Age 13
Heat sat heavy on the courtyard. It pressed against Stephen's shirt and stuck to the back of his neck the moment he stepped out of the dorm. The sun hit the concrete. Stephen squinted. He hated the gesture; it made him look lost.
He adjusted his backpack strap and walked.
Students flowed between buildings. Some carried coffee. Others held binders. A jogger passed with a towel over one shoulder. A guy ahead complained about a parking ticket. Stephen stayed in the shade of the live oaks.
The route was already in his head. Building names. Room numbers. He had the printed schedule in his pocket, but he didn't pull it out. He didn't like the crinkling sound the paper made. Cicadas whined in the branches, a steady drone that didn't change.
A bulletin board near the walkway held layers of flyers. A corner of one lifted in the breeze. Stephen caught the words QUANTUM COMPUTING before he passed it. He didn't slow down. He didn't want to stand still where people could look at him.
Air conditioning hit him at the door of Welch Hall. The chill was sharp against his sweat. The hallway echoed with the bounce of footsteps and distant voices. He followed the sound of chalk.
A sign by the door read Advanced Calculus I. The paper was yellowed and taped crookedly. Stephen stepped into the lecture hall.
Rows curved down toward the front. Desks folded up from the seats, their wooden surfaces carved with names and dates. The blackboard was a smear of old white lines. A man stood at the front, writing. He was in his mid-fifties, short sleeves, with a tie that sat crookedly against his collar.
He didn't look up. "Find a seat anywhere," the professor said. "We are not formal until someone gives me a reason to be."
Stephen picked a seat in the middle. He set his notebook down and pulled out a pencil. The wood was rough under his wrist. Other students filtered in, their bodies filling the space. Several heads turned. Stephen didn't look up. He wrote the date in the corner of his page.
The professor finished his line and turned. "Dr. Holloway," he said. "If you are here for a class that makes you feel smart every day, you are in the wrong room."
A few students laughed. Holloway picked up the chalk. "We start with limits. Not because they are simple. Because they are unforgiving. You skip steps, you get punished."
He wrote an expression across the board. The chalk clicked in sharp taps. Stephen's pencil moved. He didn't have to push; his hand followed the logic. He wrote the steps small and clean. He stayed one step ahead of the board, then two. By the time Holloway finished the first example, Stephen had already checked the derivative.
"Some of you will try to treat this like a list," Holloway said. "Memorize patterns. Memorize tricks. That works until the problem changes."
Stephen wrote the line down. It wasn't math, but it felt like a rule.
A teaching assistant moved between rows handing out syllabi. She was in her mid-twenties, hair pulled back, glasses sliding down her nose. A name tag read Lena Cho. She paused at Stephen's row. Her eyes flicked to his notebook, then to his face.
Stephen kept his eyes on the board. He hated the attention. Lena moved on.
Holloway kept writing. Limits turned into definitions. Definitions turned into proofs. The room went quiet as the hour progressed.
The door opened. Air moved. Stephen felt the shift before he heard the footsteps. Paige slipped into the seat beside him. Her hair was pulled back, but strands were stuck to her forehead. She leaned in.
"Miss me?" she mouthed.
Stephen kept his eyes forward. "You're late," he whispered.
"Wrong building," Paige whispered.
"They're labeled."
"They both start with W," Paige said. "That should be illegal."
Stephen's pencil didn't stop. "That is not how letters work."
Paige nudged his elbow and opened her notebook. She watched the board, then glanced at Stephen's notes. "How far ahead are you?"
"Two."
Paige's mouth tightened. She started writing.
Holloway turned from the board. "All right. Let's see what you do when I don't do the hard part for you." He wrote a new expression—long, sharp, and full of potential for small errors. He leaned against the desk. "Who wants it?"
Silence.
Stephen saw the steps. They sat in order in his mind. Paige's pencil paused. Neither of them moved. Stephen pressed his palms flat against the desk. He breathed through his nose and waited.
Holloway smiled faintly. "Fine. I see we are shy."
He worked through it himself, narrating each step. He didn't rush. Most of the room needed the time.
The lecture ended. Holloway waved a hand toward the door. "You will either love this, or you will transfer to sociology by October. Both are valid life choices."
The laughter sounded real this time.
"Encouraging," Paige muttered.
Stephen closed his notebook. "It's data."
Paige looked at him. "You're going to say that all semester."
"Probably."
They moved into the hallway. The crowd was thick. Someone complained about the pace. Someone else mentioned dropping the class. Older students whispered as Stephen and Paige passed. Stephen caught the words kid and scholarship.
Paige walked close to him. She didn't look at the other students. "I hate those seats," she said.
"They're made for adults," Stephen said.
"Everything here is."
They crossed the quad toward the library. The sun hit hard. Paige adjusted her backpack. "You still glad we're here?"
Stephen nodded. "Yes."
Paige's mouth lifted. "Good."
The Perry-Castañeda Library was quiet. Ceiling fans rotated slowly, the blades cutting the air with a soft whump. Paige picked a table in the back and dropped her notebook. She pulled out a small, thick Compaq laptop. It hit the table with a thud.
"You brought that," Stephen said.
"Counts as academic equipment," Paige said.
Stephen sat across from her. "Counts as weightlifting."
"Jealous."
"I'm not," Stephen said. He knew he sounded like he was.
Paige started typing. Her fingers moved fast. The keys clicked in a steady, rhythmic pattern. Stephen rewrote Holloway's last example. He did it a second time using a different method to verify the result.
Paige glanced up. "You're doing it twice."
"Faster than being wrong later," Stephen said.
"That is your version of fun."
A stack of books hit the table. Lena Cho stood there, holding three texts against her chest. "You two were in Holloway's lecture," she said.
Paige looked up. "Is it that obvious?"
"Hard to miss," Lena said. "I'm Lena. Teaching assistant."
Stephen offered a single nod.
"Paige," Paige said. Her smile was polite.
"Stephen," Stephen added.
Lena shifted the books. "I heard about you. The scholarship program." Her tone was flat. "Holloway moves at his pace. If you need extra references or want to see problem sets early, I can help."
Stephen's pencil paused.
Paige tilted her head. "Why?"
"Because he teaches to the center of the room," Lena said. "If you're not in the center, you spend a lot of time waiting."
Lena's gaze moved to Stephen. "You were writing ahead. Try not to skip the easy steps."
Stephen frowned. "They're not hard."
"That's not why I said it," Lena replied. "Easy steps teach patience. Patience keeps you from getting sloppy when it matters."
Stephen felt his jaw tighten. He didn't answer. Lena nodded once and walked away into the stacks.
Paige waited until she was gone. "She likes you."
Stephen's pencil moved again. "She likes results."
"Same thing to people like that," Paige said.
They worked until the light softened to orange. Paige flexed her fingers. "You think we'll stay anonymous for more than a week?"
"No," Stephen said.
"Good."
Stephen looked at her. "Why?"
"Because I'm tired of being the rumor," Paige said.
They left the library when Paige's stomach growled. Stephen followed her toward the commons. The space was half-lit, the air humming with the sound of vending machines. A television in the corner played the news with the captions on.
Stephen sat where he could see the door. He wrote a logic puzzle on a napkin. The paper tore slightly when he pressed too hard. He eased his grip.
Paige sat across from him, eyes half-closed.
Stephen reached the last step of the puzzle and stopped.
"You're doing the thing," Paige murmured.
"What thing?"
"Leaving it unfinished," Paige said. "You never do that."
Stephen stared at the napkin. The answer was clear. He didn't write it. He folded the napkin and slid it under his notebook.
Ben walked over, a deck of cards in his hand. He sat backward in a chair. "You two again. Planning to move in down here?"
"Already did," Paige said.
Ben looked at Stephen's napkin. "Solving the universe?"
"Logic puzzle," Stephen said.
"Sure." Ben's tone shifted. "Look. People are going to stare. Some will be weird. I can't stop that. I can stop them from bothering you after curfew."
Stephen nodded.
"But you have to help me," Ben said. "If someone says hi, say it back. Don't act like they threatened you."
Paige snorted. "He does not do threats. He does equations."
Ben pointed at Paige's laptop bag. "And you. People are going to ask about that. Don't act like it's classified. Talk like a normal person."
"I can talk," Paige said.
Ben stood up. "Try to sleep before midnight. I'm not your dad, but I hate paperwork."
"Define midnight," Paige said.
Ben pointed at the clock and walked away. Paige watched him go, then looked at Stephen. "Do you ever get tired of being reminded we're not supposed to be here?"
"Yes."
"It doesn't change anything," Stephen added.
"That's your comfort line," Paige said.
Stephen sat in silence. The vending machines hummed. A student looked at them and quickly turned away. Stephen didn't finish the puzzle.
Back in his room, Stephen turned on the desk lamp. The empty bed sat in shadow. He opened his notebook to a blank page. He held the pencil, then set it down. He reached into the drawer and touched Meemaw's lighter.
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