Chapter 1

 

Two days earlier

 

Well, this is boring, Peter thought.

He had just finished setting up his work bench in chemistry class for the day’s titration experiment. The students around him dripped sulfuric acid into sodium hydroxide, trying to turn the latter solution pink, indicating that it had neutralized.

He had done this experiment in his back yard when he was seven.

It took a long time, as he recalled, and the payoff of a pink solution at the end really wasn’t that exciting. He scoped out the classroom to see if there was anything he could do instead that might feel less like a waste of time. Unfortunately for Peter, Mr. Collins had figured out long ago that as long as Peter was in the class, it was absolutely vital to lock up all chemicals not strictly necessary for the day’s lesson.

So, as usual, he would have to improvise.

With several glances over his shoulder to make sure Mr. Collins’ back was turned, Peter opened all the drawers, looked under the sinks for any chemical he could use, even some sort of cleaning solution… nothing. Then he felt something in his jacket pocket, and withdrew a half-eaten Cadbury Dairy Milk chocolate bar from lunch the day before. He stared at it for a minute with intense concentration. This could have potential…

“No eating in lab,” said Tiffany Bristol bossily, eyeing him from the next lab bench over.

“I’m not planning on eating it,” Peter said slowly, only half-paying attention to her. Then a flash of insight lit up his face, and he couldn’t resist staying out loud, “Aha!”

“What are you doing?” she asked suspiciously, and crept over to spy on him.

Peter remembered seeing a prepackaged scalpel blade in his bench drawers. He retrieved it, fitted it to the scalpel blade handle, and deftly began to carve a slit into a piece of perfectly good plastic tubing.

“You’re damaging school property!” Tiffany said, horrified.

“Shhh,” he hissed. “It’s just plastic tubing. Nobody will even notice it’s gone. Besides, this is gonna be brilliant. Just watch!” He attached one end of the tubing to the inverted beaker containing the sulfuric acid and dragged part of it onto the lab bench, and deposited the other end into the sodium hydroxide beaker a few centimeters away. “I saw this old television episode once,” Peter explained excitedly, “where a guy plugs a sulfuric acid leak using a chocolate bar. The sulfuric acid breaks down the chocolate into elemental carbon, and it gets sticky enough to make a plug for the leak.” As he spoke, he unwrapped the chocolate, positioned it beneath the break in the tubing, and rotated the acid spigot to the ‘on’ position.

But, he rotated the spigot a little too far, and the acid didn’t drip, like it was supposed to. It poured. The black-topped lab bench turned white everywhere the stream touched it with an angry, steaming hiss. Tiffany leapt back, too late: the sleeve of her lab coat started sizzling, and the fabric began to dissolve before her eyes. She started screaming, “Get it off! Get it off!”

Mr. Collins appeared beside her in a flash, his face puce, and his mustache trembled. He shoved Tiffany under the emergency shower and pulled the triangular handle. The amount of water that dumped from the ceiling onto Tiffany’s head was so absurd it seemed almost like a practical joke. When it finally stopped, she wasn’t screaming anymore, but she glared at Peter underneath her sopping bangs, looking like a drowned rat.

Mr. Collins rounded on Peter. “I don’t even want to know what you did,” he said in a barely controlled whisper, and extended his left arm fully toward the door, index finger jabbing into the air like an exclamation point. “Out!”

“But –” Peter protested, and looked back down at the chocolate bar. Sure enough, it had congealed into a sticky, gooey mess, and the acid was now flowing through the repaired tubing straight into his fuchsia solution at the other end. But Mr. Collins was not impressed.

“Now!”

 

Fifteen minutes later, Peter stared glumly at the empty maroon leather chair in Mr. Stone’s office, still waiting for his punishment. She should have minded her own business, he thought bitterly. Then none of this would have happened. But he knew it probably wouldn’t have mattered. After three years of secondary school, Peter’s offenses had become so commonplace that the teachers often sent him to the headmaster’s office just to get rid of him.

Peter really didn’t mean to be difficult. He wanted nothing more than to be just like all the other kids, but he simply didn’t understand how to fit into the complex social hierarchy that was secondary school. He was “special,” according to his father Bruce, although when he said it, the word “special” sounded like a euphemism for “awkward.”

Boredom plagued Peter most of the time when he was at school. He didn’t much care for languages or history or any of that rubbish (as he called it). He did care about the maths and science curriculums, but he learned almost nothing from them. His dad worked as a physicist at the university, and Peter had taught himself most of the concepts his peers were just learning now by the age of seven. So, he had to invent ways to keep himself entertained… and he did. Regularly.

He shifted uncomfortably in the hard wooden chair and glanced at the clock. He had been waiting alone in the office for almost twenty minutes. It used to be that the headmaster delivered his punishments swiftly in order to serve as a warning to other would-be rule breakers, but now even the headmaster was at a loss for what to do with him, and tended to drag his feet.

Peter recalled his previous visit to the headmaster’s office only three days ago, when he had borrowed some liquid nitrogen and copper wiring from the chemistry lab, and tried to design a superconducting magnet in one of the sinks in the boys’ locker room. None of the teachers ever would have found out about it if he hadn’t accidentally shorted out the electricity in the entire building. After a very brief and spectacularly unfair exchange of words with Coach Hendricks, Peter found himself sitting in the strategically low chair across from Mr. Stone’s desk for the fourth time that school year.

Today made the fifth… and it was not even October yet.

“Ah, Mr. Stewart,” came a tired, colorless voice from the doorway. Peter turned to see the all-too-familiar elderly form clad entirely in brown and gray tweed, the very picture of an Oxford academic, though they lived in Norwich. “Done it again, have you?”

Peter smiled and shrugged apologetically.

“I spoke with your father after the last time you were here. I don’t suppose he told you about the solution I proposed?”

Peter shrugged again. “He mentioned it.”

“But you are not interested?” The headmaster seemed concerned, almost nervous, as he ran a hand absently over his coarse gray hair. His manner suggested that he was very eager for Peter to become someone else’s problem. “As I told your father, Peter, beginning your A-levels at the university several years early, for a boy of your – er, talents – seems to make far more sense than keeping you here and inventing a program track exclusively for you. It’s obvious that you do not consider the curriculum we offer at King’s to be sufficiently challenging.” Here his manner grew vaguely defensive. “Why would you wish to stay?”

“My friends are here,” said Peter.

Mr. Stone raised his eyebrows fractionally.

“I have friends!” he protested. “Cole and Mr. Richards….”

“Mr. Richards is your maths teacher, he is not your friend,” said Mr. Stone sternly.

Peter pursed his lips, looked at his shoes, and fought the childish urge to retort, he is. “Besides, I can teach myself what I like here as well as there.”

“But – you would be surrounded by university students. All new friends! And you could enroll in university-level classes,” the headmaster continued, with too much enthusiasm. “I’m sure your father must have enough connections that he could get you a position in research in a physics lab, if that’s what you wanted, as well. Collins tells me you’re a whiz.”

Here Peter sat up straighter. “Research?” he repeated. He hadn’t thought of that. How had he not thought of that? Of course his dad could pull some strings! A physics teacher himself and a senior investigator in theoretical topics like superstring theory and noetics, his dad’s recommendation (and his dad’s genes) ought to be more than sufficient.

Mr. Stone looked relieved, and pressed his advantage. “Yes, think of it! You could indulge your academic curiosity to your heart’s content. A university level researcher at only fourteen years of age!” He nodded for emphasis, his double chin jiggling. “I’ll tell you what, Peter. I’ll place a call to Dr. Stewart and discuss it with him, and see if we can’t set up a transfer for you to the university mid-semester. You run along to class, and if all works out well, we should be able to have you out of here by next week at the latest!” A flicker of chagrin crossed the headmaster’s face, betraying that he’d been a bit more honest than he had intended to be. “Yes, well,” he said, and coughed unnecessarily. “Off you go, then.”

 

Peter left the headmaster’s office and made his way through the corridor lined with locker bays painted an atrocious shade of orange. The bell rang for next period, and chatting and laughing students crowded the corridor. Some walked to their next classes, but most loitered about, flirting with each other or gossiping about their adventures the previous weekend.

Peter watched the familiar faces that passed by, none of whom bothered to acknowledge his presence, and felt conflicted. On one hand, Peter had dreamt of being a real scientist ever since he was four years old, when his dad explained how gravity worked using salt and pepper shakers to represent celestial bodies. Every night over dinner (which Peter had prepared for as long as he could remember, since outside of a laboratory, Bruce could not be trusted with an open flame), he listened eagerly as his dad described in harrowing, colorful detail the abstract intellectual battles fought between his peers with multi-colored dry wipe pens.

But then he tried to picture himself as a university student at fourteen years old. If he thought he appeared scrawny next to the football players at King’s, he could only imagine what a shrimp he would look like compared to university boys. There wouldn’t be any girls his age, either. Why would anybody bother talking to him if they were all so much older than he was?

King’s Secondary School was familiar, and familiar was comforting. However, even though Peter had grown up with the same classmates since primary school, he did not fit in, no matter how hard he tried. There were several reasons for this: Peter had just finished his last growth spurt the previous summer, and now stood an awkward five foot ten, with shoulder blades protruding where the flesh and muscle had yet to catch up with the rest of him. His hair was the color of sand, his blue eyes were oddly bright, and his skin was so pale that it appeared translucent, betraying his every emotion – a feature that only added to his awkwardness. While other boys (cool boys, he thought bitterly, like Brock Jefferson) could play off any situation with a cavalier, devil-may-care attitude, everybody knew exactly how Peter felt, and there was no point in trying to hide it. It was a social vulnerability Brock, and the rest of the football team, exploited to its fullest potential.

Usually Peter’s classmates made fun of him just for being a freak, like when he was in English Literature and it was his turn to read from “Macbeth.” He had been so engrossed in a textbook on Differential Equations (which he’d hidden inside his copy of the play) that he missed his cue, requiring Mrs. Ferguson to actually walk across the room and rap his desk with her pointer before he realized they were waiting for him. He turned a humiliating shade of scarlet and mumbled his way through the piece, provoking Brock and his sidekicks (Richard and Harry) to refer to him for weeks afterward as “the talking tomato.” (Not very original, Peter thought, but at least it had the alliteration thing going for it.)

Then there was the immense social liability of his intellect. He would have traded being smart for being cool in a heartbeat. He winced as he remembered the first day of science class, when Mr. Collins had asked everybody to introduce themselves, and tell their favorite joke. Peter didn’t really tell jokes, but just the day before, his dad had told him one he’d heard in the lab about “three particles that walked into a bar.” He thought it was hilarious, and was already cracking up when he got to the punch line… but nobody laughed. He could literally hear a pin drop somewhere in the back of the room.

So, King’s might be familiar, but familiar was not necessarily a good thing.

“Pete!”

Cole’s voice interrupted Peter’s thoughts. Peter turned around to see Cole’s blond buzz cut and broad face bouncing toward him energetically and he smiled, grateful to see a friendly face.

“Hey, glad I caught you! I have a free period. Want to go to the LCR and get a coffee?” The LCR stood for Large Common Room; it was the slang the students used to refer to their cafeteria.

“Can’t,” said Peter. “I have maths right now.”

“Aww, come on. It’s not like you ever pay attention anyway.” Cole bumped shoulders with him on purpose. “Just for a few minutes? I have news…” He said it in the significant tone of voice that could only mean one thing: Celeste.

Peter bit his lip and tried to pretend he wasn’t interested, but Cole triumphantly shoved him towards the door. “Ha!” he gloated.

Dying grass lined the concrete path from the concrete main hall to the concrete LCR, and the leaves of the few trees were beginning to fall. King’s was a decidedly drab campus, but it had character. The students either loved it or they hated it.

Peter deliberately walked close enough to Cole that their words could not be overheard. “Fine, talk,” he said grudgingly, his heart beating faster.

“Brock and Celeste broke up.”

Peter looked up sharply.

“Watch out!” said Cole, and just in time: Peter narrowly avoided a head-on collision with a concrete column. He ducked his head down as he redirected his path and pushed through the revolving glass doors that led into the LCR, hiding his face until the flush of color subsided.

“When?” he finally managed to ask Cole.

“This weekend, I guess. I overheard Brock telling Richard last night.” As Brock’s younger brother, Cole was not above eavesdropping during Brock’s phone conversations. “So… maybe you should make a move, huh?”

“Ha!” Peter laughed bitterly. “Not likely.” Involuntarily he looked around the LCR, like he always did whenever he entered a large common space, scanning for Celeste’s heart-shaped face and her long dark hair. He didn’t see her, but if he had, he would have looked away quickly before she noticed… like he had for the last three years.

Girls like Celeste dated guys like Brock. They most certainly did not date guys like Peter Stewart.

Cole retrieved his drink from the vending machine: a black coffee. Peter got the same thing, even though he didn’t like black coffee. He had been so engrossed in the conversation that he hadn’t been paying attention. He went to the bar to add some milk after they paid the cashier, lost in thought. He felt perplexed, but he wasn’t sure why. In fact, he suddenly felt more inclined, not less, to transfer to the university.

He glanced at the clock on the wall and added, “I really should go to maths. I don’t like to bunk Mr. Richards’ class.”

Cole shrugged. “Catch up to you later, then.”

 

Peter wondered as he trudged to Mr. Richards’ class why he felt so dejected. This ought to be good news. The girl of his dreams had just broken up with his archenemy. Yet somehow, the fact that she was theoretically now available only highlighted the fact that under no circumstances that he could envision would she ever, ever choose him.

Peter suddenly realized she was walking towards him on the path. She wore a blue sweater that made her cheeks look rosy, and she was deep in conversation with her best friend Katie. If he didn’t speak up soon, they’d pass him by without acknowledgement. He blurted out before he could stop himself, “Hi Celeste.”

She looked away from Katie mid-sentence, surprised, and distracted. “Oh. Hi, Peter.”

“How was your first class?” he asked. It was the only thing he could think of to say. He looked down at his coffee, hoping for inspiration, and saw that he had forgotten to stir it after adding the milk. It had mostly blended in while he walked, but a few tentacles of white still laced their way through the blackness like the arms of a squid.

“Uh, fine,” she said, and Katie giggled wickedly. “Why are you staring at your coffee?” Celeste asked. “Is there a bug in it or something?”

“Oh – no. I’m just watching the convection,” Peter blurted, and then added very quickly, “You see, the cold milk molecules are moving a lot slower than the hot coffee molecules, so the milk cuts right through the coffee until both liquids reach a temperature equilibrium—”

“That’s…great, Peter,” Celeste interrupted, and Katie covered her mouth with her mitten to stifle a derisive giggle. “We’ll see you later, okay?”

“Okay,” Peter mumbled miserably, his face burning as he watched her go. Once she was out of earshot, he muttered to himself, “I am such a moron…”