P.S.A.T. Score!

A* should be getting his scores today. I try to take a sanguine attitude. What will be will be. It’s Wednesday, a day I typically pick him up from school since he stays late for Science Team. Stern stern lecture to myself as I make the 8-minute drive. “Be nice, be patient, be understanding.” I wonder why I’m prepping myself in this way. And in truth, I don’t think it’s because I don’t believe in him, it’s because I don’t believe in my ability to handle his disappointment if he hasn’t done as well as he’d hoped. I’m making this about me, when really it’s anything but.

I make the left from Commonwealth Avenue onto Lowell and there he is, waiting at his usual spot on the corner. I search his face for a sign of anything, but get no indicators. I won’t ask. I’ll wait for him to tell me.

“Hey there,” I say as nonchalantly as I can muster. “How was your day?”
He makes his usual response, and then adds: “I met with Mr. S* and got my PSAT results.” He pauses for a dramatic beat. “I scored in the 99th percentile.”

Whew. I’m so happy for him. I lean over and give him a big hug before putting the car in gear and driving off. This is really great news, and I want all the details of the results.

And I have to say the results surprise me. A little bit. Here’s how the 99th percentile, 223 total score parsed out: Critical Reading: 78, scoring higher than 99% of juniors. Math: 74, scoring higher than 98% of juniors. Writing Skills: 71, scoring higher than 96% of juniors. This is really good. I know it’s really good. But my expectations are stratospheric, and I feel all those other parents with kids who scored all 80s breathing down my neck. I feel the competition, like a palpable thing. It makes me squirm, but I try not to let on my discomfort. I do make a mental note to have him do a bit of extra studying on the writing skills, but for now I’m going to let him—and the rest of the family—glory in his achievement.