The Whizz

The Whizz 

I could spell schadenfreude, asphyxiation, and supercalifragilisticexpialidocious, but I couldn’t spell friendship. 

It was true. “Friendship” wasn’t a word in my vocabulary. In all my thirteen years of life, I’d never had a friend, nor did I have the time for one. 

It wouldn’t hurt to acquire one, but amidst academics, spelling bees, and studying, it was unreservedly inconceivable. 

That was the sole thing I begrudged my parents for. 

I was resplendent while others faltered at Wong family get-togethers. I was always the kid with the most to brag about. And my cousins despised me for that. 

But, at least my parents were proud. 

I estimated that they’ve spent eight thousand American dollars on my education. 

Three thousand on spelling bees.

Two thousand on sports. 

I broke twelve Guinness world records, and all for what? 

I couldn't dance.

I couldn’t draw. 

I couldn't flirt. 

And most disappointingly of all, I had no friends. 

***

My door swung open. 

My mother’s diminutive figure appeared in the threshold. Profound stress wrinkles appeared between her eyes. On her visage, she sported a frown I’d learned to circumvent. “William, why are you in bed?” 

I pulled my pillow off my face and unplugged my Airpods. The vociferous rap died out, along with my day-dream. 

I dreamt of a day where I was free. A day where words and numbers were not my priorities. I should’ve known it would end too soon. 

“Just tired,” I responded. 

“Well, get up,” Mom huffed as if I’d grown two heads. “You have calculus in ten minutes.” 

The door clicked shut and I plummeted back into bed. It was a pusillanimous bed, white and spartan—like the rest of my bedroom. 

I’d never had enough time to furnish my room. According to my parents, “a room was just a room.”

So, my room was just another component in life, something that stayed in the background, forever—save for a couple lamp changes. 

The white-washed walls never ended. 

The stress never ended. 

I had so much work, but no energy to complete it. 

Mom signed me up for new classes each day. 

Dad quizzed my spelling fortnightly. 

I’d been getting worse. Dad said so, Mom said so, even my tutors said so. 

I wasn't where I used to be. Where I should be.  

But, maybe I didn’t want to be.

Before, my extracurriculars spilled into my school life and I completed assignments during recess. I missed four-squares, hopscotch, and one legged races. 

Wasted hours and days piled up, teasing the clouds with regret. 

Why was the fact that I want to get worse so abhorrent? 

Hasn't anyone ever gotten sick of perfection? 

Hadn’t anyone realized that the life of a genius is a lonely one? 

***

Someone did. 

His name was Thor Wheelson. 

We met on the first day of school, standing outside our English class.

“You were christened after a prominent god in Germanic paganism and a Nordic hammer-wielding one who is often referenced to electrostatic discharges.” I said matter-of-factly. 

“Yuh,” Thor had responded. “It’s aiight.” 

And that was how our unlikely friendship bloomed. 

***

His choice of language intrigued me.

“Yuh” and “aiight” were unequivocally not words presented during university-level spelling bees. 

Our relationship was quid pro quo: I knew every SAT word, Thor knew every slang term. 

But, we both knew my talent was a load of malarkey. When would words such as consanguineous and perfidiousness come to use? 

No, Thor was much better off. Slang was relevant; almost every teenager used it. 

Except myself, of course. 

I was the only eighth-grader without a social media account in the entire Leland Middle school. 

So, it came as a surprise that Thor liked me—or even noticed me. 

I was crumbling under academic pressure at the time we met. 

Five spelling bees in a week. 

Two math classes lasting well into the evening. 

Four essays to complete. 

That was what it took to break me. 

My shattered pieces of stability were ineffably drawn to Thor’s seemingly flawless personality.  

Thor was everything I wanted to be. 

So, we began “hanging out.” 

After school was dismissed each day at three thirty, in lieu of heading straight home, I went to Thor’s house. 

His parents owned a quaint bungalow half the size of my single-detached house, but from the moment I stepped instead, I knew that Thor’s house was bigger and warmer than mine could ever be. 

His parents smiled so much I thought their jaws would break. 

His sister was prettier than the glass sculptures Mom bought at an auction for twelve thousand dollars. 

He even had a dog named Spots who was autonomously statuesque, for your information. 

Yes, I was immediately besotted and enamoured by the Wheelson’s presence. 

The first afternoon I spent with Thor, he taught me how to play my first audiovisual electronic, PC hardware platform game—or video game, as he called it. 

Minecraft. 

Through building diamond houses, mining iron in swamp biomes, and killing rabbits, I assimilated a dictionary full of slang terms and Thor had enough erudition to pass a twelve grade SAT exam. 

“It’s dope how you remember so much, dawg,” Thor said when we were reclining on his couch, playing UNO. 

“Yeah,” I answered absentmindedly. I side-eyed Thor, gauging if this was the right time. At last, I summoned the courage to say what was occupying my mind for weeks. “Thor, I just wanted you to know that you’re a real one. No cap. You’re not just doing it for the gram, you know.” 

Thor sat up, the blood rushing to his head. He blinked, and tears rushed to his eyes. “That’s so . . . benevolent of you.” 

“But, you don’t need to pity me, you know. If you want to hang with your other friends, you should do that.” 

Thor smacked his cards on the coffee table. “Don’t say that! You’re the most prodigious youngster I know, periodt.” 

A smile tugged at the corner of my lips. “You too, man. You too.” 

***

My parents were waiting for me on our doorstep when I came home. Their faces were vermilion, arms bisected, and hands entrenched with each other like a braid. 

I cautiously advented, excogitating my words. “Hey, um, what’s up?” 

Mom made a palatal click and swivelled to my dad, making a facial expression of disappointment. “Look at what our son has become. ‘What’s up?’ What horrible language is that?” 

My father rubbed the glabellar between his lithe eyebrows. “We’re so disappointed in you, William. We didn’t invest hundreds of thousands of dollars for you to slack off.” 

“Pardon?” 

“We found it, William. We found it all.” The way my parents enunciated each word insinuated that I’d done something horrendously wrong. 

Mom stormed into the house and of course, Dad followed her. And I, like the domino effect called for, followed them. 

Inside, hundreds of papers apropos of unfinished assignments and worksheets bespattered the dining table. 

I swallowed.  

I had committed the worst offense: dereliction of duty. 

But how . . . 

“Did you snoop through my room?” I accused Mom. 

“I didn’t ‘snoop’ through anything. I was doing your laundry, something you could try to appreciate.”

Dad interposed. “I got a call from Mr.Lim today. He said you haven’t come to the last three classes! Three classes! Three! Imagine how much learning you’ve lost!” He shook his head and I, despite myself, sank into the couch. Dad’s disappointment was more than I could bear. “Can we assume that you also haven’t been to your coding, writing, and debate classes?” 

I nodded, perfidying my parents. 

Mom released a shaky breath which I knew was filled with wrath. “We trusted you, William. We don’t even know where you've been for the last few weeks!” 

“I can explain, Mom. I met a—”

“From now on, your mother or I will drive you to your classes. And each of your teachers will notify us if you’re somehow absent.” Dad deposited his molten glare on my forehead, leaving a big, fat L. 

I blinked, desperately restraining my tears. 

I tried with all my might to erupt from my cage, but here I was, trapped even tighter. A pet parrot, chained to its owner. Even if I learned how to spell absquatulate, anachronism, and verisimilitude, nothing would satisfy my parents. 

Their vitriol cut so deep, I broke. Inside and out. 

My head fell into my hands and the floor caught my knees. 

I cried.

The tears were still falling down when I looked at my parents. 

But, they didn’t look at me with commiseration. Their gelid and apathetic faces were meticulous reflections of each other. 

I cracked. I trembled. I shattered.

I ran.

Out the door and into the fresh atmosphere where nothing could hurt me. The breeze hugged me and pushed my parents away. 

Instinctively, I ran to Thor’s place. 

My eyes stung and the air danced from my lungs, but it all stopped when his house came into view. 

Three police cars surrounded it—along with miles of caution tape. 

Thor’s family was huddled in the driveway beside an elephant of a man. His sister, Emily, shook so violently I could see it from a mile away. 

I didn’t see Thor. 

I slowed when I noticed the ambulance by their front yard. 

There he was. 

Pale, unmoving, and tied to a pearly white stretcher. 

“Take him out!” I screamed. “Take him out!” 

Thor’s mother ran to me as I attempted to hurl myself into the ambulance. 

“He’s gone, William. There’s nothing you can do.” I didn’t recognize the woman that once invited me into her home with a wide smile. Her hair was a bird’s nest of browns and reds, drab and defeated.  

“No,” I whispered. “I was with him an hour ago. He’s supposed to be okay.” 

Mrs.Wheelson just shook her head. We fell to the floor in a heap of melancholy and despair. 

She lost a son and I lost a friend. 

My friend. 

The friend. 

He was lit, dope, savage, fire, and low-key slay. 

I will never find someone like him again. 

It was bitter, but it was true. 

Friends come just as quickly as they leave. 

And there’s nothing you can do but watch. 

There is nothing you can do but nurse the wound they’ve left.