The Accidental Outlier
I was six years old when I told a one-word lie that changed everything.
There was a woman asking for me at the door to the classroom. My teacher smiled knowingly and coaxed me towards her.
“Hi, Saul!” she said warmly, as she bent down and took my hand.
The nice stranger lady led me out of the classroom and down the empty hallway. It felt big. I wasn’t sure what was going on. My parents weren’t going to pick me up early. I wasn’t feeling sick. Was I going to the principal’s office? I must be in trouble. But if I was in trouble, why was this lady so nice?
I followed her into a small room with a small square table and two chairs. I climbed up into one.
On the table were arranged a bunch of small, green, wooden blocks:
“Can you tell me how many blocks you see?” the nice lady asked.
Too many to count. A big number. Think fast, what’s a big number?
“A hundred!”
The woman’s surprise gave way to a big, happy smile. “Yes, dear! That’s exactly right! Ten rows by ten columns is one hundred. You multiplied them, yes?”
“Yes,” I lied through a big, goofy smile.
“First graders never get it right so quickly,” she said, checking a box on her clipboard with an excited flick of her pen.
And that’s when I became “gifted and talented.”