I make my way through the crowd and over to Red. It’s weird that he’s waiting in a new place with a big crew, and I’m walking up to them like I’m the one who doesn’t belong. But as soon as Red smiles at me, everything feels good and regular again. “You’re back,” he says, like he’s surprised and maybe he forgot I was only missing two days.
“We were all so worried about you,” Quinn says.
“Speak for yourself.” Dylan looks at Quinn, and then at me. “I didn’t notice you were gone. Where were you anyway?”
I can’t believe I didn’t think about how I was going to answer this question until now. Before I have a chance to respond, Quinn answers for me, “They’re trying to figure out what’s wrong with her.”
“Um, everything,” someone says under their breath.
One of the other girls giggles.
My chest tightens. I wish getting made fun of didn’t hurt so much every time and I could get better at it, like I have with chess, but it’s the kind of thing that never seems to get easier.
“It’s too bad you can’t play chess anymore,” Quinn says.
“I am playing chess!” I shout back.
“Wow,” Quinn says. “It’s not my fault you’re bad at everything.”
“I got tested for ADHD,” I say. “It’s really not a big deal. A lot of people have it.” I try to sound confident.
“A lot of smart people, like Albert Einstein and JFK and Mozart,” Red adds.
Einstein? Really? I definitely didn’t know that.
“Because clearly Clea is just like Einstein.” Quinn laughs. “I’m not trying to be mean or anything, but smart people don’t get Fs.” She looks at me when she says it.
“Don’t,” Red whispers to me.
But it hurts so much, and before I can take a breath or think or stop myself, the words are out of my mouth, flying through the air, like the letters and sounds and syllables are in control, not me. “I didn’t get an F!” I shout. “I didn’t!”
Quinn doesn’t say anything. No one does. It’s silent. Everyone around us stops talking. They stare at me and then at each other, trading silent messages with their eyes, making it obvious that they think Quinn is right about me.
The bell rings, and everyone but Red disappears inside.
Red stays next to me. “Thanks,” I say. “For backing me up.” Because I want him to know it matters.
“I should have cut you off before—” he says.
I shake my head. “You tried. I’m sorry. I won’t do anything like that ever again.”
“Okay. Sure,” Red says, like he really doesn’t believe me.
“I promise,” I say.
“I mean, that would be good.”
“I didn’t know all those people had ADHD,” I say.
“Yeah, me neither. I looked it up after we talked, because I realized I didn’t actually know anything about it,” he says. “I was surprised. Everyone on the list I found was smart or really talented.”
“I mean, if smart people have it then I probably don’t,” I say.
“Maybe you do?”
“I’m scared to find out. I feel like no matter what happens, it’s going to be bad.”
“It can’t really get worse,” he says.
I nod, except deep down I’m afraid it’s never going to get better, because Quinn is right—I’m stupid. Smart people don’t get Fs.
* * *
I’m in science, pouring distilled water into a plastic cup, when Sanam whispers in my ear, “Do you like-like Red?”
“Definitely not,” I say.
“Really? You’re, like, one hundred percent sure?”
“I am. I swear,” I say.
“Hmm. I really thought you wanted to be BF-GF with him.”
“He doesn’t give me that feeling—in my stomach.”
She nods. “I get what you mean.”
“Who told you I did?” I ask.
“No one. I just wanted to check.”
“I mean, I’d obviously tell you if I liked him,” I say.
She adds a pinch of baking soda to the cup and says, “Don’t tell anyone this, but I, um …” She stops herself. “Never mind.”
“I won’t tell. Cross my heart.” I look at her. “I swear—on chess.”
Sanam takes a deep breath and then leans in closer. “I think I, um, like-like him. Red, I mean.”
“What?!” My voice comes out a little too loud.
The girls at the table in front of us turn around and stare.
“Shhh!” Sanam says.
“I’m sorry. I just—wow. I had no clue.” I lower my voice. “But that’s cool. I promise not to tell.”
“Has he, um, ever said anything about me?” Sanam looks at her hands.
“I mean, he’s always talking about how you’re way better at chess than he is. It comes up kind of a lot. And I don’t think he likes anyone else, because I’m pretty sure he would have told me if he did.”
Sanam smiles. “Good to know.”
“Fingers crossed he likes you back.” I cross my fingers on both hands.
Sanam does, too.
It feels important, like a secret friendship pact.
* * *
After lunch, I go straight to chess practice and find my spot on the pairing sheet. I’m playing Quinn.
No! Why me?
I sit down across the table from her without looking up. She’s the last person on earth I want to deal with right now. I can’t wait to start playing. All I want to do is zone out and float away to a far-off land where I’m not the problem. Except when I look at the board, half the pieces are missing.
“Welcome to Pawn Wars,” Mr. Lee says. “There should be two rows of pawns on the board in front of you. The player who gets one of their pawns to the other side first wins. This exercise should help you hone your skills and your pawn strategy. Just as a reminder, this is the last practice before our tournament on Saturday. Please be in our team room at 9:15 a.m. As you know from last year, I like to wait until we’re together before I share who will be representing our team. I expect each of you to be on time and ready to play. Also, before you leave today, please sign up to volunteer at the raffle on Monday at lunch. There are a lot of great prizes this year that will help us raise money for our annual chess camp. Any questions before we get started?” I have so many swirling around in my brain, like what are my chances of playing if I don’t win right now and how am I supposed to beat Quinn with only pawns. Except I can’t ask any of those questions out loud. “Okay, then, get to work,” Mr. Lee says.
Quinn hits the clock.
I move my pawn on the queen’s side up two squares and then tap the clock.
Quinn slides her pawn on the same file up one spot.
I’m pretty sure I need to get my pawns in a position where they’re in little triangles, because I want them to be able to protect each other as I move them forward. I basically need to create a situation where my pawns outnumber Quinn’s. That way even if she captures one of mine, I can capture one of hers and still be defended.
At first, my strategy is working really well, except that Quinn has the exact same plan. She moves her pieces quickly and hits the clock in this way, like she thinks she’s definitely going to win. And I can’t tell if she has experience playing with only pawns, or if she’s just acting super confident because that’s how she is.
We go head-to-head for a while, until she eventually outnumbers me. I have no idea what I’m supposed to do next. I only have two possible moves and neither one is going to get me to the other side of the board. There’s no way for me to win.
I’m about to give up when I realize I only have two legal moves left. If I make both of them and Quinn still hasn’t won, it’s a draw! It’s not winning, but it’s a lot better than losing. And if Quinn goes for it, it could maybe be enough to impress Mr. Lee and secure my spot in the tournament.
I slide my pawn up one square.
Quinn immediately captures my pawn with her
pawn.
I make the only other legal move I can.
Quinn moves another one of her pawns, toward my side of the board, aiming to win. But there’s nothing left for me to do.
I put my hand up so Mr. Lee knows we’re done.
“What are you doing?” Quinn glares at me.
“I don’t have any moves left,” I say. “The game is over.”
“Awesome,” she says. “I love winning.”
“It’s a draw,” I correct her.
“That’s what I meant,” she says quickly, trying to pick up the pieces, but it’s too late. I already know.
Mr. Lee walks over to us, holding his clipboard. “Great work thinking on your feet, Clea. Very smart strategy.” He’s looking at the board and nodding, like even though I didn’t win, he’s still impressed. Like maybe my draw is enough to convince him that I’m advanced and ready to play in the tournament.
ON FRIDAY, MY stomach is fluttering when Mom and I get to Dr. Gold’s office. Dad is in the waiting room. He smiles as soon as we walk in and moves his luggage out of the way to make space for us. He hugs me, squeezing extra tight, and then kisses Mom, wrapping his arm around her. He doesn’t let go, even after we all sit down. His hand stays firm against her shoulder.
Dad has been in California all week working on some “big deal” that’s going to take up a lot of extra time. For the next few months, he’s not always going to be home on Thursdays. It’s only been one week and I already hate it. Sometimes I wonder what it would be like to have the kind of dad who stayed in the same place as me all the time. And then I think about Red, and how his dad is never home because he lives in a different state, and I feel bad being upset when he has it so much worse.
Mom whispers something in Dad’s ear. I wonder if she’s talking softly because she doesn’t want me to know what she’s saying, or if there’s some secret rule that we’re not supposed to disturb other people’s waiting. We aren’t the only ones in the room today. There are a few other families, but it’s still silent.
I put in my earbuds and turn on one of my shows, because I want to zone out for a few minutes. Only, Mom keeps glancing over at me when she thinks I’m not looking, like she’s checking to make sure I’m okay. And I would be fine, if she’d stop staring and making it impossible for me to think about anything other than what’s about to happen when Dr. Gold finally opens the door.
I’m not sure I know how I feel, other than nervous. No matter what she says, the news is going to be bad. I don’t want her to say everything is fine, when I know deep down it’s not, and I don’t want anything to be really wrong with me, either.
Dr. Gold opens the door and says, “Come on in.” She’s wearing a long dress that’s covered with pink and purple flowers. I walk into her office first and pick the chair by the door. Mom and Dad sit next to each other on the sofa.
“Welcome,” she says to Dad. “And welcome back.” She smiles at Mom and then at me.
It feels hot and cramped in her office today with an extra person. Everything seems smaller. I look down at the shaggy rug and remind myself to breathe.
Dr. Gold continues. “Let me start by saying that you did very well on the intelligence test, Clea.”
I look up at her, because I’m not sure I heard her correctly.
“That’s good, right?” Mom’s words rattle together.
Dr. Gold nods.
“No way,” I say. “That’s definitely a mistake.”
“It’s not, Clea,” Dr. Gold says. “You have a high IQ. And you don’t have a learning disability that might be causing additional processing challenges.”
“So what’s wrong with me?” I blurt out.
“I know you’re eager for an answer, and you will have one very soon. But what I want to do right now is share what Ms. Curtis and I both observed during your evaluation, as well as some of the challenges that your teachers shared with Ms. Curtis. Then we can talk about the root of those challenges. Does that sound okay to you?”
“Um, I guess,” I say, because I don’t want to be rude. But I really wish she’d get it over with and tell us already.
Dr. Gold looks at her notes. “We noticed that you struggle to follow instructions. You have a hard time listening, and paying close attention to details is difficult. You’re easily distracted during class and at home, and forgetful when it comes to things you’re expected to do every day. It’s hard for you to stay focused. These are all symptoms of inattention,” she says. “At the same time, you also struggle with impulsivity. It can be challenging for you to wait your turn and take your time, which can cause you to fall and run into things. You have a tendency to blurt out what you’re thinking, interrupt conversations, and talk over people.”
“I still don’t get it,” I say. “Nothing you said is that a big of a deal.”
“I was just thinking that,” Dad agrees. “All of those things happen to me.”
“The difference is Clea experiences these symptoms persistently. They’re enduring and constant for her. And while each one on its own might not seem like a big deal, when you put them together and they’re happening at the same time, they can get in the way and create a lot of problems. They already have.”
“Oh. Okay,” Dad says. “I can see that.”
Mom nods. “Me too.”
“The official diagnosis is attention-deficit/hyperactivity disorder: predominantly inattentive presentation.”
“I don’t get what having ADHD means,” I say. “Like, what’s going to happen to me now?”
“That’s a great question,” Dr. Gold says. “Ms. Curtis and I will work together and come up with a plan to support you in school, which will include things like organizational help, weekly check-ins, and extra time. Then I’ll speak with your parents about the possibility of combining our plan with medication to help with your symptoms.”
“So, basically this is, like, a fancy medical way of saying I’m stupid and lazy and here’s a pill to fix everything, right?”
“ADHD has nothing to do with intelligence or work ethic.” Dr. Gold looks right at me when she says it.
“That makes no sense,” I say. “I need to try harder and focus so I stop messing everything up.”
Dr. Gold takes a deep breath. “Clea, because you are so capable, intelligent, and driven to succeed, you have been able to compensate for your ADHD, but as the demands of school have increased, managing your work has become more challenging. I suspect that has created confusion about what it means to work hard, and that you’ve spent a lot of time blaming yourself for not putting in enough effort or for not being good enough, because you didn’t realize that ADHD was standing in your way.”
All the things Dr. Gold just said seem like they could be true, but it still feels like everything that’s been happening in school is my fault, even if I have ADHD. Now I’m afraid that maybe I messed up her test, too, because that’s kind of my thing lately. I don’t want her to give me a plan or a pill that doesn’t work because she thinks I’m something I’m not.
“I don’t think I should take medicine,” I say.
“Clea,” Mom says. “That’s a decision for the adults.”
I can’t let Mom, Dad, and Dr. Gold sit around talking about me when I’m not in the room. And I don’t want my parents to decide. They never know what’s right for me anymore, like with chess and how they want me to quit even though I love it. “It’s happening to me. I should get a say.”
“I know, sweetheart, but this is a very serious decision. Dad and I will figure out what’s best for you.”
“I bet.” I roll my eyes. “Because you’re so good at that.”
“Don’t be rude,” Dad says.
“I’m being honest,” I say. “I don’t want to take medicine.”
“I’m sorry you feel that way,” Mom says. “But if there is a way to solve this problem, we’re going to at least consider the option.”
“And I’m sorry—for being such a huge problem,” I say back.
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“That’s not what I meant, and you know it.”
Only I don’t.
“I like to be transparent with my patients at every age, especially when they ask to be involved,” Dr. Gold says. “What might work best is if we all discuss the option of medication now, take the weekend to digest, and come back together next week to make a decision. And if your parents have follow-up questions, I can find a separate time to talk with them, since ultimately they will be the ones deciding if medicine is or isn’t right for you.”
“That works for me,” Dad says.
“Me too,” Mom says.
“Fine,” I say, because I like that Dr. Gold always talks to me. And even though I don’t think it’s fair that what happens is 100 percent up to my parents, I know nothing I say is going to change the fact that they’re adults and I’m not.
“Okay, good,” Dr. Gold says. “First of all, I want to be clear that ADHD is a variation of how some people’s attention systems work. It’s something you’ll have to learn to manage, but nothing is broken. So the medication used to treat ADHD is not a ‘problem solver.’ ” Dr. Gold looks at Mom. “That said, we have found that when medicine is prescribed in conjunction with educational support, patients have a very high rate of success managing their symptoms. If you are open to a combination treatment plan, I’d recommend a very low-dose stimulant, which would increase dopamine levels in Clea’s brain to boost concentration and reduce impulsivity. The medication I’d likely prescribe would take about twenty minutes to an hour to kick in, and it would work for about twelve hours.”
“Are there side effects?” Dad asks.
“Short term there can be reduced appetite, agitation, stomachaches, and trouble sleeping. We’d want to monitor Clea closely to make sure we have the right medication and the correct dose, especially as she continues to grow. But there are no major long-term effects.”
“How could anyone know that?” Dad asks. “These medications are so new.”
“That’s actually not true. The main ingredients in the stimulant I’d likely prescribe are amphetamine, which was first synthesized in 1887, and methylphenidate, developed in 1944,” Dr. Gold explains. “A lot of research has been done on both.”
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