The Gifted School

by Bruce Holsinger

  Still, it was bittersweet, to have Gareth fill her in on the afternoon, share observations about their daughter she herself had been too swamped to enjoy. He made her laugh a few times as sushi came and went, remnants of a writerly wit that had once reduced her to a jittery mess.

  Oh yes, every detail of Gareth Quinn. The particular way he crossed his legs when he scribbled or typed. The curls clustered around his ears. How he revised his sentences while speaking, as if an editor’s pen were lodged in his frontal lobe; and what a lobe it was, or so the brain-obsessed Rose had once thought.

  When they first met, he had just placed his short story collection, and soon after following her from Ann Arbor out to Stanford, he sold his first novel, though part of her must have worried even then that his ambition would be outstripped by circumstance. Because a six-figure advance sure sounds like a lot when your ebullient fiancé first yawps about it over an extravagant wine at Chez Panisse, until you begin to understand some months later that it’s a low-six-figure advance, that 15 percent of it will go to the agent and 20 more to taxes, that the money will be arriving in six installments spread out over several years—and that three of these installments will be conditional on the submission of a “highly anticipated” second novel, which your fiancé-turned-husband will never complete.

  That this was the case had become clear to Rose only after their move to Crystal. Something changed in their marriage then, in Gareth. An alteration imperceptible at first, but as Rose’s career took off, her husband’s sputtered to a stop, and with it went much of his charm and all of his ambition. Always a dispassionate intellectualizer, Gareth became ever more withdrawn, never wanting to fight or confront or yell, cultivating instead a studied indifference about virtually everything: whether to buy a new car, try a new restaurant, have a child . . .

  Which had always been the plan—Rose’s plan. But in the face of Gareth’s ambivalence she saw a bleak future with this impassive man. Two months north of thirty-five, she considered leaving him, started having avid fantasies about buying a condo off the Emerald Mall, finding a partner with drive and strong opinions, striking out on her own.

  Then, Emma.

  She could pinpoint the precise moment of conception: one of the few times they’d had sex in that whole rocky period. Rose had just learned that she’d won a first major grant for her pediatric neurology lab at Darlton. After celebrating over champagne with colleagues, she had tottered home to a five-course celebratory meal prepared by her husband, who had also bought her flowers and chocolates, and so the diaphragm-free lovemaking was at her initiative.

  Three weeks later, a missed period for the first time in her life.

  And now, twelve years later, this—what?

  Entropy. Malaise. Slow, continuing decline. Gareth taught a fiction workshop at the community college every other semester. He kept their household running, made it easy for Rose to spend all the hours she did at the lab. But when he wasn’t teaching, Gareth tended to isolate himself, preferring time with the Emmas to ventures out into the adult world, whether for hospital functions or family gatherings. Beck Unsworth, Azra’s ex, was the one person in Crystal Gareth saw every now and then for a beer or a film, though Beck called infrequently now, busy with the twins’ hectic soccer schedules, plus a young wife and a new baby, the fruits of a sloppy affair. At least Gareth had never cheated, she often mused—though maybe she would respect him more if he had. At least it would show a sense of purpose. A dedication. Zeal.

  She looked askance at her husband now, backlit by the sushi bar’s soft glow. For the last few minutes Rose had been picking at a sizeable ball of wasabi. Mindlessly she brought the chopsticks to her lips and swallowed it whole, as if it were nothing more than a piece of bread. Gareth stared at her, eyes shot wide, waiting for her to scream or grab for her water glass. Instead, with her tongue and gums igniting, Rose calmly reached her chopsticks into the rice bowl, lifted out a moderate hunk, and popped it in her mouth, heat tears building at the edges of her eyes.

  * * *

  —

  Later she stood in the bathroom doorway brushing her teeth, wishing their bedroom were large enough for a king. Another foot or two at night would do wonders for what was left of their marriage. Settling under the covers with her back to Gareth, she read a medical journal and waited for the touch of his hand at the top of her spine. When it came she tried not to flinch.

  “Not tonight, Gareth. I’m sorry, it’s—”

  “It’s the wasabi,” he said. She laughed despite herself, turning to look up at him.

  “Next time.”

  “Okay.” He nodded, without visible resentment. Which somehow pissed her off.

  Then a thought occurred to her. She rolled onto her back and propped herself up on her elbows. “Hey, has Emma Z said anything about school next year?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Samantha told me they’re looking at other options for sixth grade. Apparently Kev’s been poking around. Maybe a charter?”

  “Kev didn’t say anything.”

  “Weird.”

  “That would suck for Q, though, if Z went somewhere else.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Should we ask her? Emma, I mean?”

  “No, it’s probably nothing. I don’t want to worry her.” Rose turned back on her side and read until the letters tangled and blurred on the page. Her last sleepy impression was of her husband’s fingers slipping her journal from her hands, switching off her light.

  A Touch of Tessa:

  One Girl's Survival Guide to Junior Year

  A Video Blog

  Episode #28: ALONE AT LAST!!!

  . . . 6 views . . .

  TESSA [seated in dim light]: Hello, no one. It’s me again, with a big shout-out to my millions of adoring fans, aka my squad from inpatient. Hey, Deke. Hey, Tiny. Hey, Jessica. ’Sup, Maurice? [long sigh] There’s something so creepy about an empty house, you know? I mean, not literally empty—the little brat’s asleep upstairs and all—but it’s quiet. I kind of need that sometimes. So, you guys, this is only my second time babysitting since I got back. It’s ridiculous that Q even needs a sitter, I mean, my mom left me alone with Xander when I was like ten so give me a break. Plus she’s such a little blob, just sits around reading and does whatever Rose tells her to do because she wants her to be such a “big achiever.” So cringey.

  [Camera wobbles as Tessa shifts on sofa; reclining now.]

  Anyway, so the big news, just in case you bitches are actually watching this. I got a job. A real job, not this bullshit. [Looks around.] It’s at a secondhand called BloomAgain. They sell fancy used stuff on consignment. The owner is Azra, this sweet friend of my mom’s, and she’s giving me three shifts a week because, quote, Tessa, I’ve always liked your style, unquote, but I mean, come on, it’s a pity job, obvs. But it pays pretty well, and you get a commission on all the stuff you sell, and besides you guys know clothes are my jam. And don’t worry, I’m not burning my paycheck on blow or pills or whatever like last time. Though . . . [looks left] a girl does have needs.

  [Reverse to view of kitchen. Open wine bottle and jelly jar on counter. Tessa’s hand pours red wine.]

  So, babysitting. Honestly? When you have to change diapers and feed them and all, it sucks. But once they’re older and kind of doing their own thing you get paid to basically do whatever. The fuck. You want.

  [Raises glass to mouth. Two sips. Pours rest of wine down drain.]

  Not exactly an environment conducive to sobriety, am I right? But I’m doing my best, you guys. I mean, come on, two sips?

  [Long sigh; phone propped against kitchen wall now, arms on counter, close-up with chin on wrists.]

  I’m so glad we have this vlog, cuz I really miss our squad, you know? Like I swear I’d even go back to forty-day group at Sweet Meadow just to see you guys again, and I’m no
t even kidding. And the way they look at me now? I could have smacked that little worried frown off Rose’s face when I walked in tonight. Bitch tried to hide it but she’s so transparent, worried that I’ll snoop around and steal shit like I used to do, dig through their pathetic little lives. Everybody thinks I’m like Lizzie Borden or some killer nanny from the news, like they’ll come home and find their little kids butchered in their beds, or I’ll bang their disgusting husbands. They’re all so smug, think they know everything because they’re grown-ups, but they don’t. They fucking don’t. [Bites lip, tears up.] It’s just that it’s hard sometimes to figure out why I should bother. What am I even doing this for? What do I even want out of life? It’s like group. Oh my god, do you guys remember Dr. Doocy—Dr. Douchecanoe? [Moves closer to camera; in a low, mannish voice:] “What’s your five-year plan? What’s your endgame, people?” [Backs away.] That’s the question, you know? What’s my endgame?

  FIVE

  BECK

  The twins girded themselves for war, equipment yanked from backpacks, affixed to legs and feet. Long striped socks, cleats, shin guards. Charlie Velcroed the captain’s band around his upper arm.

  Beck took the ramp down to a four-lane and headed west. “You guys need a PowerBar, some Gatorade?” he asked. “A 7-Eleven’s coming up. Last chance.”

  “Nah, we’re good,” Charlie said loudly, hip-hop flaming from his earbuds.

  “Aidan?”

  “I’m fine,” said Aidan, more quietly.

  The great mass of Pike’s Peak loomed to the southwest. The dashboard clock read 10:54. A two-hour drive from Crystal for a noon game at the Pike’s Peak Soccer Complex.

  Travel soccer, elite level. A lot of mileage, a lot of Panera. But Beck loved the drive down here with the guys. They made it at least twice in the fall and once in the spring to play the three major clubs in the area. Today the twins had a league game against Southern Colorado United, a decent team that always gave Crystal Soccer Club a good run.

  Beck angled his Audi Q7 off the four-lane and joined a shiny millipede of SUVs and minivans stretched along the entrance drive. He pulled to the curb.

  “Kick some butt out there, guys.”

  “Will do.” Charlie tumbled out without a look back.

  Aidan stayed in his seat. Beck turned around. “You good, bud?” Aidan gazed out the window as his brother joined a group of their teammates. “What is it?”

  “Him,” Aidan said.

  “Char-Char?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What about him?”

  “I don’t think he’s starting today, Dad.”

  “Oh, please,” said Beck with a loose laugh. “Charlie’s team captain.”

  “He’s playing sloppy. Coach keeps pulling him aside. I told you that last week.”

  “Look, man. Both my guys have started every game since, like, U9. No way he’s not starting Charlie.”

  “Okay.” Aidan pressed the door latch.

  “Have a great game.”

  Aidan gave a smirk as he climbed out. “I will.”

  Beck watched his son approach the throng. It jarred him, to think there might be something to Aidan’s concern. True, Charlie had given off signals lately, hints of frustration, subpar play that Beck had been chalking up to bad luck. At last week’s game in Littleton—a loss—he’d misjudged a few passes and shanked a shot from point-blank range. Quite a shock, because Charlie had been such a clutch player for so long, team captain since the recreational league, then a top scorer all three years of travel.

  The alpha twin: first from the womb, howling like a wolf.

  * * *

  —

  Just before kickoff Beck walked over and joined the other team parents settling in for the game. A good group, mild-mannered on the sideline. With one delightful exception.

  “Hey, big guy.” Wade Meltzer clapped Beck between the shoulder blades. Wade was the big one, though, six-four and pushing 275, a Louisiana transplant who’d played offensive line for Auburn until blowing out a knee his sophomore year. Now he sublimated his football dreams into the soccer career of his son Bucky, a hulking center back who stalked opposing strikers with an unmatched brutality. (Most yellow cards in the league two years running, Wade was fond of boasting.)

  Beck enjoyed standing next to Wade Meltzer at games because he acted as an outrage translator, seconding everything Beck muttered about bad calls and poor coaching but booming it out in a bayou baritone that allowed Beck to elude the judgment of the less intense parents. Wade reduced the teenage referees to tears with his drawling rants. Opposing parents regarded him as a loose pit bull on the sidelines.

  Beck also liked Wade because the guy clashed so violently with all the Patagonia parents huddled by the pitch, cheering on their spawn in socially appropriate ways. Crystal’s precious child-rearing culture could get insufferable, and there was nothing grander than witnessing the appalled looks Wade could provoke. But he never crossed the line, and besides, the guy was untouchable, a high-powered criminal defense attorney in Denver with a reputation for dogged ferocity in the courtroom. Beck was just glad their sons played on the same team. For now.

  They speculated on the comparative strength of the squads, the odds of a win. Wade was concerned about an upcoming tournament in Cheyenne. “We’ll need everybody at full strength next weekend,” he said. “You seen the brackets yet? Second game Saturday’s against the Cosmos.”

  “That team from Fort Collins?”

  “We whupped ’em three-to-one in the semis of the Adidas tournament last year. But now they got that new midfielder, Baashir. Speedy Muslim boy, killed us in the league game in September?”

  Beck recalled a wiry left-footer playing the same position as Aidan. Also a dad screaming in Arabic at the side judge. “I think they’re Coptics,” he said. “From Egypt.”

  “Whatever the hell they are, we need to clamp down on D. I told Bucky the back line boys need to get their shit together. They say that Baashir kid’s the best player in the state in this age group.”

  “Really.”

  “Well anyhow he’s going to ROMO next year, so we won’t have to worry about him then, at least.”

  Beck frowned. “Is that right.”

  “That’s what I hear.”

  Beck gulped back a bad taste in his throat. ROMO. The twins had been talking for months about the Rocky Mountain Fútbol Academy, the premier youth soccer club in Colorado. A whole league up from CSOC, with games as far away as Arizona and Kansas, plus two tournaments a year on the West Coast. But if this Baashir kid had already received a commitment for midfield, that meant Aidan might be out of the running before tryouts even began.

  “Ah, well.” Beck tugged at his beard and looked out across the pitch.

  Wade Meltzer struck up a conversation with Amy Susskin, the team manager, standing to his right in head-to-toe Lululemon. She was about a third his size, cute but Crystal-prissy and bossy as hell. Amy would always find something passive-aggressive to say about Charlie, who started at striker over her son Will. She laughed, a high-pitched cackle, at some observation of Wade’s. Beck ignored them both, his temp set at low brood, waiting for the game to begin.

  SIX

  BECK

  Charlie didn’t start.

  Aidan was right.

  He didn’t start.

  He still got to be co-captain, greeting the opposing team captains for the coin toss. But when the starting eleven took the pitch, Charlie wasn’t among them. Will Susskin came on at striker instead, with Aidan at attacking midfield.

  Amy Susskin leaned back and looked down the row of parents. Beck saw her smug smile out of the corner of his eye but ignored it. Over on the CSOC bench Charlie sat forward with his elbows on his knees, staring at the turf.

  Beck looked away from his son and sized up the opposition. Some kids on United were brutish tee
nagers already. Whiskers, hairy legs, hardening jawlines. The CSOC U12s were a small team, but they dominated from the start. Good one-touch stuff, quick and fleet, maintaining possession. True, the bigger kids could outpace half the CSOC defenders, and there was one early play that reached the United striker in a dangerous spot. But Bucky Meltzer slide-tackled him and grounded the ball upfield to Aidan in the middle. Aidan shook a United defender and ran a sweet play with Will, who toed it in. No big celebration after the early goal, just cool hand slaps as the teams reset.

  It was funny but with Charlie on the bench the squad looked different, spreading the field, passing with more swiftness and efficiency. Usually Charlie’s commands would drown out everything as he made runs and controlled the ball up top. But now the team had a certain flow as Aidan played with his back to the opposing goal, directing traffic, calling out passes ahead of time. He looked solid, assured, confident.

  No, more than that. Beck’s son looked like a goddamn artist, painting the pitch with his zags and his weaves, a full palette of colors in those nimble feet. Or an orchestra conductor, managing the violins, keeping the cellos on beat. When had Aidan gotten so good?

  Then he went down. A hard foul by a United defender in the box.

  “Hey, now!” Wade Meltzer yelled across the pitch, ready to raise his version of hell, but the whistle blew for a penalty kick, placating him. It should have been Aidan’s PK, but he let Will take it instead. Will drilled the ball into the lower right, putting CSOC up 2–0.