This is the thing

My grades have always been fine.

They're fine.

They're good. Good. Just good.

What else could they be? It's elementary school. There's nothing else but good. There is either good or failing, and failing means they put you in the downstairs classes. And we all know what that means.

What I'm saying is: everyone's grades are good. If they're not good, you go away. I'm not sure where else you go except the downstairs classes. I'm sure there are other places. Otherwise, you stay in the regular classes.

That's where the regular kids stay.

That's where I am.

And everything is fine.

But this feels different. I got an A-plus. She wrote it right there. It's on the front of the paper. A-PLUS. It's huge.

It's not just that. She wrote a little note, too. This is different.

This isn't just a regular good grade (which everyone gets). It isn't just a check or a check plus. That just means you did the thing and you showed up.

This project was graded. For real.

I got the highest grade I could get. In the whole class, I think. Then, my teacher wrote me a note saying it was really good. She sounded really excited.

I'm really excited.

This isn't the same.

This bus ride isn't the same.

This sunshine isn't the same.

This day isn't the same.

Then, I tell myself to calm down. It is the same bus. It is the same street. I am getting off at the same stop. It's all the same.

But no it isn't! Something feels different.

I can do this. I could do...this. I could do more of this thing that I'm good at, and it will help change things.

This is it.

I push on the door of my house. It's a heavy door. I always have trouble opening it.

Today, it doesn't feel so heavy.

I have my assignment in my hand. I didn't want to put in my bag and mess it up or lose it. It's rolled up into a small tube, but I can still see the A-PLUS peeking out every so often.

I try not to smile too much.

I see my mom fussing with something in the kitchen.

I want to show her, but I'm scared. I want her to see it, but I'm afraid she won't. She never has before, so why would she see now?

But this is the thing. This will help change things.

"Mom."

She turns. She sees I am home.

She asks me the questions she knows she should ask. She is on auto-pilot. She is being the mom she thinks she needs to be. Formulaic. Predictable. The same every time. She doesn't listen to the answers.

I tell her I got an assignment back. She is mildly interested. I am ready to hand her the paper. I wait for her to turn towards me so as not to seem bothersome.

She makes eye contact and I hold out the coiled tube of paper, slightly misshapen and damp from the moisture of my hands.

She takes it and looks at it distastefully. She unrolls it, a burdensome look on her face. She shouldn't be tasked with this.

A look of surprise brushes across her face before she reminds herself she is supposed to be proud of me. She emits some type of rehearsed exclamation of approval which could be mistaken for joy before she quickly hands the paper back to me.

"It's a story!" I tell her.

"Mmmhmm."

"Did you read the note?" I ask.

"What note?" she asks. Her question answers my question.

"My teacher wrote a note." I clarify.

"Mmmhmm."

I debate handing the paper back to her, though I know she won't read it. I take the gamble and decide to keep talking. "She wrote that I should submit it to a competition."

"A what?"

Strike one.

"A writing competition. There's a competition I can send it to that she--"

"A what?" my mother repeats.

Strike two. I should just walk away, but I've made the choice to go halfway into the storm. If I try and walk back I might not make it. If I keep going, it might get worse. I just never know.

My voice wavers slightly, but I keep going. "She knows about a competition I can submit it to." I try not to make my statement sound like a question.

My mother turns and stares at me blankly. She says nothing.

"It's a short story."

Silence.

"That was the assignment. We all had to write short stories. She liked mine, and said I could submit it to a competition."

"I heard you," she says.

I stop talking. I should have stopped sooner.

I'm halfway to strike three.

She turns away from me again, and I'm relieved to not be under the glare of her eyes anymore. I still can't decide if telling her all this was a mistake or not. I can't decide if I should turn and leave or not. Is this exchange over? Am I going to my room? Is she mad? Am I punished? I am frozen and she is silent and I don't know what my job is right now.

"Does it cost anything?" she finally says.

"What?" I ask. I don't understand.

"This...competition," she spits. "To submit this thing. Does it cost money to do it?"

My brain scrambles to replay any conversation I may have had with my teacher about anything. I stare at the front of my paper, and the note my teacher wrote. Money. Money. Money? No. No? I don't think so.

"I don't think so," I answer.

"You don't think so?" she says.

"No?" I say, unsure.

"Well, check with that teacher of yours and if it's free then tell her you can do it." She doesn't look at me when she says this.

Something chills inside of me, and I think it's similar to relief. This is the closest thing I will get to a signal that this conversation has ended.

"Okay," I say. "I'll ask her."

I start to take off my shoes. As an afterthought, my mother asks, "Do you win anything?"

"I don't know," I answer honestly. She doesn't respond.

I leave my shoes by the door and take the rest of my things to my room. I'm still holding my graded paper. I mostly close my door but don't click the latch. Sometimes she gets offended when I do that.

I tell myself that, technically, the conversation went as well as it could have gone. She said yes. She said yes? She heard what I said, saw what I did, and told me to go for it.

Except she didn't.

I knew she wasn't going to listen. I knew she wasn't going to see what I did. I knew she wouldn't absorb any of the details. I knew she would get upset, ask the wrong questions and focus on the wrong details.

Does this cost her anything? Does this benefit her in any way?

I didn't need her permission. I didn't need her consent. I never needed to ask.

I knew I didn't need to ask. She isn't there to provide any answers.

So, I won't ever ask again.