Margery had forgotten her reading glasses somewhere. She squinted as she read:
In fact, parents should become familiar with the signs of giftedness even before their child starts school. Most school districts do not even start identifying children for gifted programs until second or third grade, and parents of exceptionally bright or gifted children may want to consider private testing or alternative placement options (such as a private preschool school program or early grade acceleration) before that time.
Early testing and identification can be a controversial subject, but many advocates of gifted children believe that they should be identified as soon as possible so that their unique needs and talents can be acknowledged and nurtured right from the start—
Her son was already in the sixth grade—she was too late. She thought of him in his room all day, his knob knees poking out while he fiddled with his massive Lego creation.
Early identification is also important when a young child is showing behavioral or social differences – not fitting in, being highly focused on unusual interests, appearing more distractible or inattentive than others of the same age – and parents want to understand the cause.
She stopped reading, filled with hope.
*
By midway through the year, Pete was the first off the bus not just because he sat in the front and exited as quickly as possible, but because this routine was so ingrained in the mind of the other kids that they would have probably been too confused to exit if he did not. After living in the margins one is not welcome in the middle without a considerable response, regardless of whether it was positive or negative. Pete reasoned that, by now, exiting the bus in any other way was not a possibility.
Regardless of the fact that it can be oppressive, people have good reason to throw glances in the direction of those who talk little: you never know what’s happening in their mind. Pete had that thought too. He had it about other quiet kids with whom he would sometimes exchange a glance. It was as though there were two networks in the school, or for that matter anywhere humans lived: one that ran on mouths and one that ran on eyes.
When Pete got home he found his favorite meal waiting: baked-bean sandwiches on bread that had been buttered and toasted. His mother was standing above two of them, ever so slightly out of breath.
“Did you have a good day at school?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“I’ve made you favorite. C’mon, sit down. Eat.”
“Why?”
She looked at him with her surprised face, as though it was odd for him to think this was odd. “Why not?” she said.
Pete sat down at one of the sandwiches and began to eat methodically: It was important that the first two bites be on the two rounded corners. This made a single protrusion in the middle, which is far more satisfying to bite into than a flat edge. If one played it right and shaped their sandwich properly while they ate it, every bite could be a bite of a protrusion. His mother didn’t even touch her own sandwich, just watched him eat his with a new curiosity.
Pete finished, threw his plate away, and started to his room.
“Do you want to watch a movie tonight?” his mother called after him.
“What movie?” he asked.
“Any movie.”
He looked at her with suspicion for just a moment, then said “Sure,” and shut his door.
*
Jacob watched Pete speed off the bus from across the row, then fiddled with his backpack zipper until Olivia passed and he could catch a glimpse of her. She had the best boobs in school bar-none—one of the only girls in school who needed to use a real bra, not just a training bra.
Jacob was wise enough to know that when they became high-school freshmen next year, he stood no chance. Even upperclassmen would want her attention.
He got off after her, and saw her hair bounce as she stepped down to the sidewalk. As soon as he got off the bus and was nearing the doors, he felt that Reyn next to him without even looking over to check. Reyn was short, freckled, and zealous for respect. Hearing a high-pitched, peppy “Hey,” confirmed this.
The two had compromised into a friendship, both of them privately waiting for something better to come along.
Routine ensued. Jacob and Reyn lamented the new Nazi Zombies, which came out yesterday, as opposed to the first one, on their way to their lockers. In class, Jacob observed: The back of Olivia’s head looked good again today. She even got up to pick up a kids pencil who didn’t know he’d dropped it. It reminded him of why he’d liked her since four years ago, before the boobs.
*
Olivia could see people’s dreams in their eyes. Every thing a person did had a hope behind it, which means that every single thing people did was a lie—at least while they were doing it. It made her more sad than hateful, which she realized she was in danger of being. Sadness was acceptable.
A boy up front dropped his pencil and it managed to land with little enough noise that he did not notice. She got up and handed it to him. He looked back when he noticed someone putting something on his desk, then when he saw who it was he turned forward and said “Thank you” to the top of his desk.
Everything was dull but the teacher; she had a hard time discriminating between people whose names and faces she couldn’t forget; all the people composed a chorus of hidden emotion so loud that she plugged her ears.
Then, something unexpected: Some kid stopped her in the hallway and started talking to her. He told her his name was Reyn. He was funny and had bright eyes.
Then, something even more unexpected: Jacob walked over—a boy with whom she’d exchanged glances for years, and who hadn’t spoken to her in all those same years. Her hearth didn’t pound faster, but it pounded; there was an object for her attention. But when Jacob came all he did was turn himself towards Reyn and give him an inexplicable, reprimanding look, as though Reyn had done something wrong. She didn’t really remember the ensuing conversation. What she knew for sure was that when the bell rang she said goodbye to them and walked towards her class, and that she felt them standing still, watching her until she rounded the corner.
*
That same day after class Olivia perused the library shelves finding too many interesting things to pick from. Then, when she saw a scrawny boy reading at one of the tables, was unexpectedly revitalized by the feeling that even though had seen him every week-day for the last four years, she’d never spoken to him. When she walked over to him, her shoes made a sound on the carpet like a crunchy whisper. When she sat down next to him, he looked up and did not look away.
His eyes were beautiful like a human’s, but his charisma matched something else—a squirrel, for example. He kept them on her, though; the confusion overcame the timidity.
“I’m Olivia,” she said. “I don’t think we’ve met.”
“I’m Pete,” he said. To his own surprise he removed his hand from the table and held it out to be shaken. It was shaken. Though they were only two years apart, and not despite but because they had just met a moment ago, she felt like his mother, and he felt like her son.
She asked him what he was reading, and since she looked interested while he explained it to her, he didn’t stop at the usual summary. He indulged: it was a StarWars book, and even though he got to school late today and should be catching up on his homework, he was too enthralled in it not to keep reading it this afternoon.
“Why were you late to school?” Olivia asked.
Pete paused for a shorter amount of time than he would have with someone else. “My mom was taking me to get some kind of test,” he said.
“What kind?”
“I really don’t know. It had reading and puzzles on it.”
“Maybe she’d wondering if you’re dyslexic,” Olivia laughed.
“I hope not,” Pete looked down at the page in front of him as though once diagnosed, he might lose his ability to read. “At least I’d still be able to finish my Death Star if I was.”
“You’re building a Death Star?”
*
Margery had just learned that her son was not gifted. She got the call from the testing center that evening, before he got home, saying that his tests were not poor, but they were not outstanding. She didn’t respond for some time after hearing this over the phone, telling herself repeatedly that disagreeing would not change the results. It didn’t work: for ten minutes more she asked the woman what might have gone wrong during the test, and what might have been misread.
After hanging the phone up and falling her butt onto the couch, she tried to convince herself that this was good. Otherwise she would have been responsible for ruining his life by not putting him in an advanced school. But thoughts can control feelings about as well and pills can control depression.
The door opened and she paid no attention. She heard footsteps go into her son’s room. Yet suddenly, he was standing in front of her.
“What’s wrong?” he asked. Her posture betrayed despondency.
“Nothing’s wrong, darling,” she said.
He didn’t believe her.
“Want to watch a movie?” he asked.
“Not tonight,” his mother said.
There was a noise behind her and she looked. Standing there, in the door to the kitchen was a girl—a beautiful girl.
“This is Olivia,” Pete said.
Like a dog wagging its tail after you say “treat”, his mother looked back and forth between them, and asked: “What movie do you want to watch?”
Oliveve 