Chapter Text
Ms. Ghina did not smile often.
She stood straight at the front of the classroom, chalk held like a ruler, eyes sharp enough that no one dared whisper once the bell rang. Third grade felt different the moment Elaine stepped in.
Ms. Nida was gone in the middle of second grade after she got married. Probably got pregnant.
Elaine noticed it immediately. No warm voice. No gentle reminders. Ms. Ghina wrote her name on the board in neat, precise strokes and said, “I expect discipline. You are not babies.”
Elaine liked her anyway.
Math moved fast, faster than last year.
Multiplication tables were assumed knowledge. Division followed immediately after. Word problems grew longer, messier, full of unnecessary sentences meant to confuse people.
Elaine finished early.
She always did.
Ms. Ghina stopped beside her desk, tapped the paper once, then flipped through the pages without comment. She nodded and moved on.
Seijuro finished at the same time, his posture straight, pencil placed exactly parallel to the desk once he was done.
Ms. Ghina noticed that too.
From then on, she started pairing them deliberately.
“You two. Together,” she said during group work.
Elaine explained with drawings in the margins, little boxes and arrows. Seijuro explained with steps, clean and efficient. Other students watched them like answers were being handed down from somewhere higher.
“Why does division work like that?” Elaine whispered once.
“Because it undoes multiplication,” Seijuro replied quietly. “It’s the reverse.”
Elaine paused, then grinned. “That’s clever.”
After school, their days split in familiar ways.
Basketball practices grew stricter. Coaches stopped clapping and started correcting. Seijuro listened, adjusted, improved. His dribbling became smoother, his passes sharper. He counted silently in his head while running drills.
Elaine came to watch when she could, sitting on the bench, legs swinging.
“Why do you pass instead of shooting?” she asked.
“Because winning isn’t about me,” he said.
She frowned. “That sounds fake.”
“It’s true,” he said.
She thought about it. Then nodded.
Taekwondo pushed Elaine harder.
The sabeum raised his voice often. Elaine fell, scraped her knees, stood back up without being told. Her movements grew sharper. Her focus narrowed. When others hesitated, she did not.
Ballet remained complicated.
Her body was strong, her balance solid, but she hated being corrected softly. The madame adjusted her arms, her posture, her feet, never raising her voice. Elaine followed instructions anyway, jaw clenched, sweat running down her back.
At home, studying was routine.
They sat on the floor, notebooks between them. Elaine talked while solving problems. Seijuro solved them first, then explained why her answer worked too.
They played Sudoku meant for older kids. Minesweeper with no guessing. Chess games that ended fast.
Elaine lost most of the time.
“You’re unfair,” she muttered.
“You don’t blunder,” Seijuro said. “You rush.”
“That’s worse.”
He said nothing.
Ms. Ghina posted rankings at the end of the term.
Elaine and Seijuro were at the top, of course.
Ms. Ghina did not praise them.
She only said, “Maintain this standard. Don't get too cocky otherwise you will get surpassed.”
Elaine nodded seriously.
Seijuro did too.
Third grade ended quietly, but the space around them felt tighter now, like people were starting to look more closely.
Fourth grade began a week later.
Her homeroom teacher was Mr. Budi.
He spoke softly, moved slowly, and never raised his voice. He did not rush the class, but nothing felt wasted either. When students talked over each other, he waited. When they finished early, he let the silence stretch.
The children liked him immediately.
Multiplication and division were long mastered, now she is doing fraction. Elaine finished her work early, checked it twice, then waited. Sometimes she filled the margins with patterns or alternate solutions.
Mr. Budi noticed.
He never told her to stop. He never praised her loudly. He only nodded when he passed her desk, like he had seen exactly what she was doing.
Group work came easily. Elaine and Seijuro were often paired without comment. They worked quietly, efficiently. When answers differed, they argued in whispers until one of them was convinced.
Mr. Budi watched without interrupting.
When someone asked, “Sir, which one is right,” he asked back, “How did you get it?”
That was his answer to everything.
One afternoon, she finished class like she always did. Bowed when told. Changed out of her slippers carefully. Laced her shoes and climbed into the car without a word.
Diane noticed immediately.
Ballet days always ended the same way. Elaine sat too straight in the backseat. Her toes curled inside her shoes even after they were off. When Diane asked her to stretch her feet at home, Elaine winced before she could stop herself.
That night, Diane soaked Elaine’s feet in warm water and gently pressed along the arches.
“Does it hurt here,” she asked.
Elaine nodded. “The teacher says it’s normal.”
Sebastian frowned from across the room.
Later, after Elaine had gone to bed, Diane laid everything out. Photos. Articles. Notes she had saved quietly over time. Stress fractures. Ankles forced too early. Feet shaped before they were ready.
“It’s not about discipline,” Diane said. “It’s damage. She’s a child.”
“She already does taekwondo,” Sebastian said slowly.
“Yes,” Diane replied. “And that makes her stronger. Ballet is making her smaller.”
They decided that night.
The next morning, Diane knelt in front of Elaine and took her hands.
“You’re stopping ballet,” she said gently.
Elaine blinked. “Did I do it wrong?”
“No,” Diane said immediately. “You did it well. That’s why we’re stopping.”
Elaine thought about it, then nodded. “Okay.”
She trusted Diane.
The decision to stop ballet did not happen in isolation.
Around that time, Diane had already begun visiting hospitals more often. Not for Elaine. For herself.
Elaine only knew small things. That her mother came home tired more often. That there were days Diane stayed in bed longer than usual. That Sebastian drove more carefully on mornings when Diane had appointments.
Adults talked quietly when they thought Elaine was not listening.
The truth was larger.
Diane had been diagnosed with a cyst along the vaginal canal, positioned close enough to the womb that surgery was unavoidable. The doctors explained it clinically. The location made natural conception impossible after removal. The risks were manageable. The outcome was clear.
Diane listened without crying.
At home, she researched the way she always did. Carefully. Thoroughly. Late into the night.
She learned about children’s bodies too.
About growth plates. About feet forced into positions they were not ready for. About how pain that adults called discipline could become permanent damage in children.
Elaine quitting ballet was part of that realization.
“I don’t want her body to learn suffering before it learns choice,” Diane said once to Sebastian, quietly, after another appointment.
Sebastian did not argue.
The surgery was scheduled during the school term.
On the morning of it, Diane kissed Elaine’s forehead like usual and told her to listen to Mr. Budi. Elaine nodded and went to school without questions. She trusted her mother completely.
The surgery went well.
Recovery was slower.
Diane moved carefully after that. She sat more. Watched more. Held Elaine’s hands a little longer than before when helping with homework.
Taekwondo stayed. That one never hurt in the same way. Bruises faded. Muscles grew. Elaine liked how it made her feel solid.
Fourth grade continued like usual.
Basketball took more of Seijuro’s time. Practices grew longer. Instructions shorter. Coaches expected understanding instead of repetition.
Elaine sat on the bench during drills, legs tucked under her, stretching her ankles out of habit even though ballet was gone. Sometimes she practiced taekwondo forms beside the court, counting under her breath.
When Seijuro finished, he leaned over her notebook.
“That step’s off,” he said once, pointing at her count.
Elaine checked, clicked her tongue, and corrected it. “You’re annoying.”
“You listen,” he replied.
She did.
By the end of fourth grade, Elaine no longer felt the sharp ache in her feet at night. School felt steady. Training felt purposeful.
Mr. Budi never told them they were smart.
He just made thinking feel normal.
But they still know that they are special because of the science competition club Ms. Nida formed four years ago