Mason's Arc

Content Warning: Mentions of bullying

The chalk dust was flying like smoke from a fuse about to catch. Mason’s hand moved like a piston, rattling across the blackboard in a blur of symbols and arcs. Fractions collapsed into square roots, cosines split apart and rejoined, integrals bent into elegant loops. Chk-ssk, chk-ssk, chk-ssk went the chalk, faster and faster, each strike landing like a sniper’s shot. Murmurs rose at his back like sparks leaping from a live wire, crackling louder, brighter, wilder.

“This is an arc length integral, Mason—you cannot possibly solve it!” Ms. Lottie gasped.

He didn’t stop, only smiled—askance, and full of secrets. In his mind, he spun the puzzle—upside down, backwards, then from the top—solving faster than his fingers could keep up. And then, with one last slash across the board, he flung the piece of chalk backwards like a pitcher closing out the ninth inning. Without even looking, he knew; several hands had shot up to catch it. He turned to find Ms. Lottie gazing at the board with a look that said she’d found the answer to the universe.

“No one solves those in less than a week,” she whispered, catching the glasses sliding down her nose as if even they couldn’t believe what he’d done. Almost reverent, she asked, “How… how did you learn this?” He simply shrugged, “I read Newton’s book at the library this summer.”

The classroom erupted—sneakers stomped, fists pounded desks, voices rose in a chant.

“Mason! Mason! Mason!”

“Mason?”

“Mason! Mason! Mason!”

“Mason Quinn!”

“Huh?” Mason blinked, rubbing the sore spot on his head where something had just bounced off. A piece of chalk rolled to a stop at his feet.

“What are you doing?”

His face blank, he looked at Ms. Lottie, unfamiliar, like a stranger looming beside him.

“Do you know how to solve the equation or not?”

He turned to the board. The symbols swam before him; no matter how much he tried to rearrange them into sense, they remained doggedly undecipherable, as if written in an ancient language the gods themselves had forgotten.

At the end of her patience, Ms Lottie snapped, “Speak up!”

“I-I d-d-don’t kn-know.”

“St-st-stupid,” someone at the back jeered.

“M-m-mason the broken tape,” another called.

Laughter broke across the room. Ms. Lottie’s hand slapped the desk like a gavel, caught between pity and exasperation.

“Quiet!” She yelled.

“And you,” she said to Mason, “I want to see your mother tomorrow in the principal’s office.”

As he made his way back to his seat, something snagged his ankle—not something, but a foot—and he went down hard, face-first. A rumble of laughter surrounded him, deep and distant as thunder.

***

The next day, Mason sat facing the new principal, appointed only weeks earlier. Mr Harris, the last principal, was fired for calling the head of the PTA “the Whore of Babylon”—and CC’ing the email to all, including parents. Mason didn’t know what it meant, only that school had shut down for three days while parents protested in the town meetings, and that part was fun.

His mother sat beside him, having switched the dark look she wore all morning for a polite, appreciative expression—her usual disguise in the presence of people she believed judged her.

Also in the room were Ms Lottie, his English teacher, Ms Grace, and the school counsellor, Dr. Bramble—whose entire vocabulary seemed to consist of three words: “tell me more”. Seeing their grave eyes locked on him like hawks circling a field mouse made Mason’s hands slippery with sweat.

“Mrs Quinn,” began the principal, “We’ve called you here to discuss some things about Emerson.”

“Mason,” corrected Mrs Quinn.

He blinked. “Just Mason?”

“Yes, just Mason.”

“Well, that’s not what’s important,” he said, waving a dismissive hand. “What’s important is…” his eyes suddenly filled with wonder and excitement, “…that your son is… exceptional.”

“Who?” Mrs Quinn asked, bewildered.

“Why, your son, of course! Who else?”

“Mason?”

“Yes!” the principal cried, practically leaping across the desk, beaming.

“But—but you said he has the worst case of dyslexia you’ve seen in decades!” Mrs Quinn stammered.

“Ah,” Dr. Bramble intoned, “I assessed him further. His IQ is 150!”

“Oh my! Wait, is that… high?”

“One of the highest a human can possess. And he’s only twelve!”

Ms. Grace pressed her hands to her chest, “I am so ashamed,“ she said, “I judged him lazy because of his spelling and handwriting. Turns out it was genius fighting to break free from the prison of words!”

“But isn’t his stutter holding him back?” Mrs Quinn shot back, unconvinced.

“With his brilliance,” Dr. Bramble declared, “the stutter means nothing.”

“He can solve a fifteen-piece tangram in seconds.” Ms. Lottie blurted.

“He can identify Chopin, Mozart, Bach, Strauss—simply by hearing their music,” Ms. Grace chimed.

“He doesn’t take notes in class, he just remembers everything!”

“His paper ‘The Difference Between Empathy and Sympathy’ is the best I’ve ever read.”

“I read it too,” the principal exclaimed. “He nailed it better than most psychologists!”

“Even Ronnie, the biggest bully in school, respects him. Imagine someone so smart—that even the bullies say ‘naw he’s cool’.”

“Discovering his mind,” Dr Bramble said, “feels like discovering penicillin.”

Overcome, Mrs. Quinn dabbed her eyes with her handkerchief. “My boy,” she whispered. “My genius boy.” She repeated it over and over as she hugged him.

All the teachers around the table burst into applause.

“Mason, are you listening?”

“Should we enrol him in the gifted program?”

“Mason?”

“No, it would be far too boring for him…”

“Mason!”

“Huh?” Mason jolted. To his shocked astonishment, his mother’s face beside him wasn’t glowing with pride—it was thundercloud dark, her mouth set in a hard line.

Shaking her head, she turned toward the principal and asked, “How soon can he begin with special needs classes?”

***

In no hurry to get back to class, Mason dawdled through the mercifully empty corridors. At school, he was never comfortable for a minute. The old building carried a strange, brutal energy he couldn’t understand. Even in the dank basement, in the corners where no one ever went, he felt hunted.

“Why do I have to go to school?” he had asked his mother once.

“Because that’s what kids do,” she told him.

“But I don’t like it there.”

“Why ever not?” she asked. “School is the easiest thing you’ll ever do.”

It didn’t feel easy at all. What could be harder than school, he thought. But then, he wasn’t comfortable at home either. It felt like he was at odds everywhere. There was something mysterious the matter with him that could not be put right, like a shirt tag that kept itching no matter how you tugged at it.

“Hey, pass the ball!” someone yelled.

Mason looked around and realised he had wandered to the basketball court. As he caught the ball dribbling toward him, the voice—Henry Walsh’s voice—rang out again.

“It’s him!”

Henry, one of the school heroes, played basketball and hockey and walked the halls with an air of royal sullenness and barbaric contempt. Now he stood at the centre of the court surrounded by a group of boys—Ronnie, Fred, who never seemed to smile or make small talk, and a boy, who for some reason was called by his surname, Davis. They were all only a year ahead, but somehow twice his size.

“Hey, Mason,” Henry said. “Wanna show us how it’s done?” He challenged.

In Mason’s hand, the ball suddenly felt light, electric, like it was begging to fly. A faint smile played at the edge of his mouth as he dribbled once—thud-thud-thud—took a step back and squared to the hoop. Time slowed. The lights bloomed into halos around him. He launched the ball in a perfect arc. And like a barely visible comet, it streaked through.

Swish. Nothing but net.

A loud cheer erupted. The boys came running. A barrage of claps landed on Mason’s back. Henry Walsh dropped to one knee like a knight before a king. “Teach me, Mason,” he said solemnly. “Teach me.”

Thwack

“Ow!” Mason yelped, rubbing his chin.

Henry had smacked the ball still clutched in Mason’s hands from underneath, sending it up into his face. The boys, who were now gathered around Mason, burst out laughing.

“Nice catch, scramble head,” Henry said.

“We said pass the ball, not marry it.”

“Why are you so weird?” Ronnie said, whacking Mason in the head. “Always walking around like a zombie.”

“Leave him alone, Ronnie.”

“What? I’m just checking if he’s brain dead.” Ronnie said, smacking Mason again.

Suddenly, Henry pushed Ronnie aside, “Knock it off!

Brows drawn tight with worry, he turned to Mason, “Are you okay?”

Mason’s chin lifted, “Why do you care?”

Confusion etched in his face, Henry said, “I do. I care about you!”

All at once, Henry was standing too close, his face now only inches away. He was so close that Mason could see the black curls of his lashes, the speck of gold in his eyes. He smiled—a dazzling smile—a line of light breaking the shadows of his face.

“I like you, Mason,” he said.

“You do?”

“Yes. You are so beautiful, kind, and fun. But…” he trailed off.

Heat bloomed across Mason’s cheeks. “But?” he pressed.

“You are too good for me,” he said, ducking his head, like he was embarrassed.

Lifting his chin with a finger, Mason smiled, “I like you too. I always have.”

Without another thought, Mason rose on the balls of his feet to get closer to Henry.

“What in the….fuck!”

Mason kept rising...

“What’re you doing, weirdo?”

…and rising…

“Holy shit!”

...a rise totally worth the fall.