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When Lydia was seven years old, she realized several things in quick succession: 1.) she was much smarter than everyone else in her class, 2.) she was probably going to be bored for the rest of her life, and 3.) she had no interest in doing anything to fix that.
Her parents sat her down in the living room one night. They were still getting along back then, or at least they were better at pretending. It was summer vacation, the air conditioner going full blast, and Lydia was sucking on a red popsicle, meticulously careful not to drip on the white couch.
“Honey,” her mother said. “We’ve been talking to your principal, and she says you should go right into third grade in September, because you’re such a smart girl. What do you think?” Her mother’s smile was glistening, coaxing, demanding compliance.
“No,” Lydia said simply.
“Now, honey, let’s talk about –“
“No.” Lydia kicked her feet against the front of the couch, where they dangled six inches above the ground. “I’m going to second grade. And I’m bringing my new set of gel pens with me.” She licked her sticky lips and stuck the popsicle back in her mouth.
Her mother stood up from where she’d been crouched, throwing up her hands, her patience exhausted. “Fine. You want to save me the headache and the paperwork, that’s ok with me.” Her dad shrugged and followed her mom out of the room, and that was the end of the conversation.
Lydia was secretly pleased that the principal recognized her talents, and she was smart enough to know that third grade would be good for her, academically. In third grade she might actually start learning something, instead of rolling her eyes in the back of the classroom while the other kids struggled with addition and subtraction. But skipping second grade would mean losing the friends she’d amassed among her first grade classmates, losing her place as president (and treasurer) of the Beacon Hills Princess Club, losing the security of knowing she was better than everyone else. Worst of all, it would make her different, a teacher’s pet and a nerdy freak, and that was something Lydia Martin would never let herself be.
When second grade started, Lydia was just as bored as before, but she started making deliberate mistakes on her homework quizzes. Just little mistakes, here and there, enough to make her look bright but unremarkable. She reigned as Princess Club president until it disbanded in third grade, and no one ever talked to her about skipping grades again.
Years later, in AP Calculus, Lydia sits next to a boy named Henry, a 13-year-old Beacon Hills senior. He wears sweatpants to school every day, his face is splotchy with acne, and sometimes Lydia spots him playing LEGO Batman on his Nintendo 3DS under his desk. They get the same grades on every test, but at lunch, Lydia has her pick of tables, and Henry sits alone. Henry will probably be a doctor before he’s old enough to drink, but Lydia is still sure that her seven-year-old self made the right decision.