My coping instinct kicks in. I have to skip a grade. I’d skip all of them, if I could. The faster, the better, and then I can get out of here. I can leave and then I can finally find my group of friends. Even though I try to brush off this train of thinking, knowing it makes no sense, that it’s all illogical, I can’t help feeling some sort of weird reassurance from it. If I start over again . . . if I just have one more try at a new school or environment, with new people . . .
I start to run. I run until my feet fly off the ground and my breath comes out in ragged, desperate gasps. I run all the way across the campus until I reach the edge where other students are being picked up and dropped off.
I just want to go home.
“So,” Metias says to me later that night as I lounge alone on our living room couch and watch an old cartoon. He hands me a mug of hot chocolate. “Do you want to talk about this report thing?”
I don’t answer right away, but I do take the mug in both hands and savor the rich chocolate scent. My brother knows me. I can tell right away that this is a different type of hot chocolate than he got last time—no powder, just real chocolate melted into steaming-hot milk. Floating on top is a soft, handmade marshmallow. My favorite. It’s as if he could sense my mood and stopped to buy this even before he came to pick me up. Or perhaps he’s seen me have one too many rough first days of school.
We sip our drinks in silence for a while. “They said I got in a fight,” I finally blurt out. “But I didn’t. I didn’t even touch the other guy.” Metias raises an eyebrow at me, but he doesn’t argue, and I find myself rambling on. “And then Ms. Whitaker—that’s my dean secretary—she said that I don’t respect authority enough, and that I talk back too much. Then they assigned me into Intermediate Defense instead of Introductory Defense. That’s a good thing, right? But they also gave me a report.”
Metias clicks his tongue in disapproval. “June. What have I told you about talking back to your teachers?”
“She’s not my teacher. She’s my dean secretary.”
“Whatever. I know I said to stick up for yourself, but that doesn’t mean I want you to go around picking fights or causing trouble on purpose. It sounds like you deserved that report, kid.”
I glare at him, annoyed that he isn’t taking my side. “I don’t know whether they’re trying to punish me or praise me.”
Metias leans on one arm propped up against the back of the couch, and unless I’m seeing things, I swear there’s both a smile and a frown hidden along his mouth. He studies me thoughtfully. “Maybe they’re trying to do both,” he replies. “It sounds like they saw your talents as well as your attitude problems, and it’s a bit confusing for them to deal with those at the same time. Maybe they’re just like your other schools. They just don’t know what to do with you.”
“Nobody ever knows what to do with me.” Suddenly I’m unleashing all my frustration onto my brother. “The school doesn’t fit me—nothing ever does. I can’t even carry on a normal conversation with my classmates for longer than thirty seconds, because what in the world do we have in common? They’re all sixteen and up, and they talk about dating and careers. None of them are twelve-year-olds in a university. I’m not interested in what they have to say, and half of them don’t even understand the things I want to talk about.”
“A little modesty, Junebug,” Metias chides me in a soft voice.
“Well, it’s true!” I exclaim. “I’m not normal, Metias—I see things that other people don’t see. I’m not in the same league. Why should I try to deny that?” My voice softens for an instant. “There’s something wrong with me.”
Metias sighs and runs a hand through his hair. “I know you’ll have a hard time making friends,” he says after a brief pause. “I know that’s what this is all about, all the grade skipping and showing off, and I won’t sugarcoat it for you. You aren’t normal. The things that make you special will give you all kinds of advantages in life, but they will also hold you back and expose your weaknesses. That isn’t going to change. And you’ll have to learn to adapt to that.”
I stare into my mug, my sweet tooth abruptly gone. “I don’t know how,” I mutter.
“You know everything.” Metias says this in a light, teasing way. “You’ll figure it out. Your strengths might make you hard to approach, and might make your words sound uglier than what you actually mean, but they also make people look up to you. They admire you, whether you realize it or not. If you stop trying so hard to impress them, maybe a few will start warming up to you.” My brother reaches out and taps my forehead gently. “Behind that brain of yours is a good heart, Junebug. I see it every day.”
I don’t know why his words bring a lump up in my throat, but suddenly I’m fighting it down and trying my best not to cry. When Metias sees my face, he shakes his head. “Come here, kid.” I scoot over to him and snuggle underneath his arm. We sit quietly with our mugs of hot chocolate, savoring the peace of the night.
Poor Metias. He’s not supposed to be a father. He’s supposed to be out on his own, independent and free to concentrate on his job as a young captain. But somebody has to take care of me, and I make his life so much harder than it needs to be. I wonder what things must have been like for him back when our parents were still alive, when I was a toddler and Metias was a teenager and he could focus on growing up instead of helping someone else grow up. Still, Metias hasn’t complained once. Not a single time. And even though I wish our parents were here, sometimes I’m really happy that this is our little family unit, just me and my brother, each watching out for no one but the other. We do the best we can.
“Everything good about me, I learned from you,” I whisper.
“You’re giving me too much credit. We got it from our parents.” Metias chuckles a little. It’s a sad sound. There’s another long, ten-second pause before he goes on. “You’ll find your tribe,” he says. “We all do. Someday, someone out there will see you for the girl you really are. Someday, you’ll find someone who understands you.”
I take another sip of hot chocolate. “Well, I hope that happens sooner rather than later. But it doesn’t really matter.” I finally smile at my brother. “At least you understand me.”
He raises an eyebrow again. “Sometimes.”
I laugh a little, and at least for tonight, everything is okay again.
Marie Lu, Life Before Legend: Stories of the Criminal and the Prodigy
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