Curse of Genius, Page 2

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  Later that evening after dinner, Becca and I retreat upstairs to my room to do some reading. She loves reading, as well, and although she may not read at my level or pace, it's a passion we share. We can literally sit and read for hours. Our absolute ideal slumber party is an entire night of popcorn, reading, and--this hurts to say--The Kardashians. That's right, it's our guilty pleasure. It has been for some time now, and if anyone ever found out we watched it, we've already discussed we would pack our bags, hitchhike with a total stranger, and leave the state forever. I mean, we don't just watch it--we're obsessed, to the point of owning the DVD box sets for every season. I guess it's the clothes and the glam; I don't really know. Neither one of us has been able to figure it out. Regardless, we're hooked, and next to reading it's our favorite thing to do.

  After reading for about an hour, my mom knocks on the door and sticks her head in. "How many problems did you plan to miss on your geometry test tomorrow?" she asks.

  "It's a 35-question quiz, so I guess I'll miss three," I reply, knowing she'll counter like always. And sure enough, she stands there in thought for a minute.

  "What score would that give you?"

  "91 percent," I reply.

  "Maybe miss two instead. Wouldn't that be good?"

  "Yeah, that's cool; that'll give me a 94," I say, trying to make her smile. I love my mom to death. We've always been really close, and I know she just wants me to do what she truly believes is best for me. I feel bad putting her through this, which is why I always try to make it as easy as possible on her.

  "I only plan to miss ten, Mrs. Christie!" Becca jokes, trying to break the tension, even though I know there's probably some truth in her statement.

  But my mom just laughs. "I don't believe that for a second, Becca," she says as she walks out and closes the door.

  I look at Becca, frustrated, as she turns her head and looks down.

  "You told me you were gonna study," I fuss, throwing my hands up.

  "I know. I started to, but then I got aggravated because I couldn't understand it."

  I sigh and grab my textbook. "Come here, I'll give you a crash course."

  I took about thirty minutes to explain everything to her that she didn't understand, and she picked it up quickly. Becca has always been very strong in English and literature, rather than math and science. Although she maintains an A-B, sometimes C average, she could definitely pull straight A's if she studied more.

  "Thanks, Dor. I think I'm good to go now."

  "Okay, good," I reply, putting my book away. I jump back on my bed and cover up with a blanket as Becca kicks back on the plush, dark green recliner which sits in the corner of my room. It has supposedly been in our family for like a thousand years, so my mom refuses to get rid of it. Aside from the fact that it doesn't match anything in the house, it's probably the most comfortable piece of furniture I've ever sat on, and I would strap myself to it protest-style to keep anyone from taking it away.

  "So, do you think Summer really knows?" I ask as I stare at the ceiling, afraid to hear Becca's answer.

  "No, she's bluffing. We've been really careful, so I don't know how she could know."

  "Yeah, I don't think she knows, either. I'm still worried, though. Maybe I should just go ahead and reveal it anyway," I say, feeling sick to my stomach at the thought.

  Becca quickly looks at me with a worried expression. "But then you'll either go off to college or get a job and we'll grow apart."

  Becca would support me either way, but she knows as well as I do that on some level it would come between us. She understands the extent of my genius because she's been there from the start. While other four-year-olds were playing outside, I was tucked away in my room reading. While other seven-year-olds were watching Disney and learning how to write, I was studying organic chemistry and trying to figure out easier ways to solve physics and calculus equations. And right before my twelfth birthday, I had just finished writing my eleventh book.

  But Becca did a great job year after year helping me put my genius aside in public and blend in with my peers. I know I wouldn't have been able to do it without her.

  I sigh. "Yeah, I know. I just have to figure out a way to keep my mom content."

  "Tell her you'll dedicate one of your books to her later on," Becca shrugs and grins.

  "That might actually work," I giggle. Then I hop up and walk over to my closet to clear a space for my new scrapbook.

  The fact that I've written seventeen books to date, and that I've discovered simpler ways to solve a ton of math and science problems and equations and theorems on all levels, is the main reason for my mom's insistence that I reveal my genius. My dad wants me to reveal it too, but Mom is definitely the driving force.

  I carefully begin rearranging books on the middle shelf in my closet to create a special place just for the scrapbook, as Becca reaches over and grabs one of the fiction novels I wrote.

  "It is a shame all these books can't be published, though," she says, flipping through the pages and shaking her head.

  "Yeah. They will be one day, though," I shrug. Then I place the scrapbook down in its newly cleaned out space. "Geez, I need a bigger closet," I mutter.

  "Just bust in your mom and dad's room and take over their closet."

  I nod. "It might actually come to that."

  Becca's laugh quickly turns to a loud, obnoxious groan as she struggles to get up from the comfy green recliner, just as I always do. Yeah, it's that comfortable.

  "I'm gonna go home before it starts getting dark. See you in the morning!" she shouts from the hall.

  "Bye, sleep tight!" I holler back.

  As I get ready for bed, I'm desperately trying to think of a way to keep my genius a secret and keep my mom happy at the same time. Either way, it's going to be a struggle. Whatever sacrifice I make to appease her could very well be worse than revealing my secret. I guess time will tell. Maybe by some miracle I'll wake up tomorrow morning and this curse will be gone.

  2

  Monday Morning Blues

  As usual, the annoying sound of my alarm buzzing at me the next morning makes me want to punch a hole in my headboard. I roughly wipe the cobwebs from my eyes and slap the snooze button with speed and accuracy. It's literally a showdown every single morning--I try to hit the button before a second buzz comes out. One morning years ago, I repeatedly slapped the snooze button, only to continue hearing the buzz. My solution to this was to swipe the clock off the table and onto the floor. Nine minutes later, it was back on the table screaming at me, and it was almost as if it was smiling at me when I looked at it. To this day, I swear I don't remember putting it back on the table, even though I must have. Regardless, it became personal after that morning. I have a love-hate relationship with that clock--I love that it tells me the time, but I hate that it yells at me every morning.

  Once I finally surrender to my alarm and accept the fact that I have to get up, which is never easy, I sit up in my bed and briefly re-think the plan I came up with just before I fell asleep last night. The plan to keep my genius hidden and my mom happy all at once. Don't get me wrong, it's not a good plan by any means; in fact, it's a horrible plan. The thought of it makes me feel ill, much like the thought of revealing my genius does. But after an hour of racking my brain, I've come to realize there's no easy way. I'll just have to pick my poison and drink it down, and I think I'll wear a helmet when I approach Becca with the idea, just in case she inadvertently tries to hurt me.

  As I try to put that thought out of my mind for now, another one quickly comes into focus: getting to the bathroom first. There's one upstairs bathroom I share with my brother and sister, and it's literally a battle for control every morning. I would say ninety percent of the time I emerge victorious. However, this morning I have a feeling I hit the snooze button one too many times.

  I slip on my Hello Kitty slippers--yet another guilty pleasure, which Becca introduced me to, for the record--and quickly shuffle to m
y bedroom door. As I look down the hall, I see the bathroom door half-open and the lights off, so I dart toward it as if I'm a three-time Olympic sprinter trying to finally win a medal.

  This is crucial because for whatever reason, Carson takes twice as long in there as Hailey and I, and Hailey will camp in front of the door to ensure her second-place spot. Although Hailey looks up to me and we've always been extremely close, I couldn't pay her to let me skip.

  But this morning I win, and as usual it takes me no time at all to put on the bare minimum amount of makeup, so little it could probably qualify as none at all, and run a brush a few times through my dark brown hair. It falls to about the middle of my back, and I usually just throw it into a ponytail, like I do this morning.

  This is my typical look. Although I'm all about shopping and cute clothes, I've never been all that great at fixing myself up. I just don't have the interest or patience for it, I guess. Hopefully one day I will, though.

  After brushing my teeth, I open the door to find Hailey standing there, her eyes half-closed, trying not to fall over. "Morning, girlie," I say as I turn around to look back at her while walking down the hall.

  She begins waddling into the bathroom like a zombie with crazy blond hair.

  "Morning," she replies with a faint whisper. Without a doubt, the only person I know who hates mornings more than I do is Hailey. She once took a swing at me when I tried to wake her up. And even though she insists she doesn't remember it at all, the thought of attempting to wake her up again still frightens me to this day.

  As I begin to rifle through my closet to pick my outfit for the day, I hear my phone buzzing when a text comes through from Becca.

  "Is it just me, or does this morning suck more than last Monday morning??"

  I completely understand where she's coming from. Typically, the start of the second week of school is always better than the first?but not this year. My turning sixteen this year has put a dark cloud over this Monday morning, knowing I now have to make a decision which could completely change my life.

  "Not just you, I know what you're saying," I reply with a sad face. "And I came up with a plan BTW."

  "Sweet," she replies.

  After a few minutes of getting lost in thought about the whole situation, I get back to choosing my outfit. I ultimately decide on a pair of black skinny jeans and ballet flats, along with my favorite purple top I got at Forever 21 on a recent back-to-school shopping trip with my mom and Hailey. I do a few quick turns in the mirror just before grabbing my backpack and phone, and then head downstairs for breakfast.

  My mom walks over to me from the stove as I toss my bag on a chair and take a seat.

  "Breakfast?" she asks, extending a pan out to me. She's made one of her delicious sausage, bacon, egg, and cheese omelets.

  My mouth begins watering. "Yes, please!"

  All these years of eating those omelets and I've yet to get tired of them. She could put ten of them on my plate and I would eat every one before she finished pouring my glass of milk. That's right--she pours my milk for me. Odd as it may sound, my mom does everything for us. With her being a stay-at-home mom, we always have fantastic breakfasts, lunches, and dinners; our clothes are washed and put away every day; and the house stays spotless?and this is not a small house. Basically, she's created an environment where none of us have to lift a finger, spoiling us on an extreme--possibly even unhealthy--level, and that's truly the way she wants it. She loves to nurture, and the fact that she doesn't work allows her to be very organized and efficient with these tasks on a daily basis.

  I begin scraping my plate with my fork just before I load up the last bite and shove it into my mouth, like a wild animal that hasn't eaten in a week.

  "I kind of want another one," I mumble with egg and sausage nearly falling out of my mouth.

  "Okay," she grins, flipping another one in the pan.

  "Make that two for me, as well!" my dad proclaims as he walks into the kitchen while tying his tie.

  Dad is a medical malpractice attorney, and he works for a private firm in Baton Rouge, Louisiana, about forty minutes outside the small town of Central where we live. He basically represents people who have issues arising from the improper use of medicine, or people who have suffered because of mistakes or errors during their medical treatment. He's one of the best lawyers in his firm and is looking at a possible partnership in a few years.

  I'm constantly keeping him fresh and sharp on medical terms and procedures because he has to be very knowledgeable on the medical end as well as all points of law. His slight weakness, if he has one, is getting rusty on the medical side from time to time. I've formatted a few of his most difficult cases over the years when he would get overwhelmed. It's much easier and quicker for me, with no stress involved. So I would step in and get it done whether he wanted me to or not, and he was always appreciative in the end.

  I quickly kill my second omelet while my mom and dad are talking. I want to get out of here before any discussion about revealing my genius can come up. I drink down my last bit of milk as I get up and grab my bag. "I gotta go. I don't want to be late getting to Becca's."

  "Okay, sweetie, be careful. We'll talk later," Mom says, looking disappointed that she missed her chance. My dad tells me bye, as well, as I walk out, just as Hailey and Carson are running downstairs.

  When I reach the sidewalk and begin my delightfully short walk to Becca's house, I notice her mom loading something that looks like it might be food in the car. Once I get to the driveway, I stop and smile while her mom closes the car door. "Hey, Mrs. Anna. What's in the car?" I ask.

  "Hey there, sweetie." She jokingly backs up to the car and leans on it with her arms spread out, as if to barricade the back door. "Nothing's in the car," she says, a wide-eyed, silly expression on her face.

  Despite my five-foot, two-inch, 105-pound frame, I eat like a horse. And Mrs. Anna knows this.

  "Yeah, I'll see about that when I get in there in a few minutes," I reply with a grin as I turn around and start walking to the house. Mrs. Anna releases the car door and follows me.

  "Becca should be downstairs eating by now," she says with a bit of aggravation in her voice.

  Mrs. Anna is the manager at a bank just past our school, so she drops Becca and me off every morning.

  Stargate Academy is the fairly small kindergarten through twelfth grade private school we attend. We used to go to Central Private, but Becca's parents transferred her to Stargate about four months before the last school year ended because they felt it was better academically, and my parents let me transfer there, also. Hailey and Carson wanted to stay at Central Private, so my mom takes them in the morning and then picks us all up at the end of the day. That is, until Carson gets his license at some point this year. I think it'll be safer riding with Becca and her mom when--or if--that happens, though.

  I walk around the corner and into the kitchen to see Becca just pulling a spoon from her mouth, her cheeks puffed out and milk dripping from her bottom lip. I begin to giggle.

  "What?" she asks.

  I walk over to the table and put my bag down. "You look like I did five minutes ago, except I had sausage and cheese spilling from my mouth."

  "Son of a bitch, I need to eat breakfast at your house," she says as she tilts her head back, extremely careful not to lose a single Fruity Pebble.

  Other than being an inch or so taller and having dirty-blond hair, Becca is virtually the same size I am and loves to eat just as I do. The only place we don't stuff our faces is school, because guys are around.

  "So, what's the plan you came up with?" Becca asks as she gets up and puts her bowl in the sink.

  "Umm?" I hesitate, contemplating scrapping the whole idea. "I'll tell you at school. I don't want you to kill me with no witnesses."

  "Geez, it can't be that bad, can it?" she giggles.

  I just shrug.

  "Come on, girls!" Mrs. Anna suddenly shouts from the foyer. We roll our eyes, grab our bags, and head
for the door.