Ever wonder how contemporary singing divas protect their voice boxes? Well, wonder no more! In the satirical short story, How to Become a Bodyguard for Celine Dion's Larynx by Kathleen Gerard, an over-achieving nine-year-old unknowingly embarks on an unlikely career path en route to working for Celine Dion, the popular singing sensation. You'll laugh and you'll cry as the narrator of the story, a gifted child with a MENSA I.Q., navigates through a journey of a lifetime. This short story is a clever, comedic read for adults and teenagers, who just might learn a thing or two about how the heartbreak of youth can become a gateway into living an unimaginable future!
At the age of nine, announce to your mother that you've changed your mind. You'd like to take the filmmaking course being offered at The Gifted Child Society on Saturday mornings instead of that class in American Sign Language.
Watch your mother's eyebrows twist into pretzel shapes. "Filmmaking? But, Dorinda, sweetheart. What happened? I thought after you read The Miracle Worker in just under twelve minutes flat, you were excited about learning ASL."
Cut a wide swath of skepticism across your mother's face when you stutter and tell her, "I-I am. I mean, I was. It's just that filmmaking is something I'm more interested in all of a sudden."
"Well, what are you implying? Didn't you enjoy the Accelerated Speed-Reading for Comprehension Camp I sent you to last summer?"
Say diplomatically, "Oh, I liked it, Mother. I guess it was just about as good as the Ordinary Differential Equation Camp from the year before."
"It's not that I didn't like them, Mother. It's just that they weren't very fun."
"Fun? Since when is learning fun?" Use your gifted child smarts to elevate your mother's current question to rhetorical status.
"Now, c'mon. You know our motto, Dorinda: No strain on the brain, no gain. Thus Harvard just a dream in vain."
Say, "I know, Mother. It's just that sometimes, I wanna be like other kids."
Listen to the rush of air consuming your mother's lungs as she presses the back of her hand to her forehead. "Oh, where did I go wrong? Honestly! Why would you ever want to be like them?"
"But, Mother," say, boldly dashing to your own defense. "Sometimes, I wanna count on my fingers. I wanna use poor grammar and slang. I'm tired of making anagrams from the periodic table of elements."
Follow your mother's wagging finger. "Oh, you say that now. But someday, you'll thank me Dorinda. You'll see. Trust me."
Realize that you may be a gifted child, but even your Mensa I.Q. cannot conceive of your mother's opinion as a remote possibility...