“There’s not much that impresses a 178 IQ,” Portia said. “Really, I’m surprised I went out with the guy at all, he was such an idiot.”
I stared at her across the restaurant table, marveling at her arrogance. As though a 178 IQ was something to be proud of, instead of a sentence to work for the government where they asked, when they asked, and on whatever project they asked.
“Why did you, then?” I asked.
“It was required,” Portia replied, eyes rolling. “You know, to keep the average from getting too high.”
I knew. Once the average IQ had been 100, then it had risen to 120. The government didn’t like that. Smart people asked too many questions they didn’t have answers for, and thought outside their comfy box.
I was glad my parents were psychologists, glad they had understood IQ as a meaningless test overvalued by the government, and glad they had taught me how to beat it. True, I’d never know my real IQ, but because of that I’d be free. Free to think, and pursue what I wanted, not to have my life dictated.