Eighteen With A Chalkboard

Chapter 1: Numbers, and a not-so-nice surprise

The room is a sanctuary of solitude, where the only company I seek is that of numbers and the whispered cadence of equations. Every moment is a symphony of calculations, each figure and formula orchestrating the melody of my thoughts.

Without Calculus, I'd be completely lost—it's my guide in a world that feels far too ordinary. Hand me a differential equation, and I'm in my happy place. Anything else, and I'm just counting down the minutes until I can escape back to my room, back to my quiet corner of the universe.

As the door creaks open, I remain ensconced in my cocoon of concentration. Sprawled on my king bed, engrossed in John Stillwell's "The Four Pillars of Geometry," I barely acknowledge my mother's presence with a fleeting glance.

"Figured you'd be here," my mom says, her voice all sweet and playful, even though we both know I practically live in this room.

""I wish I had more elusive hideouts to escape to," I replied with a grin. It was one of my best smiles—charming enough to melt her heart, but mischievous enough to let her know I wasn't going anywhere. Not when there were more theorems to prove and more equations to solve.

She walks into my room with a smile that lights up the whole place. It's the kind of smile that can turn a gloomy day into a good one, and I can see why my dad fell for her so quickly. But my eyes are on my book, pretending I'm too engrossed in geometry to notice her happy entrance.

"I'm reading," I say, not even looking up.

"I can see that," she replies, sighing like she's been through this too many times. "Mr. Sage is back."

"Mr. Sage is here?" At the mention of my mentor's name, I practically jump out of bed, my feet hitting the floor with a thud. My favorite person, back after a year? No way. He resigned and vanished without a word. Why would he come back now?

My mother nods, her Afro curls bouncing as she does. "Yes, he's back, Nathan."

 I plop back down on the bed, slamming my book shut. "No thanks," I say, shaking my head. "He quit a year ago. Whatever he wants, I'm not interested."

I lie back down and reopen my book, hoping she'll get the message. But my mom's not having it. She plants her hands on her hips and gives me that look—the one that says she's not going to leave until I cooperate.

"Don't be silly, Nathan. He has something important to tell you. Don't keep him waiting," she insists, before leaving the room with a soft click of the door.

I grunt in frustration and slam the book shut again, tossing it onto my nightstand. My mother's right—I'm being a brat.

By the time I was ten, I met Ibrahim Sage, an old bearded man who knew his math like I knew my multiplication tables. He became my best friend—my only best friend—besides numbers. He had this way of keeping me grounded, even when my intelligence threatened to float me off into some abstract math universe where I could live among infinite numbers and nonsensical equations. Ibrahim always knew how to pull me back down to Earth. He inspired me to get some of my original work published, reminding me that being a genius is great, but being a genius who shares his knowledge with the world is even better.

 But still, Mr. Sage made it clear when he left that he wasn't going to be part of my life anymore after I had corrected his math problems. He said something about "letting me find my own way" or some philosophical nonsense. Now, he's back and I'm still angry at him for what he did.

I sigh, push up my glasses, and head downstairs to the living room. Whatever it is, it better be worth it.

 I step into the large main room, Mr. Sage is facing away, deep in conversation with my mother.