Page 97 of Good at Being Alive
The kitchen is mostly done by the time Theo gets home, though he’d offered to help with it. Instead, I’ve saved a much harder room for him to assist with: my dad’s office.
Most of it is incredibly boring. Theo’s working on Jessie’s “decorative” bookcases, which hold more artificial plants and macramé than books, while I go through twenty years of bank statements and tax returns.
“Box up the macramé for Jessie’s sisters,” I tell him, flinging a file into the trash. They’ll tear into it hoping for Jessie’s designer bags and hate me more than they alreadydo.
Theo groans. “Bex, I saw that.”
“What?” I ask, blinking up at him with all the innocence I can muster.
“You need to actuallyopenthe files before you put them in the trash.”
“It was labeled tax forms! If the IRS wants to audit himnow,I wish them luck.”
His mouth curves as he shakes his head. “Why don’t we switch?”
“Gladly,” I reply, rising. He presses a kiss to the top of my head as he passes, his hand briefly on my hip. Whatever it is we are doing—this thing between us with all its casual affection—is second nature for him and entirely new to me. Is he like this with everyone? The idea stabs me as I start packing up Jessie’s endless collection of artificial plants.
I wish he’d just…say something. About how he feels, about what happens when the show ends. We’ve only got two shoots left—Madeira and the marathon. Shouldn’t one of us at least allude to what we’ll do after that? I guess I could be the brave one. I’m just not sure how I’d survive four days in Madeira and atwenty-six-mile run by his side if he’s given me some vague answer like “I’m sure we’ll stay in touch” or “Let’s cross that bridge when we get to it.”
“We only have two shoots left,” I venture, my heart beating fast. “It’ll be weird to have it over.”
“Hmmm,” Theo says.
I’m disappointed that my gambit hasn’t worked, but he’s so focused on the papers in front of him that I don’t think he even heardme.
“Bex,” he says, holding out the file. The expression on his face makes my stomach clench.
I take it from his hand. “What is it?” I ask, but I’m already flipping through the pages.
I already know.
It’s the IQ test, the one I was told I hadn’t performed well on, except…over a hundred and forty is considered genius, and the number I’m looking at is well above that.
An incredibly rare intellect,writes the psychologist.The simplest option is to place her in a more appropriate grade. She is reading at a sixth-grade level and could easily perform sixth-grade math with initial assistance. I’m sure it sounds unnerving, but I’m confident she’ll catch up quickly.
I have to read the letter twice to grasp it. My father told me my scores were “average,” that the school had suggested I remain where I was and “keep up the good work.”
When the psychologist was suggesting I skip four grades.
Four.
“This makes no sense,” I say to Theo, flipping through the file. “Why did my dad tell me I hadn’t done that well?”
Theo comes around the desk and stands behind me as he turns to the file’s final page. A closing letter from the psychologist to my dad.
Your desire to facilitate a close relationship between Rebeccaand her stepsister is commendable, but this can happen whether or not they’re in different classes or even different schools. I understand that it might be hard on Bronwyn, initially, but that’s no reason to deny Rebecca a vital opportunity to grow. I do hope you’ll reconsider.
I let the file drop on the desk. I wish Theo hadn’t shown it tome.
“He was just trying to keep the peace with Jessie,” I whisper. He wanted it so much that he thought I was better off…floundering, going nowhere.
Theo pulls me against his chest, quiet as I absorb the blow.
I’m not sure if I’m angry or grateful. Because he refused, Bronwyn remained my closest friend, my favorite person, for nearly two decades. But he knew he’d be keeping me small.
And apparently that’s what he wanted.
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