Age 13
Someone started a shower down the hall. The water rattled the pipes, a rhythmic drumming that bled through the thin walls until it sounded like it belonged in Stephen's own room. He lay on his back and stared at the ceiling tiles, waiting for the pitch of the noise to shift. The pipes squealed once, then the rush of water held steady.
A door latch clicked. Footsteps crossed the hallway. A sudden burst of laughter echoed and then died just as fast.
Stephen stayed still for several seconds longer than necessary. The window unit hummed in short, mechanical gasps. He kicked the sheet loose from where it had twisted around his leg and sat up.
The orientation schedule was folded on the desk beside his notebook—bright paper, black ink, and times that looked far too early for a college campus. Breakfast. Welcome session. Safety talk. He rubbed his face with both hands, forcing himself out of bed. The floor was cold for a heartbeat, then his skin adjusted. Across the room, his roommate's side looked untouched; the bed was made tight and boxes were still stacked by the desk, exactly where they had been when they moved in yesterday.
At the sink, Stephen turned the faucet to cold and waited. Because it was August in Austin, the water in the uninsulated pipes came out lukewarm at first, baked by the morning sun. He watched the white foam of his toothpaste circle the drain until the water finally turned a sharp, biting cold. The mirror showed him a face that hadn't changed since he left East Texas. The room seemed to have no opinion of him.
He made his bed because the mess felt like a physical itch. He pulled the sheet taut, smoothed the blanket, and tucked the corners with practiced precision. He paused, hand resting on the fabric, before checking his watch.
Twenty minutes.
He stood by the desk and looked at the door. He could stay here. He could read the packet and the rules and wait until the absolute last second to leave. His stomach tightened. Instead, he grabbed the campus map and shoved it into his pocket.
In the hall, the carpet felt damp and springy under his shoes. A Welcome Week flyer sagged on its pushpin under the washed-out glare of the fluorescent lights. Ben, the RA who had checked him in yesterday, was leaning against the railing near the stairwell with a fresh stack of maps. His hair was still damp from the shower, and he held a coffee cup like it was a permanent extension of his hand.
"Morning again, Cooper," Ben said, pushing off the rail.
Stephen stopped because Ben was in the path. "Morning."
Ben gestured to the quiet hallway. "Up and moving already? Most of the guys on this floor are still clinically asleep."
"Old habit," Stephen said.
Ben held out a map. Stephen took it automatically, even though he already had the one from his check-in packet yesterday.
Ben lowered his voice slightly. "People are already talking about you and your friend, you know. Word travels fast in the Honors wing."
Stephen felt his face warm. "What friend?"
"The girl from yesterday," Ben said. "Paige. Two thirteen-year-olds with dorm keys... it's a big story for the upperclassmen."
Stephen's fingers tightened around the paper. He forced them to loosen. "She's the computer student," he said, keeping it blunt. "The pilot program."
Ben laughed. "Right. The twelve-year-old genius. I'm glad you're both here. You'll shake this place up."
Stephen didn't answer. He offered a single nod and started walking before Ben could find another thread to pull. He didn't want to be a 'story'; he just wanted to be a student.
The stairwell echoed his descent, the concrete throwing the sound of his footsteps back at him. On the first floor, a ceiling fan pushed warm air in a slow, useless circle. Outside, the courtyard was already humming. Two students were throwing a Frisbee dangerously close to a sign that told them not to. Sprinklers ticked rhythmically along the lawn, and the morning sun hit the concrete hard enough to make Stephen squint.
The dining hall was a chaos of clattering trays and scraping chairs. Stephen grabbed a tray and moved through the line, taking a stack of pancakes. He sat at the very edge of the room surrounded by strangers. Across from him, a boy talked about football as if it were the only thing that mattered. Beside him, a girl watched the doors, chewing her food with a vacant, nervous intensity.
Stephen ate quickly. Syrup stuck to his fingers, a tacky reminder of the mess. He wiped his hands and folded the napkin into a tight, perfect square. He caught himself doing it—a habit Sheldon would have praised—and stopped immediately.
He dumped his tray and walked out before anyone could ask where he was from.
Orientation hall was packed with rows of narrow seats and the smell of industrial floor cleaner. Students waved across aisles like they were at summer camp. Stephen scanned the crowd until he spotted Paige.
She was seated halfway down with a notebook open on her lap. The page was blank, and her pencil spun between her fingers—a restless habit she couldn't seem to turn off. When she saw him, her mouth lifted into a small, relieved smile. Stephen sat beside her, keeping his shoulders tight to avoid bumping into her in the cramped space.
"You're early," Paige said.
"I didn't trust the eggs," Stephen replied. He'd seen the way they sat in the industrial trays, a weird, watery yellow that looked more like a chemistry experiment than breakfast.
Paige's smile widened. "Smart. I went with the cereal."
On stage, the Dean tapped the microphone. The speakers popped, making several students flinch, but the Dean didn't notice. "Welcome, new Longhorns!" he announced, his voice booming with forced cheer.
Paige leaned closer without turning her head. "Do we clap now, or wait until he says 'journey'?"
Stephen stared at the podium. "Wait for the first applause wave."
Paige let out a quiet sound that might have been a laugh.
The Dean spoke of opportunity, community, and excellence. Stephen listened because he always listened, even when the words felt hollow. Halfway through, the Dean mentioned "our remarkable scholarship students." Stephen felt Paige shift beside him. Her shoulders dropped and her chin lowered as she tried to make herself smaller.
A senior orientation leader two rows ahead turned around. He had a bright, aggressive grin. "You two from that gifted pilot?" he asked, loud enough to draw eyes from the surrounding seats.
Paige turned her head slowly. "Computer science scholarship."
The guy blinked. "How old are you?"
Paige's smile was sharp. "Old enough to read the packet."
A few people snickered. The guy leaned closer anyway, undeterred. "So he's older?" he asked, nodding toward Stephen.
"Barely," Stephen said.
The guy whistled. "Man. I thought I was smart just for skipping English Comp."
Paige leaned toward Stephen, her voice a low murmur. "Should I tell him I finished it twice?"
Stephen's mouth twitched. "Don't. He'll tell people."
On stage, the Dean quoted a statistic about the average incoming GPA. Stephen felt a familiar heat in his chest. The number was wrong. He muttered under his breath without meaning to. "That's not how averages work."
Paige nudged his knee with hers, gentle but firm. A half-smile played at the corner of her mouth. "You are impossible," she whispered.
"Accurate," Stephen whispered back.
The day turned into more sessions. Campus safety. Meal cards. Study hours and curfews for minors. When the speaker said "minor" again, older students groaned. Stephen kept his face still.
By late afternoon, the heat outside softened but it did not leave. The quad buzzed with cicadas, loud enough to make everything feel far away. Paige found Stephen outside one of the buildings with two sodas and handed him one without asking.
"Coke," she said. "They ran out of Sprite."
Stephen took a sip. The cold sugar hit his tongue and his stomach settled. They walked without a plan. Students moved in groups around them, laughing, calling out names. Some glanced at Stephen and Paige and then looked away. Some stared a second too long. Stephen felt it each time.
Paige kicked at a pebble. "Everyone keeps asking what it's like being a genius," she said.
Stephen looked ahead at the UT Tower. It stood over the campus like it belonged to someone else.
"Nobody asks what it's like being twelve and stuck in a room full of people who think you're a trick," Paige said. Stephen's fingers tightened around his cup.
"They talk at me," Stephen said. "Not to me."
Paige's shoulders dropped a little. She nodded once. They reached the fountain and sat on the cool stone rim. Water made a steady sound that covered nearby voices.
"You miss home?" she asked.
Stephen stared at the water. "I miss not having to explain myself."
Paige looked back at the fountain. "Yeah," she said. "That."
They sat until the light changed and the UT Tower lights flickered on. When they stood, Paige nodded once. "Tomorrow."
"Tomorrow," Stephen said.
Back in the dorm, Stephen shut his door and the latch clicked. His shoulders dropped. He turned on the desk lamp and started stacking his books, lining up his pencils by length before stopping himself and shoving them into the drawer.
A knock came at the door. He opened it to find Paige holding two cafeteria cookies wrapped in a napkin.
"Peace offering," Paige said. "They were handing them out to anyone who promised to show up tomorrow."
Stephen stepped aside, and she leaned against the frame. She held one cookie out. It was still warm.
"You think it'll stay this easy?" Paige asked.
"No," Stephen said. "People will get used to us. Then they'll decide what story they want to tell about us."
Paige stared at him, then nodded. "Predictable's fine."
They talked for a few minutes about the day before she pushed off the frame. "See you at breakfast."
"Pancakes again?" Stephen asked.
"They're better than the eggs."
As she walked away, she turned back. "Lock your door."
Stephen blinked. "Why?"
"Because you're thirteen and people are idiots."
Stephen shut the door and turned the lock. The click was final. He turned off the lamp and stood in the dark, listening to the building. Then he reached into the drawer, found Meemaw's lighter by touch, flipped it once, and snapped it shut again.