Dahlia Unfurling

In seventh grade, the English teacher held up the day's translation sheet. No one had learned it, and Dahlia hadn't either.

"Dahlia," she said. "Number one."

The answer came out before Dahlia could think. Then number two. Then three. Every one was right.

The teacher looked at her for a long moment. "Well, look at you. How did someone like you manage to get them all right today?" She turned to the class. "If someone like her could learn it, why couldn't the rest of you?"

Dahlia looked down at her page. The letters leaned and tangled, like an old script nobody could read. She traced one with her thumb.

Someone like her.

She carried the words out of that classroom and into every year after.

Years later, in college, the Pre-Medical chemistry quiz came back with a number circled in red. Someone like her, she thought, and then, almost at once: everyone follows this path. Her sister had. Everyone had. Dahlia stared at the mark until it blurred.

After class, she stayed behind, pretending to look for a pen.

Her teacher didn't ask what was wrong. "You can learn the lyrics of every song on the radio," she said. "You learn so many things without ever thinking you can't. Why is this different?" She tapped the desk. "Everyone has the same brain. Use it."

Dahlia found her pen. It had been in her hand the whole time.

She used it through late nights, failed quizzes, and the long, slow climb. On result day, her marks were good enough. Her mother cried, pressing the paper to her chest.

"Even you did it," she said.

Dahlia looked up. She nodded slowly.

I did it.

Should I go for MBBS?

She tried the words in her mind, and they sat wrong, like a shoe from someone else's feet.

No. That doesn't sound right.

That year, in an English class, they were reading Goodbye, Mr. Chips. Dahlia had read it with an enthusiasm that surprised even her. There was a quiet pleasure in following the story, in watching its small details find their places.

Her teacher was explaining the plot when Dahlia blurted out, "Exactly!"

The word escaped before she could stop it. She smiled, a little embarrassed, but the pleasure remained. She had noticed how goodbye, first spoken by Kathie, returned as an echo later in the story. What seemed like an ordinary word had gathered meaning as the story unfolded.

For a moment, Dahlia felt the particular joy of discovering something hidden in plain sight.

Pleasure was it... what a gem of a world, where someone can write.

The words settled in her mind. She remembered the quiet smile, the pleasure of finding meaning in a story. For once, she wasn't thinking about what she ought to become.

"So," her mother said, wiping her cheek. "What's your approach now?"

The answer came before Dahlia could weigh it against anyone else's expectations.

"Literature."

By the time Dahlia entered university, she was studying literature.

Miss Lily was teaching Milton. Dahlia listened as the class discussed the old poet's blindness and his daughters writing for him. She held her copy of the poem open, following the lines with her finger.

"Who will read for us?" Miss Lily looked around.

Her eyes landed on Dahlia.

"The sonnet on his blindness," she said, smiling. "Dahlia?"

Dahlia's eyes widened. She looked left. She looked right. She even turned to the back row, as if someone else must be sitting behind her.

Thump. Thump.

She pointed one finger at her own chest. "Me?"

She stood. The page trembled in her hands. Her voice shook on the first line, then thinned on the second. When she reached the part where Patience answers, she heard herself say, "Personification."

The word hung in the air.

"Oh," she whispered. "I mean, I..." Her face went hot. She cleared her throat, eyes fixed on the page, and went on.

At the front of the room, Miss Lily smiled.

Nobody said someone like her.

The next day, Miss Lily clapped her hands. "Okay, girls, we have a good class activity today. Who will go first?"

She looked around.

"Ummm..."

Her eyes stopped on Dahlia.

Dahlia didn't look left. She didn't look right. She didn't turn to check the back row.

She set down her pen, picked up the poem, and stood. In the margin of her notes, her crooked letters leaned the way they always had.

She didn't cover them.