Jonathan Kellerman - The Murderer's Daughter

“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?”

Malcolm smiled. “I asked Dr. Merganfield about that, as a matter of fact. He said growth comes from achievement. He’s a bit of a martinet.”

Sophie said, “It’s somewhat authoritarian, dear.”

Malcolm said, “Lots of structure.”

Grace said, “Where is it?”

Sophie said, “Not far from here, actually. One of those big mansions, near Windsor Square.”

Grace said, “Is it expensive?”

Silence.

Sophie said, “No need for you to worry about that.”

“I can pay you back,” said Grace. “One day, when I’m successful.”

Malcolm reached for a cookie, changed his mind. Sophie sniffed and wiped at her eyes.

“Dear girl,” she said, “we have no doubt you’ll be successful. That, in itself, will be our payment.”

Malcolm said, “Not that we need recompense.”

Grace said, “I hope it’s not too expensive.”

“Not at all,” said Malcolm, blinking the way he did when he tried to hide something from her.

Grace said, “Sounds like Merganfield’s the optimal choice.”

“You’re sure?” said Sophie. “It really is a no-nonsense place, dear. Maybe you should visit both of them.” She broke out into laughter. “How foolish of me. Touchy-feely isn’t your thing. If you approve of a place, you’ll thrive.”

“First, visit,” said Malcolm.

“Sure,” said Grace. This hadn’t turned out so bad. Taking a cookie, she reached into her vocabulary vault. “Guess now I’ll have to be pro-social.”

Two days later, she took the Merganfield admissions test in the mahogany-paneled reception room of the cream-colored building that served as the school’s main building, the only other structure a triple garage converted to a no-frills gym.

Sophie had called the place a mansion. To Grace, it felt like a palace: three stories on Irving Street, easily double the size of Malcolm and Sophie’s Tudor. The house sat centered on a vast, park-like lot surrounded by black iron fencing. Trees were huge but most looked neglected. Lawns, hedges, and shrubs appeared shabby.

The style was one Grace recognized from her readings on architecture: Mediterranean mixed with a bit of Palladian. To the north were the enormous homes of Windsor Square, to the south the office buildings on Wilshire.

The exam duplicated many of the IQ tests Malcolm had administered to Grace and with the exception of some of the math, the achievement components were only challenging at the uppermost levels.

“Same old story,” Malcolm had warned her. “Impossible to get everything right.”

No matter how long they knew each other, Grace decided, he’d never stop being a psychologist.

The letter of acceptance arrived a week later. The owner-headmaster, Dr. Ernest K. Merganfield, was a short, slight man with little personal warmth but, somehow, an aura of reassurance. He wore a short-sleeved white shirt, plaid slacks, and rubber-soled blue cotton shoes, and Grace came to learn that was his daily uniform.

He had two doctorates: a Ph.D. in history from Yale and an Ed.D. from Harvard. The teachers were all Ph.D.’s, mostly retired college professors, with the exception of Dr. Mendez, the biology instructor, who was an elderly retired medical pathologist. Upper-class students — sophomores, juniors, and seniors — took their classes on the top floor, with some rooms offering nice views. Grace’s score on the exam qualified her to be a fifteen-year-old senior, but when she arrived to join her classmates she found she wasn’t the youngest in the class, not even close.

Sitting next to her was a twelve-year-old math prodigy named Dmitri, and behind her were fourteen-year-old twins from Nigeria, children of a diplomat, who spoke six languages fluently.

No one exhibited any curiosity about her entry in the middle of the school year and soon Grace learned why: Her brand-new peers were, for the most part, shy, introverted, and obsessed with scholastic achievement. Of the eleven students in her class, seven were girls, four quite pretty, but none with any fashion sense.

Then again, without Sophie, Grace figured she’d have been clueless about clothes, makeup, nickless shaving. How to walk and talk. How to hold a fish fork.

Merganfield students had biological parents who probably didn’t care much about anything but their getting into a top college. The twins had already been guaranteed admission to Columbia in two years.