Kate, meanwhile, had trouble at school. Teachers found her quiet and, well, spooky. Especially the way she refused to look people in the eye. She lacked the earnestness and messiness they were accustomed to. When they saw her in the hallways, they nodded at her, as one would to a colleague one passed on the street.

Struck hard on the head by a medicine ball during PE, Kate didn’t cry—she simply got up and went on. Her mental sums were flawless, and when she was awarded a prize for math, she didn’t express either pride or pleasure. She came across as unflappable, but not in a happy way—to everyone aside from Mary-Sue, she seemed incapable of feeling. She found satisfaction in homework while her classmates planned slumber parties and discussed unicorns. Her best friend, by default, was an asthmatic French Canadian boy named Paul Corot with whom she shared an aversion to other children.

Mary-Sue worried about her little girl. Where was all this drive coming from? It certainly wasn’t from her. She never pushed Kate to do anything, never volunteered incentives if she made a certain grade or threatened her with time-outs. The only unconventional thing about her child-rearing was that she spoke to Kate as if she were a full-grown person, a wholly cognizant roommate. Whether they were discussing the food pyramid or women’s lib, there was never any baby talk.

One day in the fourth grade, Kate’s teacher Mrs. Hansen took her away from the classroom while the other kids were coloring rainbows, and led her to the principal’s office. There, Mrs. Hansen, the principal and another fourth-grade teacher convened in whispers, while Kate sat like a thief awaiting judgment. After ten excruciating minutes, the adults ended their caucus. Before they could speak, Kate said, in her still, little voice: “I’ll be good.”

The principal smiled wryly. “The problem isn’t that you’re no good, Katharine,” she said. “The problem is that you’re too good. You belong elsewhere.”

“We’re all so proud of how you’ve overcome the difficulties of your history,” Mrs. Hansen said, kindly. She squeezed Kate’s tight little shoulder. “Don’t you see? You’re another one of those Vietnamese overachievers.”

Another one of those . . . Kate’s eyes welled up with rage, and for a moment, she thought the principal looked afraid. She held in her anger as the principal showed her brochures of campuses with lush green lawns and even one with an old campanile. These places all had names ending in “Academy” or “Institute” that made them sound like reform schools or asylums. And expensive ones at that. These witches, ganging up on her. She wanted to bolt.

“I’m not one of those . . .”