Hidden Pictures(3)
Russell insists on driving me to the interview. He’s one of these guys who’s always dressed for the gym, even when he’s not working out. Today he’s wearing a black Adidas tracksuit with white racing stripes. We’re in his SUV, driving over the Ben Franklin Bridge in the left lane, passing traffic, and I’m clutching the oh-shit handle and staring at my lap, trying not to freak out. I’m not very good in cars. I travel everywhere by bus and subway, and this is my first time leaving Philadelphia in nearly a year. We’re traveling only ten miles into the suburbs but it feels like I’m blasting off to Mars.
“What’s wrong?” Russell asks.
“Nothing.”
“You’re tense, Quinn. Relax.”
But how can I relax when there’s this enormous BoltBus passing us on the right? It’s like the Titanic on wheels, so close I could reach out my window and touch it. I wait until the bus passes and I can talk without shouting.
“What about the mom?”
“Caroline Maxwell. She’s a doctor at the VA hospital. Where my sister Jeannie works. That’s how I got her name.”
“How much does she know about me?”
He shrugs. “She knows you’ve been clean for eighteen months. She knows you have my highest professional recommendation.”
“That’s not what I mean.”
“Don’t worry. I told her your whole story and she’s excited to meet you.” I must look skeptical because Russell keeps pushing: “This woman works with addicts for a living. And her patients are military veterans, I’m talking Navy SEALs, real f’d-up Afghan war trauma. Don’t take this the wrong way, Quinn, but compared to them your history ain’t that scary.”
Some asshole in a Jeep throws a plastic bag out his window and there’s no room to swerve so we hit the bag at sixty miles an hour and there’s a loud POP! of breaking glass. It sounds like a bomb exploding. Russell just reaches for the AC and pushes it two clicks cooler. I stare down at my lap until I hear the engine slowing down, until I feel the gentle curve of the exit ramp.
Spring Brook is one of these small South Jersey hamlets that have been around since the American Revolution. It’s full of old Colonial-and Victorian-style houses with U.S. flags hanging from the front porches. The streets are paved smooth and the sidewalks are immaculate. There’s not a speck of trash anywhere.
We stop at a traffic light and Russell lowers our windows.
“You hear that?” he asks.
“I don’t hear anything.”
“Exactly. It’s peaceful. This is perfect for you.”
The light turns green and we enter a three-block stretch of shops and restaurants—a Thai place, a smoothie shop, a vegan bakery, a doggie day care, and a yoga studio. There’s an after-school “Math Gymnasium” and a small bookstore/café. And of course there’s a Starbucks with a hundred teens and tweens out front, all of them pecking at their iPhones. They look like the kids in a Target commercial; their clothes are colorful and their footwear is brand-new.
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?”