Chocolate Cake and a Smart Cookie

“Eat your cake, Abigail” my mother said.

“I do not like chocolate cake,” I replied.

“Nonsense,” she retorted. “All children like cake, especially chocolate.”

“But I am not like other children,” I said. “You have said so yourself on many occasions.”

“Just because you are smart, Abigail, is no reason to reject a lovely cake that your aunt baked.” She pushed the slice of cake closer to me.

To call me “smart” is an insult. I am much more than smart. Though it is an inaccurate indicator, my IQ has been measured at 174. I have yet to find any field of study that offers me a true challenge. Experts who have evaluated me have concluded that mine is the kind of mind that appears only once in a generation. Nonetheless, I am subject to the tyrannical whims of my mother simply because I am only eight years old!

“Mother, I have told you countless times that I do not like chocolate. Yes, I will eat chocolate from time to time, but that is only to lessen conflict during certain social interactions.” This was true. Occasionally I would be invited to the birthday party of some other child. Most children do not like me and will go out of their way to be cruel, but I discovered that if I go along with the usual rituals of a juvenile’s birthday party, it gives them less ammunition when they launch their insults. For this reason, I will play their ridiculous games, and laugh at jokes that are not funny, and even eat chocolate cake if the situation demands it. However, this did not mean that I should be forced to eat Aunt Sylvia’s dreadful chocolate cake at a family function.

“Your aunt will be back any moment,” Mother said. “Think how disappointed she will be if you say you don’t like her cake. Unless that brilliant mind of yours can come up with a reason not to, I suggest you eat that cake.” I had grown accustomed to this kind of argument from my parents. Perhaps because I was smarter than both of them by the age of four, they feel the need to assert their superiority from time to time.

I thought for a moment and then asked everyone at the table, “Would anyone like more cake?” I looked directly at my cousin Thomas. I liked Thomas. He was something of a gentle giant, and he was known to have a sweet tooth.

Thomas smiled at me and said, “I’ll have a small slice, Abigail.” He handed his plate across the table. I handed Thomas my plate of cake and put his plate in front of me. Aunt Sylvia walked in. placed a fresh pot of coffee on the table, and took her seat. She looked at me and saw the plate I had gotten from Thomas with some cake crumbs and streaks of frosting. “Well, I guess you really liked my cake, Abigail! You cleaned your plate,” she said.

“Of course, Aunt Sylvia. Everyone loves your chocolate cake,” I said. Sylvia smiled broadly. She lives for compliments. I turned and looked at my mother, who just glared at me.

As a child who is smarter than all the adults around me, I have these sorts of experiences all the time. I simply do not require adult supervision anymore. I understand that I still need adults to drive me places and to keep me safe, and I accept that, but for any other reason I just don’t see the necessity. I also do not need the company of other children. I find their interests to be tedious and they either don’t understand or don’t care about my interests. Mostly, they mock me for my differences. I like to keep my hair short and I like clothes that are comfortable. It doesn’t matter to me how I look. The majority of the children I encounter believe that their appearance is extremely important and take it upon themselves to let me know how unacceptable my style choices are to them. Adults, like my parents and teachers, are very concerned about this. For me, it isn’t a problem. I do not value the opinions of these children so why should their distaste for me be upsetting? If a monkey thought that I looked funny, I wouldn’t care, so how is this different?

The adults in my life cannot understand how I am unaffected by my interactions with other children. My parents insist that I attend our local public school and in the appropriate grade for my age. They believe I should learn to socialize with children my age. As with most things, I tolerate it rather than argue. It’s supposed to be a good school and it can’t be worse than any other. Most teachers just allow me to sit towards the back and read on my tablet. They only call on me if there is something in the lesson they don’t understand.

Once a week I have to discuss my lack of friends with the school guidance counselor, Ms. Taylor. It is such a waste of my time! “It must bother you that you eat lunch by yourself every day,” said Ms. Taylor. “Wouldn’t you like to have friends to sit with?”

“Not really,” I replied. “I don’t mind eating alone. It gives me more time to read.”

Ms. Taylor is a nice lady and was genuinely concerned, but she just couldn’t understand. “Maybe if you tried to be more friendly with some of the children, you could have lunch with them.”

“Ms. Taylor, does a shepherd feel the need to have his lunch sitting amongst the sheep?” I asked. “The shepherd may be eating at the same time as the sheep, but there is no need for social interaction. That’s how I feel. I would rather be alone.”

Ms. Taylor’s eyes widened. “Do you see your classmates as sheep?”

That is what Ms. Taylor took away from my analogy. While I was trying to make the point that I have nothing in common with my classmates, she only noticed that I compared them to sheep.

"I am not saying I see other children as sheep. That's preposterous! I only mean that socialization is not always necessary between those with differing interests."

"Our time is up, but next session we need to discuss this attitude you have seeing your classmates as a heard of sheep," Ms. Taylor said. So often adults just don't listen. I knew better than to try and explain again so I merely apologized and said I would think about my poor attitude. That seemed to appease Ms. Taylor. I spend much of my time trying to appease adults.

Oddly, things changed the following week. A new boy started in our class. Our teacher introduced him as Derek Harris. I looked up from my tablet and was a bit surprised that the boy was African American. That was a rarity in our school. The teacher made him tell us about himself. He said that his family had just moved to town, that he liked sports and video games and reading. I felt a little sorry for him. If my experience was any indication, being different was not the best thing to be at our school.

That same day I was sitting in the cafeteria at lunch, carefully eating my cream cheese and jelly sandwich. I hate getting sticky jelly on my tablet. As usual, I sat alone at a table in the corner of the room. As I scrolled through some reading choices, someone approached my table. I looked up to see the new boy, Derek, holding a tray. “Is it ok if I sit with you?” he asked.

I was surprised as no one had ever asked to sit with me before. “Sure,” I said and moved some things so he could sit opposite me. He sat and started eating while I returned to reading. I did notice that other students were looking in our direction and giggling. Children are so juvenile!

“What are you reading?” Derek asked.

“Something by Mark Twain,” I answered without looking up.

“I’ve read some of his stuff, mostly short stories. I thought they were pretty clever.” I was surprised by his response. Children our age rarely know who Mark Twain is. The use of the word “clever” also caught my attention. Most people would have said “good” or maybe “funny,” but clever was a much better word to describe Twain’s writing.

“I don’t think I’ve ever met someone my age who has read Twain,” I said.

“Last summer I stayed with my grandfather. He had no internet, but he had tons of books,” Derek said. “Grandpa used to teach literature so he would recommend things for me.” I admit that I was intrigued. We talked for the rest of the lunch period. He was quite an interesting individual. His family moved often because of his father’s work. His favorite city was Chicago. He spent much of his time alone, but he did enjoy playing video games with his brother. He noted that he was good at baseball and basketball. He also asked questions about me, which I had difficulty answering. I was not used to talking about myself with other children. I did tell him that I am kind of different from other children because I am a genius. His simple response was, “cool.”

I was surprised how much I enjoyed Derek’s company, but did not expect him to sit with me again. I assumed that he would become friends with other classmates and have lunch with them, but that’s not what happened. The next day, we ate together again, and then for the rest of the week. By the following Monday I realized that I would be disappointed if he did not sit with me, so I was very pleased that he continued to join me.

By the end of the second week things changed. Derek brought another boy to our table. His name was Tommy. I knew him, but never thought much of the boy. To my surprise, though, I discovered that Tommy was very amusing. He was reasonably smart and extremely witty. He did an impression of our gym teacher that made me laugh harder than I ever had before. In the days that followed we were joined by Sarah, who was very quiet, but extremely kind. She brought the most interesting lunches which she was always happy to let us taste. Our newest member is a boy named Carlos. He can speak Spanish and French and seems to be a rather nice boy.

Ms. Taylor was flabbergasted when I told her about my new friends, but also genuinely pleased for me. She asked me if I liked having friends. I surprised myself when I told her that I really did like it.

Last week Derek invited me to his birthday party. All of the lunch friends were there along with his family. I liked Derek’s mother especially. She went out of her way to make me feel comfortable. When it was time for the birthday cake, it was naturally chocolate. Derek’s mother put a big slice in front of me and I must have shown my reticence. Derek noticed and asked, “Don’t you like chocolate, Abigail?”

I was in a genuine quandary. Should I do what I always did and just eat it to be polite, or tell the truth to these people I truly liked? Before I could even answer Derek’s mother came to my rescue. “Don’t worry, dear,” she said. “Derek’s dad doesn’t like chocolate either.” His father made a “blech!” face which made me laugh. “How about some sugar cookies instead?” I nodded enthusiastically.

It was the best party I ever attended, and definitely the least stressful. I felt like a “normal kid,” and thanks to my new friends, I have come to realize that isn’t such a bad thing.