Age 12
The Texas summer had a way of pressing down on everything like a heavy blanket. By June, the air shimmered above the roads, the cicadas hummed like static, and even time itself seemed to sweat. Mom called it "good, honest heat," but I wasn't convinced there was anything honest about humidity thick enough to chew.
Most mornings started the same: Meemaw sitting on her porch with a glass of iced tea, wearing her big sunglasses and a T-shirt that read "I May Be Old, But I Ain't Done Yet." She claimed the heat "built character." I claimed it just melted it.
That morning, she had me helping her repaint her porch railings. The paint fumes mixed with the smell of honeysuckle and cigarette smoke. Sweat ran down my back, but she was steady as ever, brush in hand and humor sharper than her nails.
"You missed a spot, Eli," she quipped, tapping the edge of my rail with her brush.
I nodded and kept painting. We worked in easy silence for a while, the kind that only happens when words aren't needed.
Eventually, she said, "You've been thinkin' again."
"I do that sometimes," I said.
She shot me a look over her glasses. "No, not just thinkin'. Broodin'. You got that faraway look, like you're doin' math on the clouds."
I shrugged. "Just patterns. They're everywhere, in the way the bugs hum, the way the wind hits the fence. Even in how people talk."
"Maybe." She dipped her brush and smirked. "But not everything needs figurin' out, sugar. Some things just need doin'."
She handed me a cold tea and leaned back in her chair. "You can think all you want, but don't forget to live in between the thoughts."
I nodded but didn't answer right away. The world always made more sense in silence.
A small breeze cut through the heat for a moment, rare mercy. I watched it ruffle the pages of my notebook beside me.
Inside was a letter from Paige, the first since the semester ended. Her handwriting was neat but careful, like she didn't want to leave fingerprints on her own thoughts.
"Summer's quieter than I expected.My parents keep scheduling lessons and projects. They say I should stay 'engaged,' but I think I'm just tired.I wish I had someone to talk to who didn't sound proud or worried."
I hadn't answered yet, maybe because I didn't know what to say that didn't sound hollow.
Meemaw noticed me staring at the letter and tapped my arm. "You moonin' over a girl?"
I snorted. "She's not"
"Uh-huh." She smirked, cutting me off. "That's what every genius says before they start writin' poetry in binary."
I hid a smile. "She's just… different. Like Sheldon, but quieter. Sadder."
Meemaw's tone softened. "Well, that kind of smart person can get lonely. You just make sure she knows she ain't alone, y'hear?"
I nodded again, tucking the letter away.
When the porch was done, Meemaw stood up and stretched. "Not bad, kid. You almost make manual labor look dignified."
"I'll take that as a compliment."
"Don't. It wasn't."
We both laughed, a sound that carried across the still air and faded into the hum of summer.
Later that night, I sat on my bed under the lazy spin of the ceiling fan and wrote my reply to Paige. It wasn't long, just a few sentences.
"The quiet's not so bad once you learn to listen to it.There's music in stillness if you stop trying to fill it.P.S. I painted a porch today. It didn't need solving, just doing. You'd get along with Meemaw."
I sealed it in an envelope, smiling faintly. For the first time in weeks, the quiet didn't feel so heavy.
By mid-July, the backyard had become Dad's kingdom, a half-finished landscape of tools, beer cans, and big intentions. The air smelled of cut grass and charcoal, and the heat came down in waves strong enough to make the horizon shimmer.
Dad was under the old AC unit again, muttering about how "they don't build 'em like they used to." He had a wrench in one hand, determination in the other.
"Hand me that socket, Eli," he said, not looking up.
Georgie wandered over, football tucked under his arm and sweat dripping down his forehead. "You know, Dad, you could just buy a new one."
Dad grunted. "You could just get a job."
I smirked. Georgie rolled his eyes.
The three of us worked in easy rhythm, Dad tinkering, Georgie passing tools wrong, and me quietly fixing whatever he misaligned. Every few minutes, Dad would stop to wipe his brow and squint up at the sky like he was negotiating with God.
After a while, he leaned back against the side of the house, letting out a long sigh. "You know, sometimes I think fixing things is more about patience than know-how."
I tilted my head. "That's not entirely true. Skill still matters."
He gave me a look, half amused, half fatherly warning. "Smartassery's genetic, huh?"
Georgie laughed. "Yeah, Mom says y'all got it bad."
Dad cracked open a beer, took a sip, and gestured at the AC. "You boys ever noticed how life's like one of these machines? Everything's connected. You pull the wrong wire, and the whole thing stops working. But if you're patient, if you pay attention, you can usually get it runnin' again."
I nodded slowly, watching the condensation bead down the can in his hand. "And what if the part's just broken?"
He smiled faintly. "Then you replace it. Or you make do till payday. That's life."
It was the kind of answer that didn't need to be smart to be right.
When the AC finally sputtered back to life, a small breeze pushed through the vent, hot at first, then mercifully cool. Dad threw his arms up like he'd just solved world peace.
"Ha! Told y'all I didn't need no repairman."
"Yeah," Georgie said, grinning, "you just needed free labor."
Dad pointed his wrench like a warning. "Watch it, boy, or I'll make you mow the church lawn again."
Georgie's grin vanished. "I'll get the lemonade."
As he walked off, Dad chuckled and sat on the steps. "You know, Stephen, for someone who lives up in his head all the time, you ain't half bad with your hands."
"I learned from you," I said honestly.
He looked at me for a second longer than usual, the faintest hint of pride softening the lines around his eyes. "Nah," he said. "You just paid attention."
The sun dipped lower, painting everything gold. Georgie came back with three glasses of lemonade, warm but drinkable, and for a while, we just sat there, sweating, joking, existing.
No lessons, no equations, no tests. Just a father and his sons, holding still in the long Texas light.
By late July, the summer heat had gone from heavy to hostile, the kind that made even the cicadas sound tired. Missy had been spending her afternoons at the park down the street, where the neighborhood kids gathered around the old swing set that creaked like it had arthritis.
I usually didn't go with her, it wasn't my scene, but that day, something in me said to tag along.
She wore her favorite purple shirt with the cartoon horse on it, swinging her legs and humming something out of tune.
It was peaceful, at least until three older kids rolled up. One of them, Billy Sparks' cousin, a few years older and twice as dumb.
He swaggered like the park was his kingdom and everyone else was trespassing. "Hey, little Cooper," he said to Missy, "your brother's that weird kid who talks about atoms, right?"
Missy frowned. "Which one?"
The boy laughed, clearly not expecting that. "The tiny one."
"Oh," she said innocently, "then yeah, that's Sheldon. He's not weird, he's just smarter than you."
His friends snickered, egging him on. "Watch your mouth, brat."
I was sitting on the bench with my notebook, pretending to be busy, but my pen stopped. The boy leaned in closer to Missy. "Bet your mom still cuts your food, huh?"
She crossed her arms. "Bet yours still has to help you spell your name."
That earned a shove, not hard, but enough to make her stumble. I stood before I thought about it.
"Hey," I said. My voice came out calm. Too calm. "Don't touch her."
He turned, eyes narrowing when he realized I was younger, smaller, and still daring to interrupt his moment of dominance. "Or what, nerd?"
His friends laughed. Missy looked at me, worried now.
"Walk away," I said again, evenly.
He didn't like that I interrupted him. He stepped closer, nose to nose. "Say that again."
He pulled back his hand in a punching position.
My body moved on its own, efficient and precise, my peak conditioning kicking in. My fist connected with his chest, just below the sternum. He gasped, stumbled backward, the wind knocked out of him.
His friends froze. One of them muttered, "Dude" before dragging him away.
Missy's eyes were wide. "Stephen, you hit him!"
I rubbed my hand. "Technically, yes. But in my defense, he was setting up to throw a punch at me first."
She blinked, then started laughing. "I can't wait to tell Meemaw!"
By the time we got home, word had already beaten us there. Billy Sparks must've made a detour.
Dad was waiting on the porch, arms crossed, expression halfway between pride and disappointment. "Heard you took a swing at someone, son."
I nodded. "Yes, sir."
"Why?"
"He pushed Missy."
Dad's face softened just a bit. "You hurt him bad?"
"Wind knocked out. He'll be fine."
He nodded once, then sighed. "Alright. You're grounded for the week."
Missy protested immediately. "But Daddy, he was defendin' me!"
"I know," Dad said. "And I'm proud of him for that. But we don't solve things with our fists unless we have to."
I accepted it without complaint. I'd already run the math, the punishment was reasonable.
That night, Meemaw called. She must've heard too.
"You punched a bully?" she said, laughing into the receiver. "'Bout damn time. Sometimes brains need a backbone, sugar."
I smiled faintly. "That's what I told myself."
She laughed harder. "Don't make a habit of it, but I'm proud of ya."
When I hung up, I looked out my window toward the streetlight where I'd stood hours ago. The world outside was still humming, the same summer air, the same cicadas. But something in me had shifted.
For the first time, I understood that some problems couldn't be reasoned with. Some equations only balanced when you stopped thinking and started acting.