Educated

say when or why, I decided that I didn’t need the jacket after all. For the rest
of the night, I didn’t have to remember to be Shannon; I talked and laughed
without pretending at all.
Charles and I spent every evening together that week. We haunted public
parks and ice cream shops, burger joints and gas stations. I took him to
Stokes, because I loved it there, and because the assistant manager would
always give me the unsold doughnuts from the bakery. We talked about
music—about bands I’d never heard of and about how he wanted to be a
musician and travel the world. We never talked about us—about whether we
were friends or something else. I wished he would bring it up but he didn’t. I
wished he would let me know some other way—by gently taking my hand or
putting an arm around me—but he didn’t do that, either.
On Friday we stayed out late, and when I came home the house was dark.
Mother’s computer was on, the screen saver casting a green light over the
living room. I sat down and mechanically checked BYU’s website. Grades
had been posted. I’d passed. More than passed. I’d earned A’s in every
subject except Western Civ. I would get a scholarship for half of my tuition. I
could go back.
Charles and I spent the next afternoon in the park, rocking lazily in tire
swings. I told him about the scholarship. I’d meant it as a brag, but for some
reason my fears came out with it. I said I shouldn’t even be in college, that I
should be made to finish high school first. Or to at least start it.
Charles sat quietly while I talked and didn’t say anything for a long time
after. Then he said, “Are you angry your parents didn’t put you in school?”
“It was an advantage!” I said, half-shouting. My response was instinctive.
It was like hearing a phrase from a catchy song: I couldn’t stop myself from
reciting the next line. Charles looked at me skeptically, as if asking me to
reconcile that with what I’d said only moments before.
“Well, I’m angry,” he said. “Even if you aren’t.”
I said nothing. I’d never heard anyone criticize my father except Shawn,
and I wasn’t able to respond to it. I wanted to tell Charles about the
Illuminati, but the words belonged to my father, and even in my mind they
sounded awkward, rehearsed. I was ashamed at my inability to take
possession of them. I believed then—and part of me will always believe—
that my father’s words ought to be my own.