Fiction: "Quack, Juvenile Genius"
Who is the quacking juvenile? I wonder.
The Goal: Revisiting Fiction
I’m going to start publishing some fiction on my blog. This might be in the form of poetry or stories. I’ll try to explain their backstory at the end as I find fit.
”Quack, Juvenile Genius”
James Maron walked in, blue shirt striped horizontally with black lines underneath a purple-grey plaid coat, his black sweatpants striped vertically on the sides with two long red and white streaks. He contemplated the disapproving looks around him, then looked straight ahead at the wall in front of him, setting his arms straight down and inching his head menacingly forward. Awkwardly and quickly he shouted emphatically:
“The principal function of clothes is warmth—I’ve got no use for fashion!”
He swung his head left, then right. The whole classroom was silent because they didn’t know how just to laugh—and then, as the normal time to laugh passed, one by one, everyone confusedly turned back to what he or she had been doing before James Maron had entered the classroom. James Maron smiled and took his seat at the fourth desk from the door. He was glad he had been able to intimidate them for once. This was turning out to be an excellent day.
Later in the day, at his Dungeon and Dragons game over Google Hangouts, James Maron said something very profound:
“Adults all act as if we came from the far side of Mars, or something, but the truth is they were just like us, back in their day. The same silly, ugly behaviors bounce through every generation, only, when they get older, everyone likes to forget the rude stuff they used to do.”
His web-friends nodded, but lag was bad so mostly their faces just turned into blurry vibrations of pixelated horizontal lines across his screen.
James Maron was rather annoyed.
“Mom!” he screamed, turning his head to the left to amplify his voice, which he hoped would bounce around the corner outside his room and shoot downstairs to disturb the woman who was likely transfixed by the ugly, shiny diamond necklaces twinkling down to her from QVC. “We need to get better Internet! This is excruciating; you’re killing me!”
He waited for a moment.
“Do it now, please!”
Now, usually, his mother would shout back at him to shut up or shout back at him OK, I’ll do it soon, honey, but since his mother did not respond at all, James Maron grew agitated.
“Wait a sec, guys, I’ma be ‘Eh-Ef-Kay’ for a moment, so don’t do anything,” he warned sharply, setting down his headphones and launching across his room to the window. He spun open the French blinds with the rod that hung to the left. The driveway was empty.
“Damn,” James Maron said softly, frowning.
He ran back to his keyboard and put on his headphones. “Alright, I’m back guys, let’s roll the dice and get along with murdering this awful, foul-mouth troll who can’t even say thit right because of hith lithhhppe…”
Curious, James Maron Googled the etymology of headphones. Apparently, it was created in 1887 when some people smashed together the word “head” and the word “telephone”.
“Interesting,” he said, but internally disappointed. Rather predictable.
He put down his phone, sighing, and went to bed. He had a flicker of an urge to turn back on his phone, but suppressed it.
“Must… go… to… bed,” he said robotically, then laughed at himself. He really was quite funny. Or at least he found himself quite funny.
He turned off the lamp hanging over his bed.
“I wonder how long it takes for a person to fall asleep,” he wondered.
In the morning, really, just in the middle of the night, James Maron looked at his phone. It had run out of battery and was dead, and James Maron frowned because now he couldn’t set the alarm beside his bed, because the power outlet was on the other side of the room, and his charger cord was much too short to manage the distance.
“well this is retarded” he almost said, as he crossed the room, before remembering that some people thought he was retarded. “Well, this is retarded,” he finally said, deciding that those people were retarded and that James Maron was very, very smart.
Later in the day, James Maron was in the principal’s office.
“Why did you do it, James?”
“I dunno, maybe because he’s reTARDed! Can we get rid of this political correctness bull—”
“Don’t curse, James! And don’t call other students names. You’re very insensitive, James.” The principal looked hard at James Maron, eyes gigantic behind thick, yellow glasses. “Some people would say that… you’re a bully?” He said bully on a very high note, not insinuating but only churning the young boy’s mind to questions, towards careful inward reflection, after which the principal knew that the boy would be much better off.
James Maron rolled his eyes.
“The student you called names today cried for a very long time, James, a very long time, very long time. You hurt his feelings.”
“Does a person like that have feelings?” James Maron asked bluntly. Deep down, he felt a spark of red-hot emotions well up. Memories. He shook his head in disgust to dispel them.
“Yes, they do, James, yes they do, they do.” The principal smiled, then frowned. “Now, I can’t put you completely at blame for your actions, James, because of your condition. I can’t exactly punish someone like yourself.”
“Why not?”
“Well, you know, James, just because I can’t, just because, James! You are a very inquisitive fellow. You should stick to that side of yourself, James, that side of yourself, not the ugly and mean side. Oh-kay, James?” The principal nodded slowly, trying to make James’s mirror his motion, but James’s head mostly just stayed still except to flick sideways to steal a glance at the clock.
A few minutes, James Maron was out.
“Thank the Lord!” James Maron cried.
Later that day, at lunch, James Maron sat alone—
—until McCormick and the others ganged on him.
“James, normally we wouldn’t talk to you, but we came here to tell you that you need to stop.”
“Why?” James Maron cried. McCormick’s freckles were very large, but he was burly and he played football. McCormick was also on Chess Team, and he got 74% of the questions on the Academic Team right, buzzing everyone away to hell.
“We saw what you did to Nate, today,” McCormick said seriously, “and it passed a line. You can do your disgusting antics in front of us, alright, but don’t go around kicking and molesting those who can’t help it just because you’re messed up yourself in the head.”
McCormick began to move away.
“By the way, I don’t believe that you’re dumb, or mentally challenged, or all that. You know very well what you’re doing. And it just needs to stop.”
“Shut up, you idiot,” James Maron called after him.
In period five, James Maron received back his test. He got a 96.
“Hey, McCormick, what did you get?” James Maron asked.
McCormick shifted his test rightward for an answer. James Maron read 99.
“Good job, James,” McCormick said, reading the 96.
James Maron did not have the heart to reply with the standard “good job to you too maccormik” and instead just said “Yeah, yeah, thanks, alright.”
Later that day, James Maron checked the D&D forums.
Hey gyss r u rdyey fur anowtrer epic sesoion? he typed, clicking enter. He tapped his fingers loudly on his desk, waiting.
Half an hour passed.
No not today, “ManEater30” replied
Yeah I cant do it either, another said
Lets do it tmrw at 7, pinged from “LakshmiSkywalker”
Yeah OK that snds gud, James Maron typed, frowning. He clicked enter and shut off the browser.
“I’m sorry, Nate,” James Maron said.
“About wot?” Nate asked. “Weere freends, rite?” he asked innocently.
James Maron was a bit teary. “Sure, we’re friends, bud.”
They hugged. They hadn’t hugged for a long time.
But James Maron was actually very sorry and promised to get Nate ice cream, just like old times.
Gay for Nate, gay for Nate, gay for Nate, gay for Nate, the most annoying people had said. They were wrong, James Maron knew, but it had hurt.
James Maron watched Marisa Fermi from her backside, watching her brown hair sway, watching her arm move elegantly as she wrote, watching her shirt dynamically wrinkle as she laughed. James Maron had watched her for years, but had done nothing. He did not intend to do nothing for forever.
On his paper, he drew a heart, and wrote MF inside of it. It was his solace, those initials.
He looked up fiercely at Marisa’s hair. He loved her, didn’t he?
He really loved her, and he wasn’t going to do nothing for forever. Not for forever.
In his second profound statement, James said:
“Everything seems so set in stone from middle school. Maybe from elementary school. All of the interactions between people, how people will end up, where they will go. It’s downright depressing.”
He said this to Nate, who he knew would not understand. Nate nodded furiously nonetheless. They were eating ice cream in the store, as they often had done before. Nate always licked his ice cream quickly, digging in with joy—before he suddenly got a brain freeze and said:
“Ow, brainfreeeze!”
He paused, frozen in a little pain. Then, the brain freeze faded, and James Maron could visually see Nate’s face relax. Then Nate dug in more, licking faster and faster, before he had to say:
“Ow, brainfreeeze!” again, this time more louder, before the discomfort faded and he took a large bite and then said “Ow, brainfreeze!” once more—it was rhythmic— “brainfreeze! brainfreeze! Ow, brainfreeze!”, each time even louder than before, James Maron now laughing in joy, both of them giggling, until—
“Would you get that goddamn nut out of this place?” the shopkeeper asked loudly. “And don’t let him go on torturing himself like that, that’s downright evil. He doesn’t know any better, and you know it.”
James Maron protested:
“But he likes brain freezes. That’s why he eats his ice cream so fast.”
“You’re fucking evil,” the shopkeeper said.
The words echoed in James Maron’s head, rattled in his skull.
James Maron had to do snooping around. He wasn’t going to embarrass himself, not this time, not ever again.
After two days, James Maron smiled to himself as he completed his quest for an answer. He prided himself that he never gave himself away, not once, not ever. Until he wanted to. Which would be soon.
After all, he wouldn’t stay quiet for forever. Not for forever.
“You’re a wonderful storyteller,” Mrs. Cotterwoll said to James Maron. She glowed as she spoke. “I really would love if you entered in this contest, James,” Mrs. Cotterwoll said, handing James Maron a flyer.
“I’m not going to show off my writing like a baboon shows off its butt,” James Maron said, pushing it back. He knew that, in fact, he was not a good writer, and that Mrs. Cotterwoll actually didn’t think he was either. He knew that the only reason she was pushing him into this was because he was the only one of their bunch that she thought would be stupid enough to actually do it.
Mrs. Cotterwoll frowned disapprovingly.
Aahhh, here her uglier side comes!
“James, I really would love if you entered this contest. Our school always submits its best and most ‘special’ writer’s work to the county, which submits its best and most ‘special’ writer’s work to the state, which submits its best and most ‘special’ writer’s work to the country! Wouldn’t you love if you were recognized nationally?”
“Ridiculed nationally, you mean.”
“Now, James—”
“Look, woman, I’m not going to write this and you know I’m not going to write this. You know I don’t like writing, and you know I’ve never liked you. So using your ‘most lovililyest’ voice isn’t going to seduce me, try the custodian you’ve been banging for the past seven months.”
Later in the day, James Maron sat in the principal’s office.
“We would really love if you did this for us,” the principal said to James Maron, staring him down with his gigantic eyes.
“Or what, man? You can’t touch me.”
Usually, the principal was kind and suggestively persuasive. This time he was direct and blunt.
“I can put you in more remedial classes with more of your kind. Perhaps that would convince you, no? Perhaps if you were taken out of those high, artsy-fartsy classes and made to see what you could have been, and, more importantly, who you could still be, if we wanted or want you to. We’re trying to help you, for heaven’s sakes, James! We want you to succeed, intellectually—and socially! But every time, you blast it, every time, you fire your rude mouth off, every time, every time!”
The principal took off his glasses and wiped his forehead. He slowly put his glasses back on.
James Maron stared. Red-hot emotions were swelling, but he beat them back down viciously. He would not appear weak in front of this man. He would not devolve.
“James, this is not a question. This is not a request. This is an order.”
“An order?”
“Yes. You are going to submit this essay. If you try, you can really win. And you know that you can.”
“And you know I can’t write. You know that I fail all of my English tests, you know because you can look up all my grades with a flick of your finger.”
“Yes, James, I know.” Then, gravely: “But you’re the highest functioning one we’ve got.”
The next day, in period two, James Maron received his test back. He got a 27.
Mrs. Cotterwoll looked down at him apologetically.
“And you want me to go write a goddamn essay,” he said calmly, looking up at her.
The other kids stared silently. Mrs. Cotterwoll bit her lip, maybe holding in tears, maybe just looking down in sheer pity.
“James, all I want for you to do is to try. Maybe try a little harder.”
Later that day, in period five, James Maron shocked the classroom with his excellent mathematics project. Real college level stuff, it was, the teacher said.
Better than McCormick’s? Not even close.
McCormick’s presentation ended in louder applause than James Maron’s.
Later that day, at night:
Real college level stuff, James Maron thought in his bed. Was he saying that because he actually thought so, or to console me? James Maron frustratedly punched his pillow. He wanted it to be boomingly loud: but a pillow is a pillow, and it just turned out to be soft and quiet.
James Maron began to write:
Marryssa…
No, that looked wrong.
Morisa…
Darn, that looked wrong too, but he might as well forge ahead:
Morisa, I hav loovde you erver sinse I ferst layed my eyse on you. It was in midule shcole, bca wen I was 11.3743 yrs old (I hav calcoldted dis to morre presicon than you know)…
James smiled. He always had his numbers all right, his numbers were all right. He wrote on, painfully, but assuredly. This was only a first draft, after all, he only had to get the ideas down.
James Maron stopped Marisa Fermi in the hallway.
“Look, Marisa, I’d like for you to read this. I’ve gone through it several times, many times, and I checked every word in the dictionary to make sure everything’s all right. This is the thirtieth draft. Marisa, I know you don’t know me so well, but I want you to know I’ve liked you for a very long time. I probably know you a lot better than you know me. Not in a stalker-ish way, but in a friendly way. Look, Marisa, I’d actually really like if you would read this, and not throw it away or anything, because I would like you to know the awful lot of time I’ve put into this. I didn’t sleep last night. I wrote all night, checking every single word. Because I know it’s all OK, I would feel a whole much better if I didn’t spend all that time for nothing. Marisa, just take it.”
He pressed it into her hand. Her beautiful face gazed at him, frightened.
“It’s nothing bad. Just read it. Tell me how you feel about it tomorrow.”
And James Maron walked away, feeling great, feeling alpha, feeling absolutely alpha.
Later in the day, James Maron checked the D&D forums.
Rdy 2 play? he asked.
Im good
Yeah, me too, just wait a sec, I gotta finish eating
Not today
C’mon man, we all know you’re unemployed and youve got nothing to do
OK nvrmind im in
James Maron smiled. He loved D&D. He could imagine anything, be anyone. The best thing of all, he thought, was that nowun knrew whu he rrlly wus…
He tried to catch Marisa the next morning, but she dashed around the corner whenever he saw her. Or maybe whenever she saw him. James Maron got a funny feeling that however eager and intent he was on finding her, she might be even more eager and intent on avoiding him.
Later in the day, McCormick approached James Maron at lunch—alone this time, not with the gang following.
“Hello, McCormick,” James Maron said warily. James Maron noticed the strained, serious, determined look on McCormick’s face. McCormick gave a quick smile.
“Look, I’ll get this over quickly, James,” McCormick said, sitting down at James’s table. “Marisa’s going with me to the dance. I’ve already asked her. She’s already said yes.”
James Maron laughed, then frowned. “No, that’s simply not possible. I’ve done my research. Nobody’s asked her to the dance yet, I was first. She simply couldn’t be going to it with you.”
McCormick left a tuft of air puff out of his nose. “Ha, so you’re going to make this a bit difficult.” McCormick relaxed. “Well, I’ll be honest with you, because I know you can take it.”
McCormick paused, hesitated. Then he said:
“Do you know, James, that I know that you hate me? I know this, and you kind-of disappoint me because you despise me so much for no reason at all. After all, I’m actually the only one who respects you in this place. You’re lucky because of that. I’m the only one who knows you’re brilliant, really, I am. I think I might be the only one who understands you, who almost empathizes with you.”
James Maron scowled, trying to make his face as ugly as physically possible. “OK, Mr. High-And-Mighty, go on. You know that no one can empathize with me, so you just go on with your silly act and keep on. I know what you’re going to say, so just go on and say it.”
McCormick frowned deeply. “You should feel lucky that I’m here. I know I talk condescendingly to you sometimes, but I really don’t mean it. I actually do respect you, maybe admire you sometimes. At least, I talk to you, despite the fact that you’re mean and annoying. You’re actually exceptionally annoying, James. But I put up with that because I know that you don’t really mean it. I’ve seen all the shit you go through, and I know that none of it is your fault.”
“Go on, McCormick.”
McCormick seemed pained. He fiddled with his fingers. “Look, Marisa cried in the bathroom all day yesterday after you gave her that note.”
“Go on, McCormick, go on.”
McCormick began to shiver. “She really doesn’t like you, she really doesn’t. And that’s just honest fact, you know. And that’s it…”
“Go on, McCormick; you and I both know that’s not just it. All she had to say was ‘no,’ she didn’t have to send your sorry ass over here to tell me. You know there’s more. What was she crying about?”
“Well, you forced her into a corner, I mean…”
“What corner?”
“You know she couldn’t say no, not to you.”
“Why?”
McCormick was frustrated. He cringed. “You know why, James.” He lurched upwards to move away, then, deciding he was going to go the full ride, sat back down. “Look, they all still think of you just as retarded, James. You’re just retarded and weird and stupid to them, James. You always were, no matter how well you did in math or how hard you tried in English, or how you did anything, really. Your anger and antics never helped, either. They’ve all thought you were retarded since middle school, maybe since elementary school.”
There was a long pause.
“And she couldn’t say no to a retard, James, you know that. She was tormented. She didn’t know what to do. You… you…” McCormick’s eyes began to well. “You, with your neatly, painstakingly written note, talking about how you’ve loved her since middle school, since the time you saw her against the pink flowers on the playground, with her delicate hair whipping around, with her long arms and legs dashing in the sun. You were a poet, James. But she doesn’t love you, and she won’t ever love you. She only came out of the bathroom when I agreed to take her to the dance instead and I promised I would tell you that she was going with me. She couldn’t bear to say no to someone whom she thought was a retard.”
A longer pause passed.
“They think I’m like Nate,” James Maron said softly.
“Yeah, they think you’re like Nate.”
McCormick tried to smile, but couldn’t. He stiffly stood up and walked away.
Later that day, outside, James Maron had ice cream with Nate, and said nothing profound. He didn’t say anything at all. He just watched Nate say “Ow, brainfreeze” and “Ow, anover brainfreeze” and “Ow! Brainfreeze!” and “Ow” and “Brainfreeze” and “Ow, ow, ow, brainfreeze”, before James Maron just snapped and punched the ice cream cone out of Nate’s hand before saying:
“Shut up, you retard! Shut up! You’re the only friend I have, and you’re as dumb as dirt, I can’t stand it!”
James Maron shoved Nate and walked away from the now-crying idiot, who couldn’t have brain freezes anymore, because his gooey ice cream was now splattered, melting on the sidewalk.
Later that day, James Maron went onto the D&D forums. Instead of asking if everyone was ready, he typed: Tday I jus got rjctd bye de luv of my lyfe. Clicked enter. That sucks, man, was the reply. Wanna play 2 lighten the mood? James typed, no James Maron clicked enter and shut down his computer. He was really feeling terrible.
That night, James Maron snuck downstairs and went into the wine cellar. He didn’t know what drinking was like, but he knew he wanted to try it, and he knew he wanted to get drunk. So he drank, drank himself into a dark, deep, scary place. In that scary place, memories of people shrieking gay for nate and retard and dumbass swarmed around him like sharks. James Maron could do nothing but cry, could only cry.
The next morning was dark.
Later in the day, James Maron woke to the smell of chocolate-chip cookies and the sound of someone walking up the stairs. His mom appeared in the room.
“Good morning, James,” she said, smiling widely.
James pushed himself backward to sit up on his pillow. Blurry-eyed, he looked at the clock. “It’s not morning, it’s two o’clock pee-em,” he said. “I’m not at school,” he observed. “In fact, school’s nearly over,” he observed.
His mom laughed. “Eat your cookies, James,” she said, placing the tin pan down on his bedside table. “You were sleeping heavily, and I didn’t want to disturb you, that’s all. I know you’ve been working awfully hard lately, and I thought that a nice day off would be good for you.”
James Maron looked at his mom and smiled. “Thanks, mom.”
Downstairs, the wine cellar now had a heavy lock on it. James Maron noticed when he passed it as he was retrieving orange juice from the fridge. He looked over the kitchen island at his mom watching QVC. Then he looked at the lock again. Sighing, he got his orange juice and went upstairs.
A month later, James Maron said the most profound thing he ever said:
“Women are funny. In fact, everyone is funny and odd. I really shouldn’t take things so seriously. I should just say screw it and write this essay for the principal and Mrs. Cotterwoll. I should also just go to the dance.”
Going to the dance was easier than he thought.
“Mom, I need money so I can buy tickets to the school dance.”
“Oh, really?” His mom seemed surprised. “You’re going?”
“Yeah, I figure because this is my last year, I might as well go to a school dance. Can you give me money for the dance?”
“Sure, honey,” she said. “How much does it cost?”
“Three hundred and twenty dollars, and seventeen cents.”
“That’s expensive, honey.”
“I know it is, but I’m including the price of the suit.”
“Okay, honey,” she said. “I’m pretty sure the suit would be cheaper on QVC, though—”
“Just get me the money, mom.”
James Maron began to write a long essay. It took a really long time because he used the dictionary for every word, just to be certain he was writing things properly. It took him hours and hours, but he finished. Exhausted, he read it, and it was smashingly good. (If not damning, grotesque, and depressing.)
James Maron called up McCormick on the phone.
“McCormick?”
“Yes, this is the McCormick residence.”
“Oh, I’m looking for Paul McCormick, Jr. I’m a friend.”
“OK, we’ll get him for you.”
A few moments later, McCormick proper picked up the phone. “Who is this?”
“James Maron.”
“Oh, hi, James. What do you need?”
“I just wanted to thank you for being an excellent friend, or at least being the only person who’s been remotely nice to me over the past few years.”
There was a pause. “Thanks, James. What made you say this?”
“I dunno. I’ve got a question: are you going to the dance?”
“Yeah, I am.”
“With Marisa, still?”
“Yeah. Why?”
“Maybe you shouldn’t go to there. Maybe you should stay home.”
“Why? You’re not going to shoot up everyone, are you?”
James Maron laughed bitterly. “No, nothing nearly that bad, but I’m going to embarrass myself awfully. I’d rather you not see it. I’d rather Marisa… I’d rather Marisa not see it either.”
McCormick waited a few moments. “I’m still going to the dance, James. I don’t altogether trust you that you’re going to be safe, so I’m still going to the dance.”
James Maron nodded in understanding. “That’s fine. It doesn’t matter; I can do it with you there or not. Just know it might be painful for you, for both of us, really.”
James Maron set the phone down.
The next day, James Maron left a packet on Mrs. Cotterwoll’s desk with his essay inside. There was a thickly written note stapled to it:
Don’t open this until after tonight’s dance. I’ll know if you do. If you open this before the dance, I’ll know and I won’t submit this essay, because once you read this essay, you’ll really want me not to do what’s written in it, but you’ll really want me to submit, because you know I’d win countywide and statewide and nationwide. Reading this now, you know that I really don’t want you to open this because you know it took me ages to write this note with all the words correctly spelled and in decent grammar.
After the dance, read this essay. It’ll be smashingly great, I know it, I know.
In the evening, James Maron slowly put on his suit, as if he was putting on the last suit he would ever wear, as if he were dressing for his own funeral.
The night was dark and heavy, the music loud and thunderous. James Maron waltzed into a sea of people, skittling and scattering around the ballroom floor like a fountain of large, terrible cockroaches. Their faces were insect-like and beady.
Yes, James Maron had broken the lock and had drunk more wine.
Yes, James Maron was about to do something terrible, unless someone stopped him. But no one stops retards from doing stupid things.
Languidly, he lurched over to the punch table. “Give me a pint,” he said to the volunteer, who acquiesced. The fruity red liquid helped to wash the taste of stale red wine from his mouth. “Much better,” he said, tossing the cup towards the garbage—it missed widely, clattering and sliding across the ground.
James Maron did not bother to pick it up, but shifted heavily towards the main dancing. He was on a vague mission that he had to complete before the main show.
McCormick and Marisa were swaying back and forth, swaying. They looked peaceful together, and James Maron would have gone towards them, but instead he ashamedly hid behind other dancing figures. He had so much to say to both of them, but he knew it wouldn’t matter after the day was done. After today, he would be back to square one.
James Maron found the disk jockey in the corner.
“Stop the music, man.”
“What?”
“Just stop the music, man.”
“Why?”
“I need to talk. Just stop the music, or I’ll make you.”
The disc jockey stood up. “Not cool, kid. Now, do you want to place a recommendation or something, or make an announcement, because we can do that—”
“The latter, man, just give me the mic—”
“No, tell me what you want to say and I’ll say i—”
Viciously, James Maron attacked the disc jockey, launching over the table at him, knocking over a cascade of CDs. They both shrieked as they fell to the floor, and, after a few punches, James Maron lay puffing under the knee of the disc jockey.
Luckily, James Maron had tripped over the music cord, so the music had cut off with a loud crack, and now everyone was staring at James Maron and the disc jockey.
From below the knee of the disc jockey, James Maron made his grand soliloquy:
“Everyone, it’s me!”
For once, everyone listened.
“It’s me, James Maron! You all know me, the madly-dressed, rude, ugly, resident retard of this school! You’ve all always degraded me, always spat at me, never looked me in the eye…
“And yet, I wanted to beat you, to triumph—somehow! I always wanted to win the end. Even when I was little, I knew that you guys were normal, and I was … I was fiendish, wasn’t I?! I ran around like a ghoul on the playground, growling like a savage, scratching your faces and pushing you over, because I had nothing better to do, and because you had nothing better to do with me.
“There was only one thing I ever wanted!
“I wanted her—” he pointed, wrestled his arm out from beneath him, his finger aiming directly at the girl that McCormick now tightly hugged— “I wanted her, not because I really wanted her, but because he—” His finger shifted toward McCormick— “Because he wanted her. And I always had to beat him.
“Even from the start, from the very first day they took me out of the idiot class and put me in the normal one, I’ve been stealing glances from two places—from her face, and from his paper. I’ve been cheating off of McCormick from day one, and I’ve been in lust with her from day one, too. How do you think I was so good at math?” James Maron wavered, went on. “The little retard, me, dumb—How do you think I was so good at math? I could copy it, I could! As soon as I learned how to make my pencil move in the same way that McCormick’s did, I knew I was out of the idiot class forever, and into the real world, where I could live and breath, and where I could have Marisa…”
He looked at McCormick. “I earned your respect by theft, McCormick. It was by theft. By myself, without you, I’m—well, I’m just as dumb as a doornail.”
Mrs. Cotterwoll burst through the door, carrying the papers of his grave confessional essay, written in beautiful, wonderful prose—unimaginable, really, coming from the idiot like him: but the deed was done. James Maron lay panting on the floor; McCormick stood, shocked; Marisa, crying, was surrounded by friends and evacuated from the toxic environment.
James Maron repeatedly knocked his head against the dirty wood, counting and mumbling: one, two, three, four, seven, two, three, eight, nine, five, four, five, five, five…
Eventually, they dragged him away.
The next day, McCormick knocked on James Maron’s door.
James Maron opened the door. Surprisingly, he found McCormick smiling at him, not angry. After all, no one truly gets angry at “people with mental disabilities,” at true retards.
“That was incredibly brave of you. Amazingly brave.”
James Maron shrugged, humbly, guiltily, and shook McCormick’s hand. “You know, Paul, we could have been friends.”
“Yeah, we could have—but not after this.” Sadly, helpfully, McCormick added: “You didn’t have to cheat, James, you never had to.”
“You know I had to. I had to get out of there; I had to escape the nuthouse classes.”
“I would have helped you. Only if you had asked. Back in middle school, even if none of the other kids would, I would have helped you. Tutored you. You didn’t have to steal.”
James Maron weakly smiled. “Well, in time, I didn’t have to steal, but back then, I did.” James Maron paused. “I adored you, McCormick. I absolutely adored you. You were shining at the front of the class, and I knew I never could be smart at all, I knew that my time as a retard visiting in that classroom would be an ephemeral glimpse and I just knew that I needed more time. I needed to be smarter. And, as we took that first math test, I admit, I looked. I looked the second time, too. And I got to stay.”
“For how many years?”
James Maron carried on, his voice rough. “Several; up until a year or two ago. After that, I tried to do better: I tried to do it naturally. I was good by myself, then, but you were still always better. Every time I got a 97, you got a 99. Every time I got a 99, you got a 100. But after I decided not to I never looked, after then I always kept my eyes on my paper, knowing that I could do it, myself, somehow.”
James Maron swallowed and continued. “So, yes, I confessed I cheated. I confessed that I loved Marisa, too, not because I loved her first, but because you did. I saw you steal glances at her on the playground, in the classroom. I always wanted her because I always wanted whatever you wanted.”
“But I’ve liked other girls; I’ve been with other girls; Marisa’s not unique.”
James Maron looked McCormick sharply in the eye, knowingly. “No, she’s unique. We both know.”
McCormick paused, looked at James. “Yes, she’s unique,” he repeated, ghostily. He shook himself alive, suddenly, bringing himself to the present. “All of this feels anticlimactic and silly, though. You didn’t have to ruin yourself at the dance, you didn’t have to do the right thing.”
“Yeah, I did.”
“But they all think you’re retarded again. They think you’re not even good at math, which is the only thing they ever thought you were good at.”
“I am retarded, McCormick,” James Maron admitted. He shrugged. “I really am retarded. And I better accept it and learn my place.” James Maron paused, waited, then continued to tell the facts. “You know, they took me out of all of the advanced classes. Deleted my stellar transcript in math and science. They did all of that, and now I’m back with the lot of idiots. I’m back with Nate. He’s friendly, but…”
“I’m sorry, James.”
“No, you shouldn’t be. It’s better now.” James Maron began to cry a little. “It’s going to be much better now…”
James Maron shut the door softly.
He had lied to McCormick; he had lied to everyone at the dance. He wasn’t sure exactly why. But somehow, he felt relief. There were no expectations he had to fulfill, nothing he had to do.
He never cheated off McCormick—he was alright, good, maybe great at mathematics on his own: but all the rest was true. McCormick was his idol; Marisa was his love; his torment was that he knew he could never achieve either because something ticked differently in his brain.
Back then, he had seen McCormick, and McCormick had shined. And he worked harder and harder—legitimately—to try to be like McCormick, and had nearly made it—but he never had. James Maron knew he never would. He had lost Marisa to him, he had lost him to Marisa, and now, finally, he would never be anything more than a dumb retard to either of them, and to mostly everyone.
Before he decided to ruin his life, James Maron had thought about things a lot over the past months, about him and Nate and Mrs. Cotterwoll, about the principal, and most of all, about McCormick and Marisa. Now, any relationships he had with anyone were all lies. As they should be.
James Maron knew that he was sometimes brilliant, and sometimes very stupid. He knew he wanted to excel in everything, but he knew that was impossible. Being universally excellent was something only people like McCormick could do. Loving something excellent was something Marisa could only do.
In the end, James Maron decided he would rather be something fully instead of fully being a half-thing. He’d simply embrace his stupid side, and resign himself to Nate, finally.
He went onto the D&D forums and canceled his account. No more dreaming in fairy tales. After all, he was only James Maron.
Commentary (on 6/27/26)
Who is James Maron?
James Maron (and Nate, it turns out), are both stand-ins for myself, Jonathan Jeffrey.
As I look back on this story, it’s clear that the only true friend that James Maron is able to find is his former self—the self that did not know the suffering he would go through to get to where he was. The self that was young, bright, and ignorant.
And yet James Maron forges ahead on his (hopeless?) quest for love.
Of course, I find myself in a similar position these days, though I’ve learned a lot since I wrote this story back in high school (back in January 2016, it seems).
Who are McCormick and Marisa Fermi?
I leave these as exercises for the reader.
A part of me still hopes one day I can be more like McCormick and less like James Maron. Maybe I haven’t fully accepted myself yet.
My Impressions on the Story
I still like my writing
I still like my writing back then. It was raw, honest, and good.
Learning is different for everyone
James Maron is good at some things, but terrible at others.
He is a complex character, and we only see a fraction of his complexity in this story.
Is he smart? Is he dumb? Is everyone around him just pretending to be stupid so he can get easy wins and boost his ego? These are questions no learner can answer at a certain phase of their journey.
We can only continue to learn, and hope a better understanding will come at the end.
Right now I am at a phase in my life where I am unsure of where I stand on these fundamental questions. I am unsure of what my IQ score means. I am unsure if I am ordinary or special. I am unsure of where I am in my journey. I am unsure if everyone must walk the same path or must walk different paths, and which way that old city of Omelas really was anyways.