Clever Girl

Chapter 19: Perfect Scores

"What? That's..." What am I supposed to say? I had prepared a thorough presentation, complete with facts, both historical and current, proving that organized education does not guarantee success. That its structure is unequal, biased and does not prepare people for the monumental disappointments that the real world brings. Now, as they look at me with their own disappointment, I'm at a loss for words. "That's my decision. I'm sorry but I'm officially an adult now."

"Officially an adult, and yet you've been keeping this secret, disrespecting the school's principal, as well as the young gentleman that was assigned to help you. You've been receiving subpar grades in all your classes. You're making a life-altering decision without considering how it might affect your brother, how he might see you, and without granting us the favour of a prior discussion," my dad says, each syllable filled with more discontent than the last.

"Dad, it's not like that. I wanted to tell you. I even had a whole presentation prepared. I was just waiting until I turned eighteen-"

"To when you would be an official adult, and we would have no legal right to force you back, yes. But I thought we raised you better than that. You're very clever, Veronica, but you're still our daughter, and we want what's best for you."

"What's best for me is to help you. Don't you get it?" My voice starts to shake, and I have to take a breath, close my eyes and calm myself down. Tears form when I open my eyes again, "You and mom and Matty are all I care about. I can take good care of you, if you just let me."

"We won't let you waste your life on us. We'll be fine. It's you we're worried about. Why have you been getting C's and D's? There have been countless parent-teacher conferences that we were unaware of. Tests that were apparently signed by one of us. I cannot believe you forged our signatures. Why would you do that?"

I stand up, furious at myself for being exposed. When it's all verbally reiterated back to me, I sound almost like a criminal. I have managed to successfully dodge parent-teacher conferences, forward calls the school makes to my phone, divert any serious attention away from myself, and stay under the radar. Now, with one kick to my conscience, it's come crashing down. "I'm sorry I betrayed you like that, but I did it so I wouldn't draw any attention to myself. So I could devote my time to more important things, like this family."

"That's absurd. You're downplaying your intelligence on purpose. Ever since the accident, we've known you weren't reaching your potential. But we thought the trauma was already too much for you to handle. Then when your mother's illness surfaced, we didn't want to push you. We believed it was best to give you time to adjust. As much time as you needed. I blame myself for letting it go on for so long. We've been terrible parents. We should have realized, much sooner, that something was very, very wrong."

"Dad, nothing's your fault, and you've been amazing parents."

"Veronica, listen to your father," my mom interjects. She sounds weaker than she ever has, and it tears through my heart like ice.

I stare at her, wondering what I can possibly say now to make them understand. "What's wrong with me wanting to spend my whole life here, with you? What if that's what makes me happy? I know that when a student achieves perfect scores they're placed on alert for the country's best universities. But what do you think they would've done with me? They'd make me go to some gifted school. They'd take me away from you. They wouldn't have left me alone. There's no way it would all stay the same."

My dad moves his wheelchair closer to where I'm standing. "That is absolutely ridiculous. No one would have taken you away without our consent. When you were little, we chose to let you have a normal childhood, to be around kids your own age. Many teachers would advise us that you should be in college, or in an accelerated program. But such a program didn't exist for children so young where we lived, or anywhere close enough that would be a simple adjustment for you. We had countless meetings with counselors and child therapists, to see if there could be a compromise. We then paid the school to provide you with college-level, accredited course work, education for gifted youth from a collaborating University, but not treat you any different from your classmates. It was costly, but we were able to do it then."

"Wh-what? You did that? How come I don't remember?" This cannot be true, can it? How can I have gone through years of vastly different schoolwork than all of my classmates without noticing? Without anyone pointing it out to me?

"You were so young. We did everything we could to make you feel included with your peers. But when you turned twelve, and our situation changed drastically, we could no longer afford the costs. Once you began the seventh grade, you were given the same work as everyone else. I'm so sorry, Veronica. There was so much going on all at once, and we didn't put enough focus on you. We failed you."

"You didn't fail me." I blink away tears and sit back down next to my mom. I feel defeated, angry, embarrassed and uncertain all at once, a tidal wave of emotions and a disaster of a moment engulfs me. How could I have not noticed, or thought about it? My assignments would get collected just like everyone else's. Even the projects we did, when the teachers would announce the topics, mine never varied. When I was twelve, and everything changed, maybe I was too distracted to notice that the difficulty level of work had gone down significantly. Or perhaps I had become too focused on achieving D's and C's that I didn't bother to look over any assignment properly. What about now? Is it possible my own intelligence quotient has diminished due to years of zero stimulation?

"We did, and we wish we could change things. But we know you're an adult now. We can't make you go back. We just hope you make the right decision. Please, sweetie. Don't worry about us anymore," my mother adds.

"What if... what if I try it my way, for only a week or two? If by then this isn't helping at all, I'll go back? If it comes to that I even promise to do my very best. No more holding back on grades. Please, just a couple of weeks? Let me prove to you I'll be happy with this decision, and that my future will be fine."

"Do you really believe you can prove that in only a couple of weeks?" My father asks. 

"I can try. If you ask me to go back after that point, I promise I will without protest."

***

I have been foolish. I have been self-involved. I have been so wrapped up in my own narrow-minded ways that I didn't take a second to compare and contrast all my past and present assignments. No matter what my parents believe, they were not at fault. I cannot accept that. They are my entire life, my absolute purpose, and I will not allow them to take the blame for my failures. They have now agreed to grant me two weeks to establish a fool-proof, appropriate lifestyle for myself, without school. I know I can. It will no longer be to provide for them, but also to show them they didn't fail me.  

Before the night was over, I had asked them why they didn't bring it up sooner, since they had apparently known for days. Cranston had called them personally to advise them. By their own sentiments, they wished me to go to the party, and to have a stress-free birthday dinner. For that I am also thankful to them. 

It's now Monday, my first day of immunity from organized education and social expectations, of the ability to live this life the way I have always wanted to. It's also my first full-time day at the car dealership. 

John, the owner, has asked me to update the product stickers for the cars in the showroom. It's a straightforward task that I can probably finish in an hour if I wanted to. Though I can't expect John to offer me more important work, since there are sales associates and managers around who may take offense to their work being siphoned off to a teenager. 

As I'm finishing up with one car, my phone sets off the sound of a text. 

'So you really did it' the text reads. I don't recognize the number, though I'm certain it's Jay.

'What? Who's this?' I message back.

'Jay. I didn't think you had it in you to quit'

When I read his name, the numbness that had encompassed me the night we kissed takes over again. My heart begins to beat faster, and my head spins with its rhythm. 'I did, yeah'

'You didn't say goodbye to me, btw'

'Yes I did'

'No you didn't. I kissed you and you ran off' 

'Sorry'

'You owe me'

'How do I owe you? I said sorry' I respond. The three gray dots appear, and it's like my entire life revolves around their purpose. Who is Jay to make me feel this way? Why do I care if he responds, or wonder if he might kiss me again? I hate this and I hate him for distracting me. Most of all, I hate myself for allowing it to happen in the first place. It was simpler when we resented one another.

'Let me take you out, just once'