Brain trust

HACKENSACK, N.J. — It’s not easy to raise an 11-year-old whose brainpower comes along once in 10,000 children. Dakota Killpack’s curiosity consumes his family’s life.

His dad had to replace the computer six times in six years — Dakota keeps dismantling them, blowing them up or wearing them out.

His little sister endures his constant experiments with her toys. He split open one mermaid Barbie to see how the tail bends and tore the head off another doll to see what makes the eyes move.

“He’s a handful,” Dakota’s uncommonly patient mother, Patricia, says with a sigh. “He has a rage to learn.”

Finding a way to educate Dakota has been an exhausting odyssey. Now Patricia spends much of her day escorting him around Middlesex County College in Edison, N.J., because he’s too precocious for regular schools but too young to wander around a college alone. As he rolls his blue backpack down the halls, she follows him to the classroom door and pushes his squirming sister along in a stroller.

The Killpacks say most people don’t realize that profoundly gifted kids have needs as unique as some children with learning disabilities. Even now, as Dakota attends three college courses — algebra, English and microcomputer systems architecture — he doesn’t feel challenged.

Dakota gets good grades without studying much. Extroverted and confident, he is often eager to please and cheerfully gives tips to confused classmates at least seven years his senior. He can be a bit impudent and agitated as well, however; when he talks, he often taps his fingers on the table as if he’s practicing the piano.

“My life is too hard,” he says one day. “Most things are too boring. Even college is slow.”

A mischievous intensity lurks behind Dakota’s dark eyes and round baby cheeks; once he felt so stifled in several group classes for home-schoolers he says he had “dreams of setting fire to the building.”

Early on, his parents knew he was different. At age 2, he read aloud the signs for Chemical Bank and Zabar’s. At 5, he read Alex Haley’s “Roots.” He attempted all kinds of experiments, some perilous; he mixed cleaning chemicals together, baked coins in the oven and tried to melt credit cards on a hot lamp.

Dakota was extremely hyper and often seemed upset. The Killpacks were leery of putting him in kindergarten lest his fidgety ways earn him a label as disruptive. They feared some teachers might be especially inclined to classify a boy with brown skin that way. His mother taught him at home, but he quickly outstripped her ability to teach him.

At 6, his behavior took a scary turn. At first, Patricia assumed he was just jealous of his newborn sister. He would become withdrawn, often crying in frustration. “I don’t want to live,” he said at his worst moments. “I don’t want to be around anymore.”

Finally the Killpacks got him tested. IQ tests are controversial and weren’t designed to measure kids at the very top levels. The average score is 100, and the entry requirements for schools’ gifted programs typically range from 115 to 130. An IQ of 145 occurs roughly once in 1,000 people. Some tests have a ceiling of 160; Patricia says one assessment put Dakota’s IQ above 175.

The Killpacks knew they needed help.

The Davidson Institute for Talent Development, a nonprofit in Reno, Nev., has become a lifeline for families with children like Dakota. It helps more than 500 children find ways to meet their intellectual needs, often through online courses or early college. To qualify, they must be in the 99.9th percentile and abstract thinkers early on.

Jan and Bob Davidson, authors of “Genius Denied,” founded their institute to help such kids reach their potential. They’re fighting what they call a crisis in education; most public schools focus so much on getting underperformers to learn the basics that they don’t challenge the brilliant to do their best. The Davidsons argue that squandering such talent is a national tragedy, and schools should help all gifted kids soar.

There’s a lot at stake. Researchers say very smart kids are at risk for depression, drug abuse and delinquency if they’re not taught at the speed and depth they require; some misbehave to stay interested in life or start drinking to numb the pain of being different. Many are underachievers. A 2000 study in Gifted Child Quarterly found 5 percent of gifted students drop out after eighth grade.

“What would it be like if you knew how to read and someone made you sound out letters?” says Jan Davidson. “If people knew how miserable these kids are, there would be some empathy for them, but the feeling is that bright kids can fend for themselves.”

The Davidson Institute connected the Killpacks to other families grappling with inflexible schools, loneliness and resentment from neighbors. As Marie Capurro, director of the institute, puts it, “Other moms on the soccer field don’t want to hear you’re struggling because you can’t find a good college for your 9-year-old.”

The parents of profoundly intelligent children often feel guilty as well. Some feel inadequate to the task of raising such prodigies or can’t help wishing they were “normal.” These kids “wear you out,” Davidson says. “They constantly ask questions and many hardly sleep.”

Dakota and his sister, Jewel, don’t get to bed much before 1 a.m. She turned 5 last week and seems quite precocious, too.

They come from accomplished stock. Their father, Daniel, has two bachelor’s degrees and three master’s degrees, and works as a fund-raiser for the American India Foundation in Manhattan. Their mother danced with the Alvin Ailey American Dance Theater. She aches to work again but feels obliged to stay home to cart Dakota from class to class.

“It’s really interesting to raise kids with such a thirst for knowledge,” Patricia says. “But I wish I could put my kids on a bus and have them returned at the end of the day. I wish there were more accommodations to meet the needs of these children.”

As Patricia describes her family’s circuitous path to their new home, Dakota messes with an old computer. After living in New York, Atlanta and Los Angeles, they moved to a small town in Colorado to try a private school for the gifted, but Dakota didn’t get along there. Finally, at age 9, he tried Arapahoe Community College in Littleton, Colo. He loved it, but the family had to move last summer because Daniel found a job in New York.

Four-year colleges in New York wouldn’t take Dakota until he turned 16. Community colleges in New Jersey were more flexible; the Killpacks picked Middlesex County College for its computer department and relationship with New Jersey Institute of Technology. Patricia says Dakota might try to transfer there at 13 or 14.

“I’m looking to get there earlier, Mom, so stop holding me back!” Dakota protests.

He’ll be taking a heavier load next term, including a rigorous chemistry class. Patricia thought he should start with just three courses so he could try to make some friends in their new neighborhood; he also swims, does Scouting through the Mormon church and belongs to a Japanese animation club.

Dakota says he’s not concerned about fitting in with kids his own age. “I don’t care about that,” he says. “I just want to learn.”

The Killpacks pay about $3,000 a year for tuition. They’re considering asking local schools for financial aid; after all, they say, they pay school taxes but believe the district can’t offer Dakota the instruction he needs.

School officials did not return calls for comment. Although New Jersey allots no state money for the gifted, it mandates that districts provide programs for them. To the dismay of many families and teachers, however, such enrichment often gets sacrificed to tight budgets.

The Killpacks are a familiar sight on the rambling college campus. Unlike many students, Dakota never cuts class. (Mom’s watching, after all.) Dakota calls it a good place that’s working out better than most others he’s tried, and his parents feel relieved that they’ve found a promising match.

On a recent afternoon before a computer class, Patricia and her kids were camped out at a cafeteria table. As usual, she had come with toys to keep Jewel busy — blocks, chess pieces, a set of jacks.

“Sometimes I wish I were normal,” Dakota says between Doritos. “There’s a lot of stuff going on in my head. I’m thinking about jacks and talking to you and what I could have done to get a better grade on my computer test.” He says there’s so much buzzing in his brain that it takes him an hour to fall asleep at night.

Dakota was promised a new computer for his 11th birthday last month. The present had just arrived. As he bundles up to walk to class, Patricia asks if he wants his father to start installing it before Dakota gets home that night. No way.

“I don’t need his help!” the boy shoots back. “I can do it myself without any explosions!”