Walsh Family Universe V2

Chapter 75
Overruled

The testing happened whether Ash wanted it or not.

Two weeks after the teachers' calls, a woman from the gifted program office pulled him out of class for "assessments." Three hours of cognitive tests, achievement tests, reading comprehension, mathematical reasoning, abstract problem-solving.

Ash tried to throw the tests. Really, he did. Answered some questions wrong deliberately, worked slower than he could, pretended to struggle with concepts he understood instantly.

But his adult brain wouldn't cooperate. Would see the patterns and solve the problems before he could stop himself. Would read the passages and understand the themes and connections automatically.

He walked out knowing he'd failed at failing.

The results came back two weeks later.

Ash was doing homework at the kitchen table when his parents came in together—always a bad sign. United front meant a decision had been made.

"We need to talk," Dad said, sitting down across from him.

Mom sat too, hands folded on the table. Professional meeting posture.

"The test results came back," Mom said. "You scored in the 99th percentile in every category. Verbal reasoning, mathematical ability, abstract thinking, reading comprehension—"

"We're not surprised," Dad interrupted. "We knew you were bright. But the school psychologist said she's never seen scores this consistent across all domains. You're functioning academically at a high school level, possibly beyond."

Ash said nothing. Just waited for the inevitable.

"The school is recommending immediate placement in the gifted program," Mom continued. "Advanced English, Algebra instead of pre-algebra, accelerated science, and honors social studies."

"No," Ash said.

"Honey—"

"I said no. I don't want to be in gifted classes."

"Noam, we let you stay in regular classes through elementary school for social development reasons," Dad said carefully. "You needed age-appropriate peer interactions, and the regular curriculum wasn't actively harmful even if it wasn't challenging. But middle school is different. You're thirty-three years old mentally. You have adult reasoning and life experience. Sitting in pre-algebra learning concepts you mastered two decades ago isn't education—it's warehousing."

"I'm doing fine."

"You're not learning anything. And now the school has teachers with specialized degrees who can actually challenge you appropriately. Teachers trained to work with gifted students, who understand advanced curriculum." Dad pulled out the folder. "This is what we couldn't offer before—actual intellectual engagement suitable for someone with your capabilities."

"I don't care about capabilities. I care about being with my friends."

"You'll still have lunch with your friends," Mom said. "And you'll still see them between classes. But Noam—you have the mind of an adult with life experience. Pretending otherwise isn't healthy."

"You were in gifted classes before too," Dad added. "In your first childhood. From third grade on. This isn't new territory—it's actually what would have happened naturally if circumstances had been different."

That stopped Ash cold. He'd forgotten that detail. In his first childhood, he'd been in gifted classes. Had hated them for different reasons—the social isolation, being labeled different when he was already different in ways he couldn't name.

"That was different."

"Was it? You were intellectually advanced then, you're intellectually advanced now. The only difference is now you have the added benefit of adult knowledge and experience." Dad's voice was gentle but firm. "We're not going to hold you back academically because you want to blend in socially."

"So I'll be alone. In classes full of kids I don't know, doing harder work, being even more of a target."

"The gifted program has other students who are academically advanced," Dad said. "And more importantly, you'll have teachers who can actually teach you something. Who have master's degrees in their subjects, who are trained in gifted education. This is the opportunity we couldn't give you before."

"I don't want an opportunity! I want normal friends and normal classes and to not be special!"

"But you're not normal," Dad said, not unkindly. "You're an adult. You have thirty-three years of life experience and adult reasoning. We can't pretend otherwise, and asking you to sit through middle school curriculum as if you're actually twelve isn't fair to you."

"It's what I want!"

"Sometimes what you want and what you need are different things," Dad said. "And as your parents, we have to prioritize your needs. You need intellectual stimulation. You need to be challenged. You need—"

"I need you to listen to me!" Ash's voice cracked on the last word—breaking high and squeaky before dropping back down. "I need you to let me have some say in my own life!"

"You can't just decide that without me!"

"We can, and we have. We're your parents. This is what's best for you educationally."

"You don't know what's best for me!" Ash stood up, chair scraping loudly. "You don't know what it's like being me! You don't know what middle school is like when you're different!"

"Then tell us," Mom said. "Talk to us about what you're experiencing—"

"I have been telling you! I told you kids are giving me a hard time! I told you I want to blend in! But you don't care because you care more about test scores than about me being happy!"

"That's not fair," Dad said, standing too. "We care about your wellbeing, which includes being appropriately challenged—"

"Stop saying that! Stop acting like you know what I need!" Ash felt tears of frustration burning. "You moved me to gifted classes before, remember? In my first—in elementary school. And I hated it. I hated being separated from everyone else, hated being labeled, hated being treated like I was different!"

Mom and Dad exchanged glances. They didn't remember that, of course. His first elementary school experience was lost to them in the regression.

"This is different," Mom said carefully. "You'll have support, you'll have peers who understand—"

"I don't want support! I don't want understanding! I want to be left alone!" Ash grabbed his backpack. "I'm not doing it. You can sign whatever forms you want, but I'm not going to those classes."

"Noam Francis Walsh—" Dad's voice took on the lawyer tone. "This isn't a negotiation. The decision has been made. You will attend the gifted track classes starting after fall break."

"No."

"Yes."

"You can't make me!"

"We absolutely can. We're your parents, and we're making an educational decision in your best interest."

"It's not in my best interest! It's what you want, not what I want!"

"Sometimes what you want and what you need are different things," Dad said. "And as your parents, we have to prioritize your needs."

Ash felt something break inside. The careful control he'd been maintaining, the good-son performance, the pretense that any of this was okay.

"I hate you!" he shouted, voice cracking again on the word 'hate'—embarrassingly high-pitched. "I hate both of you! You took everything from me and now you won't even let me have this one normal thing! You won't let me choose anything!"

"Noam—" Mom reached for him.

He jerked away. "Don't touch me! Don't—just leave me alone!"

He ran upstairs, slammed his bedroom door hard enough that the whole house shook.

Behind him, he heard Mom's voice, shaky: "Should we—"

"Give him space," Dad said quietly. "Let him cool down."

Ash threw his backpack across the room. It hit the wall and slumped to the floor. He wanted to throw more things, wanted to break something, wanted to scream until his voice gave out.

Instead, he collapsed on his bed, face pressed into his pillow, and let the angry tears come.

They were doing it again. Making decisions about his life without his input, without his consent. Deciding what was best for him based on test scores and psychological evaluations and their own guilt about failing him the first time.

He'd begged them. Had explained why he wanted to stay in regular classes. Had told them about the bullying, the social consequences, the desire to just be normal.

And they'd overruled him. Because they knew better. Because they were the parents and he was the child and his opinion didn't matter.

Just like the courtroom. Just like the conservatorship. Just like every major decision in this life—other people deciding what was best for him, taking away his choices, his autonomy, his ability to control anything about his own existence.

There was a knock on his door an hour later.

"Noam? Honey?" Mom's voice. "Can I come in?"

"No."

"Please. I want to talk."

"I don't want to talk to you."

Silence. Then: "I'm coming in anyway."

The door opened. Mom stood in the doorway, looking tired and sad.

"I know you're angry," she said.

"Get out."

"I'm not leaving." She sat on the edge of his bed. "You have every right to be upset. This is a big change, and we're making you do it even though you don't want to."

"So don't make me."

"We have to. Noam, you're not a regular sixth grader. You're an adult with adult reasoning who happens to be in a sixth grade body." Mom touched his shoulder gently. "In elementary school, we could justify keeping you in regular classes because the social development was more important than the academics. But now? Now we have teachers who can actually teach you something. Teachers with specialized training who understand how to challenge gifted students."

"Why does everything have to be challenging?"

"Because you're not actually learning anything right now. You're sitting through lessons on material you mastered years—decades—ago. That's not education." Mom was quiet for a moment. "And you were in gifted classes before, in your first childhood. From third grade on. You know what that's like. This isn't us forcing something foreign on you—it's actually the natural progression."

"I hated gifted classes before."

"I know. But maybe that was because you were dealing with other things then. Things that made everything harder." Mom's voice was gentle. "You don't have those same burdens now. You have the right body, the right identity. Maybe this time it can be different."

"Maybe I want to hide! Maybe being invisible is better than being a target!"

"Being invisible means not being seen. Not being known. Not being yourself." Mom wiped her eyes. "I know it's scary to stand out. I know middle school is hard. But pretending to be someone you're not—that's harder in the long run."

Ash said nothing. Just stared at the wall.

"The decision stands," Mom said finally. "After fall break, you start the gifted track. But we'll support you through it. We'll talk to the school about the bullying, we'll make sure you still have time with your friends, we'll help you adjust."

"I don't want your help."

"Too bad. You're getting it anyway." Mom stood up. "I love you, Noam. Even when you hate me. That's what parents do."

She left, closing the door softly behind her.

Ash rolled over, stared at the ceiling. The anger was still there, simmering under his skin, but now it was mixed with something else. Resignation, maybe. The familiar weight of having no real control over his life.

They'd made the decision. He'd start gifted classes in two weeks.

And there was nothing he could do about it.

The next week at school was miserable.

Knowing he was leaving regular classes made everything worse. Every day with Marcus and Tyler and Daniel and Emma in his classes felt like a countdown. Two weeks. One week. Five days.

Brett and his friends seemed to sense the change, ratcheted up the harassment. More comments about him being too smart, too good for everyone, a teacher's pet show-off.

Ash tried to explain to his friends what was happening.

"They're moving me to gifted classes after break," he said at lunch. "Advanced everything."

"That sucks," Marcus said. "We won't have any classes together anymore."

"At least you'll still have lunch with us," Emma pointed out. "And you'll be with other smart kids. Maybe it'll be less boring."

"I don't want less boring. I want normal."

"Normal is overrated," Daniel said. "Trust me, normal classes are just as bad, but with more stupid people."

Tyler was quieter. "Are you okay? Like, really okay? You've been weird lately."

"I'm fine."

"You're not fine. You've been angry all the time. Snapping at people. Yesterday you nearly bit Ms. Harper's head off when she corrected your paper."

Had he? Ash tried to remember. Yeah, he'd been short with her. Defensive. The corrections had felt like attacks, like she was proving he wasn't as smart as everyone claimed.

"I'm just stressed," Ash said.

"Well, stop being stressed at us. We're your friends. We're not the enemy." Tyler grabbed his tray. "I have to go. Student council meeting."

After he left, Marcus and Daniel exchanged glances.

"He's right though," Marcus said carefully. "You have been kind of... intense lately. Is everything okay at home?"

"Everything's fine."

"Noam—"

"I said it's fine. Can we just drop it?"

Emma reached over, squeezed his hand. "We're worried about you. That's all."

Ash pulled his hand away. "Don't be. I'm fine."

But he wasn't fine. He could feel it—something off in his body, in his mood. Irritability that came from nowhere. Anger that spiked suddenly and took forever to fade. Sensitivity to everything, like his skin was too thin and the world was too loud.

He didn't recognize it yet. Didn't understand what was happening.

His body was changing. Hormones flooding his system. Puberty beginning its slow, inevitable work.

And with it came the anger.

Fall break came and went. Five days of freedom that felt more like a countdown to execution.

Mom took him shopping for new school supplies—binders for his new classes, a scientific calculator for algebra, a separate notebook for each subject. Trying to make it exciting, trying to frame it as an opportunity.

Ash went through the motions. Said "yes" and "no" and "fine" and tried not to think about Monday.

Sunday night, he couldn't sleep. Lay in bed staring at the ceiling, dreading the morning.

New classes. New teachers. New students who would all be older, smarter, more accomplished. Kids who'd been in gifted programs since elementary school, who knew each other, who had already formed their social groups.

And him, the new kid. The sixth grader in classes full of seventh and eighth graders. The young one, the small one, trying to prove he belonged.

Monday morning, Mom drove him to school instead of the bus.

"First day of gifted classes," she said, trying to sound upbeat. "You're going to do great."

"Yeah."

"Noam, please try. Give it a chance. You might actually like it."

"Sure."

"And if anyone gives you trouble—Brett or anyone else—you tell a teacher immediately. Okay?"

"Okay."

She hugged him before he got out. Held on maybe a second too long.

"I love you. I know you don't want to hear that right now, but I do. And I'm proud of you."

Ash didn't respond. Just grabbed his backpack and walked into the building.

The day was exactly as bad as he'd anticipated.

Advanced English was full of seventh and eighth graders who all seemed to know each other. When Ms. Callahan (the gifted English teacher) introduced him, they looked at him with a mixture of curiosity and dismissal. The new sixth grader. The baby.

The material was actually challenging—analyzing poetry, discussing literary theory, writing analytical essays. For the first time in over a decade, Ash had to actually think about his schoolwork.

He hated it.

Not because it was hard. Because it required effort. Because he couldn't just coast on his adult knowledge anymore. These students were smart, engaged, passionate about literature and language. He had to keep up, had to prove he belonged.

Algebra was worse. Seventh and eighth graders who'd been doing advanced math for years. Mr. Patel (the algebra teacher) moved fast, assumed everyone had a solid foundation, built concept on concept without much review.

Ash followed along, but barely. He knew algebra—had taken it decades ago—but remembering the specifics while also pretending to be learning it for the first time was exhausting.

At lunch, he found his friends.

"How's gifted kid life?" Daniel asked.

"Terrible."

"What's terrible about it?" Emma wanted details.

"Everything. The kids are all older, the work is actually hard, the teachers assume you know stuff already." Ash pushed his food around. "And everyone looks at me like I don't belong there."

"Do you belong there?" Marcus asked.

"I don't know. Maybe. But that doesn't mean I want to be there."

The afternoon was more of the same. Advanced science, honors history. Smart kids who were used to being the smartest, who asked complex questions and made sophisticated observations. Teachers who expected excellence, who didn't accept "good enough."

By the end of the day, Ash was exhausted. Mentally drained in a way he hadn't been since his year at art school, since actually having to work for grades.

Brett caught him at his locker.

"Heard you got moved to the genius classes," Brett said. "Guess regular school wasn't good enough for you."

"Leave me alone."

"What's wrong? Gifted program too hard for the baby genius?"

"I said leave me alone."

Brett leaned in closer. "Make me."

Ash felt the anger spike—sudden, hot, overwhelming. Felt his hands curl into fists. Felt the urge to hit, to hurt, to make Brett shut up.

But he controlled it. Barely. Turned and walked away while Brett laughed behind him.

That night at dinner, Mom asked how it went.

"Fine," Ash said.

"Just fine?"

"The classes are hard. The kids are older. It's exactly what I said it would be."

Dad looked up from his plate. "Hard isn't bad. You need to be challenged."

"I didn't need to be challenged. I needed to be left alone."

"Noam—"

"Can we not do this? Can we not have the 'this is good for you' conversation again?" Ash stood up, barely having touched his food. "I'm not hungry. I'm going to my room."

"You need to eat," Mom said.

"I said I'm not hungry."

He went upstairs, closed his door. Heard his parents talking in low voices below.

"He's having a hard time adjusting," Mom said.

"He'll adjust. It's only the first day."

"Patrick, maybe we pushed too hard. Maybe we should have—"

"We made the right decision. He'll see that eventually."

Ash lay on his bed, staring at his ceiling. The anger was still there, simmering. Anger at his parents, at the school, at Brett, at the gifted program kids who made him feel inadequate, at his own brain for being too smart to hide.

Anger at everything.

He didn't recognize it yet—didn't understand that this constant irritability, this quick temper, this feeling like his skin was too tight and his emotions too big was his body changing. Testosterone flooding his system, puberty beginning its work.

He just felt angry.

All the time.

And he didn't know what to do with it.

"My name is Ash," he whispered to his dark room. "I'm thirty-three years old. I'm eleven years old. Today I started gifted classes I didn't want, in classes full of kids who are smarter and older and more accomplished. Today I had to actually work in school for the first time in a decade. Today my parents overruled my choices again and I can't do anything about it. Today I wanted to hit Brett so badly my hands were shaking."

He paused.

"Today I felt rage like I've never felt before. And I don't know if it's about the situation or about something changing in my body. But it scares me."

Four thousand, six hundred and forty-three days to go.

But tomorrow, he'd have to do it all again. Gifted classes. Older kids. Hard work. Brett's harassment.

And the anger would still be there.

Growing. Building. Waiting to explode.

One day at a time.

One provocation away from losing control.