"Special"

Kathy Deng

Ms. Oliver

World Lit H

25 April 2014

“Special”

I gingerly approach the body sprawled on the bed, each careful step bringing me closer and closer to my target. Finally close enough to inflict damage, I fill my lungs with air and let loose a roar, “Get up!”

            A muffled groan and an irritated, “Leave me alone. I’m tired”, are the only indications of life in that barren wasteland.

            She’s tired, she says. Tired from what? Sleeping too much? Doesn’t she have homework to complete or tests to study for or chores to do? Oh wait, she doesn’t have to do any of those menial tasks. She’s “special”.

            “Stop making up excuses. You haven’t done anything.”

            “I got up. I went to school. I came home. I did a lot.”

            “Whatever. Mom wants to talk with you about your grades.”

            “Tell her I’m busy,” is the clipped response I receive from the unmoving lump under the blanket.

            I should feel sorry for her, I really should. I know this discussion won’t be a happy one, and she most definitely does not want to face Mom. It’s not that she’s afraid of our mother’s anger, because Mom never really gets angry. It’s the disappointment and defeated expression she wears that really gets to her. She doesn’t want to see any of it. I get it. But she brought this on herself and she better own up to the consequences of her actions, or her lack of action, sooner or later.

            “It’s just a B. No big deal,” I carelessly tell her. I wince the moment I realize what my mouth just uttered on its own. For most normal people, a B isn’t a grade that would warrant an entire family discussion, but because she’s “special”, her getting anything below an A on anything just doesn’t happen. Ever.

            A sharp voice snaps back, “Shut up. You wouldn’t understand.”

            I grimace. Of course I wouldn’t understand. I’m not “special” like you. I don’t get everything handed to me on a silver platter like you do. I’m sorry that I’m barely scraping by in the classes you breezed through. It’s not my fault for being normal and not understanding the special struggles only you “special” people seem to have. I bite my tongue and swallow my snippy remarks. She doesn’t need to hear any of that right now.

            As I stand there, staring at her curled up under her blankets, I hear a quiet snore escape from the lump. The sheer audacity of her! Falling asleep in the middle of our conversation! Patience lost, I grab an edge of the blanket and yank as hard as I can. My honorable sister stumbles up from her new position on the ground, still bleary-eyed and disheveled from her nap.

            “What was that for?” she drawls as she rubs her eyes open.

            “For being so freaking lazy.”

            She blinks at me, face blank, not even attempting to deny that fact. “Ok. Well, I’m going back to sleep.”

            Can she be more frustrating? I’m almost convinced the secret to her success is the unnatural amount of time she spends in bed sleeping. I inhale. Be the mature one. Ignore that idiotic expression she has on her face right now.

I give up. She’s a dolt.

Before she can crawl back into her den, I yank her arm and turn her to face me again. She still has on that bemused face she uses whenever she’s trying to act dumb or ignorant. It’s honestly so embarrassing. Why does she do it?

“Come on, we’re all waiting for you. I have homework to do, so hurry up.”

That was a lie. I don’t have homework to do. I did it all, days in advance, as usual. However, based on the lack of clutter on the dusty desk in the corner of the room, I can safely assume she hasn’t done her homework. Again. Not that she ever has. She just copies off of her friends’ at school.

And teachers say that copying off others’ work means that they won’t learn the material properly. Tell that to my sister. It hasn’t stopped her from getting straight A’s her whole life. Until now that is.

Her petulant reply cuts through my bitter thoughts, “I don’t want to.”

Well I don’t want to deal with you either, but seeing as we’re sisters, I have to. Why did God have to give the laziest person alive the means to succeed at everything she attempts? Life just isn’t fair.

“Life just isn’t fair! How come I’m the one who has to be perfect all the freaking time?”

            “Oh my God. No one thinks that way,” I exasperatedly sigh, but I can’t stop the guilt from bubbling up inside me. I do think that way. I do think she has to be better than the rest. She has to be, or else what other impossible ideal can I strive to attain?  Who else can so easily achieve academic excellence while managing to put in zero time and effort? Her role in my life is to be that one person who teaches me every single day the cold, hard truth: there’s always someone better than you. She has to be perfect. Because if it turns out she’s not, why have I spent all this time struggling to prove to her that through my hard work, I can be “special” too?

            Then I remember the B. That one solitary B in a long list of A’s that stretches all the way back to first grade. And I want to ask her, “How does it feel to finally have that illusion of lazy perfection you’ve so meticulously created shattered?” But then I look at her face. And I see a face that is tired. Tired of maintaining a false image, tired of the constant pressure and impossible expectations, tired of living a life that isn’t really her own.

            After a moment’s pause, I reply, “Fine. I’ll tell Mom you’re asleep.”

            The grateful grin she flashes me before she crawls back into bed weighs heavily on my mind as I slowly exit our shared room. Maybe my “special” sister really isn’t so “special” after all. Maybe I’m the one who forced her to be that way.

The most important part of the story

            In the novel One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich, Alexander Solzhenitsyn develops his own perspective on the value of work. Through the protagonist, Shukhov, Solzhenitsyn expresses his view that hard, honest work has its virtues. Shukhov refuses to take part in the carpet business because he believes that “Easy money…doesn’t give you that good feeling you get when you really earn it” (34). Shukhov prefers to do honest work because he understands that there is something to be gained through hard work. Rather than focusing on the end result, like the older sister in my story, Shukhov appreciates and learns from the journey. Another instance where Shukhov takes pride in his work is after building a wall, he “[runs] back to have a last look” and sees that the “wall [is] straight as a die. His hands [are] still good for something” (88). Shukhov risks punishment by staying behind to finish the wall, but because he wants to experience the sense of accomplishment and satisfaction that comes from a job well done, he does his job to the end and is rewarded with the reaffirmation of his usefulness. The older sister, on the other hand, lacks the drive to do her own work, so she therefore just does the bare minimum of what is expected of her, just like Fetyukov. Fetyukov skimps out of work and slacks off any time he can. Another character in the novel that is similar to the older sister is Caesar. Caesar has been blessed with money and connections, allowing him to regularly receive packages from home that he can use to make his life at the camp easier. The older sister has been blessed with intelligence, which allows her to slack off on her academics without really facing any consequences. The younger sister works hard, but she feels that she has gained limited success for her efforts in comparison to her older sister, which is also what the prisoners sometimes feel when they compare themselves to people like Caesar or the doctor who was appointed to be a doctor without any credentials. The value of work is a theme that is expressed throughout the novel, but in my story, the limits of work can be seen through the two characters.