Commuting with them to campus... no, that didn’t feel right.
In any event, there was no sense pushing the issue and when summer came around and she had the possibility of attending summer school at Merganfield, she said sure.
Every one of her classmates was also there. Even the Nigerian twins, who’d heard from Princeton after their Columbia acceptance and were New Jersey — bound, felt impelled to study all summer.
The session went smoothly, go-with-the-flow working for Grace until a morning in mid-June, when Sophie puttered with uncharacteristic nervousness at the Wolf range and Malcolm cleared his throat.
This time they faced her across a table groaning with bagels and Sophie’s aquavit-cured gravlax.
This time she was ready.
Malcolm began with a little speech about Grace’s amazing scholastic accomplishments, singling out her thirty-page paper on the pre-czarist rulers of Russia, her over-the-moon grades, SAT scores that put her in the top tenth of a percentile, nationally.
Grace didn’t argue but she was far less impressed by her own achievements. Everyone at Merganfield got A’s because why should the “highly gifted” perform other than at an “exemplary level”? And among the psychometrics Malcolm had been administering to her for years were various versions of the SAT. Grace had caught on, long ago, to what the test’s designers were after, the predictable vocabulary words, the math problems that allegedly tested abstract thinking.
By now, she could pencil the dots in her sleep. So when Malcolm paused to chew on a poppy seed bagel, she said, “I know. We need to talk about next year. Don’t worry, I’m fine with the change.”
Malcolm, mouth full, chewed faster.
Sophie placed a hand on her left bosom and smiled. “We’re that transparent, dear?”
“You care about me. I appreciate it. I’ve matured and I’m okay with change.”
Sophie blinked. “Yes, well — that’s a relief. But you know, it could be a huge change — much more so than Merganfield.”
“I’m ready,” said Grace. “Have been for a while. The only problem is the money. I can’t keep mooching off you, there has to be a plan for tuition repayment.”
Malcolm swallowed. “Don’t be silly, you’re not mooching.”
“Absolutely not,” said Sophie.
Grace fingered the hem of her cashmere top and smiled. “How would you describe it?”
The kitchen clock ticked. Generally Sophie was the first to break long silences. This time Malcolm said, “I consider your education — we consider it — an investment. Someone of your caliber has the potential to accomplish Lord knows what.”
Sophie said, “It’s also an investment in our well-being. We care about you, Grace. We want to be secure in the knowledge that you’re self-actualizing — oh, scratch that — we’re so pleased you’re growing up...” Her new smile was fragile.
Malcolm said, “All right, then, we’re all on board, no more chatter about repayment. However, a core issue remains—”
Sophie broke in: “Please don’t take this wrong, dear, but our relationship — not the emotional aspect, the legal aspect — is ambiguous.”
Grace’s gut lurched and filled with acid. She was almost certain what they were getting at. She hoped she was. But with people — even good people — you never knew.
Plus, she’d read enough of Bulfinch’s Mythology to know happy endings were for babies.
So if she was misreading, no sense embarrassing herself, making it awkward for everyone. She put on her best calm smile.
Malcolm said, “What would you say to formalization?”
Sophie said, “He means adoption, dear. If you so choose, we’d like you to become a legal member of our family, Grace.”
The same gut that had constricted now blossomed and filled with honeyed warmth. As if a gentle light — a soft, soothing night-light — had been implanted inside Grace.
She had been right! This was the stuff of which dreams were made, she felt like whooping and cheering but her jaw had locked and all she could produce was a weak, “If that’s what you want.”
Oh, how stupid!
“It is,” said Sophie. “But the key is what you want, Grace.”
Grace forced out the words. “Yes. Of course. It’s what I want. Yes. Thank you. Yes.”
“Thank you, Grace. It’s been a wonderful experience having you here.” Sophie got up and hugged her and kissed the top of her head. In an instant, Malcolm was also standing behind her and Grace felt his massive hand rest lightly upon her shoulder before withdrawing.
Grace knew her body was stiff, knew she should be reacting differently — appropriately — but something stopped her. As if a barrier, a neurological levee — what did the physiology book call it? — a septum had been inserted between her brain and her mouth.
She said, “It’s been great for me, too.” Then, finally: “You’re wonderful people.”
Sophie said, “That’s so sweet,” and kissed Grace’s hair, again.
Malcolm said, “Here, here. I want some of that cake left over from last night.”
Despite the way that morning had begun, the topic of college and its financing slipped away and Grace wondered if Malcolm and Sophie felt she wasn’t mature enough.
A few days later, at dinner, Sophie announced that Ransom Gardener, the lawyer, would be stopping by at nine.
Grace said, “The hippie, too?”
Sophie and Malcolm laughed and Sophie said, “Good old Mike? No, not tonight.”
Good; Leiber never noticed Grace, anyway. Recently, he’d been arriving with a BlackBerry and rarely taking his eyes off the screen.
Mr. Gardener, on the other hand, always took the time to greet Grace and smile at her. Grace wondered if Mike Leiber was his ward, someone with a disability that the attorney took care of. Someone whose biological parents were unfit. Or uncaring, they just felt like ditching a weirdo.
Did lawyers do that? Grace supposed they did anything that paid well.
Gardener arrived right on time, wearing a black three-piece suit and a thick gold silk tie and carrying two large briefcases. More like suitcases, really.
“Evening, Grace.”
“Hi, Mr. Gardener.”
He hefted the cases. “This is what we lawyers do, make simple things complicated.”
Sophie led everyone to the big table in the dining room, where she’d set out store-bought cookies and bottled water. Malcolm appeared, as if on cue, and everyone sat.
Ransom Gardener was the first to speak, pulling a sheaf of papers from one of the cases. “Congratulations, Grace. I’ve got the paperwork for your adoption. You’re a minor but someone of your age and brains needs to know what they’re involved in. So, please.”
He slid the papers to Grace. She said, “I’m sure it’s fine.”
“I’d read it if I were you,” said Malcolm. “For all you know, you’re signing away your books and your clothing to Hare Krishna.”
Ransom Gardener chuckled. Sophie smiled and Grace did as well. Everyone on edge, eager to fake levity.
Grace took the papers. Small print, big words; this was going to be a drag.
Sophie said, “Yes, dear, it’s a chore, but learning to be meticulous with documents is a useful skill.”
“Punishment for success,” said Malcolm. “Unless you’re an attorney.”
“Now, now,” said Ransom Gardener. “Unfortunately, you’re right, Mal.”
“Now and always, Ran.” Malcolm ate a cookie, then another, brushed crumbs from his sweater vest.
Grace read. The documents were even worse than she’d expected, repetitive, verbose, dull, devoid of humanity. All of it boiling down, by the final page, to the fact that Malcolm Albert Bluestone and Sophia Rebecca Muller (heretofore to be referred to as “the Applicants”) wanted to adopt Grace Blades (heretofore to be referred to as “Said Minor”).