A.J. Mendez Brooks - Crazy Is My Superpower

W ould you like to join the rest of us?

I look up from the intertwined fingers resting in my lap and into the eyes of a pissed-off second-grade teacher. I was certain if I sat incredibly still in my desk at the back of the classroom I would not be visible to the naked eye. I am rail thin and the approximate height of an average Cabbage Patch doll, so it is not outrageous to think it would be possible. The entire class has dragged their chairs into one large circle for story time, an hourlong activity in which Miss Cahill will read Dr. Seuss while twenty kids try and fail to hold their pee. At seven years old, I already know I am too old for this crap. I consider making a run for it, but I am not exactly an athlete. I have the type of asthma that requires me to be so well acquainted with my inhaler it is covered in Lisa Frank puffy stickers. Combined with stubby legs that can only move in short bursts covering little distance, I would get nowhere very slowly. Imagine an overencumbered Chihuahua who has been frightened by a firework. I am that nimble.

I have been alive for seven years and have spent the majority of that time avoiding group activities. I sit in the back row of every classroom. I bring nothing from home to school bake sales. And I preemptively run at the flying balls during dodgeball, just to save everyone the time and effort. I would rather control the crowd than play among it. The only story-time experience I have ever enjoyed was last year, when I swiped Stephen Kings Cujo off my first-grade teachers desk and began reading it aloud during recess. My classmates were a spellbound audience while my teacher found it absolutely adorable, thus teaching me two valuable lessons: If you pretend that you know what you are doing, a large group of people will blindly follow you. And, if you are cute enough, you can get away with stealing.

Are we going to be graded on this? I answer a question by asking a question.

With a look of confusion, Miss Cahill folds the readied book in her arms. No. This is a group activity. It is meant to be fun, April. She pronounces fun in a way that implies it is extremely painful.

If we are not being graded, Id rather have fun by myself, I reply while searching for my scented markers and dolphin-emblazoned Trapper Keeper. With the warmth of a bikini in January, Miss Cahill cups my hand in hers and leads me against my will into the group. I dont know how you do things at home, but in school you have to learn how to follow the rules, like a good girl.

This doesnt seem like sound advice to me. For one, be a good girl sounds like the coax of someone trying to lead me into a windowless van. But I have also gathered some very valuable knowledge. Grown-ups are mostly lying pieces of shit. I am a straight-A student, my homework is always completed, and I am even a frequent winner of John F. Kennedy Elementary Schools Student of the Month award. They gave me a ribbon. My picture is tacked to a goddamn bulletin board. And homegirl is going to talk to me like Im a problem child? My parents taught me that the rules of school were to get good grades and to try to not get stabbed on the way home. (We lived in a sketchy neighborhood, but thats really just solid advice for anyone.) It doesnt quite add up that despite my skill I would not be considered good unless I quietly agreed to find something fun just because everyone else did. Is that truly what makes a good girl? Not her level of performance or intelligence but her ability to follow along? To listen without questioning? Well, there must be something wrong with me because I question everything. In fact, I cannot listen to an adult complete a thought without interrupting them with at least three follow-up questions.

At the pediatricians office:

D OCTOR: Youre going to feel a little pinch

M E: Wait! Why? You said this was a checkup.

D OCTOR: Well, I have to take a sample of your blood.

M E: WHAT ARE YOU GOING TO DO WITH MY BLOOD?

D OCTOR: Im just making sure you are healthy. Im doing it to help you.

M E: So youre going to help me by hurting me?!

D OCTOR: *Sigh* You probably dont have diabetes*puts away needle*

But each and every time I question an adult, I am treated as if I have just used crayons to draw a swastika on my forehead. Adults do not understand how to navigate my inquisitive nature. They instead label me as a smart-ass. (But both parts of that word make me smile, so I wear that particular scarlet letter with pride.) I ask so many questions, the grown-ups in my life have begun to just straight up lie to me. I know The Magic School Bus is not going to pick me up in the morning if I go to bed on time, like my father would like me to believe. NJ Transit is not operated by Ms. Frizzle. I know, despite my moms repeated claims, that pointing at someone is not sign language for your mother is dead. Its just rude. This exaggeration seems a little extreme. I know that my grandma is lying when she says that if another girl runs her hands through my hair it means she is putting a hex on it to fall out. I asked my friend Jamielee why she tugged at a strand and she said I just had a Cheerio stuck in it. I am also certain most second graders are not well versed in the dark arts. But thats only because I have checked out the same book on witchcraft seven times from the public library and I am still not Sabrina. I know that sitting in a circle listening to an adult tell me a story will not be fun. Adults lie. I want to see the words for myself.