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As soon as we are seated (the three faculty members on one side, us on the other, which, unfortunately, gives me the idea that we were auditioning for some reality competition, and for the life of me, I can’t shake this thought despite the seriousness of the conversation—I suck like that sometimes), Ty proceeds to pull his “Genius” folder out of his backpack.
I’m about to open my mouth to ask what the people across from us would like to discuss further when the Kid pulls out a thin metal stand from his bag, which he unfolds and props up next him. He then pulls out a little black device that he clicks on and off. A laser pointer. He stands and grabs the
“Genius” folder, opening it and pulling out papers, placing them on the stand. The top page on the stand says: Why I Should Be Allowed Into The Fifth Grade By Tyson McKenna.
My God, the Kid is about to give a presentation.
I glance at Otter, wondering if we should try and stop this or see how it plays. But Otter is watching my brother with such adoration that it takes my breath away, leaving me unable to say a damn thing. For a moment I forget about stupid fucking David Trent and his gigantic muscles, and as if he can hear me thinking (which, to be honest, I think he can), Otter turns his eyes to me, and that adoration doesn’t lessen. If anything, it grows. Christ. I start getting choked up, and I have to look away. He knows, as he always does, reaching out to pat my hand gently, his thumb caressing my knuckles. I nod my head once, letting him know I get that he gets it, that we’ll step back and let the Kid go and see what happens.
The three opposite us stare dumbfounded as Tyson takes a moment to gather his thoughts, rifling through his notes, muttering to himself, his brow furrowed in deep thought. I feel slight unease, having not known that Tyson was going to make this a big deal. The Kid isn’t exactly known for his discretion (what kid is?), and I can only hope he won’t be going along with his normal thought process. But while I hope this, I know that it won’t matter in the end. I figure I can cut it off if need be and deal with the consequences later.
At the very least this should be entertaining.
The Kid finally seems ready and looks across at the others, ignoring Otter and me completely. He stands, taking a deep breath. I can see his hands are shaking a little bit, the laser pointer clutched in his tiny fist, the knuckles going white. He’s nervous. The Kid is fucking nervous. It is enough to break my silence and heart both at the same time. Otter feels me tense, and his grip on my hand tightens. I look over at him and he smiles quietly at me, shaking his head just once. So much is said in that one look, like he knows every fear I have, how it’s killing me to see the Kid nervous, because he’s never nervous. Worried, yeah. But nervous? No fucking way.
And if he’s nervous now, it means he’s scared, and it means that I have to go to him. I have to protect him. I have to make it better. It’s my job. It’s who I am. It’s what I’m supposed to fucking do. I glare at Otter but he knows. He knows.
“Thank you all for agreeing to meet with me today,” the Kid says, his voice small but firm. “I am here to tell you why I feel you should allow me to be moved up from the fourth grade to the fifth at the start of the upcoming school year. It is my hope that, after my presentation, you will see that I have many interests, such as animal rights and math.” He raises an awkward hand and removes the top page from the stack, and I have to put my hand to my mouth to keep myself from laughing and bawling all at the same time as I see next page says, I LIKE ANIMAL RIGHTS AND MATH in large block letters, to which Ty points the laser pointer, highlighting each word to emphasize something. I don’t know when he would have printed this stuff off the computer. I never saw any of this. I wonder if Otter knew. I remind myself to threaten to withhold sex from him until he tells me.
“I am academically inclined, as you can see from my test scores,” the Kid says, reaching down to his “Genius” folder and taking out copies of his report cards and passing them out among the three who are currently staring at him raptly. I should have realized it wouldn’t have taken much for them to fall under Ty’s spell. He’s a charismatic Kid, that’s for damn sure. They murmur their thanks as they take the papers from him, studying them closely, as if they’ve never seen such things before, as if they haven’t already known what his report cards look like.
“Now,” the Kid continues, his voice stronger, more sure, “before I get into the meat of my presentation, which, by the way, is the only time meat is acceptable, I would like to show that I have a wide variety of interests outside of academics. I would like to read you a poem I wrote.”
Oh fuck. Oh no.
Otter starts to lose it next to me. He’s quiet, but I can feel his hand shaking on top of mine. This is going to be a nightmare.
The Kid picks up another piece of paper from his folder and removes the second sheet from the metal stand. The next paper says, A CONTEMPORARY POEM BY TYSON MCKENNA ENTITLED “WHY I SHOULD SKIP A YEAR (ODE TO EINSTEIN AND MY ANIMAL
FRIENDS).”
He takes a deep breath, and I wonder if I should try and stop him before he speaks, but I’m too late. All I can do is sit back and let the Kid perform his poetic epic. And from the sound of it, he’s found out how to access the thesaurus on the computer. He’s going to be unstoppable.
To the faculty of Seafare Elementary
I’m here to impress upon your will!
I consider myself to be cognoscenti
(that means a person with a high degree of skill).
I say this not to brag, because that would be really lame (even though it sort of is kind of true).
Nor am I here for eternal glory or fame.
I just want to talk to you!
People often ask why I am a vegetarian,
and I’m honest when I look them in the eye;
I say, “Well, why are you such a barbarian?
Putting those animals in your mouth to die?”
They’ll look at me funny, and will sometimes start to stutter, but I’ll continue on, not to be deterred,
saying, “I can’t believe you’d use that mouth to kiss your mother,”
