I just want to know if Summa Cum Gummi Bear, the Ice Cream Fool, and Professor Chaps-n-Cheeks are slurping down Pina Coladas with Amelia Earhart, Tupac, and Jim Morrison right now. Because lately, I doubt any of these people exist. And if the high school wonder does exist, she sure as hell ain’t here at Idiot-Sans-Savant State.
I admit, long ago, in a pay scale far far away, I once glimpsed the elusive high school freak. At the time, we called them “Duel Enrollments.” Too smart for the Kumbaya crowd in their corduroy jumpers or the tattered coats on sticks who clog the teachers lounge back at Riverdale High, they would appear in my writing class and effortlessly mop the floor with the freshmen. In a land where remembering to wear one’s drool cup was considered class participation, it was frightening how bright they were.
But, alas, they never stayed. They were off to slay giants at colleges that had neither “U” nor “State” affixed to the brand name, and I was left standing by the window with a tear in my eye and dreams of following them to that magical place where students read because they knew how, where raised hands were followed by insightful questions that didn’t involve restroom privileges, and a roomful of scholars made me want to run to the library every day after class to keep up with them, and not to McGreevy’s tavern to escape them.