Melody and the Pier to Forever: Parts One thru Four: Melody and the Pier to Forever, #1

By Shawn Michel de Montaigne

Melody Singleton is a bright 13-year-old girl who loves math, classical music, her mom, her best friend Yaeko, and her dog. To her classmates that makes her a nerd, and they cruelly treat her as such. After being expelled from the advanced algebra class for not paying attention, she meets her new teacher, Mr. Conor, who gives her a very strange homework assignment. You see, she got kicked out because she was distracted by a symbol that the rest of us can't see, a beautiful sigil that, incredibly, Mr. Conor can see too, because it's on the assignment he gave her!

But that's just the beginning.

Her mom goes on a date to the Pier with Mr. Conor, and Melody is forced to tag along. That's bad enough. But then on the date Mr. Conor introduces her to one of his friends who freaks her out because his eyes are completely black; and then on the walk home, seagulls attack Mr. Conor and he has to be taken to the hospital!

Her weird assignment still beckons. Melody suspects that the mysterious symbol on it, and Mr. Conor's weird friend, and the seagull attack are all intimately related like the variables in an algebra equation. If she can just figure out what the sigil is, how to make it do what she wants, she knows the rest of the equation will be solved.

What she doesn't know is if she's successful, her life will be changed ... forever.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Shawn Michel de Montaigne
• Release date: Apr 5, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215349885

Shawn Michel de Montaigne

I'm a writer, illustrator, and fractalist. A wonderer, wanderer, and an unapologetic introvert. I'm a romantic; I'm inspired by the epic, the authentic, the numinous, and the luminous. Most of all, I'm blessed.

Book preview

Part I

~the proof~

The greatness of a man’s power is the measure of his surrender.

—William Booth

The difference in men does not lie in the size of their hands, nor in the perfection of their bodies, but in this one sublime ability of concentration: to throw the weight with the blow, to live an eternity in an hour.

—Elbert Hubbard

Prologue i

~~*~~

ON A quiet, cool January day in 1983, a hurricane roared suddenly to life off the extreme southern coast of California, slamming into the tiny seaside community of Imperial Beach less than an hour later. Weather forecasters never saw the freak storm coming: within mere minutes it had simply materialized over calm Pacific seas as if by magic. There was no warning: by the time they realized what was happening, it was too late. The swirling tempest had blown ashore. Hundreds of people would lose their lives.

In its relentless fury, the hurricane completely destroyed the Imperial Beach Pier. Forty-foot-tall waves rushed in, pounding the mighty structure mercilessly until it shuddered and collapsed into the boiling, triumphant sea. Two men died on the doomed Pier; one yelled into his walkie-talkie in his final moments that a terrible shadow was moving towards him over the long walkway, a shadow that had materialized abruptly through the heavy veil of driving rain—a shadow like Death itself. He screamed: a high-pitched, spine-tingling shriek—and then ... only the eerie crackling of radio static. His body, and the body of his coworker, was never found.

As suddenly as it had formed, the hurricane dissipated, spinning apart into airy nothingness.

One night not long after the storm had passed, a small boat materialized as though from nowhere a mile out in the calm open water. The boat carried a man. He was large, with short black hair just starting to gray, intense green eyes, devilish eyebrows, and a strong chin covered in a neatly trimmed beard. He wore the garb of a different place and a separate time: the regal clothing of a ruler. He made his way confidently towards shore, rowing strongly, the ghostly silver orb of the moon lighting his way, the water beneath him black and insubstantial, as if he were rowing through timeless space. Pieces of the shattered Pier still floated way out here; he watched them ruefully as they drifted by. Some time later he caught the incoming surf, riding it expertly, the roaring foam under his hull pale and translucent, like liquid diamonds. Once he had pulled the skiff securely upon the soft wide band of beach sand, he gazed about himself: at the muted yellow lights from the homes lining the beach; up at the silver circle of the rising moon; and then back out over the water, where once stood a great Pier. At this last, he stared for a long time, his countenance drawn and severe.

When morning came, there was no sign of him or the boat.

Eight years passed.

San Diego’s Port Authority rebuilt the Imperial Beach Pier; and it was on this day, the fourteenth of March, 1991, that they chose to christen it. As the champagne flowed and the dignitaries shook hands and the cameras flashed along its fifteen hundred foot length, just a few blocks away, within the darkened bedroom of a small pink home nestled peacefully under the sleepy shade of ocean pine and sycamore, a couple lay in bed. They had just made love. They were lying close together, holding each other, trying to catch their breath. They were not looking up at each other, but at the ceiling. They were listening intently; listening to the most beautiful music they had ever heard. Music without sound or source, but played within the being of each, having come to them at the same surprising moment, at the same time: as though the impassioned act that for a brief moment had merged their souls had been the catalyst by which the melody could come to life and realize itself.

And so, when a small, pink bundle of joy arrived nine months later, the happy couple had already decided what they were going to name her: Melody.

Melody was a quiet girl from the start, with large, dark eyes like the shade under that ocean pine and sycamore; pretty eyes that belied a piercing yet humble intelligence; eyes that reflected the flaming western skies perfectly as her mother held her while sitting on the beach near the newly rebuilt Pier, watching the brilliant, squashed orange orb of the sun set over the blue Pacific Ocean.

When Melody was two she began humming a song. They were just fragments, pieces really, but enough to leave her mother in stunned silence; for put together they became the very song heard that quiet March day nearly three years ago.  Melody’s mom would often ask her: What song are you humming, Bug? But her little girl only smiled and replied: I don’t know, Momma. Her mother would ask: Did you hear it on the radio? The television? But Melody was sure she hadn’t heard it any of those places. And despite several lengthy and exhaustive searches, Melody’s mother could never identify the song or its composer. She eventually gave up her search, content to feel the sense of the miraculous every time she heard her daughter humming it.

When Melody was five she began taking a strong interest in her mother’s college Algebra textbook, staring at the cryptic symbols for hours at a time, asking what they meant and how could they be one thing and yet reveal another? To stoke her curiosity, Melody’s mother bought her books as soon as she could read: books on simple mathematics that Melody would devour in mere days. Melody’s mom loved to watch her as she struggled over this math problem or that: not so much because Melody was learning mathematics, but because she’d absentmindedly hum that very precious song while doing so.

Melody’s quiet demeanor and keen intelligence, as well as her fierce stubborn streak, left her very lonely as she grew up. She was often teased cruelly at school, where her classmates called her nerd and laughed derisively at her behind her back as she passed by. She was always alone on the playground during recess, always found to be walking quietly around, her hands in her pockets, simply observing the other kids as they played.

One sleepy late afternoon she took a lonesome walk to the end of the Pier, which she did often. She was even unhappier on this particular trek, however, because she had just had an argument with her mother—the one person she felt even bothered to acknowledge her existence. But as she stood there, leaning against the wooden guardrail at Pier’s end, watching the sun set, she found herself unable to stew over her troubles, because at that very moment she could hear a violin playing: a violin that seemed to call to her very soul, as if it knew everything about her and shared in her unending private anguish—and yet one that challenged her to lift her chin and face her days with joy and strength. It was music that brought ready tears to her eyes, which she closed tightly to the monotonous reality around her, wishing upon wish that the violin could take the place of her five senses, for its hopeful reality was far and away more pleasant than hers. But the music stopped, fading away like the sunset.

After holding her eyes shut for a few more moments, she sighed and reluctantly blinked them open, her cheeks streaked and red.

To her right, just feet away, a pretty Japanese girl sat in a wheelchair, a violin case in the chair’s back pouch. She was gazing rapturously about herself, as if seeing the world for the first time.

And that is how Melody Singleton met Yaeko Mitsaki, her best friend; and how Melody’s—and Yaeko’s—loneliness thus ended once and for all. It would prove a powerful friendship, so much so that it would eventually inspire a dispossessed kingdom to go to war against a fearsome and evil oppressor, a dark sorcerer of untold power who twenty years earlier had conjured a hurricane out of thin air to destroy that kingdom—and its king.

In the meantime, Melody hasn’t noticed the new mathematics teacher at her middle school: a large man with graying hair, intense green eyes, devilish eyebrows, and a close-cropped beard over a strong chin.

A man who has been searching for Melody for over twenty years.

A new, devastating hurricane is brewing, one far more powerful than the wicked tempest that destroyed the Imperial Beach Pier and took hundreds of lives. This storm, however, is not gathering over the waves of a vast blue ocean, but behind the inquisitive brown eyes of Melody Singleton herself. For a strange, magical new symbol keeps appearing when she opens her Algebra textbook, one beautifully compelling and entrancing; a mysterious symbol that wields enormous power to she who can see and understand it; a symbol with equal abilities to mend and heal—or divide and destroy.

She is staring at that very symbol right now, unaware of its latent potential or its lurking dangers; she’s staring and humming softly to herself, endeavoring to make it do her bidding ...

Chapter 1

Seeing Things

~~*~~

MELODY CONCENTRATED.

She was bent over her mathematics textbook, lost in effort, humming softly to herself. Her dark brown eyes would occasionally squint, her brow creasing, as she focused on the Algebra problem. Problem thirty-nine on page four hundred five. She had long since forgotten the page or the problem number: this particular problem she had focused on for three weeks now. The page the problem was on had been since partially torn and dog-eared, to go with the brown half-moon sliver of a soda can stain on it. All her doing.

The rest of the class was working on problem fourteen, on page one thirty-three. Melody didn’t hear when the teacher, Mrs. Lilywhite, called her name.

She stared at the problem. It was a normal one, an expression containing x’s and y’s and z’s, coupled with several integers, two of which were negative; it was a normal mathematics problem save for one symbol, one that, prior to several weeks ago, she had never seen before and struggled to believe actually existed, a symbol that was intensely sharp and radiant when first apprehended, but one that quickly faded in and out of focus, as if seen through a liquid curtain of burning tears. But right now, as she gawked at it, the symbol was piercingly clear. A symbol like a question mark, but without the period—and with an odd, pleasantly compelling curly-Q at its top. The first time she saw it she feared she was going crazy, was seeing things that just weren’t there.

In a mild panic, she had drawn the symbol as best she could and had shown it to her best friend, Yaeko Mitsaki. But Yaeko had never seen anything like it. Still not sure she wasn’t going insane, she faked symptoms of illness so her mother would take her to the doctor, who promptly pronounced her in the prime of health. Then it was the eye doctor, who later bragged to her mother that she actually had slightly better than 20:20 vision. Melody didn’t have the courage to fake outright lunacy in order to get her mother to schedule a visit to the psychiatrist. But it no longer seemed necessary: the only time she saw this symbol was here, in this Algebra textbook, and with this problem. And even then it took massive amounts of concentration ...

As she focused the alien symbol began moving, changing shape, changing color even ... even seemingly growing out of the page as a three-dimensional character, appearing wooden, then metallic, then clear and green as an emerald, an object brought to life by some magical woodworker or jeweler, from a remote, faraway time and place. She smiled absentmindedly even as she tried to grasp it with her mind, to try to make it do her bidding—

A large, beefy hand slammed down on her desk. Miss Singleton!

Mrs. Lilywhite loomed over her, her round fat face tight and red, an angry tomato threatening to burst. When I ask you a question, young lady, you had better respond!

Several of her classmates giggled nervously. Several others started whispering. She thought she could hear freak and weirdo and dork among the silenced hissing. This wasn’t the first time she had been caught like this, focusing on another problem, oblivious to the class—or the lesson. Mrs. Lilywhite leaned back, bringing her hands to her enormous cup-holder hips. The answer, Miss Singleton? Her self-righteous glare, coupled with the very slightest of sneers, told Melody that Mrs. Lilywhite already knew that asking the question was unnecessary.

She heard from a corner of the classroom: "It isn’t Melody Singleton, but Melody Simpleton." Mrs. Lilywhite did nothing to quiet the harassers or the laughter that followed.

She swallowed hard, looking down and away from that oppressive glare, her face flushing with embarrassment. In a voice half whisper, half plea, she said, I ... Which problem are we working on?

The classroom erupted. A fat boy, Tommy Heffledorf, who sat directly in front of her, slapped his hand on his desk. Put her in special ed!

I think she already is! another shot back.

A third remarked, She’s too stupid to be here, Mrs. Lilywhite. Can’t you just move her to another classroom?

Mrs. Lilywhite shook her head with professional disdain, pinning Melody like a butterfly to corkboard. Finally, after another minute of hostile noise, the volume of which was climbing by the second, she raised a hand and quieted her students. She eyed her down a wide, bulbous nose, on which a pair of old black cat glasses sat halfway, giving her a sharp, studied appearance, despite her considerable wide heft.

Melody softly closed her book. She knew what was coming: she had been warned a week ago—no, wait: three days ago—that if she was caught napping again in this advanced mathematics classroom she’d be moved to a lesser one. She had no doubt the boom was about to be lowered. Her face burned. She felt not an inch tall, but miles long, as if her body had been stretched painfully, unmercifully for all to see and laugh at. Her hands felt too large, her forehead too broad; her clothes clung to her, suddenly threadbare, suffocatingly tight, and woefully out of style.

Mrs. Lilywhite held her teacherly pose for two seconds longer than Melody thought she could bear. She stared down at her desk, waiting. Finally she heard: "This is a GATE class, young lady: Gifted and Talented Education. There is no time to wait for you to get your act together! Gather your belongings and come with me, please."

She stood clumsily, jamming her Algebra text into her backpack, which was already stuffed full. She didn’t wait to zip it shut, but hurried after Mrs. Lilywhite, who was already walking out the classroom door. Her legs wobbled. She wanted desperately to disappear, to simply vanish. As she passed the front row, someone reached out and yanked hard on the open flap of the backpack. Her books spilled out, one after the other, falling loudly on the nearest desk, falling open on the floor. Her pencils and pens tumbled out as well. The closest students kicked them away from her as she went to grab them. The pages of several texts had been crushed; one page had torn down the middle.

"Melody Singleton, right this instant!"

The kids laughed louder. Melody came up—and bumped her head hard against the corner of the desk she was under while groping for her mathematics text—the most important one of all. More raucous laughing. She heard: Loser! Look at her—she’s an idiot! Du-u-h! Buh-bye, freakazoid! She stood, her head throbbing, fighting back the tears. She hadn’t grabbed all her books, or even most of them, but she had a death grip on her math text, and that was enough.

She hurried out the door to an impatiently waiting Mrs. Lilywhite. A wad of white notebook paper flew in a wide arc over her shoulder, bouncing ahead of teacher and student alike. Mrs. Lilywhite looked sternly back into the classroom. "The rest of you will do problems thirteen through thirty-seven, odds, on page one thirty-three. I will collect the work when I return to the room! Now get to work!"

The classroom groaned. Mrs. Lilywhite grabbed her arm. "Off to the principal. Let’s go—now."

The wide hallway they walked down was empty and very quiet, save the classrooms they passed. The doors to those classrooms were closed, but still the muffled sounds of children talking or teachers lecturing filtered out to greet them. Mrs. Lilywhite grunted in disapproval any time she heard children talking or laughing behind the doors. It was an involuntary grunt, one that she was completely unaware of. She walked with a limp, the result of hip replacement surgery the year before, and Melody, now in the middle of a months-long growing spurt that had seen her add four inches to her lanky frame in a single year, had to shorten her stride to keep from walking ahead of her. Mrs. Lilywhite's limp made her look like a very well-fed zombie from Dawn of the Dead as she hobbled up and down the tomb-like depths of the hallways, her pasty white features and perpetual frown only complementing the effect. She released Melody’s arm, and now, between disapproving grunts, lectured her:

-grunt- I’m sorry, my dear, this is the only way. I suspected all along you weren’t cut out for this class; I tried talking reason into Mr. Jefferson, I truly did, but he just wouldn’t back down. Thought you were the brightest thing since sunrise. Now I’m forced to have a word with him as well....

-grunt- It’s Sally Armitage’s Pre-Algebra for you, that’s where you’re headed next. I’ve done all I can ...

-grunt- "You are not allowed to daydream in GATE, young lady, though I suppose this is a moot point now. Yes, this will reflect poorly on you, Miss Singleton. Very poorly. Your mother will no doubt be quite disappointed...."

-grunt- "I know the kids can be harsh with you. But it’s for your own good. The real world is harsh. Get used to it. The sooner you realize that the sooner you’ll be able to succeed in it. In the meantime I am going to have the school counselor evaluate you for learning disorders. It’s way past time, in my professional opinion...."

-grunt- "... Lord, lord, lord ..."

Mrs. Lilywhite stopped lumbering and lurching. She grunted again. Then again. Both grunts were much more authoritative than the others.

She was glaring into an oddity: a classroom whose door was wide open. The children inside were in groups and working on some project that involved large sheets of variously colored construction paper, cutting an assortment of shapes out of them, which were then pasted on large white pieces of cardboard for more work and eventual display. Other kids colored the shapes or drew interesting designs on them. The students laughed and talked as they worked; they laughed and talked freely, without fear of reprisal or humiliation. They weren’t unruly, but neither were they being perfect little angels. Every now and then Melody heard a deep, gentle male voice direct his charges back to work; a voice with an accent, though she didn’t know the accent’s culture of origin. English, perhaps? The noise level would drop temporarily before rising slowly once again. And—was that classical music she could barely hear? The workings inside the classroom looked like heaven on Earth to her—what she always imagined school to be like. It even looked bright and cheery. She cautiously craned her head to look closer.

At that moment the teacher appeared. He was a tall, broad man, his green eyes immediately intense. His hair was graying and short, still peppered with the remnants of a youth long since passed. He wore a closely cropped beard, also gray, attentively kept, that framed strong cheeks, making his eyes appear even more powerful. His eyebrows arched sharply over those eyes, giving him a devilish appearance, conveying a mocking disdain of all things petty and mortal. A sardonic smile formed on his lips. It seemed to say: Ah. Caught you kissing that boy behind the backstop again, did she? When he shifted his gaze to Mrs. Lilywhite the grin stayed, but was now colored with the slightest edge of contempt. Is there a problem? he asked. His voice was a low rumble, and that accent—English? Irish? He glanced back at Melody. Who have we here?

Mr. Conor, said Mrs. Lilywhite. We didn’t mean to disturb you. It seems you have problems enough in your own room— Her frown increased.

Mr. Conor looked over his shoulder at his students, then back into the hallway, his brow wrinkled in amused confusion. No problems here, Mrs. Lilywhite. Is the noise bothering you?

The round mass next to Melody stiffened. You are still somewhat new here, so I’ll remind you that disciplinary policies clearly state that classroom doors are to remain closed during class time. I realize this is different than in the high school where you taught; do you not remember the meeting where this was agreed upon?

Mr. Conor shook his head indifferently, crossed his arms, and leaned against the doorjamb, his solid form now blocking Melody’s view inside. It was quite clear: Mrs. Lilywhite didn’t intimidate him, not at all. This pleased Melody, who listened as he replied, No. I must’ve missed that meeting.

Mrs. Lilywhite tugged heavily on Melody’s shoulder, grunting, Come along, Miss Singleton. As she limped away, Melody firmly in tow, she retorted without looking back, It looks as if some teachers are like students and have no regard for rules. Another thing to chat with Principal Mayfield about.

From behind her came that deep male voice with an accent: Have a nice day, Mrs. Lilywhite. And you too, my friend.

Melody turned to smile at Mr. Conor, but was jerked so hard by the angry bulb next to her that she nearly fell over. Behind her she could hear the happy noises inside Mr. Conor’s classroom fading ...

... fading like the joy inside her soul.

~~*~~

No, this is no good. No good at all!

Mrs. Lilywhite sat straight, her meaty hands on her broad fleshy knees, her spherical mass threatening to spill her off her chair. She sat at its very edge (as far as Melody could tell, that is), and had at times in the past half hour pounded the large desk before her. The desk belonged to the vice principal, Mr. Jefferson, a kindly, tired older man with thick black-framed glasses and reddish hair dyed with Grecian Formula, who always wore white short-sleeved button-down shirts with far too many items stuffed into the lone pocket over his heart. Mr. Jefferson, Melody knew, was the man responsible for setting students’ schedules—or changing them, as the case may be. Melody also knew he liked her, and had taken special pains to get her admitted into the GATE program. He sat back in his chair now and adjusted his spectacles. "I’m sorry, Mrs. Lilywhite, but Ms. Armitage’s Pre-Algebra class is not where this young lady belongs. Her skills are quite clearly superior—"

She is a continuing nuisance and rarely if ever listens in class! Mrs. Lilywhite interrupted. The other students don’t like her; and quite frankly, I’ve lost my patience. Her behavior is too odd, too extreme. She needs counseling.

Mr. Jefferson leaned forward. Melody, do you feel you need counseling?

Mrs. Lilywhite retorted, "What does she know? She’s just a teen—"

Please. You’ve had your say, Mrs. Lilywhite. Let her speak for herself. Melody?

Melody’s guts twisted inside her. She hated being here more than anything else in the world; she felt totally alone. After a long time, and without looking up, she said, I already know everything they’re learning in the book. I know all the answers, even those in the last chapters—

This is ridiculous, said Mrs. Lilywhite, slapping her knee. It sounded like a slab of tuna smacking a side of bacon.

Shh! gestured Mr. Jefferson. Mrs. Lilywhite glared at him, and then leaned back in her chair, making it creak and groan ominously under the strain. She crossed her arms impatiently over her barrel-sized chest and glared.

After an uncomfortable pause, she murmured, The kids don’t like me—and I don’t like them. They’re mean. I want to go to another class.

You’d be bored stiff in Pre-Algebra, Melody, Mr. Jefferson offered. And there are no other GATE classes here. We’d have to place you somewhere else. The work might be too easy for you. Is that okay?

Melody swallowed hard. It would be now or never. I—I want ... I want to go to Mr. Conor’s class.

Mrs. Lilywhite snorted. Absolutely not. Ridiculous.

Mr. Jefferson smiled. Do you like Mr. Conor?

"She doesn’t even know him—"

Shh!

He seems like a nice man, she said. A nice teacher. I want a nice teacher.

His classroom is a zoo, I’ll have you know, Donald, grumbled Lilywhite. And since I am the department Chairwoman, I’ll also have you know I’m having Mr. Conor reprimanded for refusing to follow adopted disciplinary procedures concerning open classroom doors during class time. That’s where our young lady here came up with this preposterous idea. She saw the mayhem inside and thought she’d fit right in.

I’ve observed Mr. Conor twice now, Mrs. Lilywhite, said Mr. Jefferson after a sigh. He runs a lovely classroom. It’s certainly within your purview to reprimand him, but I think Melody might just be better off with him. That and we won’t have to radically change her schedule. We can do an easy and direct transfer: from your period two class to his. Works for me....

To Geometry? Rid—

But you just got done telling me she’s not worthy of GATE, did you not? And Geometry is the class just below the GATE curriculum. Or do you simply want to punish this girl?

Mrs. Lilywhite grunted and came to her feet, her face crimson. "I will not sit here and be belittled in front of a student! Put this ... this ... girl— she pointed convulsively towards Melody, whose neck stung from being continually shamed—wherever you want to. I’m washing my hands of her. And you can call her Wiccan mother, or whatever godless faith she practices, as well! I’m through here!"

With that she stormed from the small office, lurching away, slamming the door behind her.

Mr. Jefferson shook his head, sighing again. He gazed at Melody, whose eyes were focused on her knees. After a time he asked, It’s none of my business, Melody, but—your mother is Wiccan?

No, whispered Melody. She’s a vegetarian.

Mr. Jefferson chuckled. Ah.

Melody felt the sting slowly leave her neck. She glanced up at the vice principal, who was smiling gently at her. You’ll have to forgive Mrs. Lilywhite, he said consolingly. She’s got her ... beliefs, and she isn’t always comfortable with those she deems ... how shall I say it? ... different? Then he shrugged, as if to say, Oh, well.

I really do know all the answers in the book ...

Mr. Jefferson nodded. I have no doubts about that. Your entrance scores into the GATE program were remarkable. It’s incredible it took so long for anybody to figure out just how bright you really are. I mean—you started Mrs. Lilywhite’s class after half a school year had already passed! He took his glasses off and began cleaning them with a white hanky lying nearby. But Melody, he continued, Mr. Conor’s class could be quite a step down for you. It most likely will be. And I haven’t even cleared this with your mother yet—

Melody leaned forward. "She won’t mind; really. She doesn’t like Mrs. Lilywhite either. Please don’t send me back there, please ..."

Don’t worry. You won’t be going back to Mrs. Lilywhite’s classroom. I’ll send you to your next class a little early—it’s Principles of Aquatics, right? I’m sure Mr. Michaels won’t mind—and I’ll go have a chat with Mr. Conor. His classroom is quite full, but I think I could persuade him to take on one more student. Does this sound acceptable to you?

Melody smiled uneasily.

Mr. Jefferson finished cleaning his thick glasses and put them on. Mr. Conor is ... well, he’s a different teacher. Ultimately you may be as uncomfortable in his classroom as you were in Mrs. Lilywhite’s. He won’t yell at you, but he just may challenge you more than you may be ready for, outstanding GATE scores notwithstanding. Do you still want to give his class a try?

Melody nodded silently.

Consider it a done deal. You may report to Mr. Conor’s class tomorrow morning. In the meantime, let me write you a pass to Aquatics. Oh—and— he pointed at her backpack—I’ll need your math textbook before you leave.

Melody’s heart sank. But what if she couldn’t see the odd, fantastic symbol anymore? What if it could only be seen in this book, over problem thirty-nine on page four hundred five? She hesitated as she reached inside her pack. Mr. Jefferson sensed her reluctance. It’s okay, he offered. Like I said, Mr. Conor will likely challenge you just as rigorously as Mrs. Lilywhite, Melody. Maybe even more.

She handed the book over to the vice principal, feeling intense frustration and worry. Thank you, he said, standing.  Now—off to swimming with you. Did you know Mr. Michael’s Advanced Aquatics class swims around the Pier for their final exam?

She absentmindedly shook her head as she trudged to the closed door. Mr. Jefferson patted her shoulder as he opened it to excuse her. Maybe someday you’ll swim around the Pier, you think? And not waiting for her answer, added, I’ll call your mother and inform her of this change. See you soon, Melody.

As she walked towards the natatorium, she let herself smile just a tiny little bit. Despite her sour mood, she felt a sudden sensation—an affirmation, really—when, in her imagination, she placed the weird symbol seen in her now-confiscated Algebra book with an image of the Pier. It felt so natural to do so, like the pleasant sensation one gets when a puzzle piece fits perfectly with another.

She thought: I sure hope I see it again.

Chapter 2

Twenty-two Years

~~*~~

HE COCKED a curious eyebrow as she approached the open door of his classroom. He leaned against the doorjamb as before, arms crossed over a wide and imposing chest. The first bell had rung four minutes earlier; the tardy bell was just moments from sounding. She had hung back as long as she could, terrified that she had set herself upon an irreversible course of humiliation and expulsion, humiliation and expulsion.... Every teacher smiles the first day, she thought glumly. Smiles the first day—angry outbursts every day until the last. And kids laughing in my face the entire time. A new classmate pushed past her, hurrying to get into the room before the bell. Mr. Conor moved out of the student’s way without looking at her, his eyes pinning Melody to the hallway carpet. She took two uneasy steps towards him and forced herself to look up, hoping her advance would also move his large mass out of the way so she could enter the classroom as anonymously as that girl just did.

No such luck. Mr. Conor didn’t budge an inch.

Humiliation and expulsion. Here we go again.

The final bell sounded. It rang loudly, with the ominous feel of a dinner bell at a death camp run by starving cannibals. The hallway fell silent as a tomb.

Miss Singleton ... Mr. Conor said with his pleasantly odd accent.

Melody nodded meekly, painfully conscious of her every movement, of her very breath.

...welcome to my Geometry class. He bowed his head slightly.

She waited, peering up at him.

I see that your name is Melody.

She waited.

Interesting name, he said, regarding her. Pretty name, too.

She didn’t respond, merely looking down and away for a second.

Her new teacher cleared his throat. I think you’ll find my classroom a little different than ... others. He waited for her to get the message underneath his words, but when it wasn’t apparent she had, continued, This is your third maths class in a single year, I’ve discovered. Interesting ... He scratched his bearded chin absentmindedly, studying her. ... interesting indeed.... And yet I am sure you are anything but the troublemaker other, er, professionals here might make you out to be. That said, your abilities are quite clearly superior to the requirements of this class—

While listening, she glanced furtively past his form and into the brightly lit room where the students sat quietly. Some were trying to listen in, casting curious glances her way.

—and so for now—and not for disciplinary reasons, let’s be very clear on the matter—you will sit with me.

She abruptly gazed up, her face flashing silent dismay. Mr. Conor turned and motioned towards his desk. Your seat is next to mine, Miss Melody Singleton.

She saw that a student’s desk had been placed next to the teacher’s desk. It faced the classroom and her peers, apart from them, obviously special. Her hopes spiraled downward like an airliner suddenly shorn of its wings.

Mr. Conor’s laser-like stare intensified even further. You have said nothing, he observed with an amused smile forming on his lips, and yet I can sense your despair already.

He paused for her reply. It won’t be what you’re thinking, he continued when it became clear she wasn’t going to. And— he held up a stern finger—no one in this classroom will ever tease you without severe consequences from me. I fully intend to challenge you, Miss Melody. This will be no free ride for you. I need to know just how bright you are. And you will of course still take part in most activities. Fair enough?

She forced a single nod of her head.

Mr. Conor once again motioned into his classroom, this time with an overdone flourish, saying, My New Student with the Interesting and Lovely Name, your true maths training awaits you ...

Melody hefted her oversized purple backpack resignedly over her right shoulder and stepped past him and into the classroom, urgently wishing she could disappear. Her new classmates stared openly at her. She chanced a quick glance at the seated crowd watching her before fixing her eyes down on her own feet, hurrying to the sole remaining desk next to Mr. Conor’s at the front of the class. She sat in it as quickly and coolly as possible without looking as though she was rushing. She chanced another glance at the class. Some students she had seen before: there was Tanya from her gym class and Ryan from Spanish, and that cute, quiet boy from History. He sat in the back and when their eyes met a very brief smile lighted his face before he looked quickly away. She didn’t know his name. She sat in her desk just as Mr. Conor strode in.

Ladies and gentlemen, he announced loudly, this is Melody Singleton. Some of you may already know her. She is what they call at university a ‘T.A.’—a ‘teacher’s assistant,’ which means she’ll be treated with the same respect that I get. Understand?

The students continued looking at her. Some nodded.

Melody will be assisting me in my teaching duties—grading, projects, planning, etcetera. She is very bright and so if you have a question and I’m busy with another, you may ask her. That’s one of her duties here. Follow?

More nods. But no one sneered; no one snickered. One or two may have even smiled! Melody had taken note of these things, but almost unconsciously. Her first overriding concern was to try to hide within herself, praying that Mr. Conor would stop talking about her already and move on with his lesson. The announcement of her teacher’s assistant duties was a complete surprise, but not an entirely unwelcome one. True, she’d much rather be left to her own devices, were that possible; yet she knew that this idiocy known as middle school was an inescapable part of her daily misery, as were her ever-present feelings of being a total outsider, an alien. No doubt Mr. Conor had done some homework of his own regarding her before admitting her into his classroom. And deep inside she felt grateful for that, even if at this moment she felt like she were going to die of embarrassment.

Now— Mr. Conor clapped his hands together once in anticipation—let’s talk about your projects ...

And with that the class was off and running. Her new classmates were designing their own homes: first on notebook and construction paper, which they were doing now, using the geometry text assigned to them as a guide; then, much later, advancing to other materials such as toothpicks, tiles, tongue depressors, egg cartons, even Leggos. Many of the students were struggling over the math involved. And as much as Melody wanted to be cool and detached and apathetic, behaving just like the popular kids, she found herself thinking quite against her adolescent social sensibilities, I know how to do that ... I can help with that! ... She suddenly flashed back to the odd, mystical symbol she was focusing so hard upon when Ms. Lilywhite so rudely interrupted her efforts—the mysterious question mark with the curly-Q top. It seemed so natural to consider it here, in this classroom, and in the context of this particular discussion, though she didn’t know why.

Here you go ... A thick pile of lined white paper suddenly plopped in front of her. She jumped in her seat, startled, her reverie extinguished. Mr. Conor pulled up an empty student’s desk next to hers and sat heavily in it. I want you to grade these today. He tossed a thin red pen on top of the pile. Simple stuff, really: a proof of similarity: ten points if correct, five if partially correct, zero if no work attempted or you can’t follow. Okay?

She considered how she, a seventh-grader, would be hated even more now that she was apparently responsible for grading her peers’ work. Many were in eighth grade, an entire year ahead of her! She’d be lucky to survive her daily walk home! She’d be given swirlies! She’d be stuffed in a locker and forgotten until the janitors show up in mid-summer to discover her skeleton clutching desperately at the air vents!

Again Mr. Conor seemed to be able to read her mind and the panicked thoughts galloping through it. He stood and gave her shoulder a couple of companionable pats. Nobody will trouble you—here or anywhere else. If they do, do not hesitate to come see me. The ongoing threat they live with is this: behave poorly and I’ll not hesitate to move ye to Ms. Lilywhite’s afternoon Applied Math class. I haven’t heard a peep from them. Maybe it’s because they know I’m sincere.

He chuckled.

Despite herself, she smiled.

He started walking away, hesitated, took two more steps, then turned around.

One more thing. You have an assignment on the bottom of the stack. A ... proof. Much more difficult than what you’ll be grading. If it makes no sense to you, just disregard it and I’ll come up with something more ... conventional. He stared at her oddly for a moment, as if trying to decide if he’d said the right thing or not. He held her glance for a second longer, and in the next had turned away and was off helping his Geometry class.

~~*~~

She had completely forgotten about her assignment, the proof, in the grading of her new classmates’ work. After a long while the grading became somewhat fun: she enjoyed trying to understand the thinking processes of others, of trying to unravel their logic and sometimes indecipherable drawings. She had taken the time to write corrections where appropriate, feeling hugely self-conscious initially, but then relaxing more and more as she became increasingly comfortable marking on papers not her own. Most of the class did really well: she gave lots of 10s.  But the period was ending soon and she had only graded perhaps half of the stack. Mr. Conor hardly seemed disappointed by this: in fact, he nodded at her progress approvingly. Take them home. Finish them there. I’ll see you tomorrow. He looked at her oddly again, as he had earlier.

And now, with the homework from her other classes completed, she sat on her bed in her blue pajamas and leafed through the remaining geometry waiting to be graded. She had pulled her brown hair back into a ponytail and was absentmindedly playing with its end, brushing it back and forth across her chin. Earlier at dinner her mother had smiled. Aedan Conor sure thinks a lot of you, Bug. I spoke with him on the phone today. He says you’re quiet and shy and brilliant. Those were his words.

She nodded silently, not looking up from her meal. Her mother smiled wistfully and added, Middle school sucks, I know, I know. I was just like you—quiet and feeling clumsy and totally alone. But you’re not, Mellow Yellow. Just remember that everybody there is struggling with similar issues, in their own peculiar way.

She stared at the homework she was grading. Similar issues ... similar triangles. Maybe we’re all just similar triangles having similar three-sided issues.

She finished grading half an hour later. At the bottom of the stack was her assignment, the proof, the one Mr. Conor had included with her classmates’. She had completely forgotten about it. It took her a long time to realize what she was looking at. She snatched at it and brought it to her face, her eyes wide with disbelief. She let go of her ponytail and clutched the paper with both hands, as though to keep it from flying away from her. For a long time she couldn’t make herself believe that what she was gawking at was real.

Drawn on a plain sheet of lined notebook paper was a broken triangle. The ends of each segment of the triangle didn’t quite meet; one line segment seemed to be drawn farther from the others, as if it were set drifting away on the page; and another segment seemed ... dented. It was actually split into two segments, one half again as long as the other, as though Mr. Conor had penciled it while driving over a bump on the way to school. The words at the bottom, in inch-high capital letters, read, SOLVE THIS.

She had barely noticed them. She was staring, open-mouthed, at the neatly drawn symbol at one of the broken vertices: a periodless question mark with a curly-Q top.

~~*~~

She gaped at the diagram.

The magical symbol in her Algebra book from just yesterday, before Mrs. Lilywhite had loomed over her like a lard mountain, the symbol she once thought was merely a figment of a young teenage mind gone mad stared back at her, rendered perfectly in pencil—a symbol another human being had seen too! She traced it with her index finger, as if doing so would confirm and solidify its reality.

Mr. Conor has seen it too!

A knock on her bedroom door.

Her mom cracked it open slightly and spoke from behind it, her voice muffled. Sweetheart? It’s bedtime. Are you about ready?

Sure ... sure, Momma. Another half hour?

That’s fine. I let Sara out. Will you let her back in before you crash? I’m going to bed.

Okay.

Love you, Bug.

Love you, Momma.

Oh— her mother cracked the door open again—going to spend the night at Yaeko’s tomorrow?

Melody shook her head without realizing it. I’m not sure. I’ll see her tomorrow morning at violin practice and ask.

Okay, love ...

She heard the door quietly click shut. She had not taken her eyes off the diagram and ten seconds later had completely forgotten the entire exchange. For the magical symbol beneath the drawing of the broken triangle had astonishingly come alive, flowing, shifting, changing shape ...

~~*~~

When she looked up again, the clock on her nightstand read one-twenty. Just like that, three hours had passed. And she still had no idea what the symbol meant or how to