If You Can Do Better, Prove It

By the time Subject One started first grade at eight years old, she was already two years behind her peers. She graduated from elementary school at fourteen.

The old bachelor from the neighboring village sneered at the television one day, pointing at some movie and saying, "In some parts of the world, kids her age could already have children."

Then, turning to my mother, he offered his own twisted version of kindness. "I'll pay for her entire middle school education—three years' worth of expenses. After that, she can graduate and marry me. What do you say? You know how it is with village girls. They can't keep up in town schools, and girls can never outstudy boys anyway. Three years from now, what if she doesn't pass any exams? Worse, what if some little punk gets her pregnant, and she runs off with him? Then you'd be left with nothing."

My mother didn't agree outright, but neither did she reject him.

A few days later, the kind woman who had been sponsoring Subject One's education came to visit and asked about her schooling. Only then did my mother mention her plans for an engagement.

The woman was horrified. She immediately contacted some friends to organize continued financial support for Subject One.

Satisfied with this new arrangement, my mother declined the old bachelor's offer. She had learned long ago that exploiting others' sympathy for her child was the easiest way to make money. It wasn't a one-time sale—it was an investment. The better Subject One appeared to do, the more sympathy and support they'd receive.

Now, her ambitions stretched higher. She wanted Subject One to get into Harvard or Stanford University. Not because of Subject One's future, but because she'd heard that impoverished prodigies from prestigious universities drew the most donations. A brilliant, struggling student was far more valuable than a mediocre one.

On screen, my mother was teaching Subject One some life lessons. "Cry a little when you see the principal or teachers, make yourself look pitiful. That's how we get the money, understand?"

She continued, "I've sacrificed my dignity for your sake. I'm the villain so you can be the hero. All this money? I spend it on you. Someday, it might even buy you a house. So study hard."

In the simulation, Subject One nodded with a firm determination, a puppet in her mother's well-rehearsed theater of pity.

The audience watching this playback was split. Some condemned my mother's manipulative tactics, while others rationalized her actions. "Parents will do anything for their kids. Sure, she's sly, but what other skills does she have to earn money?"

Middle school began for Subject One the way elementary school had—with kneeling.

Thin, pale, and much shorter than her peers, she stood in clothes that barely held together as her mother wept and groveled before the principal. The school staff finally promised some basic support before my mother rose.

But that wasn't enough for her. At the parents' meeting, she set her sights on the wealthiest parent in the class. With tears streaming down her face, she begged this wealthy mother to sponsor Subject One and even offered her as a child bride. The wealthy woman had no choice but to agree to pay a hundred dollars a month for Subject One's meals.

By now, my mother was receiving three separate sources of funds: donations from the kind sponsor, basic school support, and the wealthy parent's monthly allowance.

Yet, despite all this, Subject One never had enough to eat. When she asked for more food money, my mother's response was chilling. "If you live too well, people won't pity you. Besides, we're poor—money must be spent sparingly."

At school, Subject One endured every humiliation a poor, outcast student could face.

The rowdy boys mocked her, calling her "child bride." The girls whispered behind her back.

A month into school, Subject One got her first period. Unprepared and embarrassed, she gratefully accepted a small package of sanitary pads from a teacher. Carefully following the instructions, she changed them every few hours, but the pack ran out before the week was over. When she asked her mother for help, she was handed a roll of toilet paper.

The lack of proper supplies left her constantly anxious, sneaking glances at her chair during every lesson.

But Subject One pressed on. She focused entirely on her studies, using every moment to absorb knowledge since there was no money for tutoring or extra materials. Her classmates' ridicule only fueled her determination.

Some viewers were moved.

"Anyone who can endure such hardship will achieve great things later."

"I admire her focus. She doesn't care about others' opinions and keeps striving for her goals. If she succeeds, I'll reward her with a ten-thousand-dollar donation."

To be honest, I really admire Subject One. She has an incredibly strong mental fortitude.

But, the reasons affecting Subject One's grades weren't limited to just psychological pressure. In the beginning, her grades in Grade 7 were decent, in the upper middle range. But then, her performance started to decline gradually.

The audience was getting upset. "Didn't Subject One say that if given the opportunity to study, she would do well? Why does she keep zoning out and falling asleep in class?"

I answered flatly, "Because she's hungry."

During puberty, when you're growing, it's a terrible feeling not to have enough to eat.

Hunger gnawed at her every night, waking her from sleep and clouding her thoughts during the day. Malnutrition slowed her body and dulled her mind. The dim glow of a ten-watt bulb became her constant companion during late-night study sessions, damaging her eyesight.

When she asked for glasses, my mother snapped, "Glasses? Do you know how expensive those are? Stop making yourself sick with these 'rich people's problems.' Ask the teacher to let you sit in the front row instead."

The teacher refused, citing the class's rotating seating policy. By then, even the staff had grown tired of my mother's antics, and no one wanted to make special accommodations for Subject One.

The audience murmured disapprovingly. "This isn't providing the best conditions for studying at all. Never mind the ridicule, the bully, and the mental pressure, at least meet the child's basic needs."

One viewer, a young woman, smiled kindly at me and said, "You've had it rough, haven't you?"

I shrugged. "Not really. Honestly, I just didn't have the talent for academics."

As I'd said, once chemistry and physics were introduced, Subject One was completely lost. Without tutoring or peer help—no one dared get too close to her—her grades plummeted.

The trial reached its climax. My husband, pale and sweating, finally broke his silence. "Are you telling me that under the same conditions, Vivian as 'Subject One' has the exact academic potential as Adeline?"

The system confirmed: [That is correct. The Life Trial System "If You Think You Can Do Better, Prove It" is a simulator that reveals your capabilities under identical circumstances as the defendant.]

Beads of sweat dripped down his face. My son, confused and wide-eyed, looked between us.

I smiled at them both.

Soon, it was time for the high school entrance exams.

The system's voice declared: [Candidate Vivian Wood's results are below the judged individual's scores. The conditions for winning the "If You Think You Can Do Better, Prove It" trial have not been met. Termination will proceed.]