Marcus Sakey - Brilliance

He slowed when he pulled down her street—lot of kids on the block—parked, flipped off the car, and climbed out all in one motion.

Natalie was already coming out to meet him. She was dressed for work, in boots, a gray skirt to the knee, and a soft white sweater. But even though her eyes were dry and her mascara unsmudged, to his eyes she was bawling. He opened his arms and she came into them hard, threw her own around his back and squeezed. There was a humid sense to her, as though tears were coming out her pores. Her breath smelled of coffee.

Cooper held her for a moment, then stepped back and took her hands in his. “Tell me.”

“I told you—”

“Tell me again.”

“They’re going to test her. Kate. They’re going to test her. She’s only four, and the test isn’t mandatory until she’s eight—”

“Shhh.” He ran his thumbs across her palms, squeezed in the center, an old gesture. “It’s okay. Tell me what happened.”

Natalie took a deep breath, then exhaled noisily. “They called. This morning.”

“Who?”

“The Department of Analysis and Response.” She put a hand to the side of her head as though to brush her hair back, although none had fallen. “You.”

His belly was cold stone. He opened his mouth but found no words eager to come out.

“I’m sorry,” she said, glancing away. “That was shitty.”

“It’s okay.” He huffed a breath of his own. “Tell me—”

“Something happened. At school. There was ‘an incident.’” She made the air quotes audible. “A week ago. A teacher witnessed Kate doing something and reported it to the DAR.”

Gifts were amorphous in children, often indistinguishable from simply being bright, which is why the test wasn’t mandatory until age eight. But people in certain roles—teachers, preachers, full-time nannies—were supposed to report behavior they found particularly compelling evidence of a tier-one gift. One of many things Cooper hated about the way things were going; for his money, the world didn’t need more snitches. “What incident? What happened?”

She shrugged. “I don’t know. The gutless bureaucrat wouldn’t tell me.”

“And so—”

“And so he asked whether it would be more convenient to test my daughter next Thursday or Friday. I told him that she was only four, that you worked for the DAR. He just kept saying the same thing. ‘I’m sorry, ma’am, but this is policy.’ Like he was the phone company and I had a complaint about my fucking bill.”

Natalie doesn’t swear. The thought drifted pointlessly through his mind. “Have you talked to her about it?”

“No,” she said. Then a pause. “I’ll—we’ll—have to. Nick, she’s gifted. We know she’s gifted. What if she’s tier one?” She turned away, eyes finally wet, the tears he had seen the moment he arrived now there for the world. “They’ll take her from us, send her to an academy.”

“Stop.” Cooper reached out, took her chin in his hand, turned it back to face him. “That’s not going to happen.”

“But—”

“Listen to me. That is not going to happen. I’m not going to let that happen. Our daughter is not going to an academy.” I miss my son, her sign had read. “Period. I don’t care if she’s tier one. I don’t care if she’s the first tier zero in history and can manipulate space-time while shooting lasers from her belly button. She is not going to an academy. And she’s not getting tested next week.”

“Dad!”

Natalie and he exchanged a look. A look older by far than either of them, a look that had bounced between women and men as long as they’d been mothers and fathers. And then they broke apart to face the children sprinting toward them, Todd in the lead, Kate right behind letting the screen door bang behind her.

He dropped to a squat and opened his arms. His children flew into them, warm and alive and oblivious. Cooper squeezed them both until they nearly popped and then made sure his face was innocent as he leaned back. “Uh-oh. Uh-oh!”

Kate looked up, concerned; Todd smiled, knowing what was coming.

“Uh-oh, I gotta go! I gotta go, who’s coming with me?”

“Me!” Kate, all glee.

“Me too.” Todd, caught between childish joy and the first hints of self-consciousness.

“Okay then.” He stretched out his arms. “Take your seats. In the event of a sudden loss of cabin pressure, oxygen masks will drop from the ceiling. Please swing from them like monkeys. Ready?”

Kate was on his left arm, body wrapped around it like, well, a monkey. Todd had his right locked, their fingers gripping one another’s forearms.

“Okay. Prepare for liftoff. Three.” He rocked up, then back down. “Two.” Again. “One!” Cooper lunged from a squat, using the force of his legs to send them into a spin and then half hurling, half falling into it. Todd was really getting too heavy, but screw that, he just cranked harder and planted his heels and then they were going. The world was the faces of his children, Katie giggle-screaming and Todd smiling pure and wide, and beyond them a blur of green lawn and brown tree and gray car. He pushed harder, feet moving like a dancer’s, arms rising wide, the kids floating now, momentum doing the work for him. “Liftoff!”

Later, he would remember the moment. Would take it out and examine it like the faded photograph of a war veteran, the last relic of a life from which he was adrift. An anchor or a star to navigate by. The faces of his children, smiling, trusting, and the world beyond a whirl of green.

Then Todd said, “I want to fly!”

“Yeah?”

“I waaaannaa flyyyiyiyiyyy!”

“Oh-kay,” he said, and gritted his teeth and spun faster, one more revolution, two, and then as he came around on the third he forced his right arm up, and Todd let go of it and he let go of Todd, and he had a stutter-second view of his son in midflight, arms up and back, hair wild around his face, and then momentum spun him out of sight. Katie clutched his arm as he slowed, one rev, Todd coming to the ground, two, Todd on his back laughing, three, touchdown, Cooper’s world a little wobbly as the revolution brought Katie down to bump gently against him. When he stopped he let go of her arm but kept close, waited for her to catch her balance, the endless parental quest to make sure his baby girl didn’t fall and crack her skull, didn’t run into sharp things, didn’t feel the rough edges of the world.

What if she’s tier one? They’ll take her from us. Send her to an academy…

Cooper shook his head and straightened his smile. He bent down, elbows to knees. His daughter stared at him with solemn eyes. His son lay on his back on the ground. “Toddster? You good?”

His son’s arm shot skyward, thumb up. Cooper smiled. He glanced up at Natalie, saw her look, the happiness a veneer on the fear. She caught him, touched her hair again, said, “We were about to eat. Have you?”

“Nope,” he lied. “Whatcha say, guys? Breakfast? Some of Mom’s famous brontosaurus eggs?”

“Dad.” Todd scrambled up and brushed grass off his pants legs. “They’re just regular eggs.”

Cooper started on the old routine— You ever seen brontosaurus eggs? No? Then how …and found he couldn’t do it. “You’re right, buddy. How about some regular eggs?”

“Okay.”

“Okay.” He gave Natalie a look no one else would have noticed. “Help your mom get started, would you? I’ll be right in.”

His ex reached down and took her son’s hand. “Come on, flyboy. Let’s make breakfast.”

Todd looked briefly baffled but followed Natalie as she led him inside. Cooper turned back to Kate, said, “You want to fly again?”