CHAPTER 2

  My father was an anomaly. He grew up in Live Oak, Florida, midway between the state capital, Tallahassee, to the west, and Florida’s biggest city, Jacksonville, to the east. He met Mom at Florida State University while working on a Masters of Higher Education. By then, he already had a doctorate in math. Once married, they moved in with her parents in Madison, where Mom gave birth to me soon after. Grandpop Gwynn passed away from cancer two years later, and Grandmom Gwynn moved to live with her sister in Miami, leaving the house to my parents.

  With his master’s degree focused on history, Dad switched from teaching math to history—his real passion—at North Florida College in Madison, while simultaneously working on another doctorate at FSU. Mom often said Dad was obsessed with learning, but it always seemed he already knew everything. After earning a second doctorate, and multiple masters in various categories including several languages, he applied for professorships at universities across the country, receiving several offers.

  Leaving Madison had been difficult for Mom—especially selling her parent’s house—but when the University of Pennsylvania offered a salary nearly four times what Dad made at NFC, she couldn’t say no. While we lived in Philadelphia, between teaching, conferences, and mentoring students, he spent few hours at home, and even then, lived in his study, producing and consuming research papers.

  One year teaching at an Ivy League school could never compensate for the loss of his wife. Dad never said it out loud, but I believed he blamed himself for her death. If he’d been content with the small-town life, she would’ve never been in a car accident.

  I didn’t blame him, though my hopes her loss would change his lifestyle didn’t work out. Dad returned to Florida State University in Tallahassee as the professor for the same history program he attended fifteen years before. Without Mom around, he came home later than ever, and if the weather offered resistance, spent the night at his office. At least he didn’t work for the whole week of the funeral.

  Before we moved to Pennsylvania, the old and small James Madison Preparatory High School had been an overlooked feature of the town. A year before our move, the charter school received a grant from the state to create an experimental Early Medical Program in conjunction with the Madison County Memorial Hospital—practically on the same grounds—and North Florida College’s medical classes only a few blocks away.

  They designed the curriculum to give high school students a head start pursuing medical fields of study, including internships at the hospital for those accepted into the program, and early college courses during their senior year.

  The old prep school got torn down and a new building had been constructed while we lived in Philadelphia. These changes gave the school and town a serious boost in reputation. Dad managed to get me into the program long after admissions closed due to our unique situation and his respect within the community, but the administration wanted to waylay gossip which might claim preferential treatment. The principal arranged a round of interviews with a few teachers to test my readiness for their advanced courses.

  Humid Florida air already warmed the bright morning, and a sunny, cloudless sky promised a hot day. School didn’t start for another hour, but I didn’t plan to attend classes this week.

  “Why do I have to do this?” I asked, already certain of the answer but hoping to find an escape.

  “Micah, you’re not getting out of this.” No absent-minded professor, nothing got past my father. “It’s just a few teachers. The principal wants to be sure you won’t fall behind.” His eyes twinkled a little as he gave me a half-smile.

  I forced myself to not groan. Everyone in the small town knew about my father’s absurd degree of education. Most teens might find it daunting to live up to that reputation, but I did my best to avoid making it appear easy.

  He laughed at my frown. “Look, just don’t wow them too much. Answer what they ask. Think about it for a little bit first.” He smiled at me as he backed the car from the garage.

  Far back as I remembered, school had been boring; every new topic mundane. Math became a simple matter of being shown a new problem, and the answers popped into my mind. History offered no obstacles, with the older the better. On occasion, science provided a topic which intrigued me for its novelty. English, like math, came naturally.

  “I hope you don’t mind,” Dad said cautiously, “but I already picked all of your classes.” My frown deepened, but he quickly explained. “Well, actually, I didn’t pick them. I asked them to match your schedule to Tylwynn’s. I thought it’d be good for you to have a familiar face in each class. A lot of kids at the prep school aren’t from Madison, though I believe James is going there as well. Should I have put you in his classes?”

  “Yeah, he is, but Wynn is fine. I guess.” Every class with Wynn. I wanted to give my dad a hug but played it cool.

  He gave me a knowing wink. Lying didn’t come naturally to me.

  I mumbled my thanks.

  “You’re welcome. You’re already used to doing homework together, having the same classes should make it easier. Use the house anytime.”

  His tone suggested I should have regular company. He didn’t want me spending time alone, but what about him? Committees and classes might offer a welcome distraction, but I doubted they offered good company. We sat quietly for the rest of the short car ride.

  When the new school came into view, my eyebrows rose. Two stories high, with red brick walls accented by wide, white-trimmed windows, I guessed the architect intended to mimic the feel of the relatively new hospital next-door, so the two buildings felt part of the same campus. Entering, I found linoleum floors with a marble pattern, while the lockers and trimming on the walls matched the pastel blue of the school’s crest. Though larger than its predecessor, the behemoth high school I left days before could fit this new one in its cafeteria.

  Standing in the sterile lobby, an older lady I assumed to be Principal Abrams smiled at Dad, white teeth contrasting against her dark skin the same way white streaks stood out in her short, black hair. “Doctor Sepich, thank you for taking the time to do this,” she said, stepping forward to shake Dad’s hand.

  “Of course, Doctor Abrams.” Dad emphasized the title when addressing her, as if it contained additional significance for the woman. “I have the rest of the week off; it’s no trouble.” A moment of somber silence followed as the unspoken reason for that leave of absence ran through my mind.

  Turning to me, she said, “You must be Micah.”

  I nodded and shook her hand.

  “This way.” She gestured to an open door at one end of the lobby. “I insisted my office be accessible to the students.”

  A window watched over the lobby, and another monitored the single-row parking lot. Two soft chairs waited in front of her neatly organized desk. Dad stood by one until the principal sat. I followed his lead.

  “Well, Micah, I’m told you’re a model student—and not only by your father. I spoke with some of your past teachers and principals.”

  I stopped myself from grinding my teeth. If my previous principals and teachers knew me that well, I didn’t blend in as successfully as I thought.

  “I know this is a difficult time, but I trust you’re ready to get to work?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “I’m glad to hear it. Please know we have counselors who’ll be happy to assist if you have troubles coping with your mother’s death.”

  I nodded silently. Hearing the words out loud in such a matter-of-fact tone sent a tingle down my spine. How would I even know if I needed help? What constituted “troubles coping with your mother’s death”?

  “May I ask why you decided to come to James Madison Preparatory?”

  Fighting the urge to shrug, I said, “Well, I’m interested in medicine. I’d like to become a doctor. Uh, a medical doctor, that is.”

  “Oh, I’m so happy to hear that. This is the best place to start. I was a practicing surgeon for over two decades before arthritis set me on a teaching path. This school provides a unique opportunity to get kids into medicine early. I hope you take full advantage of it.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Well, your first interviewer is here.” She glanced behind me at a middle-aged man who appeared to be made of sticks covered in rough rawhide, except his smooth, bald head, which reflected the light in the room as if waxed. “Mister Tuttle, this is Micah Sepich.”

  “Of course,” he said, shaking my hand before reaching over to shake my father’s. “Fred, my condolences. To both of you.”

  “Thank you, Eric,” Dad said somberly.

  I didn’t recognize Mr. Tuttle but he and my father were obviously already acquainted. That wasn’t unusual in a small town like Madison. As a child, I thought my parents knew everyone in the whole world. Mr. Tuttle greeting my father like an old friend only struck me as odd after a year and a half in Philadelphia, where an endless supply of strangers filled every space outside of home.

  The tall, thin man took a chair and, with a nod from the principal, began his interrogation. “Mister Micah, we have advanced and fast-paced mathematics programs. Our class for ninth grade is comprehensive, covering geometry, algebra, and a little trigonometry. Are you comfortable with those subjects already?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Glad to hear it. Now, for tenth grade, you’ll dive right into AP Calculus. Is that a problem for you?”

  “No, sir.”

  Mr. Tuttle continued by asking various questions about the nature of functions, domains, and ranges. I took Dad’s advice and stopped to “think” about the answers before responding. The interrogation continued to function limits, integrals, parametric equations. I never heard these words before, but as usual, the back of my neck itched, and the answers came to me all the same.

  If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

  Did I give away too much? When should I stop answering? How much was too much for a fifteen-year-old to know about mathematics?

  When Mr. Tuttle asked about matrices, a kick hit my foot. I paused and glanced at Dad. His poker face told me nothing, but I remained silent, unsure if I should answer. After a moment, the teacher spoke again.

  “Were you planning to leave anything for the rest of us to teach him, Fred?”

  My father chuckled.

  The older man turned to Doctor Abrams. “Am I allowed to nap and let Mister Micah teach the class?”

  I cringed.

  The principal laughed. “I’ll take that as a pass?”

  “Yes,” Mr. Tuttle responded curtly. “The only thing he’ll have to worry about in my class is dying of boredom.” Seemingly irritated, the man nodded to both the principal and my father before leaving the room without another word.

  Dying of boredom. A pit of pain pulled at me as I bit back tears.

  “I’m humble enough to admit I couldn’t follow most of that conversation, Micah. I do hope you won’t be a show-off in math?”

  Clearing my throat, I said, “No, ma’am.” I grasped at her words. Show off? No chance of that. I avoided attention for a reason.

  In first grade during an assessment test, my teacher took me to the principal’s office, suspecting me of cheating. Apparently, I answered every question correctly, and in only a few minutes. Mom had been called in and explained to them my father already instructed me in most subjects. They believed it, though I couldn’t remember spending much time with Dad. But he taught at the college after all.

  In second grade we learned about the American Revolution and, given the namesake of our town, the teacher asked the class what we knew about James Madison.

  “He was short, awkward, and sick,” I blurted out. “That scrawny little man could never get elected today.” The teacher didn’t appreciate my attitude, and sent me to the principal’s office.

  “History is his father’s specialty, you know. He’s always going on about historical figures,” Mom explained. This appeased them again, but now I recognized the lie. I’d never heard Dad say so much as a word about James Madison. Where, then, did I find confidence in my knowledge about a man who died nearly two hundred years ago? June 28th, 1836. That was the day he died. How did I know that? I didn’t ask Mom. Instead, I waited for a moment alone with Dad.

  “What was James Madison like?”

  “Short, awkward, and sick all the time,” he said with a matter-of-fact tone, not even glancing up from his work.

  “How do you know?”

  Eyes strayed away from his laptop, squinting in thought. “I must’ve read it somewhere. I’ve studied the founding fathers quite a bit.”

  “That’s what I told my teacher about him, but she got mad.”

  Dad moved quicker than I’d ever seen. Chair flying into the bookcase behind him, he practically leaped over the desk and closed the door to his small study. Strong hands gripped my shoulders as he knelt before me, searching deep into my eyes.

  “What’s the square root of seven-hundred and eighty-four?”

  I scratched the back of my neck. “Twenty-eight,” I responded.

  “Son, you’re in second grade, you don’t know what a square root is.”

  I blinked. I’d never heard any teacher mention square roots. Images of tree roots in the shape of squares passed through my mind, but the roots twisted and turned until they made a different symbol. In my imagination, those roots formed a check mark, with a long line across the top. I recognized it as the mathematical symbol for square roots. Square root, or the number which, multiplied by itself, equaled the number under that symbol. Twenty-eight multiplied by twenty-eight was seven-hundred and eighty-four.

  “Yeah, I do,” I said to my father.

  He smiled and, for the first time I could remember, hugged me. An eternity of confusion passed in that embrace. Had I done something right or wrong?

  “Micah, I need you to do me a favor. For me, for you, and especially for your mother.” He paused and pulled back, serious expression guaranteeing my attention. “I need you to never speak that way again. Only answer questions when asked, and even then, don’t be afraid to say you don’t know, even if you do.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you’re different. That can scare people or confuse them. It will only be a problem while you’re young. Once you get older, you’ll understand.”

  I didn’t understand for several years.

  Principal Abrams greeted another teacher. “Miss Shepherd, this is Doctor Sepich and his son, Micah.”

  I stood once again, shaking the woman’s short but thick hand.

  “Micah, Doctor Sepich, a pleasure to meet you both. I wish it was under better circumstances. You have my sincerest condolences.” She had a thick Mississippi drawl.

  “Thank you,” Dad and I said together.

  “Miss Shepherd will be your biology teacher,” the principal said, then nodded to the woman.

  “AP Biology is an advanced course for tenth grade. I assume, since you are going into the medical program here, you are ready for it. I have not prepared any questions for you, though I am happy to answer any you might have for me?”

  I did my best not to squirm. Biology especially interested me, given recent developments. “No, ma’am, but I’m looking forward to class.”

  She smiled in response to my eagerness. There would likely be little, if anything, she could teach me, but I hoped to find out more on how specific traits passed from one generation to the next.

  In seventh grade my mother found me reading a book from Dad’s library. I’d gone searching for one my English teacher mentioned, recognizing the title from seeing it in my father’s study. It sat on the shelf as expected, though the oddly shaped letters on the spine made my neck itch.

  I opened the old tome and had trouble figuring out the words at first. The letters, in the same strange font, proved difficult to read at first, especially considering the funny spelling of the words. I stumbled through sentences structured in an odd cadence but soon became engrossed in the epic tale of Odysseus.

  The strangest part of it all—at least before Mom found me—had been knowing what happened next, though I’d never read the book before. That alone didn’t alarm me. Whenever I watched movies or read books, I often felt I’d seen or read them before, but in this case, it surpassed simple familiarity with the story. Once I got going, I knew every word.

  When my mom cleared her throat, I realized I’d been reciting the text aloud, from memory, no longer even reading from the fragile pages. Then the true abnormality of my situation registered.

  Mom stared at me, concerned. “Micah, are you alright?”

  I couldn’t answer. She heard me talking and, in that moment, I finally heard myself.

  “What’s that?”

  I closed the book and held it up.

  “Is that your father’s old Greek copy of The Odyssey?”

  Greek? I nodded slowly.

  “And you’re reading it?”

  I hesitated but knew I couldn’t lie, especially to her. I nodded again.

  “Out loud?” she asked, eyes wide.

  Afraid to open my mouth, tears burst from unexpected sobs.

  “Oh, Micah, you’re not in trouble,” she said sweetly, hurrying to wrap her arms around me.

  Trouble didn’t worry me. How did I know Greek? What if I tried to speak in English and Greek came out again? Was I cursed?

  “I’m sorry, dear, I didn’t know you’d been practicing with your father.”

  I hadn’t been! I didn’t even know he spoke Greek! My breathing sped up as my heart pounded into my ribs. It upset Wynn when kids at school called me a freak, but now I understood why they did. What was wrong with me?! The question repeated in my mind as Mom comforted me, slowly calmed me down, and convinced me to help her make dinner.

  This I did in total silence, keeping an eye on the door. Dad would know what happened to me. Dad knew everything. That’s when it hit me. Dad knew everything, and so did I.

  At dinner, Mom recounted to my father how she found me reading his Greek copy of The Odyssey, impressed I spoke the old tongue so well, chiding him playfully for teaching me a language behind her back. Dad played along, but every time his eyes met mine during that eternal meal, they bored deep into my soul.

  Finally, Mom finished her food and went outside for an evening chat with the garden. I always considered it odd Mom talked and sang to her plants. Today, it seemed the most normal thing in the world. Once the door closed behind her, Dad spoke.

  “When did you learn Greek?”

  I shrugged.

  “Have you been practicing online?”

  A reasonable enough assumption. My parents didn’t let me have a cell phone, but we owned a family computer. I almost let him believe the simple explanation, but I wanted to know the truth, which meant I needed to be honest with my father and hope he had answers.

  I shook my head, then dared to speak. “No,” I said, in English, “I didn’t learn Greek. I just knew it. Like math.” Tears came to my eyes again, and I couldn’t stop them, so I hurried, words spilling out of my mouth. “I saw the book, opened it, and started reading. I didn’t know it was Greek! I just read it! And then I recited it from memory. Dad! How do I know Greek? How do I know the whole story?!” Vaguely aware I started yelling, I clamped my mouth shut, but my breaths came in quick, deep heaves.

  “Micah, it’s alright!” He moved as fast as that day in second grade, arm around me in an instant.

  “It’s not alright, Dad! There’s something wrong with me!” The floodgates broke and I bawled.

  He held me, speaking softly in my ear. “Son, I need some time to process all of this, but I want you to know I believe you. There’s something I was waiting for the right time to tell you, but I regret not explaining it earlier. It’s clear, now, what I once believed is wrong.”

  He went silent for a long moment as he rubbed my back, then continued. “I planned to tell you about your gift. I have it. My father didn’t but my grandfather did. He explained it to me when I was about your age. For me, that’s when it started. When I began to understand things easily. To learn so much quicker than other children.”

  His words calmed me as he continued. “Like you, math and history are no trouble. Many other subjects as well. Languages are especially easy. Grandpa called it ‘the gift of tongues’. He knew half a dozen languages, and I’ve learned twice as many. But I learned them. It took time.”

  Shaking his head, he pushed me to arm’s length, fingers tight on my shoulders, smile grim. “Whatever your great grandfather and I have, you’ve got more of it.” He chuckled.

  If he could laugh, then it must not be as bad as I thought. My breathing slowed. I may be a freak, but I wasn’t the only one.

  “I want to test something.” He left the dining room, entered his study, and returned with a small book. “Can you read this?”

  The cover read “Ilias Latina”. The back of my neck itched, but I ignored it as I opened the book. As with the larger Odyssey, it took me a moment to recognize the words and figure out exactly what I read, but once I comprehended, I nodded.

  “Amazing. You don’t only know Greek, but Latin as well.”

  Latin? The only thing I knew about Latin was it was a dead language. At least, that’s all I used to know about it.

  “You started so much younger, I shouldn’t be surprised you learn so much quicker.”

  I wanted to correct him. I didn’t learn anything. I… What? Knew? That’s how I always thought of it before, but it felt wrong now. How could I know something I’d never learned? I struggled to find the right way to explain it, and in my silence, he stepped back, appraising me with a kind smile and proud eyes.

  “I love you, Son. Don’t worry about being different. And don’t be afraid of your gift.” Then he lifted a finger to me, and said sternly, “But don’t let it make you proud, either. You’re not better than other people because you’re smarter than them.”

  I sniffled and laughed at the same time, as the old quote came out of my lips, “Where there is great power there is great responsibility.”

  He chuckled. “That’s right. You have a responsibility to use this power to learn. Don’t waste it. Find a subject which doesn’t come easily. That’s what my grandfather told me, what his father told him, going back generations. It’s vital those of us with the gift find something difficult to learn. Remember that.”

  A spark in the back of my mind ignited—a now familiar sensation—and I instantly knew what word I’d been searching for as I scratched at my neck, attempting to satisfy an itch too deep to reach. I didn’t learn quickly, and I didn’t simply know things; I remembered them. How I could possibly remember something I never knew confused me, but I remained certain. As certain that the square root of seven-hundred and eighty-four was twenty-eight.

  Principal Abrams once again introduced someone. “Nurse Williams, this is Doctor Sepich and his son, Micah.”

  The large man always reminded me of Santa Clause; if Santa kept his beard trimmed short, and if instead of a fur coat he wore the traditional hospital uniform known as scrubs. “We’re so glad to have you both home again. So sorry I missed the funeral, Fred. My sincerest condolences to both of you.”

  “Thank you, Tommy.”

  “Well, Micah, how did you grow so much in such a short time?” He gave me one of his jolly grins, and I smiled back. “They’ve put me in charge of the Intro to Medicine class here. Can you believe it?”

  “Who better?” I asked.

  He held a hand between his mouth and the principal and mock-whispered, “Just about anyone, but don’t tell them that.”

  We all laughed. Tommy Williams, as the name on the lanyard he wore said, was the head nurse of the hospital, an old friend of the family, and likely the rest of town. He undoubtedly actually played Santa at countless Christmas parties throughout Madison.

  Remembering those moments of uncertainty and fear at discovering something wrong—or freakishly abnormal—about me, made me sweat. Maybe I should go to the county high school. No one there would notice if I knew a little too much. They didn’t teach classes so advanced a spotlight would shine on any high school student who breezed through them.

  But as Tommy spoke, a grin spread across my face. “So, Micah, what do you know about medicine?”

  I answered without reservation. “Absolutely nothing.”