✦—✦—✦•
April 13th, Brook Lane, Chester, UK
I slept on Sunday after the wrap on location was called and woke up in my own bed on Monday morning. Emily had to leave for a family emergency, a crew member's daughter would act as a stand-in for her. Me, Rob, and Peter the Fifth were the only ones who had finished all their parts. Oxfordshire filming was on the docket next and would test Andrew's patience the most. At least Edith could still filmed from the back with a stand-in. As I rubbed the sleep from my eyes, I realized my Mum had driven through the night to get us here. A sad smile came over my face; she deserved all the sleep she could get. I tried to stay as quiet as possible as I made my way downstairs. Terraced houses sadly weren't known to have robust stairs.
"That you?" Dad said a bit loudly from the kitchen.
"Si," I said, walking normally.
"Erin's been going on and on about you liking Spanish. But this is an English household, so keep it to yerself!" Dad said with a posh accent.
"Pfft," I scoffed at him. "This is a Welsh household, no English." Then I started rattling off things in Welsh, clearly wrong but Dad didn't know that.
"Ah, mate," Dad looked up to the ceiling. "What 'ave I done to deserve such a cheeky child? Can't even tease my kid, he's more naughty than me."
Even though Dad was making another joke, I sensed genuine sadness from him. From the Children of the New Forest production Kelly Reilly would go on to become the best actor. I had done a few scenes with her, one of which was the final and most action heavy scene. As of now, she couldn't inject emotion into her performance. I doubted Father had an acting bone in his body. Something made him genuinely sad, I wondered what it could be.
"You're in for a big surprise." Dad smiled at me, morphing into Cheshire grin. Was that named after my dad? We lived in Chester.
"I don't like how you look so all-knowing," I said.
"You don't know the half of it. Too bad your mother won't be there to see it."
"Sleeping?"
"Yes, leave her be. Now, how about some breakfast?"
"Oh no…" I made a face.
"What? I'm amazing at making brekkie," Dad said proudly.
"February 14th, 1997," I said matter-of-factly.
"Ah," Dad looked sheepish. "Do you want me to grab an egg for you?"
I laughed. "Watch and learn, Dad. Might come in handy one day."
Oliver looked up at the ceiling for a solid minute, hoping for the lord to do something. Nearby an eight-year-old giggled as he whisked an egg.
—✦—
Father promised a surprise. I was a bit worried, but I had forgotten about it by the time I got to school. Instead of dropping me off with Mrs. Ramsdale outside, he came in and escorted me to the principal. Briefly I wondered why Chris Hale was a principal and not a head teacher, seemed so American to me.
Inside of his office was pristine. There were no longer the piles of material on his desk. That was a red flag to me, and I started to look around the room. Chris Hale's expression was odd. Veiled happiness? Giddy excitement? What was going on?
"Good to see you, Wilf. How was your trip? Did you have a good time? Must be fun filming TV." Chris rattled off.
"Hi, Mr. Hale. Yes, I did, thanks," I said as casually as I could.
"That's brilliant." Chris tore his gaze off me to look at Dad. "I think the honor should be yours."
"I'd think it means more to you than to me." Dad laughed, then he turned to me, placing his hands on my shoulders. "Wilfred, you have become famous."
"What?" I asked. I had literally finished filming yesterday. No one knew about it—not yet anyway.
Dad gave that grin again before taking out a letter from the inside of his jacket. He handed it to me, a plain white envelope. I wondered if it had anything to do with the Doctor Dolittle production I had coming up in just a few days. I didn't have to tear the envelope as it was cut. Inside was a simple letter, printed on plain A4 with a modest letterhead.
[UKMT] was contained inside a triangular ribbon.
Mystery was finally solved, so I opened the letter, considerably less fancy than the last one.
[Congratulations! Your score on the Intermediate Mathematical Olympiad follow-on round—1998 has earned you a place in British Mathematical Olympiad Round 1—1999, provided your eligibility.]
BMO Round 1? I hadn't heard of it before. But the letter said nothing about my actual score. I looked up at my Principal, my eyebrow raised.
"Ever the stoneface. Maybe this will cheer you up?" Chris lifted up a tiny case and another certificate envelope with the cardboard box as before.
I had expected this when I went to London to give my exam in March. It was becoming increasingly common for me to forget about having done things. Something about being too busy helped me not have to wait for results of things in discomfort. I opened the small wings of the cardboard box. Out came a certificate, much the same as the last; golden foil covered the shining [Best in Year] embossed across it. My eyes briefly left the certificate to look at Chris, who opened the tiny display box for the medal.
My breath caught in my throat. Box hinges opened to reveal a silver medal. I turned back to see my certificate; my eyes sped through the words. It seemed to mock me. Chris laughed, starting a little speech about being proud of his pupil.
[Certificate of Distinction] in a blue stylized frame greeted me. It said I was among the top 25% of all students who competed in this Olympiad. Then I looked at the silver medal. In the Olympiad, certificates ended at Distinction as the highest, rest changing to medals. Yet the silver medal was there glinting in the light, jeering at me. I looked through the breakdown on dad's letter—higher than 39 and lower than 45 marks received Silver medal. The test had sixty marks spread across six questions. I had messed up on at least two questions. My mouth hung open, maybe in a small amount of shock but also like a kid who found out Santa wasn't real.
I was not like other kids. I was Wilfred Price—the boy who could remember a past life. Even if I couldn't remember how I lived it, I could recall the skills that I learned. Santa was always make-believe to me. Science was known to me. There were no questions to be asked from my parents to know what a church was, how electricity worked. But that boy, Wilfred Price, found out today that his older and experienced self was no infallible figure. The Intermediate Olympiad was taken by Year 11 students or lower, which meant it was sixteen-year-old was the oldest .
My past version: an adult, a singer, a Latino, an intellectual? No, that was no longer the case. Old-Me was among the top 25% of sixteen-year-olds. Yet I thought I was an adult, at least back in the old life. Had the Old-Me never pursued excellence in school? How could I know, those memories alluded me. Nothing personal, only facts and skills.
"Good job, Wilf." Dad rubbed my back gently.
I blinked, looking up at him. Oliver Price, a man who had taken his wife's last name. My father. He looked proud. I turned my head to see Mr. Chris Hale, a career educator. Professional principal. He looked proud. I stared at my open palms. Wilfred Price. I was distraught.
"—That's what I always say. Kids are the future!" Chris finished his speech proudly.
My mind seemed to know it as I only started paying attention then.
"Thank you, Mr. Hale. Can you explain what's been happening to Wilf? He's been out near London and only came back yesterday. Hasn't heard a peep from me yet," Dad explained.
"Ah, well." Chris swelled with self-importance, looking almost charitable as he parceled out the scraps from his table. "The reporters have caught your scent—they've been circling for you!"
"Wot?" I asked, as one was wont to.
"UKMT—I think they've reported it to the media that an eight-year-old scored in the top one hundred in the nation. A competition for Year 11 students! That's a big deal. It's the type of news that a newer organisation like them can use to get publicity. Get more kids interested in paying the fee to join the Challenges," Chris went on.
I was already starting to lose my interest again. Wilfred Price didn't deserve this honor, nor the attention. He was a cheater—lousy one at that.
"Thank you, Mr. Hale. But I'd rather not have my photo taken and put on the news." I shook my head, looking down at my feet. "I only got silver."
On account of me having my eyes down, I didn't see the expression on the faces of the two men.
"Hey, Wilf. No one expected you to get such amazing marks. You've only started this back in October. Hell, you give more effort to your singing and dancing than this." Oliver cleared his throat. "What I mean to say is that you've done an amazing job, son. I'm really proud of you. You can get what, like seven gold medals before you're too old to compete again. Come on, chin up."
I sighed. I mean, I was getting emotional. The drawback of being a child, heightened emotions. But this was a reality that shattered a lot of what I thought. There were theories I had about the revelations. That any skill or knowledge I learned through my revelations was perfect version of them. Take the Spanish, for example. I recently convinced Dad to get a subscription to Canal+ Spanish for the express purpose of catching La Liga (football) games on TV. I understood literally everything that was said on it. Then there was my singing. I had knowledge of playing piano and drums without owning either instruments. So far I hadn't played drums in my life, but I knew that the first time I was sat on one, I would blow the top off of anyone who was trying to teach me.
So learning was the same—I didn't need to learn anything. I already knew about it. But now I realized that one of the skills, math, science and everything my education was built on. It was only as good as any sixteen-year-old. Talk about a shift in perspective.
—✦—
The M53 barred my way, but it also led me to my favorite place: Hammond School. Gilles didn't teach any private classes today, and Linda was sick. Seemed the day for it all to work out like that. I still had a tiny practice room to myself. Playing the piano, I did my vocal training. To achieve a good sound on stage you needed the best voice possible. For the best possible voice, you needed to train.
Often I wondered what my vocal training sounded like to other people. Imagine a boy at the corner of your classroom in the dark, pinching his lips with his fingers as he went BRRRRR BRRRR BRRRRR! You'd think the boy special. Maybe I was in some ways.
Vocal training was fun, and it helped me ground myself emotionally from today's revelation. One I learned all on my own, not by the mysterious power. Knowing that I could still hit and sustain notes calmed me.
Maybe Wilfred Price didn't need to be a genius. Maybe he needed to put more effort in to become the genius he once assumed he was. I didn't know, but I was done thinking about myself in third person. Cut out the distraction to set my eyes up ahead. Friendliness—it needed to be cultivated more. Henry. I had forgotten about his odd mood. A good friend wouldn't need a reminder to check up on their mates. Later, I'd get a ticket for Doctor Dolittle out to Henry.
Back before I left for Buckinghamshire, there was a package dropped into our house. The whole script to Leslie Bricusse's Doctor Dolittle with accompanying documents about the current production and crew. There were pictures of dolls and the Jim Henson Company logo strewn around on a brochure. A huge name in the animatronics and puppetry business—or more like the only one. Everyone knew The Muppets and Sesame Street. Recently they had released Bear in the Big House. All family friendly works and quite innocent.
One of the pictures caught my attention, brochure showing two alien creatures, anthropomorphic and beautified. Then there were their enemies, creatures so ugly that you could hate them as easily as breathing. Main character was from a mythical race called Gelflings, a common trope that made them different and last of their kind. I wasn't scared of the evil beings, I was scared of the main characters. Jen and Kira looked like peeled potato painted to look beautiful. No blemishes on their faces, no soul in their heart—a visage so uncanny that it made you uncomfortable. When I thought about myself now, I imagined myself as Jen—an ugly rat-looking thing.
Maybe there was no need to put the Old-Me on a pedestal. So far I picked up new hobbies because I wanted to learn something new on my own. I could gain my blemishes, get a few scratches, grow up to become something more than whoever the Old-Me was.
"Memento Mori," I whispered, a shiver of reverence in my voice.
Old-Me had died, I was sure of it. New-Me could only be better than a stagnant me. Wilfred Price could grow more than the dead. 'Remember you must die' That phrase helped me come to terms with my old version not being the perfect person I imagined it to be. I'd die one day too, but I'd live before then.
First, I'll make some friends. Dying was to be experienced alone, living was to be shared together.