A New Reflection

2. Genius

"Today you'll perform a worm dissection," Mrs. Y informs us. Her thin-rimmed glasses are sliding down her nose, and her short hair is in disarray from assembling lab materials.

My stomach churns. I don't think anyone relishes the idea of touching a dead, slimy grey worm, yet I'm convinced I have a particular, personal aversion to worms that surpasses a typical high school girl's level of disgust.

My revulsion, however, is suppressed by the need to keep a low profile. I show no reaction when Mrs. Y places a thick, formaldehyde-saturated worm on the blue tray in front of Sydney, one of my lab partners. It's at least ten inches long.

"Gross!" exclaim Sydney and Britney in unison, giggling.

"That's just nasty," adds Gabriel, the only male member of our group.

I'm surprisingly comfortable with the students in my lab group. They all happen to be juniors, and their quirky, open communication styles don't intimidate me. Somehow, I signed up for all my science classes out of order, taking an advanced chemistry course as a sophomore, then physics as a junior. Now, as a senior, I'm taking what's considered to be the easiest science level, biology, so there are several younger students in the class.

"Oh my God!" exclaims Britney, pointing her finger at me. "That shirt is so bad."

"Genius," reads Sydney from my chest.

"What?" I ask, confused.

"It's just, since everyone knows how smart you are, it's sort of awkward for you to wear a shirt that says so right on the front," Britney spells it out for me.

I hadn't considered the notion that wearing my team volleyball shirt to school would translate to bragging about my intelligence. My cheeks burn deep scarlet.

Mrs. Y finishes explaining the instructions for our lab dissection, and we get to work. Britney makes a confident incision with the miniature pair of scissors and cuts all the way up the length of the worm.

"Jesus, you have a steady hand," comments Gabriel.

"I know! You could be, like, a surgeon," Sydney agrees.

I nod my head in assent, impressed by her bravery and confidence in slicing open the fat, watery worm. My hands would be trembling, and I'm quite certain I would have carved up about fifteen organs by this point. Intelligence doesn't necessarily correspond with actually being able to do things.

I guide the group through the lab procedure and write-up, quietly interpreting the more complex steps so everyone in my group can comprehend. I'm the kind of student who pays attention one-hundred percent of the time in class, so I never experience the information gaps that seem to hold my classmates back from understanding assignments.

When we leave class, the stench of formaldehyde is permanently absorbed into the interior of my nostrils, and I have no appetite for lunch. I chew my ham and cheese sandwich with difficulty, the dry bread catching in my throat, as the friends around me chat freely about church and crushes and the upcoming prom.

Towards the second half of last school year, I sort of barnacled myself onto this friend group, and they seem to have accepted the fact that I now eat lunch with them daily.

My freshman year, I hung out with my friend Lana, who is almost as painfully shy as I am, although it manifests itself differently in her. We would eat lunch, mostly in silence, then spend a few minutes painstakingly inventing questions for each other. Finally, Lana would look at me and ask, with a resigned shrug, "Wanna go to the bathroom?"

We would kill a bit more time sauntering towards the restrooms. This routine repeated itself daily, and every day was awkward; nonetheless, there was a comfort in our shared understanding that we were both too shy to chat the way normal high schoolers do. Plus, I have known Lana since elementary school, and I genuinely like her.