“I talked to her for a while the other night, after you and Gareth left the party,” Azra said, to Rose again. “She was pretty chatty by that point. Later I was telling Glen how much I liked her, the thought of Aidan in her hands. She really made me think.”
“What party?” Lauren asked.
Azra didn’t respond: big mistake. Any one of them could have fixed it right then with two sentences. Instead they met Lauren’s question with silence, and the longer it lasted, the more noxious it grew.
“What party?” Lauren said again, this time more deliberately.
Two cyclists passed them, ascending west into the foothills. At the same moment the rising sun flooded the canyon from the east, warming their backs and casting them as long figures on the earth. Rose saw the shapes of Samantha and Lauren moving ahead of her, mingled with the shadows of her own running legs.
Azra broke their silence with one of her nervous wordfloods. “Glen invited me along, and Sam suggested a double date since we just started seeing each other and I was telling her I really wanted him to start meeting you guys. And anyway it was just a fund-raiser for the medical school.”
“Bitsy Leighton is the dean’s first cousin,” Rose clarified. “That’s one of the reasons she moved here.”
“So why were you there?” Lauren asked Sam.
“Because Kev’s on the foundation board. We’re major donors to the epilepsy center.”
“Let me get this straight,” Lauren said. “The three of you were partying with Bitsy Leighton last weekend?”
“It’s not like we were doing mezcal shots with the woman,” Samantha retorted. “It was a big party. Half of Crystal was there.”
Rose cringed as she ran. Half of half of 1 percent, maybe.
“Oh, I get it.” Lauren sounded bitter now. “So this is the grown-up version of the Emmas’ Gifted Club. Do I have that right?”
Rose whipped her head around. “There’s no club here, Lauren. There’s just not.”
“Ridiculous,” Samantha muttered loudly, speeding up, putting space between herself and Lauren. They had come to a steeper part of the trail that veered around a corner, narrowing as it hugged a canyon wall. On the other side a waist-high railing separated the trail from the road, requiring them to run in single file. For a full minute no one said a word, and Rose was hoping the stretch might give everyone a chance to cool off.
No such luck. When the trail widened again, Lauren sprang ahead and pushed between Azra and Rose. Her shoes kicked up a puff of dust as she turned on them and stopped. Hands on hips, she glared at Samantha as they slowed to a halt in front of her.
“What’s ridiculous, Sam?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Samantha panted, bending to put her hands on her knees. “Maybe your paranoia?”
“Sam.” Rose reached out for her.
Samantha straightened and shook off the hand. “No, I’m serious. Lauren, I’m sorry that Xander didn’t hit the mark on the stupid test, but huge congratulations on your appeal. And I’m sorry this has been hard for you, because no one and I mean no one deserves it more than Xander.”
Samantha could have stopped there.
She didn’t.
“Because I know you’re used to thinking of your son as God’s gift to the rest of us poor earthlings.”
“Sam, stop.” Azra sounded scared; Rose felt it too.
Lauren’s mouth dropped open. She looked slapped and small.
“But you know what?” Samantha stepped forward until she was almost in Lauren’s face. Rose could imagine her two friends back in fifth grade, the ages of their children, the queen bee and the drone facing off.
“Other kids have gifts too,” Samantha continued. “Some can play the piano like Rubinstein. Others can play soccer, or ride a horse like a pro, or write beautiful poetry, or—or make friends easily and have a basic curiosity about people other than themselves. Not that you would ever notice what other kids are doing. Do you even know what our children have been up to? Have you asked any questions about them lately, or shown curiosity about any kid but Xander in the last few years? Because honestly I haven’t seen it.”
Rose knew where this was going, could feel it coming like a thunderclap. “Samantha—”
Sam thrust out a palm and her voice lowered to a near whisper. “I mean, do you even know what’s going on with your own daughter? Do you, Lauren?”
Lauren’s skin went pale, despite the sweat streaming down her face. Her voice was trembling when she responded, “Don’t you dare bring Tessa into this, you entitled bitch.”
“You guys, please.” Rose stepped between them, her voice shaky and scared. “She doesn’t mean it, Lauren.” Desperate to make peace, she looked back at Samantha, just as rattled as Lauren in her own cold way. “Sam? Will you apologize to Lauren? Come on. And Lauren, will you . . . could you . . .”
Rose’s voice trailed off and Samantha simply stood there with her lovely chin jutting out, her arms folded, eyes searching the top of the canyon wall.
Rose looked at Azra. Why aren’t you helping here? she wanted to scream, because normally Azra could dissipate any tension among her friends with her ease and open grace, but right then she was as frozen as the other two.
Finally Lauren hocked and spat on the side of the trail, seething against Samantha’s icy demeanor. “I don’t want. Her fucking. Apology.” Chopping her hands out to the side with every other syllable. She backed away. Azra and Rose surged forward—instinct—but Lauren went rigid and splayed her hands in front of her face, as if to push them away.
“No. Do not. Follow. Me home.” More chopping. “Just don’t. I’m fine.”
She turned away and sprinted, back through the narrowest part of the trail and toward the sun.
FORTY-SEVEN
BECK
From his window seat at Finnegan’s Wake, Beck looked down onto a throng of vapers and smokers crowding the tables out front, all nose rings and ear stretchers and inked skin. Something thrashy and carnal on the speakers. A caramel latte on the counter by his left hand.
Catastrophe on his laptop screen.
The firm had just lost another client, a big account in Broomfield that had covered half his overhead for the last four years. They’d lost major business before, the design trade could be fickle, though usually there was enough of a cushion in the firm’s operating account to cover payroll and other expenses.
Not this time. Too much turnover, too much back-and-forth between Beck’s personal finances and the firm’s bank account. Might have to offload his full-time admin, he reckoned, maybe even pare Leila down to part-time, if she’d even agree to work for him at all, given the ongoing paycheck fiasco. Might have to fucking fire himself, if it came to that; and hell, maybe bankruptcy wouldn’t be so bad. If the president can do it . . .
But then again, anything drastic could be put off for at least a few months. All it would take was another card. He was right in the middle of applying for a new Corporate Platinum Mastercard (Optimize accounts payable through robust transaction-level reporting! the promotion encouraged) when a big hand slapped him in the middle of the spine. Beck knew that hand, that slap.
“Hey, partner,” said a familiar gravelly voice.
In one motion Beck shut his laptop and twirled around to see Wade Meltzer’s wide face beaming down.
“Hey, man,” Beck said, surveying him. He was used to seeing Wade on the sidelines in cargo shorts and T-shirts, torturing referees. Today Wade was dressed in a tailored suit, a button-down oxford shirt, and a subtly patterned tie. The getup rendered Meltzer a different person: trimmed and powerful.
“You clean up nice,” Beck said. Wade grinned. “But I thought your outfit practiced in Denver.”
“Mostly we do.” Wade lowered his voice. “Got a little drug thing up here at the courthouse. Kid of one of our major clients peddling ecstasy in
the dorms.” He rolled his droopy eyes. “I’m at the tail end of my lunchtime constitutional, figured I’d pop in for a cuppa. Anyway.” He shot a cuff and looked at a wafer-thin watch.
“You’ll be at the tournament next weekend?”
“Oh, hell yeah. I have a feeling we’ll take it too. Tough bracket but our boys look solid. Had to give Coach a piece of my mind on our winger situation, though. Joey can’t finish these days.” Meltzer picked up his coffee from the counter. “Back to the jungle. You take care now.”
“You too,” said Beck.
Joey can’t finish these days. Neither can I, Beck thought, staring glumly at his screen, thinking of his messed-up eldest son, his zeroed-out bank accounts, a sprawling web of debt. And now he wasn’t getting laid, or even flirted with by any of the latter-day hippie chicks wandering in and out of the coffee shop.
He minimized the credit card app and opened Facebook, mostly to distract himself with a few political threads. Aside from the occasional porn fix, Beck’s only form of therapy these days was to go after neoliberals still wedded to the two-party system, all these lame corporatist Democrats convinced the world would be saved from ruin if the Senate tilted two seats toward the center. He spent ten minutes arguing over voter suppression on one thread, another fifteen enlightening a few fact-challenged DNC diehards on another.
Meanwhile two new notifications had popped up, both from acquaintances in the area asking him to join a public group and “like” its page. Interesting.
Beck clicked through. The group was calling itself the Alliance of Parents Against Crystal Academy, ALPACA for short. Its mission statement read like standard entitled-activist pablum.
We are a group of concerned parents strongly opposed to the creation of the new public magnet school for allegedly gifted students. We believe that gifted education should be democratic, egalitarian, and nonexclusive.
ALPACA. A perfect acronym for a protest group in a city like Crystal. There was an entire store on the Emerald Mall dedicated to clothing and accessories crafted of alpaca wool humanely sourced from South America. You could get a felted alpaca shawl, an alpaca cape, even a onesie for your infant. Alpacas also featured prominently in the city’s self-loving iconography, like on those KEEP CRYSTAL STRANGE! bumper stickers you saw on all the Volvos around town. (Beck hated Volvos almost as much as he hated the Clintons.)
ALPACA’s page header featured an artist’s multiculti rendering of six disembodied forearms and raised hands, each a different hue, from dark brown to pale beige, with the words EQUALITY IN EDUCATION emblazoned in bold red lettering across the top. The page had eighty-six likes so far, but as Beck scanned it for the first time the number clicked up to eighty-seven. Eighty-eight.
With his anxiety mounting Beck started reading the posts. Typical Facebook bullshit, a heady mixture of righteous indignation, scripted bragging, and boozy chattiness.
Ann Marlowe Thank God this group exists! I’ve been wanting to vent for MONTHS and finally it feels like there’s a safe space for that. This whole thing has been so demoralizing for our family. I guess our son just isn’t “gifted” enough for the Upper School, despite his four AP classes, his perfect grades every quarter (every quarter!) through his sophomore year, etc. etc. Now one stupid test and he’s out. INFURIATING!
11 mins
Carol Kinsley With you, Ann.
Midge Wilson Preach.
Dave Riggins Fuck this school.
Toni Andriesen, Administrator Let’s try to keep the language clean, Dave. Our kids could be reading this page!
Dave Riggins Noted. Apologies. Just a little worked up!
Toni Andriesen, Administrator No worries! ☺ ☺ ☺
Dorothy Ernst shared a link to the Crystal Camera Opinion Page
Hope everyone saw the op-ed in the Camera yesterday. Favorite quote: “Crystal Academy, once it opens, will represent one of the biggest blows to equity and equality in public education our local school districts have witnessed in a generation.” Follow the link for more. Great stuff!
42 mins.
Erin Barnes Drinking gin while reading it. Feeling better.
Carol Kinsley I’m on my second appletini but who’s counting?
Tracey Larsen Does anyone on this page know anything about the meeting the other night, the one at East Crystal High where they discussed portfolios? Apparently the superintendents were all there, the new principal from California, etc. Did they explain themselves? Because I’d like to know why the admissions people are considering this “whole child” BS for the second cut but used only the CogPro for the first cut. What am I missing here??????
2 hrs.
Toni Andriesen, Administrator Speaking only for myself (though I think many would agree), this is precisely the reason we started this group in the first place, Tracey. They’ve used the CogPro to weed out, what, 80% of the population, and now they tell us that they won’t even be using those scores for the second cut?
Tracey Larsen Thanks for this, Toni. I think there needs to be a community meeting—sort of a town hall type thing. If we can do it with our state legislators about concealed carry, why can’t we call in the school board and superintendents for our children???
Toni Andriesen, Administrator Great idea, Tracey. Let me do some calling around and we’ll nail down a date and venue, then get some invitations out. Solidarity!
Carol Kinsley Hold my appletini. I’m there!
Olivia Steiner Just catching up on this thread after late-night arrival from Barcelona—uber jetlagged. But we are shocked! How can this be? We just moved here over the summer from the Upper West Side of Manhattan for my husband’s new tech job. Our daughter was enrolled at TAG, a gifted magnet in East Harlem, all the way through elementary school. And now she doesn’t qualify for a magnet out here in Flyover, Colorado? This is beyond absurd.
4 hrs.
Erin Barnes It’s a challenge for all of us, Olivia. No need to look down on our beautiful Front Range!
Carol Kinsley Agreed. No need for any more dividing and conquering—the schools are already doing that for us!
The posts went on in this vein, fourteen of them altogether since the page was launched the night before, and each post continued to accrue likes, dipshit emojis, and replies as Beck read along. By the time he scrolled back up to the top, dozens of new likes had appeared, approaching two hundred now. ALPACA was going viral.
Beck wrote up a group email to Azra, Gareth, and Kev.
Hey, all,
You guys see this? Some nasty stuff here about the academy, a lot of angry folks stirred up about admission, testing, etc. Probably worth paying attention to, IMHO. Sorry to be bearer of bad news!
Pax,
B
He pasted in the link at the bottom. After he hit Send, he scanned a few more posts, all his ambivalence about the gifted school returning like a bad meal.
an outrageous use of public resources in an age of budget cuts and defunding
just a bunch of lip service to diversity
and the lower school is in the wealthiest neighborhood in Crystal. Coincidence???
Beck chewed his lip. The ALPACA meeting was in two days. A lot of these folks would be attending, some just to vent, some to organize against the school, others to listen, which is what Beck wanted to do. Because maybe his initial instincts had been correct. Maybe this gifted school wasn’t such a great idea after all; and besides, it was just a meeting. Azra didn’t need to know. He put it on his calendar and packed up and was pushing out the door when he bumped into Tessa Frye on her way in.
“Hey, there,” he said, holding the door for her, happy to see a young and optimistic face.
“Oh, hi, Beck.” Her eyes widened at the sight of him.
“What’s up?”
“Um.” Tessa’s eyes darted left and right. She showed him her MacBook. “Just some homework, then I have a sh
ift at BloomAgain.”
“Cool. It’s awesome you’re doing that.”
“Yeah. Azra’s amazing.”
“That she is.” Beck nodded and lingered, the door still open.
“Well, see ya!” She gave him a nervous little wave, then walked off toward some tables in the far corner.
He watched her for a few seconds then let the door hiss closed behind him. On the sidewalk he stood for a minute, thinking over the encounter. Tessa had looked almost embarrassed to see him, or to be seen with him. What the hell was that about?
He sniffed his pits, examined himself in his phone camera to see if he had something gnarly in his nose or his beard. Nope, all good.
Man, he thought as he left the shelter of the awning. Now even Tessa wouldn’t give him the time of day. As he trudged off to find his car he opened the ALPACA page again on his phone. More posts, more likes and meanie-face emojis, more hating on the gifted school.
A Touch of Tessa:
One Girl's Survival Guide to Junior Year
A Video Blog
Episode #196: HITS
. . . 487 views . . .
[In BloomAgain, a circular clothes rack with several shirts and jackets hanging from the rod; at the center a colorful stenciled sign: TESSARACKS.]
TESSA: Hey, you guys. So here it is! Can you believe it? Just four things so far, but in a couple weeks I’ll have some new rags up. You like this shirt? We sold one just like it yesterday, to this girl from Denver Central who comes in here a lot, and Azra said she wants one for her boyfriend’s daughter, so I’m like, sold! And she bought it for forty dollars. I can’t even tell you guys what—just what this feels like, to be doing something like this. Designing things, making them, literally selling them, you know? It’s like I have an actual life or something.
So, okay, but—awkward!—there is this one thing I wanted to ask you guys about. This is weird but suddenly it seems like more people are looking at our channel. Have you noticed that? Like usually I get maybe six hits on my vlogs and they’re all probably from you losers. But yesterday I saw that one of them had twenty-three views, and this other one was on thirty-three, and Maurice, did you see that like a hundred people watched the one about your SATs? So I don’t know, you guys. I mean, I’m used to getting lots of eyes on my Instagram, like if I post a fashion sketch, a lot of people will share it and comment and whatnot. That’s totally different, though; nobody even knows who I am on there. But some of the stuff I’ve vlogged, it’s just—are you guys worried about it? Jessica, you set this channel up, so maybe you could change the settings, so all of this is private? I don’t know if I want to put any new ones up until we figure this out. Anyway. It’s probably stupid but I wanted to say something. Love you guys!
The Gifted School Page 26