And when he finished, the logic was flawless.
Dr. Stanton leaned back in his chair.
“The presentation needs work, but the mathematics is perfect.”
Harrington finally spoke.
“Presentation is part of mathematics. How you communicate your ideas matters. A brilliant solution explained poorly is worthless.”
He looked at the other judges.
“I recommend we penalize for clarity.”
Dr. Ashford shook her head.
“We’re judging mathematical ability, not elocution.”
“Then perhaps we should change the criteria.”
“The criteria are set, Edmund. They have been for thirty-two years.”
Harrington’s eyes narrowed, but he didn’t argue further. Not yet.
Yseph advanced to the finals.
The live stream chat exploded with comments.
“Who is this kid?”
“Southside genius.”
“Harrington looks like he swallowed a lemon.”
“Lmao this is insane.”
“A library kid beating prep school robots.”
The audience buzzed. Something was happening here. Something unexpected, and everyone could feel it.
But the finals were still ahead, and Harrington was about to play his final card.
Two hours until the final round.
The auditorium emptied for a break. Students scattered. Some went to the cafeteria. Some called their parents. Some huddled with private tutors for last-minute coaching.
Yseph had no tutor, no parents to call, no money for the cafeteria.
He found a quiet corner in the library wing of Lunt Hall, a small room with old wooden chairs and dusty shelves.
He sat on the floor, pulled out his worn notebooks, and began to review.
His notebooks were his treasure. Three years of work, equations copied from library books, problems solved at midnight under a dim lamp, theories he had taught himself when no one else would teach him.
He flipped through the pages. His handwriting had changed over the years from messy and uncertain to sharp and confident.
But today, his hands were shaking again.
The final round against students who had been groomed for this their entire lives, with judges who didn’t want him there, and a professor who was looking for any reason to destroy him.
“Focus,” he whispered to himself. “Just focus on the math.”
A door creaked open.
Yseph looked up.
Dr. Lorraine Ashford stood in the doorway.
She didn’t say anything at first, just looked at him sitting on the floor, notebooks spread around him like a protective circle.
Then she stepped inside, closed the door behind her.
“You shouldn’t be in here,” she said. “This area is for faculty only.”
Yseph started gathering his things.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t know. I’ll leave.”
“I didn’t say leave.”
She pulled a chair closer to him, sat down.
“I said you shouldn’t be in here. There’s a difference.”
Yseph froze, unsure what to do.
Dr. Ashford studied him for a moment.
“You know what I see when I look at you?”
Yseph shook his head.
“I see myself. Forty-five years ago. Different city, same story.”
She paused.
“I was the only Black girl in my mathematics program. They told me I didn’t belong. Told me I was taking a spot from someone more deserving. Told me to go home.”
“What did you do?”
“I stayed. I fought. I became the dean.”
A small smile crossed her face.
“And now I get to decide who belongs and who doesn’t.”
She reached into her pocket, pulled out a granola bar, placed it in his hand.
“You need to eat. The final round is going to be brutal.”
Yseph looked at the granola bar. His stomach growled. He hadn’t eaten since breakfast. A bowl of oatmeal his grandmother had made before dawn.
“Thank you,” he said quietly.
Dr. Ashford stood up, walked toward the door, then stopped.
“One more thing. Edmund Harrington is not a stupid man. He knows you’re talented. That’s why he’s afraid of you.”
She looked back at him.
“Don’t let him see you’re afraid, too.”
She left.
Yseph unwrapped the granola bar, took a bite, let the sweetness settle on his tongue.
Then he went back to work.
Forty-five minutes until the final round.
Yseph’s phone buzzed. A text from his grandmother.
“How’s it going, baby?”
He wanted to tell her everything. The humiliation, the challenges, the small victories.
But his phone battery was at three percent.
He typed quickly.
“I’m in the finals. Pray for me.”
Send.
The screen went black. Dead.
He stared at the dark phone. His only connection to home gone.
For a moment, the loneliness hit him like a wave.
He was alone here. Completely alone, surrounded by people who wanted him to fail.
He closed his eyes, took a deep breath.
“Focus. Just focus on the math.”
Thirty minutes until the final round.
The competitors’ waiting area was tense. Three other finalists sat at separate tables, all from prep schools, all with coaches whispering in their ears.
Elizabeth Thornton reviewed flashcards with her father. He pointed at each card. She answered without hesitation.
Another finalist, a boy named Preston Clark, worked through practice problems with a private tutor who charged five hundred dollars an hour.
The third finalist had withdrawn, walked out during the break. The pressure was too much.
That left four. Elizabeth, Preston, a quiet girl named Victoria Nash, and Yseph.
Cameron Wells approached Yseph’s corner. He stood over him, arms crossed, face twisted with contempt.
“You got lucky,” Cameron said. “That’s all this is. Luck.”
Yseph didn’t look up from his notebook.
“Round two wasn’t luck. I saw the symmetry. You didn’t.”
Cameron’s face reddened.
“You think you’re smart? You think you’re better than us?”
He leaned closer.
“You’re nothing. You’re a charity case, a feel-good story for the news cameras. But when this is over, you’ll go back to your rats and your roaches and your pathetic little life, and nobody will remember your name.”
Yseph finally looked up. His eyes were calm, steady.
“Maybe. But right now I’m in the finals, and you aren’t.”
Cameron’s hands balled into fists.
For a second, it looked like he might throw a punch.
Then a proctor appeared.
