Or maybe she didn’t because Malcolm and Sophie looked uncomfortable and when grown-ups looked that way it was a bad sign.
A precursor.
“Let’s go inside,” said Sophie, and that clinched it. Something terrible was going to happen. Grace was surprised, but at the same time she wasn’t because you never knew when life would turn disappointing.
Sophie took Grace’s hand and found it clammy with sweat but she held on and led Grace into the house, ending in the kitchen. Explaining, “I’m in the mood for lemonade,” but not coming close to convincing.
Malcolm, trailing behind and still looking uncomfortable — that horrible concerned look — said, “Lemonade and ginger cookies. To hell with the avoirdupois.”
Sophie set the lemonade and three kinds of cookies on the kitchen table. Malcolm ate two cookies immediately. Sophie looked at him and raised an eyebrow and held the plate out to Grace.
“No, thank you.” Now Grace’s voice was quivering stronger than her intestines.
Sophie said, “Something wrong, dear?”
“No.”
Malcolm said, “You’ve got a sensitive antenna, Grace.” Addressing her by name; this had to be really bad.
They were kicking her out. What had she done? Where were they sending her?
She burst into tears.
Sophie and Malcolm leaned forward, each of them taking a hand.
“Sweetheart, what’s wrong?” said Sophie.
Grace was helpless against the torrent of water pouring from her eyes. She felt out of control. Like the psychotics she’d read about in Malcolm’s psychology books.
“Grace?” said Sophie, stroking her hand. “There’s nothing to be upset about. Really—”
Then the water stopped pouring out and words took their place, as if someone had turned Grace upside down and shaken the speech out of her. “I don’t want to leave!”
Sophie’s deep-blue eyes were huge behind her glasses. “To leave? Of course not — oh, my God, you thought — Mal, look what we’ve done, she’s terrified.”
And then Professor Malcolm Bluestone, who’d never touched her, walked behind her and placed one huge, padded hand on her cheek, the other lightly on her shoulder, and kissed the top of her head.
Another man might’ve spoken softly and gently. Malcolm boomed with authority. “You are not leaving, Ms. Grace Blades. You are ensconced here for as long as you choose to be. Which from our perspective is forever.”
Grace cried some more until she’d emptied herself of tears and had to gasp to regain her breath. Feeling relieved but now worse than stupid — idiotic.
She vowed never to lose herself that way again. No matter what.
Sophie inhaled deeply. “I reiterate what Malcolm said: You’re here, period. But there will be a change and you need to know about it. My sabbatical — my extremely extended sabbatical, as you know I cadged another eighteen months out of the rotters by forgoing salary — has come to an end. Do you understand what that means?”
Grace said, “You have to go to work.”
“Four days a week, dear. The rotters have loaded me up with classes, allegedly because of budget cuts, tenure be damned.” Sophie’s smile was wry. “The fact that my alleged book hasn’t materialized hasn’t helped my position.”
Malcolm said, “You’ll finish when you’re ready, darling, they just need to—”
Sophie waved him quiet. “So sweet and psychologically supportive, Mal, but let’s all be honest: I’ve idled and now the piper must be paid.” She turned back to Grace. “Malcolm’s sabbatical doesn’t come around for another three years. That means both of us will be going to work.”
Grace said nothing.
“You understand?” said Sophie.
“No.”
“You can’t be here by yourself.”
“Why not?”
Sophie sighed. “We should’ve prepared you. Be that as it may, reality is upon us and we must cope. Why can’t you remain unattended? Because if something happened — a fire, God forbid, or a break-in — and we’d left you alone it would be calamitous, dear. Even if you weren’t hurt, we’d lose our guardianship and possibly face charges of neglect.”
“That’s inane,” said Grace. “And insane.”
“Maybe so, dear, but the fact is, you’re too young to be by yourself all day and we need to find you a school. We must work together to obtain the best fit available.”
Grace looked at Malcolm. He nodded.
She said, “Isn’t there a school on your campus? The one where your students do research on kids?”
Malcolm said, “That is for children with learning problems. You are quite the contrary, you’re a learning superstar. We’ve done our research and narrowed down the possibilities, but you need to weigh in.”
Grace said, “Thank you, I appreciate the effort but nothing will fit.”
“How can you be sure, dear?” said Sophie.
“The thought of school is repulsive.”
Malcolm smiled. “Repulsive, repugnant, repellent, and quite possibly regressive. But, unfortunately, necessary.”
“There’s really no choice, dear,” said Sophie. “We’re hoping this process doesn’t turn out more difficult than it needs to be. That you might actually find the experience rewarding.”
“Or at least interesting,” said Malcolm.
Grace said nothing.
“It might only be for a year or so,” said Malcolm.
“Might?” said Grace.
“Given your present academic level you’d easily qualify for college at sixteen. In fact, on a purely intellectual level, you could handle college right now. But we don’t believe sending you straight from homeschooling to university at fifteen is a great idea and I’m sure you concur.”
Grace thought about that. Realized she’d never been to USC with either of them. But she had seen pictures of colleges. Read about college life in books and magazines. Photos that showed students who looked like adults, relaxing on the grass, huge buildings in the background.
As inviting as an alien planet...
Malcolm said, “Do you? Concur?”
Grace nodded.
“Good, then. Onward.”
Sophie said, “A year or so spent in high school could serve as an excellent preparatory experience for college.”
“Prep school,” said Grace.
“Literally and figuratively, dear.”
“Holden Caulfield hated it.”
Sophie and Malcolm both smiled.
Malcolm said, “Yes, he did, but admit it, Caulfield was basically a snide, spoiled twit. The arrival of the Messiah would leave him unimpressed.”
Despite herself, Grace laughed.
“You, on the other hand,” he went on, “are a young woman of substance. Surely one year, give or take, spent in the company of other highly gifted adolescents won’t trip you up.”
Grace said, “A school for the gifted?”
“Would you prefer a clutch of morons?”
“Mal,” said Sophie. To Grace: “We’ve narrowed it down to two.”
They brought out brochures.
The Brophy School was a forty-minute drive to Sherman Oaks in the Valley and featured an emphasis upon “high-level academics combined with personal growth.” High school only, student body of one hundred twenty.
Malcolm said, “It’s a little bit lax, standards-wise, but still serious.”
Grace said, “Personal growth?” She snickered.
“Rather touchy-feely, yes.”
“What about the other one?”
“The Merganfield School,” he said. “From seventh through twelve but small classes, the student body maxes out at seventy.”
“Smaller classes and extremely rigorous,” said Sophie.
Grace said, “No personal growth, huh?”