Chapter 4: The Stanford Problem

After starting high school, it was like my superpowers suddenly kicked in.

I went from scrappy kid to valedictorian-in-the-making almost overnight.

When the monthly exam scores came out, the homeroom teacher’s voice shook with excitement: "Anna Quinn, first in the grade! Full marks in math! Full marks in English! Only two points off in your essay!"

Her glasses fogged up. I thought she might faint.

My adoptive parents stared at the report card, brows furrowed so tightly you could crack a walnut on them.

My adoptive dad: "Are these scores a printing error?"

He held it up to the light, like there might be a watermark.

My adoptive mom: "Did she cheat? Should we hire someone to check?"

She made three calls to the school, just in case.

---

That night, an old man in a preacher’s collar showed up at our house, waving a Bible and muttering prayers over my bed for an hour.

He said something about the power of the Lord and sprinkled holy water on my backpack.

"Strange, very strange. Mind and spirit all present. Not possessed."

He left his card, just in case. My mom said she’d keep it for Halloween.

I walked past the study, eating a popsicle, and overheard a heated debate inside.

The door was half-shut. My dad’s voice bounced off the wood panels.

My adoptive dad: "I never passed English or math."

He sounded almost proud of it.

My adoptive mom: "I never even took exams—just paid my way through."

She shrugged, flipping through a magazine.

My adoptive dad: "The teacher said she can get into Stanford."

He said it like he was reading my eulogy.

My adoptive mom: "Stanford? What kind of place is that?"

She googled it on her phone, then frowned at the tuition cost.

My adoptive dad flipped through the admissions brochure, heartbroken: "Not just tough—look at this motto: ‘The wind of freedom blows.’ They’re trying to turn people into bookworms."

He said it like a curse, then underlined it in red pen for good measure.

To keep me from ‘going astray,’ my parents started frantically testing my interests.

They signed me up for every after-school club under the sun. I was booked from yoga at dawn to fencing at midnight.

My adoptive mom brought over a fruit platter and asked casually, "Anna, have you watched that talent show ‘American Idol’? Mommy thinks you’re prettier than those contestants..."

She nudged a stack of audition flyers closer to my cereal bowl.

Later, a copy of the ‘Hollywood Survival Guide’ mysteriously appeared on my desk. On the title page, my adoptive dad had written in red pen: ‘Focus on Chapter 3: How to Get Paparazzi to Promote You for Free.’

He highlighted it and added a sticky note: “Never trust anyone with a camera.”

At breakfast that weekend, my adoptive dad suddenly pushed a check across the table. "Dad invested in a movie—the female lead’s still undecided..."

He slid it across the granite countertop, eyes hopeful.

I silently pulled out the physics competition gold medal I’d just won.

I set it next to the check. My parents stared at both like they might explode.

My adoptive mom’s fork clattered to the floor.

She fumbled for another one, still staring at the medal.

Everything came to a head when the early admission letter arrived.

The mailman almost got tackled by my mom sprinting down the driveway.

My adoptive dad’s hands shook as he held the gold-embossed envelope. "Stan... Stanford... are they really turning my daughter into a scientist?"

He said "scientist" like it was a curse word.

As soon as summer vacation started, my parents booked out an entire five-star hotel for my entrance banquet.

They even hired a marching band. The neighbors thought we’d won the lottery.

The marching band played ‘Eye of the Tiger’ so loud the neighbors called the cops—twice.

My adoptive mom wore designer couture, holding champagne and smiling at the guests: "Oh, just raised her casually, who knew she’d turn out so promising..."

She sipped from a crystal flute, never letting go of my hand.

Then she hid in the dressing room and kissed my acceptance letter like crazy, smearing lipstick all over it.

I had to print a fresh copy for the college file.

My adoptive dad was even more dramatic.

He ordered a custom cake shaped like the Stanford gates, but his hand shook so much while cutting it that the knife nearly stabbed the school’s seal.

The pastry chef almost fainted. Mom caught it on video for our family group chat.

Near the end of the banquet, my adoptive dad suddenly pulled me into the VIP lounge.

The room was thick with cigar smoke and secrets. I knew something was up.

His face was so dark it could drip ink. "Just got word—the kid Henry Young adopted... also got into Stanford."

My adoptive mom snapped a nail with a loud ‘crack.’ "That brat’s called Ben Young, right? Heard he got in through competitions?"

She shook her hand, wincing, but never dropped her glass.

Her smile was ice, but her nails dug crescent moons into her palm. She texted me a string of angry emojis and a photo of her ruined manicure.

I spun the butterfly knife on my wrist—the ‘school gift’ my adoptive dad gave me.

The steel flashed in the chandelier light. My mom rolled her eyes but didn’t say a word.

"So what?"

My adoptive dad took a deep breath. "Anna, listen to Dad. If you see him, walk the other way."

His voice was low, serious. The kind of tone that means "No arguments."

My adoptive mom, for once, agreed: "Yeah, that family’s bad luck."

She sipped her drink, but her jaw was set.

I tilted my head and smiled. "Okay."

As if.

The debts of the father should be paid by the son. That’s only fair.

I want to make Ben Young kneel at my feet and admit, with his own mouth, that his dad’s a loser.

I pictured it—Ben on the Stanford quad, surrounded by gawking freshmen, finally getting what he deserved.