wasn’t quite a smile, not quite a sneer.
“What kind of games?” I asked.
“Checkmate,” he said. There was something unpleasant on his face. It took me a second to realize that it was pity. He pitied me, knew that I could never beat him, and was sorry for me that I kept trying.
“What?” I said, looking down at the board in dismay. “No.”
He didn’t say anything, just let me examine the pieces until I saw that his knight was threatening my king, and that the placement of his queen and his bishop made escape or evasion impossible.
“Wow,” I said. There was literally a taste in my mouth, a thick oatmeal of annoyance. “You’re amazing.”
He gave me that nod he seemed to have perfected, a princely acknowledgment of his own greatness. He’s a genius, his mother had told me. They call it “profoundly gifted” when your IQ score is over a hundred and eighty. And his levels are right around there.
It irked me because I, too, prided myself on my superior intelligence, had been classified as profoundly gifted in my youth. But he seemed smarter, had better focus, was more creative or something. But it was childish for me to care, wasn’t it? It wasn’t a competition. Why did it feel like one?
But his intellect works against him because of his other challenges, Rachel had qualified. He outsmarts the people trying to help him.
But what was wrong with him exactly? After that first afternoon,our time together had been relatively peaceful and even enjoyable. Of course, it had only been a short time. I didn’t doubt Rachel, and I knew they wouldn’t have taken him into Fieldcrest without good reason. But I hadn’t seen any evidence of behavior problems. He was a little arrogant, kind of obnoxiously sure of himself. There was something deeply unsettling about his cool, adult gaze, his often grown-up word choice and phrasing. I was smart enough to know that his charm was a bit superficial, put on. But there’d been none of the rages Rachel warned me about. If it happens, just sit very still and let him burn himself out. Don’t attempt to subdue him .
“You didn’t answer me,” he said.
He was packing up the board. Why bother playing again, really? his aura said. There was even something smug about the way he packed the soapstone pieces into their foam slots, placing them precisely then snapping closed the wooden case.
“Do I like other games?” I said. “You didn’t answer my question. What kind of games?”
“Games that you can win,” he said.
“Nice,” I said. I reached over to give him a playful push on the shoulder. My touch, though very gentle, elicited a wince.
“What?” I said.
He pulled down the neck of his striped oxford and I saw that on his shoulder was an enormous bruise, a black-and-purple rose against the snow of his skin. It sent a wave of concern through me.
“How did that happen?” I asked.
“I fell down the stairs last night,” he said. But he looked down at his cuticles. And I found myself thinking of that lock on the door. I was silent for a second, waiting for him to go on.
“My mom put ice on it,” he said. “But I got in a fight at school today and it got hurt again.”
There were lots of physical altercations at Fieldcrest. So many troubled kids in such close quarters, and violence was sure to erupt. In fact, it was one of the biggest criticisms of the place leveled by skeptics of Dr. Welsh’s work. The children were violent with each other, manipulated each other, the stronger sometimes preyed upon the weaker. Last year, after an article ran in the New York Times Magazine about the school, some parents had pulled their children from the program. They’d then gone on to form a group lobbying to close the school. All these kids in one place? Aren’t they just learning from each other, forming alliances? one parent railed in an online discussion about the school. Some of these kids, parents complained, are getting worse instead of better.
My
“What kind of games?” I asked.
“Checkmate,” he said. There was something unpleasant on his face. It took me a second to realize that it was pity. He pitied me, knew that I could never beat him, and was sorry for me that I kept trying.
“What?” I said, looking down at the board in dismay. “No.”
He didn’t say anything, just let me examine the pieces until I saw that his knight was threatening my king, and that the placement of his queen and his bishop made escape or evasion impossible.
“Wow,” I said. There was literally a taste in my mouth, a thick oatmeal of annoyance. “You’re amazing.”
He gave me that nod he seemed to have perfected, a princely acknowledgment of his own greatness. He’s a genius, his mother had told me. They call it “profoundly gifted” when your IQ score is over a hundred and eighty. And his levels are right around there.
It irked me because I, too, prided myself on my superior intelligence, had been classified as profoundly gifted in my youth. But he seemed smarter, had better focus, was more creative or something. But it was childish for me to care, wasn’t it? It wasn’t a competition. Why did it feel like one?
But his intellect works against him because of his other challenges, Rachel had qualified. He outsmarts the people trying to help him.
But what was wrong with him exactly? After that first afternoon,our time together had been relatively peaceful and even enjoyable. Of course, it had only been a short time. I didn’t doubt Rachel, and I knew they wouldn’t have taken him into Fieldcrest without good reason. But I hadn’t seen any evidence of behavior problems. He was a little arrogant, kind of obnoxiously sure of himself. There was something deeply unsettling about his cool, adult gaze, his often grown-up word choice and phrasing. I was smart enough to know that his charm was a bit superficial, put on. But there’d been none of the rages Rachel warned me about. If it happens, just sit very still and let him burn himself out. Don’t attempt to subdue him .
“You didn’t answer me,” he said.
He was packing up the board. Why bother playing again, really? his aura said. There was even something smug about the way he packed the soapstone pieces into their foam slots, placing them precisely then snapping closed the wooden case.
“Do I like other games?” I said. “You didn’t answer my question. What kind of games?”
“Games that you can win,” he said.
“Nice,” I said. I reached over to give him a playful push on the shoulder. My touch, though very gentle, elicited a wince.
“What?” I said.
He pulled down the neck of his striped oxford and I saw that on his shoulder was an enormous bruise, a black-and-purple rose against the snow of his skin. It sent a wave of concern through me.
“How did that happen?” I asked.
“I fell down the stairs last night,” he said. But he looked down at his cuticles. And I found myself thinking of that lock on the door. I was silent for a second, waiting for him to go on.
“My mom put ice on it,” he said. “But I got in a fight at school today and it got hurt again.”
There were lots of physical altercations at Fieldcrest. So many troubled kids in such close quarters, and violence was sure to erupt. In fact, it was one of the biggest criticisms of the place leveled by skeptics of Dr. Welsh’s work. The children were violent with each other, manipulated each other, the stronger sometimes preyed upon the weaker. Last year, after an article ran in the New York Times Magazine about the school, some parents had pulled their children from the program. They’d then gone on to form a group lobbying to close the school. All these kids in one place? Aren’t they just learning from each other, forming alliances? one parent railed in an online discussion about the school. Some of these kids, parents complained, are getting worse instead of better.
My
Similar Books
