Not a Kid
Slyvester Ashling was, simply put, a genius.
There wasn’t much to be debated there, really. He was a genius, through and through. He had conquered the American education system at the age of fifteen-
(Yes, he did think of it as ‘conquered’. It was an enemy to be beaten, a stepping stone to success - not an ally.)
-and managed to get a degree in psychology, one of the most demanding jobs in known history. Really, he had been given the monumental task of understanding the human brain because he had a brain capable of doing so.
Yes, Sylvie was a genius, no contest.
The only problem was, he was a kid genius. Which meant that nobody took him seriously despite that, and he could hardly keep himself afloat despite his generous rates because not a single person wanted to tell all their problems to someone younger then 21.
It was only because he had a crappy apartment and too much time on his hands that he learned to yo-yo.
He had never once actually intended to be any good with such a childish toy. And, really, he hadn’t even been trying to be any good with it.
But he soon learned that the yo-yo was a fascinating puzzle, hidden under the facade of a childish toy. Learning how it functioned, taking it apart piece by piece and peering into its workings, understanding its mysteries - it was a truly wonderful exercise in futility, and he was swept away into its clutches without realizing what was happening.
It was when he flawlessly walked the dog on the street and someone stopped him that he began to realize that he had accidentally become good at yo-yoing.
“Hey, kid - can you do around the world?”
He had almost shouted his usual ‘I’m not a kid!’, but stopped himself.
Instead, he went with the cooler option. The option that would make people stare in awe, and truly understand that he wasn’t just any old kid.
He cocked his wrist and swung the yo-yo around, pivoting the toy past his shoulder three times before reaching out his other hand and stopping it. The yo-yo folded in on itself and landed on its string, still spinning, before he let it bounce back and jerked it to his palm with an audible slap.
“I’m not,” he said dramatically, pushing his glasses up on his nose so they flashed as he grinned a cocky grin.
“A kid.”
And he had revelled in the shock of the crowd as he swept away, coat flapping in the wind.
Later, in his crappy apartment and trying to break his record of swings with ‘rock the baby’, he had jerked slightly and realized that he was good at yo-yoing.
At manipulating a children’s toy.
He twitched, eyes hazy, and was unable to think for a long, long moment.