Everyone told me I was special. My mom, my grandparents, my teachers. My mom would say things so naive I can only laugh now, looking back. “When you’re a millionaire, can I crash in your mansion? Just the couch would be fine.” She’d say it with a little conspiratorial grin, laughing internally at her own private joke. Not a joke because she thought I wouldn’t become rich, but because she thought I’d surely buy her an entire house, rather than make her take the couch. She may end up being right about that, but not for the reasons she thought. I’m not special. She was very wrong about that.

I’m not special.

Neither are you, in all likelihood. That’s just the way it is. It’s better to learn that quickly, to really let it soak in from as early an age as possible. It’s so important, in fact, I’m going to write it again. I am not special, and you probably aren’t either.

Some people spend their entire lives never realizing this simple, desperately vital fact. My dad, for one.

There were early signs. I liked to read biographies when I was a little kid. I must have been 6, maybe 7. I wanted to know what made those famous people tick. How they did it. My dad was a great man, I thought, but he was always at work. And he had all these books on his shelves. So I thought reading them might tell me both more about him, and more about how to be the kind of person he would be proud of.

I was wrong, but just the fact I was reading those books convinced my mother that I was special. “Look at what he’s reading!” my mom would say, beaming, to my father - who was at that time still living with us. “The other kids are reading Dr. Seuss, if they can read at all, and our little genius is reading about Ben Franklin!”

I devoured biographies and autobiographies. Alexander the Great. George Washington. The diary of Christopher Columbus. I’d curl up on the couch and read while my mom made dinner, the smell of tuna casserole or country fried steak setting the mood.

Then, after Dad lost his job, I’d hideaway upstairs, burrowed in my bedcovers, trying to lose myself in the lives of Teddy Roosevelt or Julius Caesar, trying - often without success - to ignore the shouting beneath my feet. I pretended that it wasn’t my parents screaming at each other at all. When my mother let out a particularly violent remark, it was actually Mark Antony, Caeser’s friend, crying out in anguish at the foot of his corpse.

But the men I read about didn’t make any sense. I understood what they did, even how they did it, but never how they thought to do it. There was never someone telling them what to do, like what happened to me all day - at school, and at home. They came up with what to do all on their own. And what they came up with wasn’t anything like what you or I would have come up with. They weren’t like me at all. They seemed like a different species.

That was probably the first clue, but I missed it. Maybe if I was special, I would have seen it. But if I was special, there wouldn’t have been anything to see, because I’d probably have understood those great historical figures. A real catch-22. But I caught on eventually, when things became more obvious.

I was 10 years old. Fifth grade. I was in my room - my sanctuary. Dad was long gone at that point, so there was no shouting to hide from, but also little reason to leave.

We were sitting at my little desk, my mom and me. I was going through a worksheet of social studies questions, while she watched, ready to swoop in and give support in any way she could. She wanted to help.

I couldn’t focus on the work. This thought kept creeping up in my mind, this question. Why?

Earlier that year I had brought home my first bad report card. An F in Social Studies. I had timidly handed it over to my mother, knowing what was coming.

“Miles Scott James,” she said to me, using my full name, as she always did in moments of anger, spitting out the name Scott - my father’s name - like a curse. She had probably acquired this habit of using my full name because she had seen it on TV. “What happened? You’re better than this.”

Since then, endless hours of homework, extra work, and studying, always with her watching.

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Today, however, she seemed less interested. In fact, Mom’s mind seemed to be somewhere else.

I had brought another notice home today. An official document, from school. A warning. It even started with “to whom it may concern” and everything. A notice to my parent(s), notifying them (her) that if I didn’t pass the upcoming state exams, I would not be allowed to move on to the sixth grade, to middle school.

I had expected more yelling. More hitting. But after she read it, she went blank. Like her soul had left her body. She hadn’t said a word to me since.

I tried really hard to improve, I did, but nothing ever clicked. I knew I wasn’t dumb. I was supposed to be special, even. So there had to be some trick, some simple thing I was missing, and if I just worked hard enough, I would get it. But nothing improved. That was the worst part: I didn’t even know why I was failing.

And now my mom, the zombie, stared off into space next to me. How was I supposed to study with that?

“Mom?” I asked, desperate to break the silence. She jumped.

“Mom, why is this so hard for me?”

“What do you mean, Miles?”

“Other kids pass the tests, easy. Like Tom. He doesn’t have any trouble passing. He said he got an A on the last one. Why can’t I get As anymore?”

Her eyes were still somewhat distant. Something else was on her mind, but I could see the gears turning. She was trying to pay attention, with part of her brain at least.

“Do you think you’re dumb?” she asked. I chuckled at what I assumed was a joke, too soon. I turned to look at her face again, and she wasn’t smiling. It was a real question. No malice in her voice, just curiosity.

“No,” I said. “I’m no dumber than Tom, and he passed.” Tom was my best friend. He was in the same grade as me, and I mostly thought I was smarter than him, if anything. But he did much better in school.

“Hmm,” she said. We were both silent for a moment. “Is it because we’re too poor for tutors?” she suggested. “Maybe you just need some expert advice.”

I shook my head. It felt kind of like we were working together now, trying to get to the bottom of this mystery. “That’s not it, either. I’m sure Tom doesn’t have a tutor. His family is just as poor as we are.”

I thought she would laugh at that, but she didn’t.

“Do you have any other ideas?” she asked. She looked me in the eyes this time. She sounded suddenly desperate.

“N-no.” The words all came flooding out then. “I don’t get it at all. If it’s so easy for someone like Tom, why isn’t it easy for me? What am I missing, Mom? Why can’t I succeed like he can? I really don’t want to be held back, and lose all my friends when they go to 6th grade.”

A slight smile played on the corner of her mouth. It was the most depressing smile I’ve ever seen, even though I think it was meant to comfort me. She rustled my hair. She never did that. Only Dad used to do that.

“Don’t worry about it, Miles,” she said. “You’ll get by somehow. Some people just aren’t meant to succeed.”

My mind went blank. My vision narrowed, and the sound of the AC became muffled. My pencil shook in my hand. It was a long time before I realized my mom was still talking.

“- you ask him over? Maybe he can tell you his secret.”

“Who?” I squeaked out.

“Tom,” she said. “See if he’s free. Maybe he can help.”

I didn’t answer immediately. Couldn’t. Eventually, I called Tom, even though my fingers couldn’t feel the phone. I don’t remember asking him to come over, but I must have, because he was there within an hour. But it felt like a moment. I blinked, and my mother was replaced by Tom, who was smiling.

What’s he so fucking happy about? I thought.

“So I heard you need help with some studying,” he said. He was beaming, talking like a superhero or something, there to save the day. “No need to look so worried. I’m a master of social studies. And English. And - was there another one you’re failing? Whatever it is, I’m a master. Let me see what you were working on.”

He made a motion for me to hand him the worksheet. When I just stared at him, he reached over and grabbed it himself. He read it for a few minutes. Then he began shaking his head, laughing to himself a little.

“I see what the problem is,” he said, like a detective in a movie. “It’s quite simple, my dear Miles. Quite simple, indeed. Where did you get this answer?”

He pointed to a short answer question, an American History question. It was a question about George Washington’s life. “What type of tree did George Washington cut down as a boy?” Something I knew very well - it was referring to the cherry-tree myth which, of course, probably never happened - and yet I still failed it on any tests I took.

I didn’t understand the question. “Where?”

“Yeah, where,” he repeated. “From the teacher? From the textbook?”

I shook my head. “No. From his biography. That book over there.” I pointed to the book on my shelf.

Tom hit the paper with the back of his hand, for emphasis. “That’s it! That’s your mistake.”

I furrowed my brow. This was confusing enough to draw me out of the stupor my mom’s comment had left me in. “What do you mean? Is that book inaccurate?”

Tom gave me a condescending smile. “Who grades the test?”

“The teacher,” I said. “Or the state if it’s a state test.”

“Right. Does the guy who wrote that biography grade the test?”

“Of course not,” I said. “I think he’s dead.”

“Miles, let me put it this way. You’re trying to give them the right answer. That’s not right at all. You have to give them the answer they want to hear.”

I reeled. It was so simple. So dreadfully, woefully, pitifully simple. How could I have missed it? The teachers gave you the answers. You just had to tell them what they wanted to hear. No more, no less. All this extra studying, all the worry and stress, in the flash of an instant it all seemed so pointless.

I looked up at Tom. He seemed at that moment completely different, like I was seeing him in a previously-unknown light. I knew, deep, deep in my heart, that I could have studied for the rest of my life, banging my head against the wall, and never have realized what he solved for me in an instant. Not because I wasn’t smart enough to understand it - it made perfect sense. But because I didn’t have something. Intuition, imagination, something, some spark that made the right path clear, the voice in your head that told you what needed to be done. I realized, looking at my friend, my friend I had known for years, that I was nothing like him. He had that spark. He was just like those men in the books. Working harder wouldn’t give me that spark. Nothing would. We were different species.

I passed the test. Easily, in fact. Tom taught me a valuable lesson in telling people what they wanted to hear. But he taught me a lot more than that, too, though he didn’t know it. He showed me that I wasn’t special.

But he was.

From that moment on, I attached myself to Tom like a parasite, and didn’t let go.