I've been described as smart my entire life. Call it a humble brag, but it's just a fact. I'm confident in my intelligence. I knew every state and capital at age 3. I knew my times tables when I was 5. I'm nine now. I'm still smart, but I'm a little more humble about it. I've learned that information is best to keep to yourself -- the more people who know about it, the less valuable it becomes.
My parents are good people. Emotionally unavailable, maybe. But good. They feed me. I have a bed. And they give me some damn good advice. My dad is a writer. He writes about crime and the mafia and all that shit (If you're wondering why I know curse words at the ripe age of 9, you can blame my father). He always tells me the story of how he got involved with the mob. When he was 14, he worked at a butcher shop ran by the leader of the Gambino crime family, Paul Castellano. That's how he got his start, I guess. I once asked my mom if he did anything illegal ever, but she said no. Whether I believe her is a different story.
I survey the room, like Paul Castellano. Looking for possible allies in this prison of a school, but I find none. One kid is eating his boogers, girls are doing cartwheels dangerously close to desks and chairs, and two boys have tied their shoelaces together. It's not like I expected to find anyone, at least on the first day. I don't have trouble making friends, necessarily, I'm just a little bit picky. My criteria includes above average intelligence, a sense of humor, and loyalty. Judging by the looks of it, most of these kids don't know what the word loyalty means. I retreat back to my seat, huffing. I pull out my book, Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets, and dive into the fantasy world J.K. Rowling has created for me. Harry is finally meeting Tom Riddle when a tap on the shoulder pulls me out of the movie in my mind.
"Kat, reading time is over. We're gonna be studying American history today."
Mrs. Gardner says with a fake smile, the botox now extremely obvious considering there were no lines on her face.
"Actually, there's no law that says I have to comply with your rules. And besides, I know everything about history already." My dad used to be a lawyer. Sometimes it seems like he's had every job you can think of.
I return back to my book, but she grabs it and begins drilling me for answers.
"Who was the first president of the United States?"
"George Washington." I roll my eyes. This is child's play.
"Okay, when was the Boston Tea Party?"
"December 16th, 1773. Next question."
"What were the colonists protesting at the time of the Boston Tea Party?"
"The stamp act."
"Which was?"
"The first British parliamentary attempt to raise revenue through direct taxation of all colonial commercial and legal papers, newspapers, pamphlets, cards, almanacs, and dice. Satisfied?"
Mrs. Gardner looks at me, incredulous. She glances at the classroom once, before giving me my book back. I'm still celebrating my minor win over my teacher when I remember that there are other kids in this classroom. I feel the presence of a boy sitting next to me. Luckily, he's not one of the shoelace boys, nor the one eating his own booger.
"That was really cool."
I don't register that he's talking to me until the awkward silence fills the room.
"Huh?" I turn to look at him. He's cute. Blond hair, blue eyes. I take in his features as he speaks again.
"What you just did. Standing up to the teacher like that. It was really cool."
YOU ARE READING
One Day At A Time
RomanceKat Abramson is lost. Not literally; her navigation skills are fine. But with every classmate seeming to know what they want to do when they're older, Kat realizes that she's become a burnt out gifted kid. She doesn't have many hobbies, except occas...
