Then Russell turns onto a side street and we pass one perfect suburban house after another. There are tall, stately trees that shade the sidewalks and fill the block with color. There are signs with big letters saying CHILDREN LIVE HERE—SLOW DOWN! and when we arrive at a four-way intersection, there’s a smiling crossing guard in a neon safety vest, waving us through. Everything is so perfectly detailed, it feels like we’re driving through a movie set.
At last Russell pulls over to the side of the road, stopping in the shade of a weeping willow. “All right, Quinn, are you ready?”
“I don’t know.”
I pull down the visor and check my reflection. At Russell’s suggestion, I’ve dressed like a summer camp counselor, with a green crewneck, khaki shorts, and immaculate white Keds. I used to have long hair that fell to my waist but yesterday I lopped off my ponytail and donated it to a cancer charity. All that’s left is a sporty black bob, and I don’t recognize myself anymore.
“Here’s two pieces of free advice,” Russell says. “First, make sure you say the kid is gifted.”
“How can I tell?”
“It doesn’t matter. In this town, all the kids are gifted. Just find some way to work it into the conversation.”
“All right. What’s the other advice?”
“Well, if the interview’s going badly? Or if you think they’re on the fence? You can always offer this.”
He opens his glove box and shows me something that I really don’t want to carry inside their house.
“Oh, Russell, I don’t know.”
“Take it, Quinn. Think of it like a trump card. You don’t have to play it, but you might need to.”
And I’ve heard enough horror stories in rehab to know he’s probably right. I take the stupid thing and shove it deep down into my bag.
“Fine,” I tell him. “Thanks for driving me over.”
“Listen, I’ll go wait at the Starbucks. Give me a call when you’re done, and I’ll drive you back.”
I insist that I’m fine, I tell him I can take the train back to Philly, and I urge Russell to drive home now before the traffic gets any worse.
“All right, but call me when you’re finished,” he says. “I want to hear all the details, okay?”
2
Outside the car, it’s a hot muggy June afternoon. Russell toots the horn as he drives away and I guess there’s no turning back now. The Maxwell house is a big classic Victorian, three stories high, with yellow wood siding and white gingerbread trim. There’s a big wraparound porch with wicker furniture and planters full of yellow flowers—daisies and begonias. The property backs up to a large forest—or maybe some kind of park?—so the street is full of birdsongs, and I can hear the insects buzzing and chirping and trilling.
I walk up the flagstone path and climb the steps to the front porch. I ring the doorbell, and a little boy answers. He has orange-reddish hair that’s sticking straight up. He reminds me of a Troll doll.
I squat down so we’re seeing eye to eye.
“I bet your name is Teddy.”
The boy gives me a shy smile.
“I’m Mallory Quinn. Is your—”
He turns and sprints up the stairs to the second floor, vanishing from sight.
“Teddy?”
I’m not sure what to do. Ahead of me is a small foyer and a passage leading back to a kitchen. I see a dining room （to the left） and a living room （to the right） and gorgeous hard pine floors （everywhere）。 I’m struck by the fresh clean scent of central air-conditioning—mixed with a hint of Murphy Oil, as if someone has just given the floors a good scrubbing. All the furniture looks modern and brand-new, like it’s just arrived from the Crate and Barrel showroom.
I press the doorbell but it doesn’t make a sound. I press it three more times—nothing.
“Hello?”
At the far end of the house, in the kitchen, I see the silhouette of a woman turning to notice me.
“Mallory? Is that you?”
“Yes! Hi! I tried your doorbell but—”
“I know, sorry. We’re getting it fixed.”
Before I can even wonder how Teddy knew I’d arrived, she’s stepping forward to welcome me. She has the most graceful walk I’ve ever seen—she moves soundlessly, like her feet are barely touching the floor. She’s tall, thin, and blond, with fair skin and soft features that seem too delicate for this world.
“I’m Caroline.”
I put out my hand but she greets me with a hug. She’s one of those people who radiate warmth and compassion, and she holds me an extra moment longer than necessary.