Mr. Cole
"Mr. Cole? Are you with us?"
Aris blinked. For a split second, the name meant nothing. It was a label for a stranger. The pre-algebra on the whiteboard snapped into focus. 3(2x - 5) = 7(x + 3.3). A trivial, single-variable equation.
Mrs. Gable, a thin woman with a perpetually tired expression and hair like dried grass, was staring at him, her arms crossed. The rest of the seventh-grade class was scribbling. Aris's notebook was blank.
"Yes, Mrs. Gable."
"Then what's the answer to number four?"
"x equals negative 38.1," Aris said, his voice flat.
She paused, her eyes scanning her answer key. "...Correct. As usual. Please try to look like you're participating, Aris. It's distracting."
He nodded, but his mind was back on the name.
Cole.
He'd known it for as long as he could read. He'd seen it on his parents' mail, on his first 'A+' spelling test, on the cover of his notebooks. Aris Cole.
It was his label. And every time he heard it, every time he had to write it, it felt like a small, sharp lie. A tiny, dissonant note in the symphony of this new life. He was Thorne. This was just... a uniform. A very convincing, very loving uniform he lived inside.
A paper ball bounced off Aris's shoulder. He ignored it.
"Psst! Cole! What's number five?"
He glanced to his left. Sam Kelling, a kid with a shock of freckles and a perpetually un-tucked shirt, was leaning over the aisle, his own notebook a mess of doodles.
Aris didn't look at him. He didn't refuse. He didn't agree. He simply slid his own notebook—blank save for the single, correct answer to number four—one inch to the right.
Sam squinted. "Dude, that's... that's just number four. I need five."
Aris was already solving it in his head. Linear equation. Distribute. Isolate x. x equals...
"x equals 14," Aris whispered, not moving his gaze from the front of the room.
"Thanks, man! You're a lifesaver."
Aris just nodded. It was the most efficient way to end the conversation.
"Alright, class," Mrs. Gable announced, just as the bell was about to ring. "For your long-term project, due in two weeks, you will be building a scale model of a historical structure. I want pyramids, I want aqueducts... and I want a one-page report. Understood?"
A collective groan.
Aris just packed his bag. A scale model of the Great Pyramid of Giza. A trivial exercise in geometry.
He was the first one out the door. He walked home, his mind not on sugar cubes or history, but on the quantum field theory equations he'd been outlining in his head. He needed a computer. He had work to do.
He got home and dumped his bag by the door.
"Ari, is that you?" Elara called from the kitchen.
"Yeah, Mom."
"Your dad and I are going to the regional semi-finals. You sure you don't want to come?"
"I've got a new project," Aris called back, already heading to his room. "A big one. Due in two weeks."
He sat at his desk, where a small, perfectly constructed pyramid of sugar cubes already sat—he'd built it last weekend out of sheer, preemptive boredom. He powered on the computer. His parents' voices faded as they got ready, the familiar, loving banter of their lives a background noise to his.
He was waiting. Waiting for the sound of the front door. Waiting for the house to be empty.
Waiting for his real work to begin.