January First

by Michael Schofield

  “Lynn and the girls have come to your birthday party,” Susan reminds her. “You need to come and greet them.”

  Janni gets out of the pool and comes over to the twins. She is not pouting. She is smiling and rubbing her hands rapidly, as if she is actually suddenly happy to see them. It’s like the previous outburst never happened.

  Susan gets the twins two juice boxes from the cooler.

  “Hi, Janni. How are you?” Lynn asks pleasantly.

  The hand rubbing stops and the smile vanishes. “I’m not Janni! I’m Blue-Eyed Tree Frog.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry. I forgot.” Lynn quickly corrects herself like she just received a mild electric shock.

  “Girls, wish Blue-Eyed Tree Frog a happy birthday,” Lynn instructs her daughters.

  “Happy birthday, Janni,” they dutifully intone. The twins have known my daughter as Janni since before they could talk. It is all they know.

  “I’m not Janni!” she screams at the twins. “I’m Blue-Eyed Tree Frog.”

  The twins look up at their mom, confused.

  “Janni!” Susan warns. “Be polite.”

  I say nothing. Sure, I would like Janni to be polite, but I realize odd behavior is a by-product of her genius. She hit all of her developmental markers early and was already talking at eight months. By thirteen months she knew all her letters, both big and small, even if they were turned on their side or upside down. Then, at eighteen months, she was speaking in grammatically correct sentences, introducing herself to people saying, “I’m Janni Paige and I am eighteen months old.”

  But I didn’t fully comprehend what she was capable of until I came back from grad school one evening when Janni was two and Susan was telling me about their day.

  “I’ve been teaching her addition,” Susan told me, which I already knew, “so today we started on subtraction. I asked her what ‘seven minus four’ was.”

  “Did she get it right?” I asked.

  “Yes, she did, so we did ‘seven minus three is four.’ Then she asks me, ‘Mommy, what’s four minus seven?’ so I started trying to explain negative numbers to her.”

  I stare at Susan. “She asked you what was four minus seven?”

  Susan, washing dishes, turns to me. “Yeah.” She sees the look of shock on my face. “What’s wrong?”

  “She asked you that right out of the blue?”

  “Yes. What is it?”

  Negative numbers, I remember thinking. Negative numbers are a totally abstract concept because they don’t exist in the real world. You can’t see negative four apples. At two years old, Janni’s mind made the jump from what Piaget called “concrete reasoning” to “abstract reasoning,” something that typically happens at a much older age. Janni could conceive of concepts that did not actually physically exist.

  I have fantasies of Janni going to Harvard or Yale or MIT before she is even a teenager. My ultimate dream, when I close my eyes at night, is Janni winning the Nobel Prize. For what, I don’t know and don’t really care. But to be able to do what she can do at two years old, she must be a gift to humanity. I think that trumps being impolite on occasion.

  “Would you like some juice?” Susan hands the twins the juice boxes and they take them.

  Janni starts to laugh and flings her arm at the twins. “400 is splashing mango juice on you,” she chortles, without touching them.

  The girls flinch instinctively, then look up at their mother for guidance, not sure what happened.

  “400 is splashing mango juice on you.” Janni makes the move again like she is throwing juice on the twins, but she has nothing in her hand.

  The twins retreat to either side of their mother.

  “Janni, that isn’t nice,” Susan corrects.

  “But it’s not me. It’s 400. 400 is splashing mango juice on them. She likes to splash mango juice on people.” Her arm shoots out with the imaginary juice again. We don’t even have mango juice.

  The twins look up at Lynn. “You both need sunscreen.” She looks down at them, taking each daughter in one hand and over to the lounge chairs and tables.

  “Well then, tell 400 to stop,” Susan tells Janni. “400 is another one of her imaginary friends,” she explains to Lynn.

  Janni turns away and says to the air, “400, stop that.” She waits, apparently for a response, before turning back to the twins.

  “She won’t stop.” Janni breaks into laughter again. “It is so funny. 400 is throwing mango juice on you.”

  The twins are clearly scared, as Lynn puts on their sunscreen. “It’s okay, we know Janni is ‘unique.’ ”

  This is frustrating. She’s being imaginative, but the twins haven’t seen imagination like this. Geniuses are often eccentric, I think to myself.

  “Janni!” Susan’s voice goes up an octave. “Stop it!”

  “It’s not me! It’s 400!”

  “You control 400. Tell her to stop.”

  Janni puts out her hands in exasperation. “I can’t!”

  “Janni …,” Susan begins, but I cut her off.

  “Let it go.”

  Janni comes over to me and and we get ready to go into the pool. This is what I do. I am her protector from the rest of the world.

  I see the look of frustration on Susan’s face, but she doesn’t completely understand Janni like I do.

  “She needs to greet her friends,” she tells me imploringly. “You’re not helping her learn to be polite.”

  “It’s her birthday. Let it go,” I reply.

  Susan opens her mouth to protest.

  “Let it go,” I say again, more firmly. Susan closes her mouth and gives me an annoyed look.

  I jump in the water and come up to the edge, holding out my arms. “Come on, Janni. Jump to me.”

  “400 wants to jump in, too,” Janni says earnestly.

  “Cats don’t generally like water.”

  “Okay, you stay here, 400.”

  Janni jumps to me, and I carry her out into the middle of the pool. Janni suddenly looks back at the edge.

  “Oh, no! 400 fell in the pool!” she cries out. “400, don’t drown!”

  “I got 400,” I answer. I put Janni down in the shallow end and wade over to where I imagine 400 to be. This is what I do that makes me different from everybody else in Janni’s life. I play along with her imaginary friends like they are real. I’ll be damned if I’m going to get lumped in with the “thirteens” in her mind. Janni says “thirteens” are kids and adults who don’t have her imagination. She considers herself a “twenty,” like me, and Susan a “seventeen,” while most of her friends are “fifteens.” But the “thirteens” have no imagination at all.

  “Got her!” I fish nothing out of the water. “Ah! Now she is on my head! 400!” I pretend to sink under the weight of the imaginary cat. I will not shut any aspect of Janni down. I will not restrict anything, because I worry once she shuts down in order to conform, her full potential might be lost.

  Janni smiles and laughs.

  “400! Get off Daddy’s head.”

  I smile back, happy.

  “You know, Janni, if you could find an ocean big enough to put Saturn in it, it would float.” This is how I teach her. I engage her imaginary friends and then she pays attention.

  “Do you remember what the atmospheric pressure on Venus is?”

  “Ninety,” Janni answers.

  “That’s right. You would weigh ninety times what you weigh on Earth. Of course, if we were on Venus right now, we’d be swimming in sulfuric acid. And then there is the heat. Venus is hotter than Mercury, even though Mercury is closer to the sun, about eight hundred degrees Fahrenheit.”

  “It gets up to two hundred degrees in Calilini,” Janni says.

  Here is my chance to insert a little reality into her world.

  “Janni, that’s hotter than any place on Earth. That’s nearly the boiling point of water. Nothing could survive that temperature.”

  “My friends do.”

  “It’s not
possible. Our bodies are mostly made of water, and at that temperature we would literally start to boil. How can they possibly survive?”

  Janni shrugs. “They do.”

  I open my mouth, ready to continue arguing the illogic of this, but Janni is drifting away from me so I let it drop.

  “Janni,” I call.

  She turns around.

  “I still have a cat on my head.”

  She smiles.

  I AM LOOKING at the pizza boxes on the table.

  Last year, I ordered six medium cheese pizzas and we ran out before all the guests had even arrived, so Susan wanted me to order nine this time. I did, except that now six of them sit still unopened.

  Susan comes over and tells me it is time to do the cake.

  “Have you told everybody to sing ‘Happy Birthday’ to Blue-Eyed Tree Frog?” I ask her.

  “Yes, I have,” Susan replies, knowing my fear and hers. The last thing we both want is Janni flipping out on her birthday. “Hopefully, people will remember.” She turns and calls out that it is time to light the candles.

  Everybody gathers around the cake, which even says, HAPPY BIRTHDAY, BLUE-EYED TREE FROG.

  “Okay, you ready?” Susan asks me.

  I light the candles. Janni stands between us, rubbing her hands at a speed so fast it looks like it must be painful on her wrists, but she shows no discomfort.

  “Okay …,” Susan begins. “Happy birthday to you …”

  Everybody sings along. “Happy birthday to you. Happy birthday, dear …”

  Susan looks at me, nervously.

  I sing “… Blue Eyed Tree Frog” at the top of my lungs, trying to lead the guests in the correct name and cut off any “mistakes” before Janni can hear them.

  “Happy birthday to you!”

  Everybody claps, including Janni. I look up at Susan and see her exhaling with relief, as I am.

  As Susan serves the cake, I realize it is a smaller group this year. I’ve been paying attention to Janni, playing with her because she won’t play with anyone else, and didn’t notice. That explains the pizza situation. Last year people stayed for hours, long after the cake and the presents. This year, some have already left. Looking around, I realize that Lynn and the twins are gone, too.

  CHAPTER TWO

  October 2006

  Janni’s IQ is 146.

  This can’t be right. I was expecting it to be higher, a lot higher. I was expecting Albert Einstein IQ or Stephen Hawking IQ (although neither man ever submitted to an IQ test).

  I am sitting in the office of Heidi Yellen, a therapist who specializes in autism spectrum disorders. As Janni’s behavior has changed, more of our friends have started bringing up autism. Besides the new antisocial behavior, Janni can’t stop moving her hands, which everybody takes as “stimming,” one of the predominant signs of autism. Janni’s pediatrician referred us to her, “just to rule it out.” I didn’t want to take Janni. Autism is the diagnosis du jour, just like hyperactivity used to be when I was a kid. I still resent that the rest of the world seems more concerned with Janni’s behavior than with her intelligence, but I am getting tired of constantly hearing people suggest it. So I go, terrified Janni will be diagnosed autistic and that that will derail her future.

  However, to my great pleasure and surprise, the first thing Heidi wants to do is give Janni an IQ test. This is what I want, proof of Janni’s genius, to refute those who suggest there is something wrong with her.

  Except that 146 isn’t what I’m looking for. I want a number so high it allows me to explain away and even justify Janni’s increasing disengagement from kids her age and the preference she has for her imaginary friends. I want to be able to say, when Janni does something antisocial, “Well, she has an IQ of 280.”

  “So 146,” I say to Heidi, then look up to see Janni sneaking behind Heidi to her computer. “Janni! Don’t play with Heidi’s computer!”

  “I’m bored,” Janni complains as she roughly punches the keys on Heidi’s computer.

  Susan isn’t getting off the couch. I think she’s still in shock, too. The trade-off is there’s nobody to keep Janni engaged while I try to comprehend this. Then again, it’s not like Susan can keep Janni engaged anyway.

  “I just need a few minutes, Janni. This is important.”

  I watch Janni to see whether she’s going to give in or bolt from the office. She has a grin on her face that disturbs me because it alters her expression, making her look calculating and manipulative. But what really bothers me is that it doesn’t look like Janni at all. If I believed in demonic possession, I would swear that in these moments she’s possessed.

  Janni is sneaking back to the computer.

  “Janni.” Heidi turns to her. “I asked you before not to play with my computer. I have important files on it.”

  “I’m working,” Janni replies, the same twisted smile on her face, still randomly punching away at the keyboard.

  “Janni, she asked you not to touch her computer! We have to respect other people’s things.”

  “Here, you can play with this.” Heidi hands her a toy.

  Heidi turns back to me. “You need to look at the percentages. On the next page.”

  I nervously look away from Janni, knowing that toy will only hold her interest for a few seconds. I turn the page of the document Heidi has given me. I see things like “Verbal >99.9%.”

  “This is why I needed you to come in instead of just mailing the results,” Heidi goes on. “There are things I need to explain.”

  “I want to go,” Janni whines.

  “We’re going to go. I just need a second.”

  “If you look at all her percentages,” Heidi goes on, “some of them, such as verbal, are even greater than ninety-nine percent.”

  She points to one of the marks that show >99.9%. “This means that she reached the maximum the test can calculate.”

  “What?” I ask, distracted as Janni breaks for the office door. “Janni! Come over here. We’re almost done.” I stand up, terrified Janni is going to run, which she does. “No” and “Stay here” have no meaning. If we don’t go where she wants, Janni will literally just walk out the door. I only have a few more seconds to get as much information as I can. “What does that mean exactly?”

  “It means she broke the test. One-fifty is as high as the Stanford-Binet Five test goes. She’s at 146, and that was without any writing. I couldn’t get her to do any writing.”

  “Yeah, neither can we,” I say, holding on to Janni’s arm, keeping her next to me as she tries to run again.

  “She knows how to write, but gets frustrated because she can’t write like a computer. She screams and tears up the paper,” Susan adds.

  “There could be some OCD,” Heidi says, relenting. “But here’s the issue. Mentally, she’s between ten and eleven. That is where all your problems are going to come from.”

  I let this sink in: mental capacity of a ten- or eleven-year-old. Janni is four. Her mind is older than her body. She is angry because she is mentally older than she looks, but all everybody other than Susan and I sees is a little kid.

  “So what do we do now that we know?” I ask.

  “She needs to go to a gifted school.”

  Yes! That is what I want, so maybe Janni will find others like her.

  “Can you recommend any?”

  “Mirman.”

  I sigh. Mirman is a school for highly gifted kids. We’ve already contacted them. But there are two problems. One, all kids must be potty-trained and Janni is still wearing Pull-Ups. She knows how to go but refuses to do it in the potty. She runs around without a diaper for hours. When she has to go, she gets a diaper, puts it on, does her business, then takes it off and puts it in the trash. There is no bribing her, for the same reason that punishing her doesn’t work. At one point, trying to get her to behave, I took away all her toys except for her favorite stuffed bear, Hero, which she sleeps with. I would never take him. Her toys sat up above the kitchen cabine
ts for weeks and Janni didn’t care. The only things she really cares about are her imaginary friends, and I can’t take them away.

  Mirman also requires an “entrance interview.” In my mind, I can see how that would play out. The principal walks in and says, “Hello, January,” and Janni screams, “I’m not January!” And that would be the end of that.

  “We have already talked to Mirman,” I say to Heidi. “They won’t take her unless she is potty-trained.”

  “Well, maybe when they see these numbers they’ll change their mind.”

  I have my doubts. Mirman seems pretty strict about their rules. I am convinced that all Janni needs is kids like her, kids with her genius, and everything will be fine, but stupid rules prevent her from reaching her potential.

  “You just have to keep trying,” Heidi replies. “There is no other option. She has to go to Mirman. She will not make it in regular school.”

  I lose my grip, and Janni flies out the door.

  CHAPTER THREE

  February 2007

  Where are we going?” Janni asks. “I want pizza.”

  “We’re going to Violet’s birthday party.” I grit my teeth, knowing what’s coming.

  “I don’t like Violet!”

  I sigh.

  “Janni, she’s a nice girl.”

  “I hate her,” she says, like she’s pointing out it’s a sunny day. There is no animosity in her voice, which is why I don’t believe her.

  “Why do you hate her? Hate is such a strong emotion, Janni. We reserve hate for people who really hurt us. Violet’s never hurt you.”

  “I still don’t like her.”

  Janni doesn’t have many friends left, but I cling to hope with Violet. Violet is a smart girl. I can dismiss how Janni treats other kids when they’re not on her “level,” but that’s not the case with Violet.

  “Why not?” I press, desperate for her not to alienate Violet.

  “She doesn’t like dogs.”

  “Did you ask her?”

  “No.”