Gifted

Chapter Nine

John

I watch Mother pass the platter of bacon to Father, who is about to leave for work, suppressing a groan when she smiles at me and tells me to “have a nice day.”

Stupid cow.

If she only knew what it was really like for me there. Mr. Zance, the baseball coach, cracking another joke yesterday on my crappy showing at the game this last weekend, how I whiffed what should have been a home-run, how even a wimpy freshman could have done it. And I failed, of course.

To take my mind off this unpleasant thought, I glance at the newspaper in Father’s hands, a mixture of anger and self-pity surging unbidden through me as I watch hopelessly the words swimming on the page. Indecipherable to me.

It’s not my fault. I’m not stupid, you know. Not retarded, or anything like that.

Didn’t stop my teachers from sticking me in the back of the class, yelling at me, telling me I was “just not trying hard enough” and “lazy”, just because I couldn’t read what was so simple for my then-fourth-grade peers. Yeah, idiot teachers and doctors didn’t even consider the possibility that I had a learning disability until fourth grade.

Only caught it because, on one of those standard eye tests they did in school sometimes, the new technician was overly concerned that I couldn’t even read the top couple lines in the chart. She asked me then to read her a sentence from a book she had. I couldn’t, like always. She asked who my doctor was, then called my parents, and they arranged a doctor’s appointment for the next day.

Finally it came out, the validation I was looking for: I wasn’t stupid. Dyslexia, they said. Not stupid, just that the words in front of me mix up, get jumbled like a knot on the page, and it all just becomes a mess.

Not stupid. Not me, not John McGreere.

. . .

Swinging into the senior parking lot, I slide into my usual spot at the front of the Senior Lot and then a smile crosses my face, my eyes narrowing.

A slight figure, weaving through the crowds on the sidewalk, Blake Wycross rides his bike over to the bike-rack and dismounts, taking a moment to lock up. His wiry blond hair, sticking up in the back as if he just rolled out of bed, nearly gleams in the bright morning sunlight.

He finishes checking and rechecking his lock for security and begins to head inside. He’s behind the main crowd now. Good.

I slide out of the jet-black Ranger I received from Father (what a kiss-up) on my sixteenth, and make my way over, falling silently in behind Blake. I grin: Loser’s totally oblivious, iPod jammed in his ears, humming quietly to himself.

“Hey, Blake!” I say and take a second to enjoy the look of apprehension that creeps into his eyes when he sees me.

“Uh...h-hey, John,” he says, and I can see him going tense: his jaw clenching, eyes wide, legs clearly ready to run. Loser.

“Well, aren’t you going to let me in?” I ask, gesturing at the door, and snicker as he nearly falls over in his haste to jump out of my way. I sweep on past him, turning my head to grin at him before continuing inside.

I saunter down the hall, feeling confident and in control, the garishly-bright light from the florescent tubes overhead gleaming off the linoleum beneath my feet. I drop my bag at my feet and casually glance up and down the hall as I spin my combo. A flash of gold catches my eye, darting past, with a giggling voice attached to it.

“Hey...hey, Sally!”

She pauses, glances back over her shoulder, spotting me. She smiles and heads on over, leaving her friends looking on sourly. She doesn’t notice, and I don’t care. Let them stew over the fact they don’t have someone as hot as me.