‘Go stand in the corner?’—what even kept him in the corner, if they weren’t holding him there? He made them hold him every time.

‘I’ll take away your toys?’—he’d take away theirs. Smash the television enough times they had to keep it in their room with the door locked. Pull out drawers. Cut wires. Break the ship in a bottle that his Grandpa had left his dad.

They slapped him, because they’d finally lost patience? He’d scratched, he’d spat, he’d kicked. He’d doubled down in the physicality of how he fought back.

Those had been the ugly years.

He’d broken his own glasses during a tantrum, and the days of near-blindness that had followed had been a wake-up call. Maybe the first time a punishment had actually meant anything. Medication, half a year later, had helped him actually use the wake-up call. Adderall. Speed for kids, but it made it possible to change course.

That had marked the transition from the ugly tantrum years to the ‘fast food’ years, as he found a new footing, and those years had been brief. His parents had found people to talk to, and became annoying enough that he’d decided it was better to play along. They’d set rules in place and stuck to them no matter what. At that stage, he’d been entering middle school, which was attached to his elementary school.

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.”