THE DEGREE OF HAPPINESS

1

I didn't know exactly what stage in my life studying became a chore.

Don't get me wrong. I was still a top student. One of the top students since being first was always a competition of sorts. But still, I was recognized in school purely for being one of the best students and being a wiz at Spelling Bee contests.

But the act of merely studying......just seemed like a chore. When before, I loved learning so much that my mom would have to cover hear ears whenever the facts I sprouted out to her became too much for them to store in their hippocampus. And so, I was nicknamed 'Wikipedia'. By her and others I knew.

Elizhapedia. Since my name was Elizha.

That was a praise that a fourteen year old me used to hear. A little bit in fifteen but not once in my sixteen year old life.

And, just ten months were left before my important exams, which have a factor in determining what subject I'd study next in my life and....

"Ugh!" I growled in frustration at the formulas I had to learn for chemistry. I was about to throw my book aside but decided that it wasn't worth it and so, kept it open in front of me. I ripped my hair instead.

School. School. School. Screw school! Why did our futures have to depend on this? They never taught us anything we wanted to learn, did it?

I stared outside the window, which showed the entrance of our apartment building. A moving truck had parked outside, carrying furniture in.

"Elizha! Time for dinner!" my mother called.

I groaned, "Of course. You have to choose this time to give food, didn't you?"

"What was that?"

I shook my head and closed my eyes, "Nothing, mom. I'm coming." No point in being angry with her. It wasn't her fault that school was hard.

I washed my hands and face before heading outside for dinner. My mother was seated at the dining table too and we both ate dinner (Mac and cheese....yum!) in silence, a family rule.

It was just the two of us. My mom and I. Faiza and Elizha Hashmi. My dad died years ago, when I was just three. Accident. I could barely remember anything about him, except maybe this one joke he'd always tell me. It was stupid, the joke, but I cherished it.

"Why did the chicken cross the road?"

"To get to the other side."

I didn't understand it then, but I understood it now.

My mom on the other hand, was a restaurant owner. A great chef too. Her cooking would make you fall in love with vegetables, even. People used to say that I looked like my dad at first but over the years, they said I looked like my mom. The same black hair. The same brown eyes that got wide as golf balls whenever we were mad. The same caramel complexion and the same tall height.

The only thing I'd inherited from my dad was his brains, apparently. He was a talented student too. Was planning to do a PhD in Physics.

After dinner, I took our plates to the kitchen to wash them.

My mom followed me. "Did you read Esha?"

I nodded, "Yep. You?"

"Me too," she said. Then, she asked, "Is everything okay?"

"Yeah, it's fine, mom," I said, "What would be wrong?"

"No, it's just....people look like they're okay on the outside, but they might suffer on the inside."

I placed the plates in their respective places after washing and dried my hands using the towel kept by the sink, "Well, I assure you, mom, that nothing's wrong. I am A-Okay."