Curse of Genius

1

Birthday Wish

Well, are you going to blow out your candles or not? my mom asks as she stares at me, with a much more important question looming behind her wide, hopeful eyes.

Sitting here at the kitchen table looking at my cake, all sixteen candles brightly lit, I can’t stop my mind from racing back through my previous fifteen years at this very moment…well, as many as I can remember. Every year, the same birthday wish; every year, a little more nerve-wracking than the one before. But none of them compares to this year, this moment. Along with the nervousness, there’s a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach. A feeling which has been absent the previous years, a feeling I wish would vanish without a trace. It’s that sick feeling you get when you realize it’s finally time to face a demon in your life--a demon that has hovered over you for as long as you can remember, that you would rather run away from kicking and screaming than look at in the face even for a second.

As my dad peers around my mom’s long, wavy, blonde hair, I notice the expression on his face, as well. It’s actually the very same hopeful expression that has taken over my mom’s face. As if they coordinated this look with each other before they walked in the kitchen ten minutes ago, the way they coordinate their jogging outfits every weekend for their Saturday and Sunday morning run.

Whether they know it or not, I’m very aware of the meaning behind the expressions. Their hope is that my birthday wish will be a different one this year, that I’ve turned over a new leaf.

My seventeen-year-old brother Carson sits at the table with an altogether different look on his face. He’s simply staring at the cake, trying not to drool. Sitting across from him is my seven-year-old sister Hailey. It’s one of the few occasions the entire Woodsen family gathers around the kitchen table.

Hailey begins to glare at Carson, eyes squinted, with a look of disdain. This is not unusual at all. My brother Carson, not being the sharpest knife in the drawer--actually, if you were to gather up every single knife in the world and put them into a pile, he would probably be the dullest--gets under Hailey’s skin on a catastrophic level. The same way rising taxes, or bold-faced lies, or waiting two hours in line to ride a 20-second ride at a theme park would get under most people’s skin, Carson’s unintelligence gets under hers to that extent, times a thousand.

Probably the reason for that is because Hailey herself is extremely smart for a seven-year-old. She’s head and shoulders above her age group, which adds a splash of sass to her personality that is well-disguised by her beautiful, innocent, blond-haired, blue-eyed look.

Then there’s my best friend Rebecca Camery, aka Becca, sitting right beside me with an intense look of concern on her face. She feels my pain, like she always has. Becca has always felt my pain, my joy, my laughter, my tears, and vice versa. She grew up two houses down from me, and we’ve pretty much been inseparable since we were two years old.

The sweet, nurturing look of concern displayed on her face as I sit here, preparing to blow out my candles, is the soft side of Becca only I’m lucky enough to experience one hundred percent of the time. Kind of comparable to a cub never being the focus of the tiger’s anger, but the tiger is unpredictably violent to anyone or anything else. Would I describe Becca as violent? No, I wouldn’t. Although, there was that one time…okay, three times…umm…I’ll just stop there.

But luckily for me, her bad side is a vault to which I’ve never had the combination, and I’m one hundred percent certain I never will. She is a kind person overall, but there is a bold side to her that will not put up with any rudeness or bullying or anything of the sort, from anyone, which is actually a perfect offset to my very shy, non-confrontational personality. I couldn’t hurt a fly, even if the fly deserved it. It could buzz around me all day, and I would politely ask him to leave. Then if that didn’t work I would get up and leave his space. The only meanness that exists in me is in my thoughts from time to time--which I think is normal--but I’m not capable of showing it.

Go for it, Dori, Becca says supportively while looking at the candles.

My name is Doreen, by the way, although I honestly can’t remember the last time anyone called me that. When Becca and I turned five--her birthday was a couple months ago--she started calling me Dori, sometimes even just Dor, and it completely stuck. I don’t even think most people know my real name.

I finally take a deep breath and blow out my candles. Immediately after, Becca and I look at each other then perform the same ritual we have performed for the past ten years or so. We both close our eyes tightly and scrunch our faces with our fingers crossed. We then open our eyes and look at each other with a hopeful look.

What is 123 times 2,211? Becca asks, fingers still crossed.

I guess I’m insane, because every year I hope for a different result. I mean, it’s not like I don’t know this could never happen in a million years. I do understand it’s completely impossible; I even understood that as a child. But that’s the level of my desperation. This fairy tale part of me has no choice but to believe it’s a possibility, and every year, whether she thinks I’m crazy or not, Becca believes along with me.

Dejectedly, I reply, 271,953, as I slouch with disappointment.

Believe me, I know how silly it sounds, but my disappointment lies with the fact that, of course, I’m a genius. It makes me want to slap myself across the face, having moaned and groaned my entire life over something seemingly so great. I’m sure most people would love to be in my shoes and would surely slap me as well if they heard me complain.

Honey, you’re going to have to accept it at some point and move on with your life, my mom says, as the previous hopeful expression on her face quickly turns to one of aggravation.

Christie, let’s not make a fuss about it on her birthday. We’ll discuss it more tomorrow, my dad replies.

I silently appreciate him defending me. I even wish he would take it a step further and tell her that one more word, and she’s going in time-out.

Mom, I know I’ve disappointed you, but I’ve kept my genius a secret for a reason, I reply, with half-conviction, half-fear in my voice.

She takes a deep breath and crosses her arms. I understand, but I think revealing it is what’s best for you.

I look down immediately because looking into her eyes when she’s upset is like looking into the sun. The level of her intolerance at the moment is my fault, though, because I’ve always told her--really just to get her off my back--I would probably reveal it when I turn sixteen or so.

But she forgets how hard it is for me. How deathly afraid I am to jump ahead in life and have that kind of attention on me. I’ve always been this way, which is why I made the decision as a child to hide my genius from the world. And technically, I didn’t promise I would reveal it at sixteen.

We all sit in an awkward silence for the next thirty seconds or so, the tension so thick a knife wouldn’t stand a chance--you would need a chainsaw.

Well, my brother Carson begins, all I have to say is that cake looks awesome! I wish I could just swim in a sea of white icing cake and eat it up as I go. He closes his eyes with a huge, goofy smile on his face.

I can see Hailey’s cheeks turning red. She won’t let him get away with that one.

You can’t even swim! Hailey shouts, her tone all loud and sassy. So give it a try, she adds with a look of disgust. Carson glares back at her, wanting to reply, but clearly too afraid. Despite Carson’s sometimes cocky, rude attitude, it’s no match for Hailey’s aggressive sass, and he rarely stands against her.

Okay, that’s enough, says my dad Ken, attempting to intervene as he and my mom hand me my present. I already know what it is as I grab the small box and tear it open to find a gift card to the local bookstore.

I’m a book fanatic. I need books like vampires need blood--well, if they were real--but you get the point. Reading is my passion, and my room is absolutely full of books, along with the hundreds of books on my Kindle, because every year for my birthday, my only request is for my entire family to pitch in and get me a big gift card to the bookstore.

Becca, however, never fully abides by this request. She does contribute to the book fund, but she always does something creative and special for me, as well. Like one year, knowing how much I love pizza, she decided to make me one from scratch, despite the fact that she’s a disaster on two legs in a kitchen. It actually took her three birthdays to get that one right, but it was definitely the thought that counted.

Thanks! I say with a huge smile, as I’m already thinking about the books I want to get.

Okay, okay, time for the real present, Becca says with a half-grin as she grabs the gift card from my hand and slaps it on the table.

Here you go, Dor. She hands her present to me, very neatly and carefully wrapped as always.

I take it and put it on the table in front of me, noticing how heavy it is, and also taking in Becca’s huge smile as I begin to open it. When I finally finish clawing off the wrapping paper, I see a massive scrapbook, probably the biggest scrapbook I’ve ever seen, and spelled out with cut-out letters, it says Best Book of All. Love, Becca.

I begin to smile as I open it and flip through, seeing pictures of us and our families from the time we were little, leading up to the present. Pictures of vacations we all went on, first day of school pictures, birthday pictures--she had them all. And under every picture was a paragraph or so describing the event.

This is so awesome! I say enthusiastically as I lean over to hug her.

You’re welcome, she says, pleased with my reaction. And the second half of the book is blank, so you can fill it up as time goes on, she explains.

My mom walks around the table to hug her, as well. That’s a really nice gift, Becca.

I guess. I mean, it’s kind of dumb, Carson mumbles under his breath, his eyes never really leaving the cake.

Becca shoots an evil stare at him, noticeably trying to keep herself under control. If my parents weren’t here, his head would be in the wall right now, and he knows that.

You want a fist in the mouth? she asks him sweetly. Carson looks at her, eyes narrowed, trying to tell how serious she is.

Whatever, he finally replies.

Much like my sister Hailey, Becca has an interesting relationship with Carson. They’re always kind of at each other’s throats, in a playful way…most of the time.

Alright, let’s eat some cake, my dad says with a slight laugh at Becca and Carson’s exchange. He grabs the knife and begins to cut as my mom picks up the scrapbook and starts flipping through it.

You know, revealing your genius will surely help fill your scrapbook with pictures of all the great things you’ll go on to achieve, my mom says while looking down at the book, trying every angle she can to sway me.

Yeah, but how many of those pictures would involve me, and would Dori be happy in them? Becca asks.

Becca would support me either way, but she knows where I stand for now, and she’ll stick up for me until I change my mind.

Exactly, I reply. My life would change so drastically, and I’m not sure for the better.

Dori, your life is going to change regardless as you grow up, my mom says.

Your mom’s right, sweetie, Dad nods, cutting even squares across the cake. Your intelligence is something you should be proud of.

Yeah, I mean, I would love to be a genius! Carson exclaims.

Hailey begins to reply but is interrupted by Dad yelling Hailey! in an attempt to derail her sarcastic comment to Carson. She whips her ponytail around and stomps off to the living room, clearly not happy about being shut down, even to the point of missing cake.

Well, y’all may not have to wait long for the secret to be out anyway, Becca says, because this snob in our class, Summer Stevens, told Dori she knows her secret, whatever that means.

Oh, really? Mom asks.

Yeah. I don’t know how she would know, but I’m so worried she does, I reply, thinking back to the moment Summer told me that in the hall at school, making my worried feeling more intense.

She won’t say a word. I’ll tune her up, Becca grins with her usual protective attitude toward me. My parents quickly look at her, shocked by her words, not having a full understanding of Becca’s true personality. Over the years, they’ve watched and laughed as she and Carson would go at each other, but as far as they’re aware, it’s playful and it stops with Carson. She’s done a great job of making my parents think that otherwise, she’s a perfect angel. Except for occasional slip-ups like this one.

She tries to cover her tracks, giggling and smiling innocently as she explains that by tune her up, she simply means she will reason with Summer and politely ask her to leave me alone. And once again, my parents fall for it, hook, line, and sinker. What a terrific performer Becca is.

Well, my dad shrugs, glancing at me, you know we think the secret coming out would be for the best.

I know, I reply as I stare at my cake, feeling too sick to eat it.

* * *

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 my 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