said was, “You’ve squeaked by each time. You’ll squeak by again.” That wouldn’t do a bit of good.
Anne emerges from the hall, still glued to her iPad, swiping and pinching and expanding, reciting numbers. “Nine-point-one. Quel dud,” she says. “Oof. Eight-point-eight. Major dud.” And “Oh, Mom, you should see this one from that school in Arlington. He’s down to eight-point-two-six and doesn’t look like he could pass a blood test. Gag.”
“Eight-point-three used to count as a B,” I remind her.
“Not anymore, Mom.”
She’s just like her father, I think, but I don’t say it out loud. As far as Anne is concerned, the sun rises and sets on—and probably revolves around—Malcolm. There is that, at least.
“Where’s your sister?” I ask, buttoning my raincoat. Anne tells me she’s on her way.
Anne’s silver bus, the one that goes to the top-tier school with the rest of the nine-point-somethings, has turned the corner and starts to slow, its stop-sign wings unfolding as it approaches the pickup point. There’s a trail of cars behind it, students clutching shiny identification cards in the backseats, waiting to be let out. A steel gray Lexus SUV, the first in line, pulls to the curb, and the rear door swings open. I’ve seen the girl before, at one of those parent-teacher days they hold at Anne’s school every fall. Today her hair hangs in thick, uncombed ringlets around her face, but enough of her eyes show that I can see the whites of them, the look of a frightened dog, when she catches sight of the yellow bus up the street.
Anne joins me at the front window, backpack slung over one shoulder, silver passcard clutched in one hand, stretching the lanyard tight around the back of her neck. It looks something like a noose.
“That girl,” I say, “she looks nervous.”
“She shouldn’t be,” Anne says. “Sabrina’s Q is fine. Then, in a confidential whisper: “Not like Jules Winston. Jules barely passed last week’s advanced calculus test.” She takes a bite of apple, swipes again at her iPad.
I turn away from the rain-sheeted window. “I thought results were supposed to be confidential.” But, of course, I know how kids are. I was in high school once.
Anne shrugs. “They are. But the rankings aren’t. You know that.”
Yeah. I know.
“Anyway, Jules now has the lowest Q in the whole junior class, thanks to the calc test,” Anne says. “And she’s had three sick days this term. And she didn’t make the bus last Wednesday. And her mom got laid off, so the family income’s down. It all adds up.” Another bite of apple. Another swipe of her tablet. “If she doesn’t score some serious points, she’ll be on the green bus next week. Maybe that one by December.” Anne knocks her chin toward the yellow bus waiting in the rain. “A couple years in a yellow school and then it’ll be burger-flipping time for Jules.”
“Anne. Honestly.”
Another shrug. My older daughter is the queen of all things shrug these days. “Someone has to do it. At least until they finish automating all that shit. Looks like they’re picking up this morning. On our street. Weird.”
Her tone is bland, journalistic. So much like Malcolm’s when he delivers his daily report on how many new state schools will be opening next month, or on the average Qs by state and city and school district. It’s something he does every night at dinner, as if we’re all interested. Anne usually sits next to him, never taking her eyes off her father, rapt by the numbers.
Freddie’s a completely different story.
THREE
Anne’s out the door, iPad in one hand, silver card dangling from the lanyard around her neck. She’s five feet, five inches of confidence as she strides down the driveway toward the waiting bus. She passes the other girl—what was her name? Sabrina?—without so much as a greeting and joins a pack of neatly turned-out sixteen-year-olds who, like Anne, see failure as contagious.
Sabrina doesn’t look fine to me, high Q rankings or not. She’s well turned out, hair glistening in the way only teenage hair can, uniform pressed to within an inch of its life. By the look of Sabrina’s ride, the