Playing along meant being the angel at home and doing what he wanted at school. His parents were so relieved that their ‘worst baby ever’ and their grade schooler from hell had finally turned around that they would defend him to the death. Just so long as he fed them something that would let them believe he really had turned around.

That meant, at least for now, the change of schools had to be something that worked. At his old school? His teachers had hated him because they couldn’t let go of how he’d used to be. Students picked on him because the teachers allowed it, making up stories because they knew the teachers would believe anything they said about him, no matter how vicious or horrible. He’d crafted that impression for his parents.

Now he was here. He’d made friends, he was confident, and teachers sung his praises.

“This is really good work,” Amanda said, tucking her hair behind her ear so she could see him better, without actually sitting up straight or looking right at him. “It makes me feel even worse about mine.”

He was a bit amused by that, but he didn’t let it show. “I’ve always been a good student.”

“I’m jealous.”

Straight As since our report cards were A through F instead of being fives to ones, except when he didn’t hand something in. It was too important not to give his teachers any ammunition to hand to his parents. An intentionally messed up project couldn’t be explained away. A missing project could be blamed on the teacher’s failure.

He wasn’t a genius. His reading of people, his grades, he knew he wasn’t special. It was that everyone else was dumb, or they… they hadn’t had a reason to try. They coasted. It was a Tuesday, and he’d overheard some people talking about next Saturday’s morning cartoons.

He’d had to work for a long time now, at every interaction. Every project.

“This isn’t bad,” he lied, finishing up, passing her project back to her. He took his own back.

“Thank you,” she said.

“You never get out of your chair when it’s a group project or class activity.”

“There are twenty-nine students in class,” she said. “No matter what size the group is, someone has to be left out.”

“Thirty students in class now. I’m here,” he told her. “Unless you tell me not to, I’ll group with you until the end of the year, ’kay?”

She nodded, smiling. “Alright. Um, and it’s Manny.”

“Manny?”

“You wrote Amanda here. I wanted to get it out of the way. Manny, not Amanda. They always use our full name for roll call.”

He had to adjust his glasses.

“Got it,” he said, even though he didn’t. Manny was a dumb name for a girl.

The teacher was watching the exchange, he guessed. He couldn’t look. Perception mattered, and the last thing he wanted was to be seen as calculating.