Good at Being Alive(86)

“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 heard me.

“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 Rebecca and 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 to me.

“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.



* * *



? ? ?

I’m still processing the revelations about the testing the next morning, vacillating between anger at the choices my dad made on my behalf and gratitude. Being a little kid among hormonal sixth graders would probably have sucked. But who might I have been if he’d chosen another way?

“I agree,” says Theo after I voice all this. “But that isn’t a valid reason to skip our run.”

Ugh. Eighteen miles. On our last day together for well over a week.

I sigh heavily as I walk to the closet for my running shoes. “This is why I prefer men who are easy to manipulate,” I grouse. “And you aren’t being very sensitive. This has all been very traumatic.”

He raises a brow. “Compared to events of the past year, the trauma of this barely registers. And I doubt it’s my sensitivity you find attractive.”

I change tack. “I’m finding very little about you attractive at the moment. And you realize that this is our last chance to spend the morning in bed? Lars could very well put us in separate houses again.”

Theo narrows one eye at me and continues tying his own shoes. “Yes, Rebecca, I’m well aware of what I’m sacrificing. But you’ve got to get your mileage up, and Lars will not put us in separate houses. I’ll make sure of it.”

We could just admit we’re together. I consider suggesting it but silence myself. If this goes badly—if Theo eventually decides I’m not what he wants—I don’t need the whole crew pitying me.

Besides, he’s not suggesting it either. I’m trying not to let it bother me.

Today we run our previous long route but add a loop around Maplewood, where I was born and where we’ll be running our marathon three and a half weeks from now. Jogging is still no fun but it’s a little shocking that I’m running eighteen miles today. Was it only four months ago that a couple of miles had me winded?

We finally hit Maplewood Avenue, passing all the athleisure and cupcake shops, and then we run past a church just to the south. “That’s unexpected,” he says. “I’m surprised it hasn’t been turned into a smoothie bar.”

I laugh, ignoring the small twist in my gut at the sight.

“My mother is buried there,” I admit after a moment.

His brows raise and he comes to a sudden stop. “Do you want to pay her a visit?”

“She’s not especially talkative these days.”

“Bex.”

I haven’t been to her grave in years, probably not since middle school, when I discovered she’d been interviewing for jobs in California when she died, and that her plans didn’t include me. Jessie let that one slip during an argument—You can resent me all you want, but at least I’ve continued putting up with you, which is more than your mother planned to do.

I was never sure, after that, if I was supposed to miss her or hate her. I’m still not sure.