Twenty-seven years before now.

Red coat, red bag, red hair, a little pastoral office, and the scritch-scratch of a pen on paper. Paul glared at his fellow classmate from across the office, feeling his spine grate at the sound of each pen stroke. The lad was bent over a small, child-sized desk in one corner of the room, diligently completing homework that Paul wouldn’t even glance at until he was waiting outside the class for which it was due.

Paul clenched his fists and curled his toes as he watched the lad finish one worksheet and cheerfully move on to the next, without even a hint of complaint. Paul wasn’t entirely sure why this annoyed him so much, but it did. After a moment of thought, Paul concluded that he just found this kind of attitude toward homework... arrogant and unseemly.

Marvin, the ginger-haired and freckled-faced boy who had become the subject of Paul’s silent ire, spent most afternoons in the receptionist's office, waiting for his parents to pick him up. Paul, on the other hand, did everything he could to avoid this room. Everything, that is, except paying attention in class or doing as he was told.

He hated the room. It was small, cramped, and smelled overpoweringly of coffee, a scent that he, as an eight-year-old, couldn’t stand. Two desks—one adult-sized and one child-sized—and three chairs lined up against the wall, as if in a doctor's waiting room, had all been stuffed into a space no bigger than a child’s bedroom. A little window in one wall looked out onto the reception proper, and the pastel walls were either covered in pictures of the school kids in their bright red jumpers, or their crappy artwork. The room connected to the head teacher’s office, outside which Paul sat impatiently.

He heard the growing sound of muffled voices from within the head’s office and smirked. Usually, his parents being in that room with her was a bad sign, but today it was the head who was in trouble, which pleased him a little. Then, he heard his father’s raised voice, and he made out a sentence clearly for the first time.

“Well, you tell us what’s wrong with him then!” his dad shouted. Paul frowned. Ain’t nothing wrong with me, he thought.

His father’s outburst caught the attention of Ms. Horbury, the receptionist, who looked up from her desk to the closed door of the head’s office and then to him. She smiled—not a happy smile, but that platitude type of smile grown-ups did when they wanted to pretend everything was fine when it wasn’t. Well, that confirms it then, he concluded; whatever is going on, it ain’t good for me.

“Paul,” Ms. Horbury spoke softly as she looked at him through a pair of large square horn-rimmed glasses, “don’t you have some homework to get on with, like little Marvin over here? I can lend you a pen if you need one.”

“That’s alright, miss,” Paul shot back without missing a beat, “I’ve already done it all.”

“No, you haven’t,” that little grass Marvin said, looking up from his work for the first time. Paul shot daggers at the boy, feeling his jaw clench, and his face go red.

“Yes, I have,” Paul argued, his tone carrying a hint of deranged menace. He hoped Marvin would pick up on the warning, but the kid was oblivious as always.

“No, you can’t have. Ms. Jules set us math homework in the last class of the day, and we went straight from there to here; you can’t have done it. I’d have seen you.” This is why you don’t have any friends, Marvin, Paul thought, just about to say the words when the door of the head’s office burst open.

His father came out first, his face screwed up in fury. He looked to the receptionist and then down at Paul. In a gruff voice, he commanded, “Come.” Then, Paul's father marched toward the reception’s exit. His mother came out next, offering him a smile in the same style as Ms. Horbury’s as she ushered him up off his chair and after his father.

This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

“Am I in trouble?” Paul muttered.

“No, no,” his mother reassured him gently, “You haven’t done anything wrong.”

As they left, Paul glanced over his shoulder and saw Ms. Nice, the head teacher, watching them go. Black skirt, black jacket, black eyes, a pair of folded arms, and a scowl on her shrew-like face.

Yep, I’m in trouble, he thought.

Later, after his father pulled the car into the driveway of their home, Paul found himself unexpectedly locked in the back seat. Child locks. Not good, he thought. His parents usually didn’t leave the child locks on, so whatever was coming next wouldn’t be enjoyable. “Talk to him,” his mother whispered to his father before she got out of the car and headed into the house.

Paul heard his father sigh heavily as he gripped the steering wheel, looking down at his feet and shaking his head. “I knew I was in trouble,” Paul groaned.

His father's head snapped up at the words, and their eyes met in the car’s rearview mirror. His father's stubbly face broke into a genuine smile, different from the forced ones Ms. Horbury and his mother had given him earlier. Paul felt his shoulders relax a little. Not in that much trouble then, he thought.

“You’re not in any trouble,” his father stated, “But that school might be, the way things are going.”

“So, what’s going on?” Paul asked, his father sighing even deeper this time. Paul felt his chest tighten with trepidation. The concern on his father’s face did more to distress him than anger ever could have. If he wasn’t in trouble, why was such a fuss being made? The enigma of that question was starting to frighten him.

Then, his father turned around, resting one arm on the back of the driver’s seat, and looked at Paul directly. “You remember that man who came around the other week, the one who had you do all those little puzzles?”

“The one with all the shapes and word games?” Paul asked, recalling the weird, bearded man from two weekends ago. Paul pulled a face. “Weird guy,” he stated.

“I thought you said he was nice?” His father asked, looking a little perplexed.

“He was,” Paul clarified, “but still, what kind of weirdo walks around with a bag full of kids' puzzles?” His father laughed at that, and some of Paul’s stress was alleviated.

“Yes, well,” his father continued through his chuckles, “That man was doing some tests.”

“What kind of tests?” Paul asked, feeling his stress spike again. Fuck, am I gonna die? He wondered.

“Nothing to worry about,” his father interjected before Paul could think too deeply on the subject. “But you know how you struggle a little in class to stay focused, read, and keep up with the other kids?”

“I mean, I would say I’m not so easily entertained as the other kids, but sure, go on,” Paul replied, nodding as he processed the question. His father smirked but quickly forced a more serious expression as he continued.

“Well, that man says you're dyslexic,” his father revealed.

“What does that mean?” Paul asked, shrugging with a sense of dissatisfaction. His father had said it like it was the biggest revelation of his life, but the word meant nothing to Paul.

“It’s…” his father seemed to struggle to choose his words but eventually settled on, “It’s a different way of thinking. It means you think differently from the other kids in your school, that your brain isn’t wired the same.” Well, I could have told you that.

“Is that it?” Paul asked, “Is that why everyone is so mad?”

“No,” his father confirmed. “No one is mad at you. Me and your mom met with Ms. Nice because we want you to get some more support in classes to help you out, but Ms. Nice doesn’t want to do that. She doesn’t believe in dyslexia; she says it's just excuses made up to make slow kids feel better.”

“I’m not slow,” Paul snapped, his cheeks warming and his fists clenching.

“Clearly,” his father said. “That is why me and your mom have been arguing with her today. But she isn’t budging, and she’s the head, so for now, there isn’t much we can do about it.”

Paul looked away from his father and towards his feet, thinking about everything. He thought differently from others. So? What of it? He was pretty sure he was thinking more than everyone else anyway, and different than everyone else sounds suspiciously close to better than everyone else. He couldn’t quite tell why everyone thought that was a problem.

“So, what does this all mean?” Paul asked his father. His father didn’t answer right away. He needed to consider the issue as deeply as Paul, it appeared. When he finally did speak again, his face was stern.

“Well, it means you're going to have to work twice as hard, to be half as good,” his father explained, “and you know what that means, don’t you?”

“What?”

“It means if you want to do as well as everyone else, you need to work four times harder, and if you want to do better than everyone else, you need to work eight times harder.”

Paul mulled the statement over in his mind. Eight times harder, he thought and imagined Marvin still plugging away through the week's homework in that little pastel office. Eight times harder than Marvin.

“Fuck that,” Paul said, causing his father to blurt out laughing.