Next Life, I’ll Find a Family That’s a Little Less Smart Chapter 01

Next Life, I’ll Find a Family That’s a Little Less Smart Chapter 01

Everyone in the Thorne family was brilliant. Everyone except me. To my parents, that only made me useful for something else: I was nothing more than a guinea pig used to nurture Silas and Beatrice Thorne’s genius.

My brother Silas once locked me in the old Blackwood warehouse for a whole day. He said he was testing my spatial reasoning. The place was a maze. I couldn’t find my way out.

I went into shock from dehydration. Mom’s eyes were brimming with tears when I got home, but she was wiping sweat from Silas’s brow.

“You need to cap the duration next time. Hazel can’t handle that kind of stress. You pushed her too far.”

My sister Beatrice shredded my college diploma. Her research topic that week was emotional thresholds.

I was in my room, shaking. Dad knocked softly, like he was checking on a sick child.

“Beatrice was trying to teach you that one piece of paper doesn’t define you. She meant well. You should be grateful.”

Then they swapped my asthma inhaler for saline. The study this time was on placebo interventions in low-IQ test subjects.

I stared at the inhaler in my hand. I didn’t call for help.

I sat there and let the air leave my lungs, one thin breath at a time.

And I finally understood. The mistake wasn’t anything I’d done. The mistake was being born into this family at all.

…

“Hazel’s vitals bracelet is showing a heart rate of zero. For hours now.”

Beatrice didn’t look up from her tablet. She was curled into the leather sofa, swiping through data.

“My model says her feigned-death trauma response has peaked.”

She had the voice of a little girl, bright and clear, devoid of any empathy.

I was floating near the ceiling, looking down at her.

My body was on the other side of that door. On the bedroom floor.

My skin had already turned a sickly shade of blue.

“Don’t worry about her.”

Silas pushed his gold-rimmed glasses up the bridge of his nose.

“Basic biology. Once hunger overrides her pride, she’ll crawl out looking for food.”

He picked up a silver knife and cut his Black Forest cake into exact, even slices.

“Low-IQ subjects have almost no distress tolerance. We confirmed it during the dehydration trial.”

Mom beamed as she took the plate. Pride lit up her whole face, the kind of smile that crinkled the corners of her eyes.

“Here, sweetheart. You’ve earned it.”

“Another first place at the national physics olympiad. I’m so proud of you.”

“Thanks, Mom.”

Silas took the plate, posture perfect, every movement precise.

Dad raised his glass. The wine caught the light as he tilted it.

“The Thorne genes never fail. Beatrice took the psychology innovation award last month, too. Both of you, what did we do to deserve you?”

Four glasses met in the middle of the table. The clink echoed sharply through the living room.

The room was warm. The light was golden. They looked like a perfect family.

I looked down at my hands. They were semi-transparent.

A few hours ago, the asthma hit. I was on the floor, convulsing, clawing at my own throat.

I slammed the inhaler against my mouth over and over. Nothing came out but saline.

I bit through the nozzle. Blood and salt water ran down my throat.

My nails scraped bloody trails against the hardwood.

On the other side of the door, they were picking a topic for their next journal submission.

“Has Hazel been in her room all day?”

Mom licked frosting off her fork and, for the first time all evening, seemed to remember I existed.

Dad brushed it off.

“She bombed her finals again. Probably too embarrassed to show her face.”

He took a sip of wine.

“Let her stew in it.”

I almost laughed.

I bombed that exam because the day before it, Silas had locked me in the Blackwood warehouse for a whole day.

By the time I sat down to take the test, the dehydration had left me too weak to hold a pen.

“Honestly, other than the grades, Hazel’s never given us any trouble. She’s always been a good kid.”

Mom sighed and cut the biggest slice of strawberry cake, setting it on a clean plate.

“I’m going to check on her. I don’t want her skipping meals.”

She pushed back her chair and headed for my room.

I hovered there, weightless, and something pathetic flickered in my chest. Hope.

Open the door, Mom.

Open it, and see what your ‘good girl’ looks like now.

“Mom, wait.”

Beatrice caught Mom’s wrist before she could take another step.

“What’s wrong, honey?”

“The intervention trial is at a critical stage.”

Beatrice pointed at the data curve on the tablet.

“If you go in now, you’ll contaminate the final data set.”

She looked up, expression dead serious.

“This is the paper Silas and I are submitting. Interrupting an active trial is academic misconduct.”

The very idea of academic misconduct made Mom recoil instinctively.

Silas took his time wiping his mouth.

“Science requires sacrifice.”

Dad nodded and squeezed Mom’s shoulder.

“Silas is right. We can’t let this data go to waste.”

“Put the cake down. Don’t indulge her.”

Mom looked at the strawberry cake in her hand. She hesitated, then set the plate down on the coffee table.

The cream on top was already melting. I watched it slide off the edge.

Just like every sliver of hope I’d ever clung to about this family.

“Doesn’t she pull this kind of thing all the time?”

Dad scoffed.

“When Beatrice cut up her diploma, she hid in her room shaking like it was the end of the world. Same stunt.”