Normally her dad said he felt disappointed, frustrated, confused. Her mom usually said something like “I just don’t want you to start thinking of yourself as ‘stupid’ or ‘bad at school,’ because that will follow you all your life…”

This time, they spoke softly. Her mom held her hand.

They were worried.

This was real.

Marianne nibbled on her cookie as they discussed the “game plan” and she dove happily into the Drift. She tried to test how many lyrics she could remember to “Hotel California,” a song her sister knew on the guitar. She remembered how hard she’d laughed when she and Lillian had looked up the lyrics and saw the first Google result was “Why is ‘Hotel California’ such a bad song?” They’d decided then and there that it was their favorite ever.

“Are you humming the Eagles?” her dad interrupted his lecture to ask.

“Huh?” she answered.

Her dad was a flautist and taught music theory at the Community College of Brookdale. You’d think he’d be more excited about music.

“These cookies are really yummy,” she said.

“She’s shutting me out, but what else is new?” her dad grumbled to her mom.

Wow. New Nice Dad had lasted for about three minutes. Stressed Annoyed Dad was back.

A fantasy took over her mind:

Her, Marianne Blume, at a Quiz Quest tournament. Multiple cameras and a spotlight pointed at two groups of kids. A big ticking clock counted down the seconds above their heads. A person wearing a Supreme Court–style robe asked questions. In her daydream, the teams were tied. One final question and the winner would be determined.

“And now, for the gold medal,” the Supreme Court judge’s voice boomed, “who was the second president of the United States?”

Marianne slammed her hand on the buzzer. “John Adams!” she hollered.

“Correct!”

Gold balloons fell from the ceiling with silver confetti, blanketing her hair. Her teammates lifted her up. Vi Cross mouthed to her, “I’m sorry about the gum!” And her dad sat out there in the audience, tears streaming down his face.

“Isn’t she great?” he bragged to anyone who could hear him.

“I did it!” she yelled to the crowd, her hands pumping in the air. “I’m making it to high school!”

“Marianne, did you hear me?” her dad said in real life.

“Sorry,” she muttered. “Hey, Dad, Mom, what do you know about trivia competitions?”

“Hmm? You mean like Jeopardy!?” her mom asked, dipping a cookie in the cider.

“I dunno,” she answered. “Is it like Jeopardy!? Have I ever seen it, like when I was littler? I don’t think I can even spell ‘jeopardy’…” she mumbled to herself. “J-e-a-p … Why is English like that?”

“Oh, now that is a long conversation,” her mom said.

“I don’t see how that’s at all relevant to this discussion,” her dad said. Within a second or two, he might literally pull out some of his receding auburn hair, Marianne could tell. “Am I missing something?” He’d reached peak frustration-without-yelling, and her mom took his hand in hers.