The Genius

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Wyatt Wilson has always been at the top of his grade. He's winning every quiz, debate and academic Olympic under the sun. His teachers adore him, his mates envy him and everyone generally thinks his parents are genuinely proud of him. But that's not the Wilson household for you. Meet the Wilsons, a family of seemingly generational artists. Wyatt's parents aren't interested in grades and scholarships; they're interested in art contests, exhibitions and art style. Every Wilson can create art - except for Wyatt. As Wyatt struggles with being accepted at home, a new threat in form of a foreign exchange student threatens to take his place at the top of the class. Can Wyatt cope with losing the one thing that makes him relevant?

Romance / Drama
Saint Caliendo
Age Rating:


Hmm, an example of radioactive decay that does not lead to transmutation...

I bit the end of my pencil, weighing the homework sheet between my half attended to dinner plate and myself. I could always do the assignment later but I liked to stay away from places laced with intellectual corruptions like the internet and textbooks. I always tried to attempt my assignments from pure memory alone before crosschecking. It was the only way to test what I actually knew and not pretend that I know everything I’m copying down into my notes from a textbook. Short term memory is very deceiving.

“Wyatt, stop doing your assignments at the table,” I heard my mum’s voice say as I scribbled my short answer underneath the question with a pencil so I could correct it later. I blinked behind my white rimmed glasses before looking across the table at her. Her jaw was set painfully in obvious irritation, and my father was sitting next to her with a worried look on his face.

I looked from one end of the table to the other wondering why I was the one person she decided to pick on this night. My older sister Ava was eating on the left, while my younger sister Candace was picking at the leftover peas on her plate with a fork on the right. I then turned to my side to find my twin brother Caleb sketching away on his drawing pad.

“You’re letting Caleb draw,” I said defensively, making my mother sigh in frustration. Caleb looked up, probably wondering why his name was being called.

“At least he puts his work aside to eat occasionally. Plus, he has an exhibition coming up and he needs to finish up two paintings by then,” my mother said as Caleb returned back to scribbling in his pad, he’d probably realized the conversation wasn’t inclusive of him.

“I have this homework due soon as well,” I said, clutching on to my assignment sheet. It was actually due in two weeks, but she didn’t have to know that.

“Put it away Wyatt,” my father suddenly said with a firm tone, butting into the conversation. I frowned at him, but I put my assignment away anyway. My father rarely spoke and when he did it was out of raw emotion. I didn’t need him to be angry with me.

My mum’s frown eased when I picked up my fork and started eating from my plate. She finally took her attention away from me, making light conversation with the rest of the table as I ate with an irritated frown on my face.

They always treat me differently.

I thought to myself as I looked around the wooden table at my family. We all shared the same dark hair and brown eyes, we all looked very similar. It was very obvious we were blood relatives from a mere glance, and yet with all these similarities I still felt left out.

They don’t appreciate me.

Everyone in the Wilson family was an artist. Well, everyone but me. My father was a freelance illustrator and cartoonist, and my mother was a more traditional artist being a painter. Ava was in her first year of Art school and Candace and Caleb were already winning art contests within and beyond the country, and I was well, me; my small talent-less sixteen-year-old self who couldn’t even construct a stick man with a ruler.

I tried to make up for it. I’ve been at the top of my class since I remember. My family members just don’t seem to care about that. They praised each other’s achievements, and Caleb was usually in the limelight. I never understood it. Caleb was just an average student managing to scrap C’s and B’s. He didn’t bring in the straight A’s that I did. A lot of people tell me that my parents must be very happy with my grades, if only they knew the reality... I can’t even remember the last time I saw any of my parents within the crowd during a debate.

The fact that my family’s idea of bonding was heading to art exhibitions together, or heading to a public place to draw and paint really didn’t help matters. I was usually stuck at home or standing at the far corner as strangers complimented them as they worked. Their compliments were usually on the lines of ‘It’s wonderful you can all do this!’, ‘What a talented family!’ and I’d just be sitting at the corner watching them ignore my existence.

My family was known as the weird prodigy filled one down the street. I was sadly not one of them. Although a math or physics Olympic champion would probably be considered as a prodigy I wasn’t exactly sure I met the cut to be considered one.

“You stopped eating,” my mother said, pulling me out of my thoughts. I looked at her in the dim dining room light as I wondered what she was thinking.

“I’m not hungry anymore,” I muttered, dropping the fork I was holding loosely before pulling my chair out and picking up my assignment sheets from the center of the table.

“Thank you for the meal,” I said to my parents, earning a dismissive nod from both of them, permitting me to leave.

I left the table, walking up the stairs as I looked at the framed certificates and artworks hanging from the walls. None of mine were up there — My certificates, that is (We don’t need a joke about me creating art now, do we?) All my certificates were all academic and according to my parents had a better place hanging up in my room or neatly tucked into a folder.

No one simply cares.

The thought crossed my mind as I opened the door to my bedroom. I wonder why I keep trying to impress them. I can’t do what they want, and what I have to offer isn’t a good substitute according to their standards. Grades, school work, and academic achievements just don’t matter to them.

No one cares.

I thought again as I tossed my assignment sheets on my desk.

No one bloody cares if I’m a genius.

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