What Thunder left behind by DT Martin One solve for X.
Nothing good ever comes from Thunder.
Quiet down. The man barks, slamming a stack
of papers on the desk. If any of y'all think this is
some kind of party, you're in the wrong room.
It's my first day in advanced calculus and mathematical.
Physics, a class so selective it's rumored to be half math
half. Magic and already I shrink into
my seat. The lecture hall sprawls.
Around me, nothing resembling the boxy classrooms back home.
Laughter. Ricochets across the.
Aisles loud and effortless. Students leaning over their
chairs, tossing inside. Jokes and back slaps.
As though they've been here forever, I slide lower in my
chair, tugging at the edge of my sleeve, trying to look busy with
the MIT campus map while my eyes track the confident ones.
Those who already speak this. Language of belonging I have to
prove. I deserve the scholarship.
The chance someone gave me to be here.
Gradually, the room settles. All right.
The professor announces from behind the podium.
My name is Professor Jonathan Hashet and I'll be your advanced
calculus instructor. This term I only accept 10
students. Today is your test to see if you
make the grade. 3 assistants move down the aisles,
distributing test booklets and identical pens.
My TAS are handing out the exam and the pens.
You'll be using exclusively, no exceptions.
Anyone who doesn't comply fails. There will be no calculators.
A test booklet lands on my desk. I pick up the pen, write my name
at the top, and flip through the pages.
Question after question stares up at me, quietly.
Intimidating, then. I discovered this at the packets
end if you're reading this. 1st. Write the 100. 28th.
Digit of π. After the decimal point under
your name, hand in the test and leave the hall immediately.
I stare at it. Heart thudding.
Is this a joke? My mind flashes back to late
nights reciting digits. Of Π.
To calm my nerves 3.141592. 65. I can't help it, I've always
needed to know the next number. My fingers move before I can
second guess myself. I write 3 beneath my name.
Close the packet. And stand shouldering my bag, I.
Walk to the front of the hall. The distance stretching longer
than it really is. The professor doesn't even
glance at me as I hand in my. Test the door clicks.
Behind me, sealing off the classroom and pressing the
silence flat around my shoulders.
Light hangs low in the corridor, cool against the weight
collecting behind my ribs. My fingers find the edge of my
sleeve, twisting fabric against skin.
The answer appeared too. Fast, obvious, exact.
And unforgiving certainty that sharp never sticks around.
A single flaw would unravel the whole equation.
One missed term, 1 careless leap and the future.
I've clawed toward dissolves. Scholarship gone, reputation
buried, the quiet crawling proof that I never belonged here to
begin with. Each imagined failure nests
inside the next, collapsing inward until even standing
becomes a burden and I feel the Thunder inside stillness.
Refuses to soothe it reveals hi a voice.
Comes from beside me. First turn, a girl settles next
to me. Her backpack.
Still slung over 1. Shoulder, her dyed Violet streak
catches the light as she tucks her thick dark.
Curls behind one. Ear eyes bright.
Nose ring sparkling. She's the type of.
Person who fills the space with presents, not noise.
How'd you do? She asks.
Plopping down fully and stretching her legs, unsure of
how to answer. I shrug.
Oh. I don't know.
I really need this class. My boyfriend and I were supposed
to do our project together. He wants to build neural
prosthetics one day, says Hachette's track is the only
real path in. I'm kind of tagging along, but I
want to prove I belong here too. She shifts.
Blocking the sun so. I can see her better.
Oh. Tammy Tammy Wang she.
Extends her arm, her grin crooked and confident.
Lily. I reply quietly, shaking her
hand. A boy sprints up, nearly
tripping over his own excitement.
He's tall and wiry, with a mop of curly dark hair bouncing as
he moves. His hoodie is half zipped.
Revealing a concert tee beneath it, and he carries his energy
like a banner. Tammy, did you see that last
question? He gasps.
I didn't catch it until halfway through and four people had
already handed their tests in, including her.
He points at me. I saw her get.
Up, Tammy says, standing. I was 2 questions in when I
noticed. It.
The boy grins. I filled in 2 answers, flipped
to the last page and bolted. James.
Tammy chides. With a laugh.
This is Lily. No time, Tammy.
He urges, grabbing her arm. We've got to get to the board
before they post the dorm list. Tammy turns and catches my
wrist, pulling me with her. Before I can decide whether to
follow, her grip is. Light but steady anchoring.
Well, come on then. She urges.
Smiling wide, bracing. Against a world already.
Shifting, we cut across the quad.
James bounds ahead, wild with momentum, but Tammy doesn't let
go. My legs keep pace while my
thoughts splinter, trailing behind me in all directions.
I try to match their energy to mirror the ease.
They wear like a. Second skin.
My breath knots in my chest. I keep my eyes on Tammy's.
Shoes red, scuffed. Moving with a confidence I can't
copy, we swarm toward a wide bulletin board near the admin
building. I swear.
James. Shouts over his shoulder.
If I have to bunk with a snorer, I'll throw myself out the window
first night and everything. Oh, please, Tammy laughs.
You're the one who snores. I've heard you at orchestra
camp. Lies in slander.
He calls back dramatically. Their voices.
Swirl around me when through tall grass.
I stay close. Uncertain if I'm invited or
simply caught in Tammy's orbit, she doesn't let go.
Not once. I cannot believe I'm here.
James exclaims, bouncing as he walks.
No curfews, no family dinners, No.
James. How many times do I have to tell
you? He mimics someone's voice and
makes a face. Tammy Cackles.
Right, I left my mom a note on the fridge.
I'm going to class barefoot and you can't stop me.
After 18 years of piano recitals and perfectly ironed shirts, she
nearly fainted. Worth it?
She spun halfway around, still tugging me along.
Lily, what's the first thing you're doing now that your
parents can't tell you no? I blink, startled.
She even remembers I'm here. I don't know.
That's OK, you've got time to pick your rebellion.
She. Teases with a wink by the time
we reach the board. A crowd has gathered.
Elbows bump. Phones are out.
People snap. Photos of the paper lists.
James groans. This is like trying to get
concert tickets. Tammy squares her shoulders.
No worries, I got this. With one hand still laced in
mine, she weaves and nudges her way.
Forward, James. Follows muttering.
Excuse me, coming through this is life or death.
Pressed against the wall. She scans the lists, her finger
darting across names. Found.
Me, she squeals. Wang, Tammy, Dorm E, Room 3O2
She turns. Wait a second.
Her eyes flick. Further down the list, then
light up. Oh my God.
She turns to me with a gasp. Is your last name Ross?
I nod, startled. Tammy lets out a.
Full body squeal. We're roommates.
James claps his hands. Oh this is perfect.
I'm third Wheeling the nicest chaos possible.
Tammy practically jumps then throws her arms around me before
I can brace for it. You're stuck with me now.
She laughs into my. Shoulder it's fate.
A gentle warmth spreads across my face as my lips.
Curl upward. My shoulders ease, releasing the
tension that. Built throughout the day.
We cross the quad toward Dorm E with a printed map. 3 different
sets of bags and one very loud James narrating the walk in full
documentary mode. Here we see the native freshman
migrating toward their nesting grounds.
He notes, adjusting the guitar case slung over his shoulder.
The females carry more supplies, the males carry unresolved
trauma. Tammy snorts and swats his arm
with her duffel. Bag room 3O2 waits at the.
Far end of the hall, sunlight pouring through the floor length
window as though it's been waiting for us.
Tammy unlocks the. Door with a swipe.
Card and shoves it. Open, confident, practiced.
Welcome to our Empire. She declares spinning inside the
room is standard 2 twin. Beds 2, Desks 2.
Dressers, 2 small closets and one long cork board running the
length of the wall. I call window side.
She announces, tossing her backpack onto the left bed.
I stop in the doorway, knuckles white on the handle.
The. Space beyond is too clean.
Too. Quiet, waiting for something.
James leans against the door frame behind me.
Not bad. He comments.
Cozy feels like a place where mistakes are made and
friendships are forged. Tammy peeks into the tiny shared
bathroom and makes a face. OK, this mirror is definitely
haunted. He laughs.
You love it already? I set my bag down quietly at.
The foot of the right bed. The wood creaks a little dust.
Floats in the sunlight. Real it.
Feels real now. You OK?
Tammy asks gently, pausing her suitcase explosion to glance
over. I nod.
Yeah. She grins and opens her suitcase
like a magician about. To pull out doves.
Good. Because I brought matching fairy
lights and a Keurig. James lets out a reverent sigh.
I'm adopting this room as my official hangout spot.
Perfect. Tammy remarks, tossing a bag of
mini marshmallows onto her desk. We've got snacks, caffeine, a
window with a view and now a Lily.
What else could we need? I look at her.
She means it. Maybe.
This could be OK.
Tammy is halfway through hanging fairy lights when her phone
Dings, then James's buzzes, then mine.
The old. Screen lights up slowly, easing
itself awake to display the message report to.
Professor Haschette's lecture. Hall immediately, placement
results available. Tammy let's out a squeal.
That shakes the fairy. Lights from her hand.
Yes, yes, Oh my God, we're being.
Placed. James groans like someone
stepped on his soul. We're being rejected.
This is it. They're about to hand me a
napkin and say use this to wipe your dreams away.
I'm going to faint. Tammy breathes, twirling like a
sparkler in human form. Lily.
We got picked.
Do you know what this means? We are going to be part of the
10. My thumb hovers over the screen.
I read the message again. Then again.
It doesn't change. Placement results immediate.
Maybe it's a mistake, I murmur. Maybe they're just letting
people down in person. James points at me dramatically.
See, she gets it. This is an academic guillotine
and our heads are already in the basket.
Tammy rolls her eyes. You 2 are so dramatic.
I mean, maybe they're pulling the top scores to form the
actual class. Maybe it's an honor section or
maybe, maybe we're all in together.
She reaches. Over and touches my arm.
You were the first to turn it in, Lily.
You knew the answer. That wasn't a guess.
I look at her hand, still warm against my skin.
She might not know what that means.
Or maybe she does. I really like you guys.
I blurt before I can stop myself.
They both. Turned toward me, startled.
James grins first. Aww, don't say that before the
rejection letters hit. You'll make me cry in front of
the admissions building. Tammy laughs, her hand sliding
down to squeeze mine. Too late.
We like you too. You're part of the pack now come
on, let's go find out if we're geniuses or if we only looked
good while failing James. Slings his arm around.
Both our shoulders. Either way, we're marching
toward doom and style. The three of us file.
Back into the same lecture hall where everything began.
The room is. Quieter now, more focused, no
shouting or chaos. Only scattered.
Voices and the low murmur of nerves settling into wooden
chairs. The air smells faintly of pencil
shavings and anxiety. James flops into a seat in the
front row and leans back, resigned.
I'm emotionally prepared for nothing, that's all I'm saying.
I hope we get folders. Tammy says, nudging her bag
under the chair. If I don't get a folder with a
gold seal or something, I'll be crushed.
Then she stands suddenly. OK, I need to pee before I
vibrate out of existence. Guard my.
Bag. She darts off.
Leaving a swish of glitter lip balm scent behind her, I sit
next to James. Fingers nodded in my lap.
You think this is really it? Either we're about to be crowned
geniuses or sacrifice to the scholarship gods.
He mutters. That's when I notice him.
A man stands by the whiteboard. Tall.
Broad. Shouldered and painfully.
Out of place. I have no idea.
Who he is? Or why he's here.
He doesn't look like ATA, but stands at the front like he owns
the place. His posture is military
straight, his button down crisp enough to cut paper.
Sandy blonde hair, perfectly combed, clean shaven jaw.
Sharp as a sculptor. 'S line and eyes.
Cold. Sea glass green, narrowed.
Slightly as he looks directly at us.
At me, I shift, uncertain. He walks over.
Slow, controlled, commanding attention, and then, without
even glancing, he reaches out and smacks James on the arm.
What the hell are you doing up front, faggot?
He demands. His slur?
Lands like a slap. Everything inside me freezes.
James laughs. Awkward.
Rubbing his arm. Nice to see you too, Steven.
I stand. My knees feel watery.
My voice comes out before I know what I'm going to say, thin and
trembling. Hey, you.
My throat tightens. But I force the words out.
You don't get. To say that my.
Hands are shaking, and I can feel the Thunder in my chest.
Not to him, not to anyone. He blinks at me, finally
acknowledging my existence. Excuse me?
I swallow. Wishing my voice would.
Steady you. You.
Heard me. My words stumble, but I keep
going. You think it's funny.
It's not. You don't get to.
My voice cracks. You don't get to make people
feel small because you think it's a joke.
His expression darkens. Who the hell are you?
I want to vanish. To press my.
Body into quiet, but I meet his eyes.
My fists clench, brittle with restraint.
My throat knots. Voice caught in the low rolling
weight behind my ribs. When I speak, it isn't gentle.
It echoes someone who doesn't think bigotry is charming.
I manage the words tumbling out too fast.
He scoffs. Wow, you've got some nerve.
I can't tell. If I'm about to cry or scream,
I've got I've got respect, I say, voice barely above a
whisper. And if you had any.
You'd apologize a few heads. Turn.
People are watching now, and more Thunder rolls over my skin.
I don't care. That's when Tammy reappears,
jogging up the aisle. Whoa.
Hey, what's going on? She looks at the man, then at
me. Oh my God.
Lily, she exclaims, breathless, stepping between us.
This is Steven. He's my boyfriend.
He's just he. Jokes like that sometimes.
I promise he's not serious. James gives her a small, forced
smile. It's fine, Tam.
No, it's not I. Reply.
It's not fine. Stephen's jaw clenches.
So this is the girl you're rooming with?
Stephen. Tammy cautions, warning in her
tone. Please don't.
I'm saying, he mutters, taking a step back.
Some people could use a lesson in how to take a joke, and some
people. I shoot back, could use a.
Lesson in empathy. Professor Hachette enters the
room before anything else can escalate.
The entire class shuffles into place, chairs scraping softly
against tile. Steven gives me one last look,
sharp and burning. I don't flinch.
I turn and sit beside James, whose fingers brush my sleeve.
Thanks. He whispers.
Nothing comes out. Unsure what to.
Say. I sink into the.
Chair, my pulse still. Thudding in my ears.
What happened? My voice.
That voice. It appeared from nowhere.
One second I'm behind James, the next I'm standing between him
and a guy. Who could probably.
Break me in half. With a glare.
And now everyone has seen. I stare at the whiteboard.
Not really seeing it. Steven, I know nothing about
him. Except that he's.
Tall and smug and somehow shrinks the room by walking into
it and what he called James. That word like it meant nothing.
Like James was nothing. But he isn't.
Not to me, Not after today. And that word?
It lands wrong. It always has.
My hands won't stop shaking even after Steven.
Walks away. I stare at the floor.
Wishing I could disappear. Tammy's eyes flick over me,
unreadable. No one says anything.
For a second I wonder if I made everything worse, but James
gives me a quick, grateful nod. I let.
Out a breath I didn't know I was holding, Professor Hachette
makes his way up to the front with.
A stack of papers so thick it looks capable.
Of breaking someone's future he doesn't speak at.
First dropping. The stack on the desk and flips
through it page at a time as we hold.
Our breath he seems to take forever.
Or maybe it's me. My heart won't slow down.
Near the whiteboard, Stephen stands with his arms.
Folded, Bored with the. Entire planet.
The professor nods at him, and Stephen turns the.
Board with a flourish. Revealing what he's written on
the other side. Negative H bar squared times the
second derivative of. PSI equals.
X times PSI. Something inside me twist, I
recognize it instantly. The one-dimensional Schrodinger
equation or it wants. To be, but it's.
Wrong. The structure is broken, no mass
term. The potential is off.
It makes no sense. This the professor states, still
at the. Front.
Is your final chance. Only those who received the
placement message are here. The first student to solve this
equation earns their spot. No further testing required.
A few murmurs ripple through the room.
Someone in the back raises their hand.
I can solve it. Asserts a guy with.
Perfectly neat hair and a cocky tone that makes my skin itch.
Go ahead, Jeff. The professor urges Jeff
practically. Struts to the front, grabs the
marker and gets to work. His hands move quickly,
rearranging terms, isolating. Sigh.
Reducing quantum uncertainty. To a classroom flex, he adds a
flourish. Underlines his answer with a
smirk and returns to a seat. People.
Whisper and nod, impressed, but I'm still stuck on that
equation. It isn't right and not the
solution the question. Itself before I realize it.
I raise my hand slowly. Barely no one notices except
him. Stephen.
His eyes narrow. I freeze.
But I don't lower my arm eventually.
Professor Hachette looks up. Yes, my voice.
Catches. I swallow.
And try again. I I don't think the problem can
be. Solved.
Laughter ripples through the class.
Not loud, but enough. The professor.
Frowns. Speak up.
I shift in my seat. My hands are.
Slick with sweat, the. Equation.
It can't be solved. It's written wrong.
More laughter. Someone snorts 2 rows behind me.
James turns and mutters. Shut up.
Under his breath, Hachette fixes me with that sharp, blank stare.
So you believe everyone else here is wrong, Miss?
Ross, I whisper. Barely.
Loud enough. Lily Ross.
He waits. I force the words out the left.
Hand side is missing the mass term.
In the original Schrodinger equation, we divide -H ^2 by two
times the particle mass and the right.
Side it's just X. Times PSI.
That's not a valid potential function for the setup.
It's not balanced, not. Solvable like this.
Steven shakes his head and mutters.
I wrote that equation, there's no problem.
I blink. I still don't know what he's
doing here or why everyone acts like he belongs.
Apparently. The professor remarks flatly.
You think you know more than Mr. Price and myself.
If you believe the problem is flawed, correct it.
Solve it. Show us.
The silence. Presses in around me, my legs.
I've lost feeling in my legs. I don't want to move.
I don't be long up there. Everyone is watching, some with
amusement, some with pity, but I stand anyway.
It. Feels like walking underwater or
toward a door that might not open.
I don't look. At Stephen as I pass.
I don't look at anyone, the marker is cold in my hand as
the. Professor passes.
It to me, his face unreadable, uncapping the marker.
I take a breath. With trembling fingers, I cross
out what he's written. Then I write it out slowly,
carefully. Negative H.
Bar squared over. 2M times the second derivative of.
PSI plus the. Potential times PSI equals
energy times. PSI.
It's the. One-dimensional time independent
Schrodinger equation. I pause.
My writing is too small as my arm.
Shakes I adjust. The board and keep going beneath
it. I write the simplified.
Version assuming a linear potential.
PSI of X. Equals the airy function.
The airy function. It has to be.
I step back. My heart pounds in my throat.
The marker is still in my hand. The room has gone completely
silent. Steven says nothing, even the
professor simply. Looks at the board, Professor
Hachette. Finally turns to face the class,
grinning. Not the smug, superior grin.
I expect something sharper, satisfying, maybe even
surprising him. Well.
He states, clasping his hands behind his back.
It seems we have our first placement.
Miss Ross, welcome to my class. He nods once, almost like a bow.
You may leave. I stand there for a second,
unsure whether I've heard him right.
My fingers tighten around the marker, then I place it gently
on the edge of the. Whiteboard.
As I turn, my eyes flick across the room and catch on him.
Stephen. He isn't smiling.
His jaw is tight. His eyes squinting at me,
scanning for something I've taken without permission.
I don't look away instead. I hold his.
Gaze for a moment. Then look.
Past him for Tammy, who gives me a double thumbs up and a
whispered Oh my God for James who grins from ear to ear, eyes
wide with intergalactic. Approval.
I bend to grab my bag, heart still pounding, and walk down
the aisle with my eyes forward. I don't feel like I've won
anything. It hadn't been bravery, not
really. I knew the equation was wrong.
The room still buzzes. With silence near the back.
Jeff sits rigid, the heel of his shoe.
Tapping against the tile, his smirk is gone, replaced by
something. Tighter, sharper, he looks.
Like someone struggling to believe that someone like me
could rewrite his answer in front of everyone.
Maybe he'll tell himself a different version of the.
Story. I got lucky that he had solved
it better faster. If he'd seen the mistake 1st
that I copied something. Or guessed.
I don't know what equation he's working with now.
What? Variable.
He'd assigned me to make the math come out clean.
Still, I've ended up on the wrong side of whatever line this
is. By the time I step into the
hallway, the adrenaline has worn off, leaving a sick, weightless
feeling in my chest. My focus narrows to the path
before me and I keep walking. I solved for X.
But what comes next? I can't.
Help, but listen for the storm.