That approach isn't in any textbook. My father taught me. Your father? Hartwell's voice changed, something flickering behind his eyes. Who is your father?
His name was James Parker. He died when I was six. For 1 second, just one, Hartwell's mask shattered. Fear, recognition, something that looked almost like panic. Then it was gone, replaced by ice.
Class dismissed. Everyone out. Now. Students grabbed their bags, rushed for the door. Isaiah didn't move.
Mr. Parker. Hartwell's voice was barely controlled. You'll be hearing from me. Words spread like wildfire.
By dinner, half the campus was talking. The story growing with each retelling. Did you hear? Some sophomore solved Hartwell's impossible equation. In under 2 minutes.
Made the old man lose his mind. A black kid from Chicago. Never said a word all semester. Then boom. Students who'd never taken a math class were discussing it.
Isaiah Parker. The quiet one from the back row. The guy who made Richard Hartwell look like a fool. Isaiah wanted nothing to do with it. He went back to his apartment, locked the door, pulled the blinds, tried to become invisible again.
It didn't work. His phone kept buzzing. Messages from classmates he'd never talked to. Friend requests from people he didn't know. He ignored them all.
What he couldn't ignore was the feeling in his gut. Something was wrong. The way Hartwell had looked at him when he said his father's name. That wasn't surprise. That was recognition.
That was fear. 2 Days later, Isaiah learned why. The email arrived at 3:47 p.m. Subject: Academic Integrity Violation. Immediate meeting required.
Isaiah read it three times. Each time the words hit harder. Academic Integrity Violation. That meant cheating. That meant expulsion.
That meant everything he'd worked for, gone. He walked into Hartwell's office at 4:00 p.m. sharp. The door closed behind him like a coffin lid. Hartwell sat behind his desk, calm, controlled, a stack of papers arranged perfectly in front of him. Sit down, Mr.
Parker. Isaiah sat. The chair was uncomfortable, probably on purpose. Let me be direct with you. Hartwell's voice was smooth, professional.
Your performance in my classroom 2 days ago has raised serious concerns. Concerns? Your solution to that equation was too perfect, too fast, too sophisticated for someone of your background. Isaiah felt heat rising in his chest. My background?
Let me put it plainly. Hartwell leaned forward. No sophomore solves a problem like that in 90 seconds. Not without help. Not without cheating.
I didn't cheat. Then explain it. Hartwell spread his hands. Explain how a 19-year-old from the South Side of Chicago, working night shifts at a warehouse, barely scraping by on financial aid, somehow solves a problem that defeated professional mathematicians for 40 years. Or Isaiah kept his voice steady, but inside, he was shaking.