Bambrielle

I sit at a table on a covered, wooden, open-air deck somewhere in the mountains. I can see snow on the surrounding peaks, but it’s not cold. It feels more like the subtle warmth of spring. I’m here, in these mountains, at an elite boarding school for gifted students. But we’re not just gifted, we’re geniuses—the brightest of the bright, the top 1%.

There’s a game of Scrabble set up on the table before me, but the board is four times larger than normal. Wooden letters litter the table surface; some capitals, some lowercase, some cursive. It’s a puzzle of some kind and we’re supposed to solve it, but we haven’t made any progress. Usually we work in shifts, but the latest group of students gave up early and went inside to rest. I’m taking a turn alone at the board. I know we need gloves to touch the letters, so I slip on the last pair of latex gloves from the now empty glove box which I discard off to my right. In front of me is a large bowl, also wooden, filled with perfectly carved Scrabble letters. Slipping my gloved hands in the bowl, I sift through the smooth, wooden chips, but it feels like I can’t think with these ridiculous gloves on and I quickly become frustrated. Snapping the latex from my fingers, I toss them to the side and plunge my fingers back into the letters, relishing in the feeling of the soft, sanded letters along my fingertips. One of my peers walks up then, and gestures to the bowl my ungloved hands are sifting through.

“We’re supposed to wear gloves,” He says.

“I know,” I say, my attention never leaving the bowl.

He watches my fingers, as fascinated as I am, then sits quietly next to me at the table. I look at the surface in front of him which is covered with more letters. Abandoning the bowl, I turn my attention instead to the letters on the table. As I do, I notice that there are a bunch of A’s, a lot of N’s, some T’s, a few W’s, and all the other letters of the alphabet are sprinkled in. Reaching out, I begin to line the letters up and, as I do, I realize they’re not in alphabetical order which really bothers me because I know it will make sorting them take longer. The boy watches my growing frustration with surprised curiosity.

“What are you doing?” He asks.

“Sorting.” I say, continuing to shuffle letters around.

“Do you think that will help?” He asks.

I don’t respond; I don’t think it will help. I only hope it will let us see the problem more clearly.