Chapter 1: Piers the Genius

In our class, I was all the time silent and conscientious. Whenever I verbalized a word, it had to be with one of my countless friends. True. I was sociable and gentle to virtually about anyone. But there were some people that were quite offensive and mean towards me it really upset and hurt me. I hadn't done anything wrong to them. Yet they looked up at me with abhorrence and disgust. I have been taught my great lesson in life anyway. Be grateful to those who value you and don't waste any speck of time on those who have nothing to do with you.

In our grouping, we were just the seven of us. Some were soundless like me, only speaking when essential. Others were loquacious and talkative, chattering uncontrollably without thinking twice about what they were sloppily saying. Beverly was the one who was very close to me. We settled down next to each other, chomped the same food, chuckled and poked fun at each other, and we copied word for word at meticulous times the homework done by the other.

Throughout my school days, I disliked sharing my companionship with guys. I will put in plain words my motives for doing this. Frankly, I rely on girls more than guys. I trust them. Girls are straightforward and open creatures. Guys—they are like a riddle and brainteaser that you have to routinely work out. It is not all the times unproblematic to decipher this riddle. Men are the most corrupt and dishonest thing alive on Earth.

High school was mind-numbing and thrilling all of a sudden. Curtly after school at one o'clock, I would beckon farewell to my collection of friends, some of who stayed the whole afternoon up till dusk to study and revise what we had been taught in class. I didn't settle at school in the afternoons. I had to scurry home, toss my bag hastily on my bed, then change my clothes and do the house cleaning thing for a while. At home, I crammed my work better than I did at school. I could only handle to do my studies whilst it was yet sunlit. Once night drew nearer, my efforts to master things would deteriorate until I was no longer able to do anything. Nighttime, to me, was firmly for resting.

I became familiar with Piers in tenth grade. He was high, very tall, with dark swarthy skin and lengthy black hair. Those premature days, he had a preference of keeping his hair lengthy and in good shape. In my eyes, he might not have been the Remarkable Prince Perfect—that most girls in my class noticeably pointed out. In my outlook, he was merely impressive and fantastic.

In tenth grade, he was not that excitingly celebrated. What pulled towards him the attention of everyone was his immense brainpower. Yes. He was so intellectually gifted that everybody in class dreaded what his cleverness could do in periods of tests. We all looked forward to him attaining the uppermost grades in any given test. If he didn't, jaws would promptly plummet and tongues would agitatedly wiggle.

"What has come about to the Genius?" Some cried.

Others affirmed, "He exceeds in examinations thanks to magic. He is a sorcerer. His charm lies in his long hair. That is why he does not cut it."

I have committed to memory this particular moment; since tenth grade, the only subject I was unsurpassed at was Religious Studies. Thanks to textbooks I had obtained from a fine friend of mine. I read them like any commonplace work of fiction, then again and again—until everything was plain lucid and uncomplicated in my mind. Subjects I detested most were Mathematics, Chemistry, and Biology. I had no choice. These were obligatory issues—mandatory to attempt in the final exams. For that raison d'être, I had to put up with them.

In eleventh grade, Piers become conscious of how preeminent I was in Religious Schooling. Following the test where he came second after me, he went on to cram restively until I made it second beneath him. That very day, he gazed at me in self-confidence and grinned to himself cheerfully. I straight away knew. He had done it just to prove how he was not going to let anyone tramp on him without facing any unbreakable toil on his part.

I don't know how long he had been preying on me. I realized the truth a bit late. In tenth grade, he was the silent chap with unkempt hair who performed admirably in Math and Sciences. In eleventh grade, he was the enchanting-growing boy who didn't want anyone to outshine him in any of the school subjects. In twelfth grade, he was ... the Genius who was doting on making a monkey out of me and having fun by punching me on my shoulders and slapping me on the cheeks.

"Why does Piers all the time like to hit me? What have I exactly done to him to deserve that?" More than once, I posed this question to my good friends.

The responses I obtained were alike, "He feels wonderful being around you. That is why he does that."

Thumping me for solely that? It didn't make any kind of logic. I felt they were missing the point somewhere. They were not! I was the one who was sightless to the factual realism. Piers actually felt fine being around me, slapping and cuffing me sloppily as he felt like doing. But then ... I mistook what he did for something else; like he was simply making me his dressmaker's boxing doll. I don't know.