just sitting back and watching this train wreck.”

  “And it’s not important to you anymore?” Lauren had been listening to the hiss of the punctured Zellar balloon with a barely disguised glee. “That seems a little disingenuous after all these months of hand-wringing.”

  “What can I say?” Samantha spread her hands in a you-got-me gesture as their food arrived. “I mean, sure, a kid in that school, who wouldn’t want bragging rights. But not at the expense of my dignity, or what’s left of it after all this.” She forked a sweet potato wedge. “At this point I just want it to be over.”

  * * *

  —

  In the bathroom Rose opened a stall. She sat on the closed seat and stared at the metal door. There was no thrill in this news, no smug shiver of superiority about the Emmas’ comparative CogPro scores, only a sad and desperate charge. To Rose the revelation about Z was like a mirror reflecting back her own deranged ambitions for her child, her own hypocrisy in judging the Zellars for their misdirected aspirations.

  Because what had Kev Zellar done that Rose hadn’t—and worse? Conniving, lying, stealing half a project from an eleven-year-old girl; and now, if Q did get in, the Emmas would be at different schools for the first time ever.

  What was really twisting her insides, though, was Samantha’s newly blasé attitude toward admission, the process, the academy. Cut our losses, she’d said, and Rose suspected her friend was being sincere. For months the pressure had been like a yoke over their shoulders; and how unfair it seemed that Samantha suddenly got to set hers aside without real consequence. Rose almost envied Sam her indifference to the whole thing.