Here is what I felt, in order, in the second and a half before I answered.
First: nothing.
A clean, cold, entirely empty second. The way a hall goes quiet before everyone decides to smile.
Second: a certificate in my hands, and a room full of kind voices.
Third: my father setting a pen down.
Fourth, and this is the one I am least proud of, and the one I am writing down anyway:
A very small, very precise voice that said *they are not wrong.*
I have carried that voice since I was ten.
It is not loud.
It never says anything cruel.
It simply produces, at intervals, a completely accurate summary of the arithmetic.
And then waits.
I have never once argued it into silence.
***
What I said was, "Sit down."
"I'd rather..."
"Sit down, Marren. You are going to be standing for three days, and I would like ninety seconds of that not to involve looming."
He sat.
Delia sat faster.
***
"You're right," I said.
That surprised both of them.
Which was the point.
