have the chance to reinvent themselves.
“That’s so cool,” I say.
“What?”
“That building. See how it says it used to be a paper factory?”
“Oh. Yeah, that is cool.”
“And that water tower over there.”
“You look at water towers?”
“Of course. I love them.”
“Why?”
“I just think they’re beautiful.”
“Oh. I’ve never noticed.”
I remember the first time I saw Ree sketching. I was so jealous that she’d been living here her whole life surrounded by the energy and lights and buildings. But maybe those things are like background noise if you’re from here. Maybe you have to experience this as a whole new place to appreciate it the way I do. Unless you’re John. But he’s not like anyone else.
“It’s cool how you can do that,” Sadie says. “It’s like you only see the good parts of the city.”
“It’s amazing what you see when you look up.”
“I guess I’m too busy looking down. Don’t want to step in anything.”
“Ew.”
“Harsh, but true.”
“Well, I’ve wanted to live here for a really long time. I’m sort of ... infatuated.”
“I didn’t know that.”
“You’re the first person I’ve told here.” I don’t know if it’s this amazing walk or having an unexpected new friend or all the excitement of everything that’s happened since I got here. I just suddenly want to tell Sadie why I’m here. I want to share it with someone who isn’t scandalized by my decision like Candice or stuck in the middle like April. I took this huge, life-altering leap without really being able to experience it with anyone.
But I can’t tell her yet. Scott has to be the first to know. And hopefully, he’ll like what he hears.
Fourteen
When Mr. Peterson asks me to stay after class, I immediately know what it’s about. I can tell by the way he looks at me when he says we need to talk. It’s the same look my old teachers got when they found out about me. I was hoping to avoid all that here. Why can’t I just be the new girl, stopping by for senior year without all the pressure?
“Why didn’t you tell me that you’re a genius?” Mr. Peterson wants to know.
“I’m really not.”
“Your IQ is well above the genius level. That makes you a genius.”
I stare at a broken piece of chalk on the floor. When Mr. Peterson gets amped over whatever he’s putting on the board, the chalk goes flying.
“How did you find out?” I ask.
“I’ve become increasingly fascinated by you.” He leans back against the board, which is always a mistake for him. Mr. Peterson is one of those teachers who have perpetual chalk dust on their butt. “Your logic skills are the most impressive I’ve ever seen, and I’ve been teaching longer than you’ve been alive. You’re able to remember an incredible amount of detail after being exposed to something only once. All of your work is outstanding. I wanted to know more about your background, so I checked your file.”
“You checked my file ?”
“Teachers are allowed to do that.”
He may be right, but that doesn’t make me feel any less violated.
“I also asked your other teachers about you.” My face must be giving away my rage because he quickly adds, “It’s my responsibility to confirm that all of my tutors are maintaining at least an eighty-five average. You’re the only one who’s not. At this point in the marking period your average is seventy-three. You and I both know it should be a lot higher.”
Even though this school is more challenging than my old one, I can still put in minimal effort and get passing grades. I study a little for tests and get high scores on those, so everything else just averages out in the C range.
My standard procedure for enduring these I’m So Disappointed in You lectures is to tune out and let whatever adult is on my case talk at me. I’ve perfected the technique after tolerating way too many speeches from my mom. And my old teachers. And assorted administrative types.
“That’s so cool,” I say.
“What?”
“That building. See how it says it used to be a paper factory?”
“Oh. Yeah, that is cool.”
“And that water tower over there.”
“You look at water towers?”
“Of course. I love them.”
“Why?”
“I just think they’re beautiful.”
“Oh. I’ve never noticed.”
I remember the first time I saw Ree sketching. I was so jealous that she’d been living here her whole life surrounded by the energy and lights and buildings. But maybe those things are like background noise if you’re from here. Maybe you have to experience this as a whole new place to appreciate it the way I do. Unless you’re John. But he’s not like anyone else.
“It’s cool how you can do that,” Sadie says. “It’s like you only see the good parts of the city.”
“It’s amazing what you see when you look up.”
“I guess I’m too busy looking down. Don’t want to step in anything.”
“Ew.”
“Harsh, but true.”
“Well, I’ve wanted to live here for a really long time. I’m sort of ... infatuated.”
“I didn’t know that.”
“You’re the first person I’ve told here.” I don’t know if it’s this amazing walk or having an unexpected new friend or all the excitement of everything that’s happened since I got here. I just suddenly want to tell Sadie why I’m here. I want to share it with someone who isn’t scandalized by my decision like Candice or stuck in the middle like April. I took this huge, life-altering leap without really being able to experience it with anyone.
But I can’t tell her yet. Scott has to be the first to know. And hopefully, he’ll like what he hears.
Fourteen
When Mr. Peterson asks me to stay after class, I immediately know what it’s about. I can tell by the way he looks at me when he says we need to talk. It’s the same look my old teachers got when they found out about me. I was hoping to avoid all that here. Why can’t I just be the new girl, stopping by for senior year without all the pressure?
“Why didn’t you tell me that you’re a genius?” Mr. Peterson wants to know.
“I’m really not.”
“Your IQ is well above the genius level. That makes you a genius.”
I stare at a broken piece of chalk on the floor. When Mr. Peterson gets amped over whatever he’s putting on the board, the chalk goes flying.
“How did you find out?” I ask.
“I’ve become increasingly fascinated by you.” He leans back against the board, which is always a mistake for him. Mr. Peterson is one of those teachers who have perpetual chalk dust on their butt. “Your logic skills are the most impressive I’ve ever seen, and I’ve been teaching longer than you’ve been alive. You’re able to remember an incredible amount of detail after being exposed to something only once. All of your work is outstanding. I wanted to know more about your background, so I checked your file.”
“You checked my file ?”
“Teachers are allowed to do that.”
He may be right, but that doesn’t make me feel any less violated.
“I also asked your other teachers about you.” My face must be giving away my rage because he quickly adds, “It’s my responsibility to confirm that all of my tutors are maintaining at least an eighty-five average. You’re the only one who’s not. At this point in the marking period your average is seventy-three. You and I both know it should be a lot higher.”
Even though this school is more challenging than my old one, I can still put in minimal effort and get passing grades. I study a little for tests and get high scores on those, so everything else just averages out in the C range.
My standard procedure for enduring these I’m So Disappointed in You lectures is to tune out and let whatever adult is on my case talk at me. I’ve perfected the technique after tolerating way too many speeches from my mom. And my old teachers. And assorted administrative types.
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