The little boy grinned as he saw water spill over from the class sink, carefully taking the large container it dripped into and hoisting it up. He was delicate in pouring it out to be measured, and moved through the simple arithmetic of taking its new volume almost in no time at all.

He showed every stage of the process, of course, eager to ensure that his discovery was well understood and observed. It was exciting enough to simply show his classmates, but the boy cared far more about teaching them how to replicate it, letting them awe themselves by using the very same method. He’d expected grins, laughter, the bright eyes of dawning understanding. What he got instead were bored frowns, sceptical glares and sneering laughter.

They asked him, with no excess of friendliness, what he was even doing. The boy paused, attempting to explain how one could work out the amount of space an object occupied by the water it forced out of the sink. How it was a form of three-dimensional measurement more precise than would otherwise be possible.

“What’s the point of knowing that?”

The boy blinked, eying the girl who’d asked. It was Lois. She was among the biggest in their class, a head taller than most of the girls and any of the boys, with a mean streak to match her size. She’d never liked him, and he’d never quite understood why. He found himself confused at her response, frowning as he answered.

“It lets you…Build things, you know, you can work out how heavy something will be before you even make it. Work out what things are made of, too, by-”

“You can just ask an adult for that, idiot.” She laughed. Several of the others joined in, and the boy felt his temper flashing.

“Adults don’t know this.” He snapped.

That only brought on a new chorus of laughter, and a new volley of derision.

“Of course they do.”

“They don’t know but you worked it out?”

“Just making things up to try and impress people.”

“You’re a weirdo.”

He’d heard it all before, heard it all often, but something about the taunting irked the boy more today. Irked him past his ability for self control. He started crying, tears coming against his will, body trembling as its tiny frame was racked by emotions too big for it to support.

The teachers were soon called, of course, and he spent much of the remaining day alone, sitting isolated outside of class and far from the taunts of his classmates. That was fine by him, the boy had never much enjoyed being around others to begin with, and each time he made an attempt it only ended…Well, ended in much the same way his most recent attempt had.

But such things gnaw at a child, and he soon found himself wondering whether the problem was him. He was left to his concerns right up until the day ended, and he was given leave to return home.

Support the author by searching for the original publication of this novel.

The boy lived in a smaller house, but it had always been comfortable to him. Interior cramped by the thick spread of engine parts, tools and raw materials. On one table a screwdriver shared precipitously finite space with a homemade, improvised welding torch. Another housed a large cutting tool made from scratch with the power of a car battery and tungsten thread. It was all familiar to him, all comforting, even. The boy had never liked open spaces. He headed promptly for his mother.

As was often the case, she was working in her own space, a little desk tucked away in the living room lit by directional lamplight and packed with material. Her art had always been good, exceptional even, near-photorealism since she’d hit puberty, though her career in the craft had been short lived. She didn’t look up as her son entered, keeping her sharp features aimed at the page before her. Only when a tiny, slight sniffle escaped the boy did she eye him, recognising, instantly, the feelings he’d spent the better part of a day burying. She was kneeling beside him in an instant.

“What’s the matter?” She demanded, not touching him as she spoke, never that. The boy had never enjoyed contact with others, and he’d inherited the trait maternally. Her hands hovered around him, orbiting without grazing, conveying without contacting. It didn’t leave him feeling any less comfort.

As sobs threatened to reemerge, he told her. It was a small incident, without doubt, and yet he was only nine years old. Such things are enlarged to the mind of a child, and more so to this one. His had always been a brain to exaggerate the tiniest of trivialities and make fleas into dragons.

“It’s alright.” The boy’s mother soothed. “It’s alright, you’re home now, cheer up, eh? How about we go out for something to eat later, would you like that?”

Sniffing, and nodding, he muttered a barely-audible confirmation that he would. Just about glancing up at his mother to find her face creased with worry and…Something else.

“But you know…This isn’t going to stop happening.”

He froze, tears almost dragged free once more at the very idea. His mother continued.

“This is what people do. The nail that sticks out gets hammered down. You’re different from them, different in a way they don’t understand, and don’t want to. Maybe different in a way they couldn’t understand even if they tried. You’re…You’re not one of them, they know it, and you need to know it too. Trying to please them, impress them, amuse them- you’re just painting a target on your back.”

Despite the gentleness of her tone, the boy was not comforted. Despite the harshness of her claims, he was not hurt. He only nodded. Even at his young age, his mind was advanced enough to see the truth in what she said.

Among adults, he’d found himself comfortable in conversation. But they always treated him like some idiot. Among children his body and age matched, but the boy could never understand how they enjoyed what they did, or how he knew what they didn’t. It seemed to him that nowhere in all the world was a match for him, and that fewer places still wanted him.

Lip trembling, he nodded, and his mother finally touched him. Not much, just a fleeting thing, a graze of fingertips against hair. It was the exact amount of contact she’d calculated would make the both of them most at ease. She had calculated right, of course, for the boy’s mind was not so far beyond what hers had been at his age. It was this that gave her the most sympathy.

“Listen, you need to learn not to care. Understand? You need to just…Accept that you’re not like them…Do you remember what I told you about playing cards?”

The boy nodded, his memory as flawless then as it would be for the rest of his life, retrieving the relevant information with all the photographic accuracy of his mother’s art.

“The only way to avoid people trying to cheat you is by playing solitaire.”

She smiled, and nodded.

“Good boy. Now let’s go and get something to eat, my little Solitaire.”