By the time he was eight, school had become boring.
It wasn't that he didn't like learning—he loved it. Numbers, science, history, even literature—everything made sense. But sitting in a classroom where the teacher spent thirty minutes explaining something he understood in three seconds? That was painful.
The worst part? He knew it wasn't the teacher's fault. The other kids needed time. They weren't stupid; they just didn't process things as fast as he did.
So he pretended.
He forced himself to wait three seconds before raising his hand. He acted like he had to think before answering. He even got a question wrong on purpose once, just to see how it felt.
(He hated it.)
But even with all that effort, people still noticed.
"Mrs. Geller, your son is… remarkable," his teacher told Judy during a parent-teacher conference. "He's reading at a high school level. He finishes his math work in minutes. Have you considered testing him for advanced placement?"
Judy beamed. "Oh, we always knew he was special."
Jack just leaned back and said, "Yeah, yeah, but does he play sports?"
He did. And he was good.
But sports were simple. The school was where things got complicated.
Being Different Isn't Always Fun
At eight, he knew he was smarter than most kids.
At eight, he also knew that most kids didn't like that.
It wasn't their fault. No one likes feeling dumb, and standing next to him could make people feel exactly that. He noticed the way his classmates looked at him when he answered too quickly. The way some kids started calling him "professor" or "robot."
So he adjusted.
He laughed at jokes he didn't find funny. He let other kids answer first, even when he knew they were wrong. He never corrected them—unless the teacher asked.
It helped. A little.
But there were still moments where he slipped.
Like the time in third grade when he told his teacher she had the wrong date for the Revolutionary War.
Or the time he tried to explain why a rainbow had seven colors and got sent to the principal's office for "talking back."
Or the time a fourth grader challenged him to a multiplication contest, and he answered every question before the other kid even finished thinking.
That one got him shoved into a locker.
Monica, Ross, and The Real World
At home, things weren't much better.
Monica had made peace with the fact that her little brother was an athletic freak. (She still refused to lose to him in basketball, though.) But now? Now he was outshining Ross, and that was dangerous territory.
Ross had always been "the smart one." He loved science, loved reading, loved knowing things other people didn't. And then suddenly, his kid brother knew more.
It wasn't just school stuff either.
One night, at dinner, Ross started talking about black holes. He had just learned about them in his high school physics class, and he was so excited to explain it.
"Black holes are formed when a star collapses under its gravity," Ross said proudly.
"Actually," the eight-year-old interrupted, "it's when a massive star depletes its nuclear fuel and undergoes gravitational collapse. The remaining core has no outward pressure to counteract the inward pull of gravity, which causes an event horizon to form—"
"OKAY," Ross snapped.
Jack and Judy exchanged a look.
Monica just smirked. "Oof. Tough break, Ross."
That was the first time Ross got mad at him.
After dinner, Ross cornered him in the hallway.
"Why do you have to do that?" Ross demanded.
"Do what?"
"Act like you know everything."
He paused. "I don't."
Ross scoffed. "Yeah, well, it sure feels like you do."
And that's when he realized something important.
Ross wasn't mad because he was wrong. Ross was mad because, for the first time in his life, he wasn't the smartest person in the room.
And that hurt.
So, the next time Ross brought up science, he didn't correct him. He let him explain things, let him feel like the expert. And when Ross asked, "You get it?" he just nodded.
Because sometimes, being smart wasn't about knowing everything.
It was about knowing when to say nothing at all.
A Life of Quiet Adjustments
By the time he was ten, he had learned to navigate the world of "being different."
He knew when to blend in.
He knew when to stand out.
And most importantly, he knew that being too smart wasn't always a good thing.
That didn't stop him from getting curious, though.
He loved reading. He loved experimenting. He loved figuring out how things worked, from the toaster in the kitchen to the way people reacted when he said certain things.
By now, he understood his parents completely.
Judy would always favor Ross. Not because she loved him more, but because Ross needed it.
Jack just wanted him to play sports. Not because he didn't care about school, but because Jack didn't know how to relate to a genius son.
Monica?
Monica was his favorite.
She treated him like a normal kid. She yelled at him when he was annoying. She high-fived him when he did something cool. She wasn't intimidated by him—she challenged him.
One night, when they were watching TV together, she casually threw an arm around his shoulder.
"You know," she said, "I bet when you grow up, you're gonna be, like, a billionaire scientist-athlete or something."
He laughed. "Maybe."
She smirked. "Just don't turn into one of those weird nerds who never has fun."
He thought about that for a second.
And then he threw a pillow at her.
Because no matter how smart he was, at the end of the day—
He was still a kid.