The Gifted School

by Bruce Holsinger

  On the way to Beck’s car Gareth said, “Rose is freaking out.”

  “Why?”

  “That kid in there, the one who went up onstage?”

  “Trilingual dude in glasses?”

  “Right. So apparently he’s the son of the lady who cleans our house. That was his mom calling out from the audience.”

  “No shit.” Beck smiled. “So why did that flip her out?”

  “You know Rose. She gets so self-conscious about stuff like that.”

  Beck’s smile dimmed. They’d had a housekeeper until mid-February, this woman Beck had been forced to let go without notice. He’d felt terrible about it, and Sonja had not been thrilled—but the cash flow just wasn’t happening, and for some reason the lady didn’t take checks.

  * * *

  —

  Beck drove them to Fourteeners, a microbrewery up in North Crystal, housed in a former car repair shop retrofitted with floor-to-ceiling windows facing the foothills. Even for a Tuesday the place was quiet. The TVs inside showed basketball and hockey, and a string band twanged from the speakers. They sat at an outdoor table and ordered a few pints. Across Broad Street the mass of Mount Caritas blocked the stars. Cars traced their routes up and down Caritas Road like Christmas lights slowly unspooling.

  “So what’d you think of that Bitsy chick?” Beck said when their beers came.

  “I don’t know,” Gareth said. “This whole school thing—”

  “Yeah.”

  “Rose is obsessed with whether Q gets a spot. But I’m not feeling great about how all this is affecting Emma Q.”

  “Same with my guys.”

  “Oh yeah?”

  “They’re fighting some, got those competitive juices flowing. Leave it on the soccer pitch, is my feeling.”

  “Mm.” Gareth wiped his lip with a bar napkin. “Well, my feeling is, eleven-year-olds shouldn’t be thinking about test scores and spikes.”

  “Yeah,” Beck said, sort of agreeing in spirit but wondering where all this self-righteousness was coming from. Gareth could sometimes sound like a goddamn parenting magazine you’d read at the pediatrician’s office.

  “So, you and Rose,” he said, switching topics to something juicier. “Last time we talked she was icing you. It’s better these days?”

  Gareth gently swirled his pint glass. “Hot and cold. Who knows.”

  “You’re lucky, man. Azra would never take me back.”

  “You’d want that?”

  “I have no clue what I want. Me and some folks from work were at the bar last month shootin’ the shit. I look across the restaurant and see this table of four hot women having mojitos, and guess what? It was the quad, celebrating Samantha’s birthday.”

  “What’s that have to do with you and Sonja?”

  Beck shrugged. “I just feel like I’m never in the right place, in my head. Because they looked great, and I don’t mean for a bunch of middle-aged moms. Azra looks better now than she did at twenty-five, swear to God.”

  Then they talked about their wives for a while, and then Gareth brought him up to date on Emma Q and all she’d been up to, including the usual drama with Emma Z; after that Beck told Gareth about the twins and the politics of the travel leagues, but the whole thing was kind of dull, Beck admitted to himself by his second pint. Sure, it could be good to catch up like this, to kick around familiar things with someone you’d known for such a long time. But Gareth Quinn was never going to be the kind of friend Beck had had in Julian, they just didn’t have enough in common, and Beck had always sensed just the teensiest bit of condescension from the guy. Gareth was a published writer, after all, even if, as Sonja liked to point out, he’d only ever produced one novel, which Beck had never read and even Azra said was dull and pretentious—though it wasn’t as if Beck had a host of graphic design awards lining his shelves. And anyway a bud’s a bud, and if he’ll buy you a hoppy ale and ask you stuff about your life, maybe that’s what’s important in the end.

  “They almost don’t need a sitter anymore,” Gareth had just observed of the Emmas. “We’re having Tessa come one night a week but more as a favor to Lauren than anything else.”

  “Yeah, I hear you. We’ve been using her too,” Beck said with a fond smile, then had an unsettling thought. “Careful with that one, though. She’s still a little messed up.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  Beck leaned forward over the table, his fingers destroying a soggy coaster. “We were up at Breckenridge a couple weeks ago and brought her along to watch Roy.”

  “Yeah?”

  “So I’m sitting in the Jacuzzi after everyone’s asleep and Tessa comes out there with a bag of weed and drops her towel and just climbs on in.”

  “She was naked?”

  “Topless.”

  Gareth looked at him with a new expression. “Were you wearing a suit?”

  “Hell no. Sonja had just gone upstairs, and we were—”

  “And she brought weed out there, right in front of you?”

  “Well, she didn’t exactly hide it.”

  “Did you take it away?”

  “What? No, man, I—”

  “Let me guess,” Gareth said. “You smoked with her.”

  “A little, sure. Then I got the hell out of there. It was uncomfortable. That’s why I’m telling you this, bro.”

  Gareth cocked his head, looking at him like a freaking traffic judge. “Did you tell Lauren what happened? That Tessa was acting like that?”

  Beck took a swig of his beer, not sure how this conversation had gone so far off the rails. “I figure it’s not my business if she’s got a wild thing for a daughter.”

  “Not your business?” He lowered his voice. “Beck, Tessa’s a teenage girl. She was in your care for the weekend even if she was babysitting. You were alone and naked in a hot tub with her, and you guys smoked pot.”

  “Hey, I didn’t give her any, and in Colorado the shit’s legal.”

  “Did you tell Sonja?”

  Beck’s mouth hung open, and for the first time he felt genuine alarm. “Why would I do that?”

  “So only you and Tessa know about this Jacuzzi incident?”

  “It wasn’t an ‘incident.’ Come on.” He thought of Charlie, his dark eyes looking out through the kitchen window at bare-skinned Tessa. “But yeah, that’s right,” he lied. “Only me and Tessa, and now you.”

  “Well, keep it that way.” Gareth tilted his head back and slugged the rest of his beer. “And be more careful. Seriously.”

  Though he didn’t sound protective when he said it. Didn’t sound like a friend. More like an uptight prick.

  “I hear you,” said Beck, trying to be chill, but the bile rose in his throat.

  * * *

  —

  He dropped his keys on the front table and got a glimpse of Sonja in the kitchen labeling milk bottles. “Hey, cutie. Where are the twins?”

  “Asleep,” she called.

  “Already?”

  “It is a school night. I made them turn off the TV at nine o’clock.”

  “Awesome,” he said, loving her spine. “Thanks, babe.”

  He strolled to the fridge for a beer. Sonja stayed frozen in place, backed up against the countertop, her arms folded, giving him the old Austrian stink-eye.

  “You okay?”

  She didn’t move. “Aidan called me from Chipotle, Beck. Would you like to know why?”

  “Um, sure?”

  “The credit card you gave them was declined.” A pause. “I had to read the clerk my own credit card number.” A longer pause. “Over the phone.”

  Oh fuck. He must have given Aidan the wrong card in his haste to get out the door.

  “But why didn’t the guys call me?”

  She dropped her head forward and looke
d at him.

  He swallowed. “Listen, babe—”

  “And I had to do this in front of my friends. My new friends. Friends I would like to keep. Do you think I enjoyed this?”

  “Hey now.”

  “Beck, is there something going on with our money that I need to know about? I have this baby. I have not been paying attention to bills and to other things because I trust you with all that . . .” Her voice trailed off, just like her faith in him.

  He took two steps toward his wife and cupped her elbows in his palms and kissed the fragrant part in her golden hair. “Everything’s under control,” he murmured. She stiffened for a moment before leaning against him.

  “It’s all good,” he said, staring at the blank wall behind her. “I promise, babe.”

  THIRTY-SIX

  EMMA Z

  Emma Zellar loved her Darlton days.

  Every Wednesday her father picked her up at 11:40 and signed her out of school early so she didn’t have to go to gym, which she hated, or stay around for recess, which she didn’t mind but also didn’t mind missing. Then he took her out to lunch wherever she wanted to go, except for a really fancy place, because that would take too long. Then after lunch he drove her to the Varner School of Leadership at Darlton University for her entrepreneurship class, and then after that he took her back to school by two o’clock for last period.

  That day her father took her to Guisados, her favorite taco place, next door to the North Crystal Rec Center. Emma Z ordered the fish tacos, and Daddy ordered tacos al pastor, like the ones they’d had in Mexico City. As always they split their orders between them, and as always he tried to cheat by taking two of her tacos instead of one but she didn’t let him. The fish was crunchy and the pork was spicy and the guacamole was chunky and fresh, made in front of you right at the counter.

  When they finished eating, her father leaned back in his chair with his hands over his stomach. “So, sweet pea, how you feeling about everything?”

  “Great,” she said, licking al pastor sauce off her fingers.

  “How are things going at school these days? You happy with your teachers, fifth grade, all of that? Do I need to go in there and raise some hell?”

  Emma Z laughed. “No, Daddy. Some of it’s kind of boring, but mostly it’s okay.”

  “And how about your leadership class? Because you know I give a lot of money to those folks at Darlton. You liking it?” He put his hands behind his head. “It’s pretty special, you know. Other kids your age don’t get to do that kind of thing.”

  “It was your idea.”

  “Oh, I know that, sweet pea. But do you think it’s worth the hassle?”

  “I like the class. Professor Young is really funny, and the college students in there are so nice. They bring me chocolates and stuff. Plus I’m learning a lot.”

  And, she didn’t say, I really like to be able to tell my friends and teachers at school that I’m taking a class at a college.

  “Is that right? Like what?”

  “Like,” said Emma Z, wiping her nose with her wrist, “like that great leaders are also great entrepreneurs. And vice versa. If you’re a really smart entrepreneur and you invent something and take it out in the world and show everyone how to use it and even build a company so you can sell it, that makes you a leader, not just an entrepreneur, right? So the two go hand in hand, like . . . like hands.” She giggled.

  Her father got a huge, handsome smile on his face, brought his hands back around, and clapped slowly. “Wow. Just . . . wow. I am truly blown away, Emma Zellar, and proud as heck of you, you know that? So you really want to keep going with this?”

  “I love my Darlton days,” she said.

  “Well, okay then.”

  But suddenly his smile disappeared, he got a scared look, and he started twirling his hands around, trying to balance on his tilting chair. “Oh, dang,” he said. “I’m—oh geez I’m—I’m—”

  “Daddy!” she screeched.

  “You gotta help me, sweet pea. I’m going over! Heeeeeeellllllllp!”

  He reached out his hands and she caught them and pulled him back down just in time, even though he had obviously been faking it, then she collapsed on his lap, giggling like crazy as everyone around them laughed and smiled, even though they were probably really jealous.

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  ROSE

  Rose wasted an hour on Saturday morning flicking through the hangers in her shallow closet, looking for just the right outfit. Carl Wingate, dean of the medical school, was hosting a kick-off party for the new capital campaign that night with faculty, local donors, and board members, and Rose needed a dress. Not a formal evening gown but something slightly sexy yet sophisticated that paired well with a cardigan. The dean lived high up in Sunrise Canyon, and his events tended to sprawl outside.

  She held a few things up in the full-length mirror on the closet door: a sapphire sheath, a casual maxi in a steel gray, a black number with a flared skirt she liked to wear with flats. But nothing felt quite right. Finally she broke down and texted Samantha. The Zellars, major donors to the Medical Center, were also going tonight. Sam promptly ordered her over to Twenty Birch to find a loaner.

  First Rose made a call to Wild Horse, part of the plan to augment Q’s portfolio. The schools were giving applicants a few weeks to put everything together. Lauren and Azra had already come up with clear, well-thought-out portfolios to bring out the best in their kids. Xander was toiling away on a science project, and Lauren was optimistic about his CogPro appeal. Azra, tight-lipped about the academy since that melancholy curbside conversation, was suddenly all lit up about Aidan’s mad soccer skills; apparently Beck had hours of video he was editing into a highlight reel.

  Rose had settled on equestrianism as a sellable extracurricular. Ever since Q’s fourth-grade final project on Black Beauty and riding styles, her daughter had been obsessed with horses, an interest that had produced last year’s science fair exhibit on the horse’s gait, as well as the History Day project the Emmas had recently completed on horses in the American West. A perfect spike. The only thing missing from Q’s portfolio was a letter from her instructor.

  Janelle picked up on the second ring, and Rose asked for a sense of Emma’s progress. What she got in return was a gift: excellent in the saddle . . . a natural comfort level with the horses . . . already posts to the trot, the only girl in the Saturday group who can do that so far . . . intuitive . . . don’t see that kind of innate ability very often. Everything Rose could have hoped for, and Janelle readily agreed to send a letter the next week.

  * * *

  —

  I think we have a winner,” said Samantha from atop her duvet an hour later, reclining on her elbows with her bare feet dangling over the foot of the Zellars’ super king. They were in Samantha’s spacious bedroom, with its high ceilings, walk-in closet, just the right vintage paint colors on the walls. Twenty dresses draped the divan and chaise longue. Open curtains invited late-morning light through the French doors and allowed the shadows of swaying trees in the spacious backyard to play dappled patterns over the scattered outfits.

  The dress they had chosen for Rose was a bell-sleeved Milly in navy stretch silk that revealed her wrists and ended mid-thigh. The Emmas came in while she was modeling it, and when Z said, “You look pretty in that, Rose,” she was sold. Emma Z already had her mother’s taste.

  As Rose slipped back into her jeans Samantha returned a text. “Well, that’s interesting.”

  “What?”

  “This is Tazeem texting me.” Tazeem Harb, the mayor’s wife and a friend of Sam’s, with a daughter at the Emmas’ school. “There’s a little rumor going around about the guest list,” she said mysteriously.

  “Oh yeah?”

  “Sounds like your friend Bitsy Leighton will be there.”

  “Really.” Rose ignored the implication.


  “Apparently she’s your dean’s cousin or something.”

  “Interesting,” said Rose, nettled by the coincidence—and wondering whether she should just skip the event tonight. The last thing she wanted to do was talk about the bogus study again. She hadn’t yet heard from Bitsy about following up, and worried that her presence at the party might remind the woman about it when she’d probably conveniently forgotten by now.

  She waited for an opening to slip in a related question that had been nagging her. “So, what’s Emma Z’s spike, for her portfolio?”

  “What isn’t?” Samantha replied. They started rearranging dresses on her silk-padded hangers. “And that’s the problem, you know? There isn’t just one thing. The girl has no Pike’s Peak. She’s more of a high-altitude steppe, though Kev has some ideas.”

  “Like what?” Rose lifted two hangers and walked them to the closet.

  “Something about leadership, that kind of thing,” Samantha said, vaguely again.

  Standing in the master closet, Rose thought: Emma Z, good in everything, best in none.

  * * *

  —

  In the kitchen the teakettle whistled and piped. Samantha dropped round bags of anise tea into two mugs. Down the hall somewhere a vacuum cleaner switched off, then one of the house cleaners pushed a blue Dyson from the dining room into the library, pulling at the chord as he went.

  When he passed through the hall, Rose got a glimpse of a boy’s face. She looked again. “Wait, is that Atik?”

  “Yeah, he and Shayna have been coming on Saturdays lately, given the situation,” Samantha said casually. “They’re an amazing team, don’t you think? Almost as good as Silea.”