Unwilling to believe anyone could do that.
Shocked that not everyone cared about him.
Get used to reality, you spoiled little bastard.
Chapter 35
Twelve-year-old Grace lived with two strangers in a big, beautiful house in Hancock Park.
Nice while it lasted. It wouldn’t, of course, she understood reality. A few years in one place, a few in another, you never knew what the next day would bring.
But she had to admit being taken in by Malcolm and Sophie was by far her best turn of luck. And she was determined to learn as much as she could until they got tired of her.
Apart from the house being big and beautiful and always smelling clean and fresh, apart from the room they let her use as her bedroom being huge and comforting and now, furnished graciously, Malcolm and Sophie were nicer than anyone she’d ever met.
They made it easy for Grace to hold on to herself and not be swallowed up by what they preferred. Maybe that was because Malcolm was a psychologist, an expert on kids. Even though he’d never had any.
Or maybe it was more than that; after a month or so, Grace couldn’t help thinking he and Sophie seemed to really care about her comfort, nutrition, and general state of happiness. But they never pretended they were her parents, never asked to be called Mom and Dad. Grace wasn’t sure how she’d feel if they had. She’d never called anyone Mom or Dad.
She thought about it and decided to go along with whatever they wanted that didn’t actually hurt her.
Anything to stay in this heaven.
A few months later, she was still calling them Malcolm and Sophie, and Sophie had taken to routinely calling her “dear.” Malcolm usually never called her anything except once in a while, Grace. Mostly he just talked to her without a label. As if there was always a conversation going on between them and no one needed to get formal.
Grace began to think of them as a pair of new friends. Or maybe “acquaintances” — she liked that word — it sounded exotic and French. Same for “compatriots.” “Associates,” too, though that was more official than exotic.
So now, she had acquaintances who were much older and smarter and had a lot to teach her. And rich, as well.
One day, Malcolm asked if she’d ever thought about going to school.
It made her afraid and a bit angry, as if he’d finally had enough and was thinking about sending her somewhere and when she said, “Never,” some of that anger came out in her voice. She had to hold on to her hands so they didn’t shake.
Malcolm just nodded, and rubbed his big chin the way he did when he was thinking about something puzzling. “Makes sense, be hard to find a peer group for you — for anyone as brilliant as you. Okay, fine, we’ll continue with home study. I must confess, I like it myself — finding material for you is a serious challenge. Just wanted to make sure you weren’t getting lonely.”
I’m my own best friend. I don’t know what lonely is.
She said, “I’m ready for the next lesson.”
Grace’s nearly thirteen years on the planet had told her trust didn’t mean much, except for trusting herself. But the funny thing was, Malcolm and Sophie seemed to trust her. Never forcing food on her that she didn’t like, never telling her when to go to bed or when to get up. Though to be honest, they didn’t have to, Grace rose before they did and read in bed, and when she was tired she told them so and returned to her room to read herself to sleep. After she first moved in, Sophie asked if she wanted to be tucked in.
Ramona had only asked the one time, after that she’d just done it, and Sophie asking probably meant she didn’t want to do it but was being polite.
So rather than make Sophie put out a special effort, Grace said, “No, thank you, I’m fine.” And she was. Enjoying the quiet of the magnificent room they were letting her stay in. Though once in a while, she wouldn’t have minded a tuck-in.
Sophie said, “As you wish, dear,” and Grace put herself to bed.
As far as she could tell, being a professor was easy; Malcolm would drive to the university but not really early, and sometimes he’d come home when it was still light outside. Some days, he never left at all, working in his wood-paneled study, reading and writing.
Grace thought: I’d like this job.
Sophie was a professor, too, but she never went to work, just puttered around the house, cooking for herself and Grace, supervising Adelina, the nice but not-speaking-English cleaning woman who came in twice a week and worked hard and silently.
Sophie also went on shopping “excursions,” which could mean anything from buying groceries to coming home with boxes and bags of clothing for herself and for Grace.
She was probably doing some kind of work because she had her own study — a small room off her and Malcolm’s bedroom with no paneling, just a desk and a computer. Other than pictures of flowers on white walls, nothing fancy. When she did go in there, she kept the door open but she’d remain at the desk for hours, reading and writing, usually with classical music playing softly in the background. When mail came to her it was addressed Prof. Sophia Muller or Sophia Muller, Ph.D.
Reading and writing was what Grace was already doing, what kind of deal was this professor stuff? Grace started to think she should really learn to be one.
Three months after Grace’s arrival, Sophie cleared up the mystery. “You probably wonder why I’m here all the time.”
Grace shrugged.
“Next year, I’ll be back on campus like Malcolm — teaching, supervising grad students. But this year I’m on something called a sabbatical, it’s kind of a racket for professors, once we get tenure — once the university figures it wants to keep us around — we get a year off every seven years.”
“Like Sabbath,” said Grace.
“Pardon?”
“Work six days, rest on the seventh.”
Sophie smiled. “Yes, exactly, that’s the concept. Not that I’m supposed to be loafing, the understanding is I’m to do independent research. This is my second sabbatical. During the first, Malcolm and I traipsed around Europe and I churned out papers that no one read. But I’m older now, prefer to basically be a homebody and get paid for it. You won’t tell on me, will you, dear?”
Laughing.
Grace crossed her heart. “It’s a secret... you do read and write.”
“I’m writing a book. Allegedly.”
“What on?”
“Nothing that’s going to hit the bestseller lists, dear. How’s this for a catchy title: Patterns of Group Interaction and Employment Fluctuation in Emerging Adult Women.”
Grace thought that sounded like a foreign language, she’d never pick up a book like that. She said, “It’s pretty long.”
“Way too long. Maybe I should call it something like Chicks and Gigs.”
Grace’s turn to laugh.
Sophie said, “The title’s the least of my concerns. It’s excruciating for me, dear, I’m not a natural writer like Malcolm — so what would you like for dinner?”
Malcolm kept bringing Grace harder and harder lessons. When she hit pre-calculus she needed some help and he was able to explain things clearly and she thought, His students are lucky.
Most of the other stuff was easy, floating into her brain like iron to a magnet.
Life at the big beautiful house was mostly quiet and peaceful, everyone reading, writing, eating, sleeping. Malcolm and Sophie never had guests over, nor did they go out and leave Grace alone. Once in a while a thin white-haired man in a suit would stop by and sit at the kitchen table with them, going over paperwork.