“You understand all that?”
“Mostly,” I’d say.
“You’re going to go further than me.”
High school started, and the jokes got quieter but sharper.
People didn’t yell “trash boy” anymore.
Make fake gagging sounds under their breath.
They did stuff like:
Slide their chairs an inch away when I sat.
Make fake gagging sounds under their breath.
Send each other snaps of the garbage truck outside and laugh, glancing at me.
If there were group chats with pictures of my mom, I never saw them.
I could’ve told a counselor or a teacher.
That’s when Mr. Anderson showed up in my life.
But then they’d call home.
And then Mom would know.
So I swallowed it and focused on grades.
That’s when Mr. Anderson showed up in my life.
He was my 11th-grade math teacher.
Late 30s, messy hair, tie always loose, coffee permanently attached to his hand.
“I just… like this stuff.”
One day, he walked past my desk and stopped.
I was doing extra problems I’d printed off a college website.
“Those aren’t from the book.”
I jerked my hand back like I’d been caught cheating.
“Uh, yeah, I just… like this stuff.”
He dragged over a chair and sat next to me like we were equals.
“Those schools are for rich kids.”
“You like this stuff?”
“It makes sense. Numbers don’t care who your mom works for.”
He stared at me for a second. Then he said, “Have you ever thought about engineering? Or computer science?”
I laughed. “Those schools are for rich kids. We can’t even afford the application fee.”
From then on, he kind of became my unofficial coach.
“Fee waivers exist. Financial aid exists. Smart poor kids exist. You’re one of them.”
I shrugged, embarrassed.
From then on, he kind of became my unofficial coach.
He gave me old competition problems “for fun.”
He’d let me eat lunch in his classroom, claiming he “needed help grading.”
He’d talk about algorithms and data structures like it was gossip.
“Places like this would fight over you.”
He also showed me websites for schools I’d only heard of on TV.
“Places like this would fight over you,” he said, pointing at one.
“Not if they see my address.”
He sighed. “Liam, your zip code is not a prison.”
By senior year, my GPA was the highest in the class.
“Of course he got an A. It’s not like he has a life.”
People started calling me “the smart kid.”
Some said it with respect, some said it like it was a disease.
“Of course, he got an A. It’s not like he has a life.”
“Teachers feel bad for him. That’s why.”
Meanwhile, Mom was pulling double routes to pay off the last of the hospital bills.
One afternoon, Mr. Anderson asked me to stay after class.
“I want you to apply here.”
He dropped a brochure on my desk.
Big fancy logo.
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