Gifted

Or, How to fall flat on your face, Alex?

I’m in third grade when I’m pulled out of the classroom, along with Connie Denkinger and two other girls. Connie is the cutest girl in class. I don’t really think about that sort of thing yet, but I know enough to realize the other two girls are plain in comparison. I argue a lot with Connie, and at first, I think this impromptu meeting might have something to do with that. And it does in a roundabout way, but I’m not in trouble. The four of us have been selected for our small school’s gifted program. I’m not sure how this came about. I don’t remember taking any tests. Later, I’m informed my teachers think my schoolwork is too easy, and Connie and I are bored. That’s why we’re always at each other’s throats. Maybe.

We are led to a room I’ve never been in before. Our new teacher is waiting for us. She is extremely overweight, and breathes like she’s having an asthma attack whenever I see her lugging her bag of worksheets around. This isn’t a knock on her, just an observation. Her name is Mrs. Doge, and her son goes to a different school in our district. He’s also overweight, has a forehead like a caveman, and eats his own boogers. And he’s in the gifted program too, which doesn’t say much for Mrs. Doge’s integrity.

Our school doesn’t have the budget or enough students for a full-time program, so she informs us she’ll be visiting us two times a week on Tuesdays and Thursdays. We’re supposed to be honored by our selection, but what I hear is I’m going to be losing two recesses and a few hours of class time with my friends every week, and I’m not wrong. I will eventually find out my friend Brian qualified for the program too, but when his parents asked him if he wanted to do it, he declined. I didn’t even know that was an option. My parents never gave me a choice.

Our first assignment is to assemble a box to store all the worksheets we’re going to be doing. I fail miserably. I’m not a total idiot, and I might even deserve to be there, but I am hopeless when it comes to constructing anything with my hands. I do much better with the avalanche of worksheets that follow, but I never get much out of it. A year or so into the whole gifted experiment, I’m ready to opt out.

I’m too young to care how it might eventually look on a college application. I just want to hang out with my friends and go to recess and be a kid, and not do so many damn worksheets. I tell my mom as much and she makes an appointment with the school to talk it over with Mrs. Doge, the principal, and my fourth-grade teacher. By the time she comes out of it, they’ve convinced her to keep me enrolled, but they promise to spice things up. This means replacing most of the worksheets with hours upon hours of Where in the World is Carmen Sandiego?

All in all, it’s not a bad trade. The game is actually a lot of fun, and I’m pretty good at it, but I’m not sure why Mrs. Doge is so keen to keep me in the program. She doesn’t seem to appreciate having to carry around the case holding all the floppy disks required for the game on top of her already heavy bag of worksheets. Maybe she sees something in me. Or maybe hanging on to reluctant kids like me simply helps her stats and keeps her employed. Either way, by the time sixth grade rolls around, I’m ready to bail again.

Now that I’m in middle school, and all the kids from the five district elementary schools are together, the gifted class has expanded, and I don’t feel so bad about leaving them in the lurch. I tell my mom and she has another meeting. This time, they agree to cut me loose, but they ask that I stay in for one more month before I go. Kansas is hosting a massive Jeopardy tournament in three weeks for every gifted kid in the state. Mrs. Doge wants me to compete.

Middle school is me at my most awkward and lacking in confidence. Braces, glasses, asthma inhalers, voice hasn’t dropped yet, and absolutely no sense of style. I don’t fight with Connie anymore, mostly because I’m too afraid to talk to any girl, and it doesn’t help that she is already well on her way to being a stunner. Not surprisingly, she is one of the first girls in our class to get boobs, and even though we’ve known each other since kindergarten, that fact alone has permanently altered our dynamic. I’m not bad at trivia, but I don’t want to play Jeopardy. Not in front of a crowd, especially if some of the audience and participants are as intimidating as Connie. Unfortunately, once again, I am not given a choice in the matter.

Each student is required to write up five questions in the same category and submit them to the organizers for use in the tournament. All the questions will be supplied by the contestants themselves, but with over a hundred kids participating in each grade level, none of us will ever get our own questions. I choose dinosaurs as my topic. I went through a big paleontology kick in grade school, and even though I’ve mostly outgrown it, I still know a lot of obscure dinosaur facts. It’s the easiest way to complete the assignment without putting in a lot of work.

The tournament is in Topeka, which means we have an hour bus ride. Mrs. Doge sits in the front seat with her son, probably so she can stop him from eating any dead bugs he might find in the windowsill. I take a seat by myself about halfway back and put my headphones on. I have a Megadeth tape in my Walkman. Connie sits in front of me and reads a book.

I’m nervous when we arrive. Not because of the tournament. I have no expectations of winning, and feel absolutely no pressure whatsoever. I just want to get it over with. But then something unexpected happens. We’re greeted by several handlers as we enter the giant conference center. They split us up and take us to our games. The whole floor of the hall has been divided into low-budget replicas of the Jeopardy set. There are dozens of them, and they aren’t half bad. Of course, the game boards have no video. The questions are hand-written in black magic marker on slips of construction paper hidden under tiles indicating their point value, and the category titles are marked above.

The hosts, most of them volunteer teachers, flip up the tiles by remote control to reveal the questions. Across from each game board are three podiums for the contestants. They are equipped with actual buzzers and electronic scoreboards. Perhaps I’m easily impressed, but I think the buzzers are really cool. The perfect touch to make it feel authentic, and mine gets a lot of work. Because, it turns out, I’m a total badass at Jeopardy.

Maybe I get a lucky draw with the categories. I do have a knack for retaining useless information. I might just be faster on the buzzer, possibly after years of honing my Nintendo skills while most of these kids were probably studying. Or maybe it’s simply my day. Whatever the explanation, I dominate everyone they put up against me.

The last MLB player to hit .400.

Buzz.

“Who is Ted Williams?”

He was president during the Mexican-American War.

Buzz.

“Who is James K. Polk?”

This poet wrote ‘Because I Could Not Stop for Death.’

Buzz.

“Who was Emily Dickinson?”

Density times volume equals this.

Buzz.

“What is mass?”

The capitol of Uruguay.

Buzz.

“What is Montevideo?”

The first movie with sound.

Buzz.

“What is the Jazz Singer?” Not sure how I knew that one.

The best band in the world.

Buzz.

“Who is Metallica?” Keep in mind, these questions were written by sixth graders. Smart sixth graders, but still sixth graders.

The only time I am remotely challenged is when a cute girl in glasses gets on a roll in a category about horticulture, a subject I know nothing about it. But the rest of the board favors me, and I’m willing to gamble more than her in Final Jeopardy, which is enough to give me the win. Within hours, I am declared the Sixth Grade State Jeopardy Champion.

It doesn’t come with a trophy to take back to my school or even a medal. All I get is a cheap button declaring me the champ, but it doesn’t matter. I’m riding high, convinced I must be the smartest kid in Kansas. I’m a freakin’ genius, and I puff out my chest as one of the teachers pins my prize to my shirt in front of the assembled contestants. A few of them even look impressed. A couple are clearly jealous. Most of them are bored and just want to go home.

I’m no longer one them though. I want to savor my victory. I’ve never felt better about myself. Unfortunately, the school is on a schedule, and Mrs. Doge tells us to get back on the bus. Between my run and her son making it through the day without shitting himself, she looks almost as pleased as I am. This is a new beginning for me. At last, I have some validation. I’m not a loser. In fact, just the opposite. I’m a goddamn winner! I am capable of accomplishing anything if I lock in, and nothing can stop me now.

As if to confirm this, Connie turns around in her seat to talk to me once we hit the highway. “You were awesome out there today,” she says.

I don’t even blush at the compliment. I’m too cool for that now. “Thanks. You weren’t so bad yourself.” To be perfectly honest, I have no idea how she did. I wasn’t keeping tabs on her because I was far too wrapped up in my own moment of glory.

She shrugs. “Not nearly as good as you though. I didn’t realize you were that smart.”

I shrug back. “Yeah, well, I watched a lot of Sesame Street when I was little.” The line comes off much smoother than it has any right to, and it draws a sincere laugh from her. We talk for a few more minutes. I have never done this well with a member of the opposite sex.

But there’s a problem. She’s leaning over the back of her seat and the bottom of her shirt is pushed up just enough to reveal the barest sliver of her midriff. It’s not much, but the uncovered spot between her shirt and the back of the seat is right below her bra. I think I can even see part of the white cloth at the bottom of her left cup, and I know it’s too much. I’m a twelve-year-old boy with no control over my hormones, and I can’t make direct eye contact with that spot or I will crumble.

I try to look away at the scenery speeding by outside my window, but as she is talking, her hands fidget with the bottom of her shirt, teasing the possibility of exposing even more skin. It’s almost like she’s wringing the cloth. She doesn’t even realize what she’s doing. Years later, it will dawn on me she was probably as nervous as I was, and playing with her shirt was a tic. But in that moment, I can only gawk. And that’s what gets me, a mixture of confusion and stupid curiosity. Instead of looking away, my eyes lock on her twisting hands. She notices and her face immediately contorts into an agitated expression. “Are you trying to look up my shirt?” she asks.

This time, I do blush. I can’t help it. Sweat beads on my forehead and my cheeks turns red. I open my mouth to explain that I’m innocent, and I am, more or less, but I get flustered and nothing comes out. Her expression morphs into outright anger, and I finally say something to break the tension. The worst possible thing. “Is there something wrong with that?” I ask, making a fumbling attempt at humor. I flash a cheesy metallic grin to try and sell it, but she ain’t buying.

“Creep,” she says, practically spitting the words in my direction. She doesn’t slap me, but she turns around. I’m at least smart enough not to say anything else to make it worse, but it doesn’t make any difference. Connie won’t speak to me again until high school.

And just like that, I’m knocked off the top of the world. The golden age is over before it ever truly began. The rest of middle school will follow this basic awkward pattern, only without the high of my Jeopardy triumph, and no one will ever accuse me of being gifted again.

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Thanks for reading Powder Blue Pulp. I hope you enjoyed my first story, and if you did, why not subscribe (if you haven’t already) and/or share it? The comments section is open, so if you have any questions or thoughts, don’t feel shy.