The six-page results arrived in the mailbox. I didn’t understand most of it, terms like “perceptual reasoning index” and “crystallized intelligence.” What? Intelligence crystallizes? And at such a young age?

I did, however, understand these lines: “Your child has not met the required criteria for placement in gifted. Your child’s intellectual ability falls within the average range.”

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I remembered that cloudy day when I was 17 and ran barefoot down the pebble path to the mailbox. When I saw my SAT score, I sank into the grass and cried.

I got a 1090. Back then, in 1985, the highest score was 1600. All of my friends — the smart kids — got somewhere around 1400. I thought I was one of the smart kids.

In fifth grade, I was put in Miss Thweat’s Language Arts class, which I knew was the hardest. In junior and senior high, I took honors classes and graduated Palmetto High in the top 10 percent.

Being smart meant getting into a good college, then becoming a brain surgeon, or a Supreme Court justice or winning a Nobel Peace Prize by ending world hunger. These were on my list of things to do when I grew up. Until I took the SAT and I found out I was average.

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