Picture Album

She stared at her bedroom window. It was painted with red and gold leaves falling, with the light autumn sun shimmering through it. Sounds of the light rustling wind joined in, and the day couldn’t have seemed more pleasant.

Pleasant.

Pleasant. P-L-E-A-S-A-N-T. Adjective. giving a sense of happy satisfaction or enjoyment. Synonyms: enjoyable, pleasurable, nice, agreeable….

Myrtle sighed. She ripped her eyes away from the light, but instead stared at her once-painted walls, now lined with papers about homework she never asked for, competitions never to be competed in, and hundreds of other papers that was of no use to her. Her eyes lingered onto the newest paper on her wall, which read CALCULUS 1: Practice Test #27.

She closed her eyes and took a deep breath.

Inhale...1..2..3..4..Exhale..1..2..3..4…

Eyes still shut, Myrtle got up from her bed, and dragged herself towards her desk. From there, she ripped the taped test from her wall, sharpened a number 2 pencil, and began to do what seemed like a waste of time.

...

Life wasn’t always drab. In fact, Myrtle Thomson used to be the most energetic, most creative girl in her small city, just an year ago. She drew, she sang, she did everything she loved in her life. Over time, girls at school started to talk about the guys they crushed on, the boys who were their true love. Myrtle had not loved anyone, but instead she found true love in her artwork. The way her watercolours mixed into each other to create a whole new creature. The way mere crayons opened up hundreds of thousands of possibilities. The way each painting had it’s own life, it’s own story to tell.

This all changed, when her school held an IQ testing for the entire seventh grade. The testing was to benefit the student, letting the teachers know where to place the student in high school. But, after her test results were shipped back to her tiny apartment, Myrtle’s life changed its path.

Myrtle’s least favorite number is 177. Ever since that, she had been forced to take the highest courses, because she could. Her IQ was a powerful thing, and could beat just about anything, from mathematics to the depths of chemistry.

Her parents didn’t understand her. Of course, they understood her intellect, but that was about where it ended. They “encouraged” her to join math olympiads and science bowls and whatnot - in other words, signed her up for tiring nuisances without her even knowing. Her pink walls soon were covered in homework and other things. Her art was thrown into the attic, never to be seen again.

Everything that had meaning to Myrte, everything that mattered to her, was disposed or hidden, never to be seen again.

Ever since that day, Myrtle could only understand one thing: her life depended on her IQ, not her own choices. She was a prisoner within herself.

…

Myrtle dropped her pencil. The sound of the bell in her front porch shook the house. This is odd, she thought, because not one of her so-called friends had looked at her since her IQ. Her parents were at work, so none of their friends should be visiting. Was it a burglar? Myrtle slowly left her room, and walked down the the hallway towards the front door. She then hastened to stand on tiptoes and look through the peephole.

Nobody was there.

“Huh..” she muttered to herself, “Why would someone just…leave?” she pulled the latch, unlocked the door, and stepped out. Squinting, Myrtle looked around, but not a soul was in sight. She looked down, and in between her feet was a small, badly wrapped parcel covered with cardboard paper. On it was a piece of tape that read

To Myrtle Thomson. I think this will help you.

There was no return address.

Silent but curious, Myrtle went back inside, slamming the front door behind her, and walked back into her room, the parcel clutched tightly in her hands. I should probably wait for Mum and Dad to come home to open this. Before that, I’m going to finish my super fun calculus test I totally want to finish!

She rolled her eyes. That sounded so fake, she abandoned the thought immediately and continued towards her bed. She flopped down onto it. Then, all the hunger of curiosity burst through her, and her inner eight year old started ripping the paper off.

Inside was a book. A book as plain as the blue skies, it’s brown cover carrying no sign of cheerfulness. Myrtle’s excitement drooped. It didn’t look like anything important, just an old book.

Then she opened it.

Out flew wondrous colours, for the book wasn’t a book at all, but instead a picture album filled with every type of art Myrtle had ever done. Pop ups, paintings, mere sketches - they were all embedded into the book, creating a wonderful masterpiece no one but Myrtle could have created. This was the first colourful thing Myrtle truly appreciated.

It was too much for her. Myrtle’s eyes welled up with tears. She clutched the book hard with her fingers, never wanting to let go of the happiness that was long lost to her. She had forgotten there was a world beyond calculus and chemistry and other things - there was a world she could create, a world that could be molded into whatever Myrtle wanted it to be. Nothing should tell her how to live her life, especially not some stupid IQ. After a few minutes, she jumped up and ripped out all the papers on her walls. Slowly, her pink walls appeared again, and she was back at home. She ran around the house and opened every window she could find, letting the fall breeze she had longed for an year come take her away again. The smell a crisp new day wafted in the house. Laughing, Myrtle clutched the book again. She didn’t know who sent it, or why, but she knew that her story was clear - she could do what she wanted to do. Myrtle could love art and never look at math again. She could sing and dance and write instead of being cooped up and studying. She could go to her school if she wanted, instead of studying from old textbooks for the rest of her life. No one could control Myrtle, not her book smarts, not her parents, nobody. Nobody but herself.

Once again, Myrtle loved her life.