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 Posted: Thu Jan 29, 2015 1:07 pm
A Guilty One
You have always been smart. Smarter than most, in the places that matter: math is your most favourite, the numbers a warm security blanket for the flying chaos of your immature mind. You are smart but you won't be raised the way your mother was, with strict deadlines and no time to play, with endless tasks and no days off. So they are kind, to you, and your sharp mind, and you do not have to work nearly so hard as some of your cousins. You have skipped a grade. You are doing algebra, and you are nine.
You are smart, but you don't work hard, because you don't have to. And even though you enjoy the work, you'd rather not do the rest. Would rather skip through reading books about made-up things, lands of fantasy and history retold. (And, later, as you grow, you will change your mind. You will accept these things into your heart and apply rules to them, determining the populations of cities and the likelihoods of survival against dragons, and make references to them in the comments of your code. But that is later. This is now.)
And you, Felicia Annabel Shepherd -- a white name, for a girl raised white, hapa in blood only, a heritage forgotten, shunned, discarded (you are third generation, now. China is far away.) -- have already determined that you will never do anything you don't want to do, unless there is no other option.
So you cheat on a test.
And it is not exhilarating, or nerve-wracking, or shocking. You do not want to do the work, so you do not. And they do not catch you, which makes sense. You are so much smarter than the adults that rear you-- why else would they constantly tell you how wonderful you are? How genius you are? How you'll grow up to be a doctor or a scientist and win prizes and maybe if you're lucky, a Laurel-Ate? You are a genius. They say so.
And it works just fine until they do catch you, cheating on your history, notes scribbled onto your still-pudgy palms.
They are disappointed. Your parents are called. They are, too, disappointed. The principal is brought in. She is disappointed.
You smile, crooked with braces and from behind big glasses, nodding your head like a bobble head.
I won't do it again, I promise. I won't do it again, I know better now.
This is what you say.
But what you are thinking is this:
I won't get caught again, I promise. I won't get caught again, I know better than you.
And it works for ten, long years.
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Posted: Thu Jan 29, 2015 2:23 pm
So Smart and Rare
He's a good dog, you think, crouched beside his body. Gently-- like you've been taught, you are seven and very grown up, in your estimation-- you pet his black fur, and parts of it are sticky. He's not moving very much, a languid twitch or maybe three, but the important thing is that he's still warm. That means he's alive.
Gently-- so, so gently-- you cradle one if his big paws in your hand, watching quietly. He shouldn't have been playing in the road: sometimes, he gets out, and likes to go run and run and run. He's so happy when he can be free of limits, no leash and no lead to tug him this way and that. You understand that. It's like being forced to wear a starched white shirt for church, confining and probably a little bit itchy.
You watch him, the fluttering of his eyes, the spasm of his legs twisted a little-bit wrong, and hold his paw until it's cold.
When you go home, with red hands and stains on your leggings, you politely inform your parents that the doggy won't be coming home, and can you get a new one?
(They are upset, at first: but you explain. You found him that way, and waited to see if he would move. It's not a lie: just not the entire truth.
You do not get another dog.)
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Posted: Thu Jan 29, 2015 5:29 pm
A Simple Computation
It is 2008, and you are seventeen. Your second semester at RIT is both prestigious and terrifying, too easy and too hard all at once. You knew from day one that you'd need to work twice as hard-- or, well: do twice as well, at least-- to earn the respect of your peers.
Only 13.5% of your freshman class is female.
You've already declared your major: software engineering.
Unlike all school before it, at least RIT is full of subjects you care about, deeply and with a frenetic passion. (...Even if your first semester was mostly things you knew already.)
And, to top it all off, your highschool sweetheart finally starts this year, too. Nothing could go wrong.
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Posted: Thu Jan 29, 2015 6:19 pm
Exploration, Adoration
It's easy, between you and Adrian. You don't love him, and he doesn't love you. You've discussed this fact at length, and it's Okay. It doesn't feel like anything is missing: there is no hole in your heart, aching for someone to complete you. It's nice when he's around, and inconvenient when he's not-- as he's an excellent player two and a decent conversationalist-- but you don't mind. Quite the opposite, in fact. It's comfortable.
Plus, you know he sees other girls on the side; even before he tried to get cool. (You can objectively say that at this, he has not succeeded.) But hey, that's fine with you. You're not one to cast stones: he stuck around through your Incident, after all, and that counted for something. You were dating formally, and parents on all sides approved of your nerdy little copulations.
It was all fine, and nothing had to change.
But today, when he opens your door with shaking hands and bright eyes, smiling so broad that his teeth are a white slash against his face, you know that something will.
I love her, he says, half full of awe, and begins collecting the few things littered around your room. A hat, a notebook, his calculations for the most efficient course to the sword in every Halo 3 map.
You look at him, quizzical, and pause your game of Fallout 3. What do you mean, you ask, slow and stuttering, turning your chair around to straddle it backwards, pushing glasses up your nose. They could probably use a cleaning; Adrian's a little blurry around the edges.
I love her, he says again, more emphatic, whirling to look at you, marching over to take you by the shoulders, a laugh bubbling out of him, as if it was as incredulous as she was. All this time, he continues, all this time I thought I couldn't, but it's not me. It's not me! Another laugh, and he's rubbing his forehead with the back of his hand, smile staying quite the same.
It's not me, Leesha. It's you. But god, when I'm with her, it's different, it's like-- it's like being alive for the very first time.
He continues, for a lot longer than you really care to listen to. But you do, listening with a hand propping up your chin, watching him. Adrian paces around the room, waxes his well-practised monologue, and then-- ten minutes later-- falls short.
The reactions you are giving him-- bored, apathetic, sort of pleased for his sake-- aren't what he expected. Aren't what he wanted.
Don't you have anything to say? he asks, probing. She can see the judgement in his eyes: didn't you care about me at all?
Congratulations? you offer, shrugging your shoulders. I'm happy for you. Is it Tara or Kelly?
Neither! he yelps, recoiling as if burned. How did you-- no, nevermind. Her name is Ruby-- actually it's Rachel, but Ruby is what she goes by, and she's--
He's going on, again, and your attention is really starting to go. Okay, you say, but you're already turning your back back around and unpausing your game, eager to get back into the wasteland. It's not as if you're repressing any feelings: it will be most unfortunate that you won't have anyone to bring home for Thanksgiving, and no one to queue up the next movie on Netflix. But if he's in love, then what's the point in being angry?
Adrian-- like everyone else on this earth-- had a choice in everything, including who he spent his time with. And he'd chosen someone else.
If you forget anything, just text me, you say, each word fumbled, but your tone pleasant, honestly so.
He never does.
And so ends your three year relationship: not with a bang, but with bafflement and well wishing.
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Posted: Thu Jan 29, 2015 11:36 pm
I Know What I Have Done
He may have been a boy but you are better than just a boy, better than those that would stop you, better than anyone, as far as you're concerned. At least in this respect: your skill is nigh unparalleled. You spend ten hours a day in class, five more studying, and two recreationally learning for the sake of it, to feed and grow your mind.
But every mind has its limits, and for you it's assembly.
And, just like before, once you cheated one too many times, and got caught.
And, just like before, everyone's so disappointed in you. Despite the fact that you know things, despite the fact that you're first in so many of your classes, despite the fact that you can write almost anything from the ground up with your eyes closed, and in VIM to boot.
But none of that matters, does it?
One mistake-- what they deem as a mistake-- is enough to take you out.
Your school life is over. You will never graduate. You are eighteen years old, and don't know what happens next.
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