Chapter 4: Faking Failure, Chasing Freedom

At the start of seventh grade, I placed first in my class on the first monthly exam.

I glanced at my score, felt a flicker of pride, then buried it deep down. I knew better than to expect praise.

That night, Mom actually smiled at me for once and even gave me extra food at dinner.

She ladled an extra scoop of mashed potatoes onto my plate, her eyes soft for the first time in months. I almost believed things could change.

“Ava, your sister struggles with her studies. Can you help tutor her every night?”

Her request felt like a trap. I hesitated, remembering all the times Madison had sabotaged me. Not this again.

I refused. “I barely have enough time for my own work.”

I kept my voice steady, bracing for her reaction.

Mr. Porter put down his fork and went out to smoke, clearly unhappy with my answer.

He slammed the door behind him, the smell of cigarette smoke drifting in.

“Come here,” Mom pulled me into my room.

She closed the door, face hard. I braced myself.

“Madison has no interest in studying. Tutoring her is a waste,” I insisted.

I crossed my arms, refusing to back down.

“Ava, you know our old apartment’s been rented out. The storage room’s full of our stuff. The tenant called, wants to clear it out. I’m thinking of just throwing it all away.”

My blood ran cold. She knew that storage room held Dad’s things. How could she threaten me with that?

I stared at her, disbelief and anger warring inside me. She’d never gone this far before.

I’d already lost faith in her, but this was the last straw. Did she feel nothing for her husband and daughter?

I realized then just how far she’d drifted from the person I used to know.

“Fine, I’ll tutor her. But you can’t throw away Dad’s things.”

My voice was flat, defeated. I had no choice.

“Deal.”

She smiled, satisfied. I felt sick.

After a few days, I realized Madison didn’t care about improving. She just wanted to drag my grades down.

She’d blast music, text her friends, and doodle on her worksheets while I tried to explain algebra. If I ignored her, she’d whine to Mom.

Whenever I tried to teach her, she’d listen to music, play on her phone, or do her makeup. But if I ignored her and studied myself, she’d force me to explain worksheets she didn’t listen to.

She’d crumple up her homework, toss it at me, and laugh. It was a game to her.

“If you won’t pay attention, I’ll go back to my room.”

I gathered my books, ready to leave. She blocked the door, smirking.

“No way. If you leave, I’ll tell Mom,” she’d say smugly. “You think you’re so great just because you get good grades? I’m going to mess you up so you can’t do well.”

Her words dripped with spite. I gritted my teeth, wishing I could disappear.

I realized I couldn’t study at home.

The house felt like a trap. I needed a way out.

So every night, I’d go to her room and play games on her computer.

I pretended to get sucked in, clicking away while she watched. She thought she’d won.

She loved it, hoping I’d get addicted and slack off like her.

She’d brag to her friends that she’d finally corrupted me. I just smiled and let her think so.

My grades dropped from first to tenth, then down to twentieth or thirtieth.

I let my test scores slip, careful not to raise suspicion. Teachers stopped calling on me in class. I faded into the background.

By eighth grade, I was near the bottom of the class—same as Madison.

Mom barely looked at my report cards anymore. I was just another disappointment.

She finally relaxed and stopped asking for tutoring. In front of Mom, she’d mock me: “You’re even worse than me now. Maybe I should tutor you.”

She laughed, high and cruel. I just shrugged, playing along.

Mom sighed. “Ava, I’m really disappointed in you. I never thought you’d let your grades fall like this.”

She shook her head, but I saw relief in her eyes. At least I wasn’t outshining Madison anymore.

Madison looked on, gloating.

She smirked, satisfied. I ignored her.

I laughed to myself. If Mom really cared, wouldn’t she push me to study harder?

I knew the answer. She didn’t care about my grades—only about keeping the peace.

No, only someone who didn’t care would brush it off so lightly.

I realized I was on my own. I didn’t need their approval anymore.

Without Madison bothering me, I could finally stay in my own room at night.

The quiet was a relief. I could finally breathe.

She still checked on me, sometimes barging in to make sure I was gaming. Just to keep up the act.

Of course, my grades hadn’t really slipped—I was faking it.

I studied late at night, after everyone was asleep. I hid my real test scores in a shoebox under my bed.

I realized I lived in a bizarre family. To get a little peace, I had to hide my real grades. That was my normal.

If I did well, Madison would have Mom force me to tutor her. Mom would threaten me with Dad’s things, and I’d have to give in.

It wasn’t worth it. I’d rather play dumb than be dragged down again.

To avoid sharing a room with Madison every night, I had to act like a slacker so she’d leave me alone. Anything for a little quiet.

It was the only way to protect myself.

Those quiet nights in my room were the only peace I had.

I’d curl up with my textbooks, headphones on, and lose myself in equations and essays. It was the only time I felt like myself.

Two days before the high school entrance exam, Madison stopped me with a smirk. “Hey, have you just been pretending to be bad at school these last two years?”

Her eyes narrowed, searching my face for a reaction.

My heart skipped, but I kept a straight face.

I forced a yawn, pretending not to care.

Don’t try to pull some miracle on the exam. No matter how well you do, I’ll make sure you don’t get into high school.

Her voice was low, threatening. I believed her.

I believed her. Madison’s hatred for me was obsessive. Even if I got the highest score in the city, she’d find a way to keep me out of school. She’d do anything.

I wasn’t an adult yet—I had to get into high school.

I needed a diploma. I needed a way out. I couldn’t let her ruin that for me.

Sometimes you have to swallow your pride for the bigger picture.

I gritted my teeth, reminded myself it was temporary. One day, I’d be free.

So I tanked the exam, just barely making the cut for Maple Heights High—the worst in the city. Madison didn’t even get in; her total score was barely over a hundred.

I circled the lowest answers, left whole sections blank. It killed me, but I did it. Madison’s score was even worse.

To get her into Maple Heights High, they had to pay out-of-district tuition. Mr. Porter only made a few thousand a month, gave Mom three hundred, and didn’t have much left after expenses and Madison’s demands. They argued about money late at night, voices muffled behind closed doors. I listened, heart pounding, afraid of what would happen next.

When Mom remarried, she had over $30,000. Over the years, she spent most of it on the family and Madison’s pricey things. Less than $15,000 was left.

I watched the numbers drop every month, powerless to stop it.

Madison’s out-of-district tuition was over $12,000. Mom generously used all her savings.

She didn’t hesitate. No second thoughts. She wrote the check with a smile, as if it was the most natural thing in the world.

I was furious. “Mom, that’s the money Dad died for. How can you give it to Madison?”

My voice shook with anger. I couldn’t believe she’d do this.

“You’re a minor. You don’t have any say over the family’s money,” she said coldly.

Her words stung. I felt invisible, powerless.

“No! I won’t let you use Dad’s money!” I cried, grabbing her arm.

I pleaded, but she shook me off, eyes hard.

“If you keep crying, I’ll throw away your dad’s ashes,” she threatened. She always knew how to hit my weak spot.

Her words left me speechless. I let go, defeated.

So Madison used Dad’s money to get into Maple Heights High with me.

She strutted around the halls, proud of what she’d stolen. I kept my head down, determined to survive.

Maple Heights High was full of the city’s worst students. Hardly anyone took studying seriously, not even the teachers. You had to really want it if you wanted to learn.

The halls smelled like sweat and cheap cologne. Fights broke out in the bathrooms. Teachers turned a blind eye to everything but the worst offenses.

In class, I paid close attention, not wasting a minute. If the teacher didn’t explain something, I’d look it up online.

I’d sneak into the library during lunch, devouring textbooks and practice tests. No one else was going to help me. I became my own tutor.

On the surface, I was still a slacker, blending in perfectly.

I slouched in my seat, doodled in my notebook, and joked with classmates. No one suspected a thing.

Among all the slackers, my grades hovered around the middle of the class.

I made sure not to stand out, not to draw attention. It was safer that way.

At home, I’d openly play video games at night. Just part of the act.

I let Madison watch me, pretending to be addicted. She relaxed, thinking I was just like her.

A new mobile game had just come out. It was wildly popular and addictive—Madison was hooked.

She spent hours on her phone, bragging about her high score. I played along, pretending to care.

Seeing me gaming every night, she relaxed.

She stopped checking my homework, stopped bothering me. I finally had some freedom.

But only I knew that my gaming was nothing like hers.

I wasn’t playing for fun—I was playing for survival.

I treated gaming like solving problems: taking notes, analyzing strategies, reviewing, practicing skills…

I kept a notebook by my desk, jotting down tactics and stats. I approached every level like a math problem.

I got better and better, climbing the ranks. Fast.

Soon, my username was on the leaderboards. People started messaging me, asking for help.

I was so serious about it because I’d found a new way to make money—boosting other people’s game accounts.

I set up a PayPal, started taking commissions. It was risky, but it paid better than babysitting.

I needed cash, but couldn’t work outside. Game boosting was perfect.

I could work in my pajamas, headphones on, Mom none the wiser. No one had a clue.

By the second half of sophomore year, I’d made nearly $500 from boosting.

It wasn’t much, but it was mine. I hid the cash in an old shoebox, planning for the future. Every dollar counted.