Interlude C
I told Mom I was sick this morning, so I wouldn’t have to go to school. I don’t know if she believed me or just didn’t want to argue, but either way, I stayed home while everyone else went about their normal lives.
I should probably veg out and play video games like a normal teenager; Mom recently bought us an Atari XGES, and my skills on Flight Simulator II are legit. Instead, I’m studying for the SAT again. I’m retaking it in thirty-six days, probably for the last time, and I need to accomplish a MIT-worthy score. Honestly, almost any East Coast school would be fine; Cornell is my second choice, but Harvard, Yale, Brown, or Dartmoth would work just as well. I just want to be on the other side of the continent–away from all the secrets and spy games.
It’s 8:48 when I sit down to study because, when I saw it was 8:47, I sprinted to the table. Starting at 8:48 will give me good luck. Last time, my mathematics score was 800, but my reading score was only 630. My goal is 1550; my goal would be 1551, but that number is impossible.
I’m really enjoying this passage on insects, and I feel like I might do well on this practice test, maybe even a 700. Mom said if I make a 700 on the reading test, she’ll buy us all ice cream. She doesn’t say that about my sister; I don’t think any of us expect her to score a 600, let alone a 700. Naomi earning a 950 would thrill Mom.
My sister isn’t as smart as me, but she has a lot of positive qualities. She’s kind and generous, just like our dad, and she can play soccer almost as well as Karl-Heinz Rummenigge, but when I tell her that, she says not to exaggerate nor compare her to a German. I tell her that just because Gram-Gram died in Vaivara doesn’t mean that she should hate an entire country; when I say that, she just shakes her head.
We love each other, but we don’t understand each other. At all.
When the phone starts ringing, it’s 9:13; that’s an okay number, but certainly not lucky. I answer it anyway.
“Hello?”
(I used to answer it with my name, but Mom said I was giving away too much information to strangers and telemarketers.)
“Hello, I’m looking for Simone Dawson.” It’s a woman’s voice, and she sounds nervous, but also soft and kind.
“Who’s calling please?”
(I used to tell people that she wasn’t here, but Mom said that’s giving away too much information too.)
“Uh, this is Ra'Shelle Dawson.”
I grin so big, someone could count my teeth. “Hi, Ra'Shelle. I guess you received my note.”