Storymania - Good As Gold by Stormy

Good As Gold
Stormy

Sometimes I wasn’t sure which one I hated more. People find it hard to believe I hate my parents, even today, but they don’t know. They have no idea what it was like.

It’s funny how some trivial little thing will trigger a memory. I was watching TV the other night, one of those reality competition shows and a woman was wearing a t-shirt that read AU 79. “AU is the symbol for gold”, I thought to myself. “and the atomic number is 79.” It’s been 20 years since I’ve had to know that.

I was always an A student. Even in college when I was on my own and no longer had to worry about coming home with a B, I still pushed myself for the perfect grade. I have my father to thank for this. It’s hard to imagine how getting good grades can be a bad thing, but it can be.

The first time I came home with a failing grade was in 8th grade. I had been sick the day of the test and could barely keep my eyes open. I was sweating and shaky and just wanted to be home in bed. But I had never missed a day of school. I didn’t have a fever, at least none that my mother could detect by placing her hand on my forehead, so off to school I had gone. It had been health class, of all classes. I had failed a test in health. A few days later when the tests were handed back and I saw a big red 58 written on the top, I couldn’t believe it. I had never scored that low.

My parents always knew what tests I had. I guess I told them, I can’t really remember. When I got home with the failing health test, I instantly hid it. I don’t know why I didn’t just tear it up or throw it away. I don’t know why I didn’t go to the teacher and ask if I could take it over again. There are lots of unknowns in my past. A few days went by, but eventually my father asked to see my health test. I think I pretended I didn’t know what he was talking about. “What health test? I didn’t have a health test.” I handed over my history test and my math test and even my latest art project all with shining As and 100s on top. That was all very well and good, but Dad wanted to see that health test. He didn’t have time for any bullshit. Eventually I caved and dug it out from wherever I had hidden it.

Yelling, screaming and lots of crying, mostly by me and some by my mother ensued. How could I have been so stupid to have failed health? What was wrong with me? Didn’t I realize how important grades were? Did I want to flip burgers for the rest of my life and work two jobs just to make ends meet?

He didn’t want to hear excuses about being sick. Nothing could excuse a grade that bad. And health class. Of all the classes, what did a person have to know to pass health?

Eventually it was over and I retreated to my room and promptly hid in my closet. I was 13 years old and still hid in my closet just like I had when I was 5. My parents were right. I was a baby. I was a failure. I would never amount to anything. I thought about killing myself but couldn’t come up with a method that wouldn’t really hurt in some way.

At age 16 I was taking college level chemistry. My father was quite pleased by this. I was at the top of my class despite the 56 in 8th grade health and was looking over colleges. “A girl has to be twice as smart as a boy,” my father was always telling me. Life would have been better for all of us if I had been born a boy.

“But your mother wanted a girl and that’s what she got,” he would mumble. “Had a goddamn girl we did.”

I did what I could to try and make my father happy. I signed up for little league. Learned to fish and hunt. I played with trucks and cars instead of dolls. It didn’t matter, no matter how hard I tried. I was still a girl in his eyes. Eventually I quite trying.

Only a handful of kids could be accepted into the college courses. I tried for them all and wound up with two, chemistry and English. College English was a great class. My professor was Mr. Walters and he was an excellent teacher. College chemistry was hard. There was lots of memorization and a 2-hour lab that went with it. My lab partner was a 27 year old man from Pakistan. He spoke little English and smelled funny. I knew I wasn’t going to get perfect grades in this class and tried to explain this to my father.

“You make sure you get an A,” he would yell. “This class counts, you know.”

Yes, I knew. We all knew. This was a college class and it counted towards college and my entire future. The real appeal was that it was free. My father didn’t have to pay a cent for me to take the class. He worked hard for his money and never wasted a penny. “Just wait until you have to work for a living.”

At age 16 I was working. I received little credit for this because I wasted all the money I made. Over half went in a bank account, but in my father’s eyes, music albums and books and clothes were a waste of money. I worked three nights a week and all day Saturday for a local florist. Even though both of my parents had good jobs, my mother went clothes shopping at the Salvation Army thrift store. All of my clothes were old and had belonged to someone else. There were often name tags sewn in the collars. With my very first paycheck from the florist, I went to the mall and bought a pair of Jordache jeans. The price was $20 and my father had a fit. Jeans at the SA were $2. I should be saving my money for college, not running around in tight jeans. They were the only pair of designer jeans I ever bought.

The chemistry lab was not as bad as I had thought. The experiments were fascinating and I could get an A for the effort even if the experiment failed. I had to know why it failed and write about it. My partner was a little strange, but he was smart. Tests and pop quizzes were never announced so I had to be ready all the time. My father had always wanted to learn chemistry and took great delight in testing and torturing me. He was always reading my book and would often barge into my room to ask me a question.

“What’s the atomic number for hydrogen?” he would ask.

“1,” I would reply.

“What’s the symbol for copper?”

“Cu.”

This would go on and on until I got one wrong. Sometimes I would answer incorrect just to get him to stop.

“You have to know this stuff,” he would say over and over again. “This is college.”

I grew to hate college chemistry because of my father. I had an A and I was doing well for a 16 year old. It was good enough for me, but it was not good enough for him. It was during the summer of my 16th year that I realized I would never be good enough for him.

There were 10 minutes to go in the class when the professor announced we had to quickly close our books and get ready for a pop quiz. The quiz consisted of 25 questions on the periodic table. I wasn’t worried, I had the entire thing memorized. Cobalt, Zirconium, Cerium, Erbium, I knew them all. I was on question 24 with five minutes remaining when my mind went blank. The question was AU. What was the element and the atomic number. All I could think of was aluminum, but I knew that wasn’t right. Aluminum was AL. What the hell was AU? I skipped to the last question which was easy, then went back to number 24. There were now three minutes remaining. I was starting to panic. AU, AU, AU. And then suddenly all I could think of was my father with the book in his hand telling me to think. “You have to know this stuff! If you want to be anything in life, you have to know this stuff!”

I was down to two minutes. My heart was pounding in my ears, sweat was running down the side of my face. AU, AU, AU. Argon? Silver? Damn, I was running out of time. With 5 seconds remaining, I wrote down Antimony, 51, but I knew that was wrong. Antimony was SB, not AU. I couldn’t even look at the teacher as I handed in the quiz.

Not until I was home did it come to me. Gold. AU was the symbol for gold with a number of 79. I was stupid. My father was right. How could I have forgotten gold? I wanted to curl up and die.

Because it was a pop quiz I never told my parents about it. Question 24 was the only one I got wrong and the professor had written ‘so close’ at the top. I stuffed the quiz in the back of the book and tried to forget about it. I had still done well, but I could have done better. I always could have done better.

My mother had been clearing off the table for dinner when the quiz fell out of the book. As soon as it hit the floor I knew what it was. I made a dive for it, but she was too quick.

Opening the paper, she asked, “what’s this?”

“Just a quiz,” I said trying to grab the paper away from her.

“Why didn’t you show us?” she asked. She was looking it over, but she knew nothing about chemistry. That was my fault as well. My mother had gotten herself pregnant at age 16 and had never graduated high school. Having a baby had also ruined life for my father. He had been in the Navy and having to get married and raise a family had ruined his career. He could have retired with a full military pension and all the benefits had it not been for me.

“I just forgot,” I said and took the paper from her and tried to stuff it back in the book.

“Let me see that,” my father said. He was sitting in his favorite chair reading the newspaper. I handed him the quiz. He held onto it for several seconds while he finished reading an article in the paper.

“She only missed one,” my mother said. We both knew it was coming, my mother and I. Missing one was not acceptable.

My father neatly folded the newspaper then started to look over the quiz. His face took on a familiar look of disgust when he came to question 24. “Jesus Christ,” he said holding the paper out towards me. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

As a child, I had been terrified by these sudden outbursts. I would start crying which would just make it all the worse.

“You want something to cry about?” he would ask.

My mother would always start out on my side, but somewhere along the way she would side with my father. “You aren’t trying,” she would say with tears in her eyes. “You have to try harder.”

“Gold,” my father was mumbling. “You knew this was gold.”

My mother stood there in her apron with a confused look on her face. “AU is gold,” my father explained to her. Then his eyes settled on me, “and what does she write down?”

My mother just shrugged. None of this meant anything to her.

“Antimony. This shithead writes down antimony!”

“She got the rest right,” my mother said. “This is a hard class.”

She looked at me and smiled, nodding her head slightly.

“Gold,” my father was still muttering. “Any idiot knows AU is the symbol for gold.”

I saw my mother wavering. She wanted to side with me, but she would be crossing over in any minute. “Well, perhaps you should have known that one,” she was thinking.

My father wadded up the paper and tossed it to the ground. “It’s spite,” he said looking first at me and then at my mother. “She does this because of spite.”

“That’s it,” I said, “That’s it exactly.”

“Get out of my sight,” my father yelled. “You take that book and you go study.”

“Dinner is almost ready,” my mother said meekly trying to diffuse the situation.

“She doesn’t get any dinner,” my father said.

I left the book where it was and went to my room. I had to be to work in a half hour and didn’t care about dinner or chemistry or my father.

A few minutes later there was a knock at my door. There always was after a family blow up. I opened the door to let my mother in.

“You can come eat if you want,” she said. “You’re father doesn’t mean the things he says.”

I wouldn’t answer her. I was looking around for the brown garden gloves that I needed for work. I hoped they weren’t in the liningroom.

“He just wants the best for you.”

“Sure, Mom,” I said spotting my gloves by my fish tank. It wasn’t worth trying to explain anything to her.

“He just gets upset when you miss the easy ones. You’ll do better next time.”

She never knew what to say to me. Even now as an adult, we have little to talk about.

“Just think,” she continued trying to sound positive about the situation, “you’ll never forget gold again.”

And in her mind everything was suddenly fine. Something good had come from all this.

Sitting up straight and proud as a peacock she looked at me. “Right?”

“You’re right about that, Mom,” I said, “I don’t think I’ll ever forget.”