Like it’s some big crime to choose how you want to live your life while you’re in high school.
I can’t believe I have to hear all of this crap again. It’s bad enough when kids have attitude in class just because I’m the only one who understands what the teacher is talking about or I remember some random piece of information from a reading. It’s not like I’ve ever flaunted any of this. It’s just the opposite. Life is so much easier when you get along with people, when you can fit in instead of being labeled as a freak. And once teachers know the truth, they expect tons more from me. The last thing I want to do is a bunch of extra work. So I’ve always downplayed my talents. Like when we took those IQ tests in eighth grade. April told me her IQ, but when she asked me what mine was I reduced it. By a lot.
“I’m doing okay in your class,” I remind him.
“True. But I’m guessing that’s because my class has a creative aspect to it that motivates you to work harder.”
He’s right, of course. Not that I’m admitting anything. In an interrogation, saying less is always best.
“So here’s what I want to know,” Mr. Peterson says. “Why aren’t you doing the kind of work that everyone knows you can do with half your brain tied behind your back?”
I don’t know why, but my determination to tune out during another speech on how much I’m disappointing the world is crumbling. If I have to sit through one more of these, I swear I’m going to lose it. It’s really annoying how Mr. Peterson went poking around in my file, sticking his nose where it doesn’t belong. Why can’t he just leave me alone?
“The work,” I explain, “is part of a system with which I do not agree.”
“Which system is that?”
“The public school system.”
“Ah.” He nods up at the ceiling. “It does have a lot of problems, doesn’t it?”
Wow. That’s the first time I’ve heard a teacher come even remotely close to admitting that the system majorly sucks.
“What’s the main problem, in your opinion?” he says.
“There are so many. But I think the biggest problem is that schools offer this dimwitted curriculum that couldn’t be more boring and then teachers get mad when students aren’t interested in their classes. It’s so stupid.”
“I’ve noticed that problem as well. That’s why I created Outside the Box.”
“This is the only interesting class I’ve ever taken. Classes like this didn’t even exist at my old school.”
“That’s a shame.”
“Schools teach to the test and then they make these sweeping judgments about students based on their answers to a few pointless questions that they’re just going to forget after the test anyway. And they have the nerve to call that an education. They’re doing it wrong.” I should probably shut up, but my rage is boiling. “How is force-feeding us stuff that we don’t care about making us smarter? And why should I be forced to become part of something I don’t believe in? Like, what, just because I’m capable, it automatically means I have to play into a corrupt system? I know you’re disappointed in me, but I’m disappointed in the quality of education we’re being offered. Doesn’t that matter?”
The expression on Mr. Peterson’s face is hard to read at first. But then I think I recognize it.
It’s respect.
For the first time in the history of us, talking to April is hard. Talking to April shouldn’t be anywhere near hard. I can’t figure out what’s wrong. When I moved we promised to talk every day, which we did for the first couple of weeks. Then things shifted. There wasn’t any dramatic change or anything. It was probably imperceptible at first, already happening before I noticed. But today, it’s obvious.
The weirdness starts when I ask April if she thinks Candice will ever talk to me again.
“I don’t know,” April says.
I wait for her to continue. She doesn’t.
“Well, is she still insanely mad at
I can’t believe I have to hear all of this crap again. It’s bad enough when kids have attitude in class just because I’m the only one who understands what the teacher is talking about or I remember some random piece of information from a reading. It’s not like I’ve ever flaunted any of this. It’s just the opposite. Life is so much easier when you get along with people, when you can fit in instead of being labeled as a freak. And once teachers know the truth, they expect tons more from me. The last thing I want to do is a bunch of extra work. So I’ve always downplayed my talents. Like when we took those IQ tests in eighth grade. April told me her IQ, but when she asked me what mine was I reduced it. By a lot.
“I’m doing okay in your class,” I remind him.
“True. But I’m guessing that’s because my class has a creative aspect to it that motivates you to work harder.”
He’s right, of course. Not that I’m admitting anything. In an interrogation, saying less is always best.
“So here’s what I want to know,” Mr. Peterson says. “Why aren’t you doing the kind of work that everyone knows you can do with half your brain tied behind your back?”
I don’t know why, but my determination to tune out during another speech on how much I’m disappointing the world is crumbling. If I have to sit through one more of these, I swear I’m going to lose it. It’s really annoying how Mr. Peterson went poking around in my file, sticking his nose where it doesn’t belong. Why can’t he just leave me alone?
“The work,” I explain, “is part of a system with which I do not agree.”
“Which system is that?”
“The public school system.”
“Ah.” He nods up at the ceiling. “It does have a lot of problems, doesn’t it?”
Wow. That’s the first time I’ve heard a teacher come even remotely close to admitting that the system majorly sucks.
“What’s the main problem, in your opinion?” he says.
“There are so many. But I think the biggest problem is that schools offer this dimwitted curriculum that couldn’t be more boring and then teachers get mad when students aren’t interested in their classes. It’s so stupid.”
“I’ve noticed that problem as well. That’s why I created Outside the Box.”
“This is the only interesting class I’ve ever taken. Classes like this didn’t even exist at my old school.”
“That’s a shame.”
“Schools teach to the test and then they make these sweeping judgments about students based on their answers to a few pointless questions that they’re just going to forget after the test anyway. And they have the nerve to call that an education. They’re doing it wrong.” I should probably shut up, but my rage is boiling. “How is force-feeding us stuff that we don’t care about making us smarter? And why should I be forced to become part of something I don’t believe in? Like, what, just because I’m capable, it automatically means I have to play into a corrupt system? I know you’re disappointed in me, but I’m disappointed in the quality of education we’re being offered. Doesn’t that matter?”
The expression on Mr. Peterson’s face is hard to read at first. But then I think I recognize it.
It’s respect.
For the first time in the history of us, talking to April is hard. Talking to April shouldn’t be anywhere near hard. I can’t figure out what’s wrong. When I moved we promised to talk every day, which we did for the first couple of weeks. Then things shifted. There wasn’t any dramatic change or anything. It was probably imperceptible at first, already happening before I noticed. But today, it’s obvious.
The weirdness starts when I ask April if she thinks Candice will ever talk to me again.
“I don’t know,” April says.
I wait for her to continue. She doesn’t.
“Well, is she still insanely mad at
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