Mr. Peterson's classroom smelled of chalk dust and stale coffee, the same scents that had haunted my anxiety dreams for years after graduation. I'd arrived an hour early, before the winter-pale sun had fully cleared the Bronx skyline, my carefully crafted explanation rehearsed to perfection. Strange how, even with decades of board meetings and Grammy speeches in my mental repository, this small moment still twisted my stomach into knots.
The teacher looked up from his desk, coffee cup paused halfway to his lips. In my memory, he'd been an imposing figure, all scowls and starched shirts. But now, with my adult perspective, I saw the truth: a tired man in his mid-thirties, probably grading papers through the night, his tie slightly crooked and his eyes bearing the same shadows I'd seen in my mother's.
"Mr. Johnson." He set down his cup, the ceramic making a soft click against a stack of ungraded tests. "You're early. And dressed for success, I see."
I glanced down at my carefully pressed khakis and collared shirt—clothes I'd ignored in my first timeline but now understood as armor. "Yes, sir. About yesterday—"
"Save it." He held up a hand, but his tone lacked its usual edge. "You know what's interesting, Marcus? Yesterday, before you missed my test, Mrs. Rodriguez from the community center called. Said she was hoping you'd consider their peer tutoring program." He leaned back, studying me. "Specifically mentioned your gift for explaining complex mathematics to others. Interesting timing."
The timeline rippled around me like a stone dropped in still water. In my original history, I'd never heard about this opportunity. Had it existed then? Had I simply been too focused on my immediate wants to notice?
"I'd like to make up the test," I said carefully. "And yes, I'm interested in tutoring. I've been thinking a lot about... giving back."
"Giving back." He repeated the words slowly, testing their weight. "You know what I see in this classroom, Marcus? Potential. Raw talent. Kids who could revolutionize industries, change the world. But potential without discipline—" He gestured at the empty chairs around us. "It evaporates like morning dew."
In my first life, I'd dismissed him as just another authority figure trying to clip my wings. Now, I heard the passion behind his words, so similar to what Rico would tell countless artists over the years: talent isn't enough. Dreams need foundation.
"What if," I said, choosing each word with the precision I'd later use in million-dollar contract negotiations, "I could prove it's not an either-or situation? Excellence in one area feeding excellence in another?"
He raised an eyebrow. "You have my attention."
I pulled out a carefully prepared sheet of paper—my first concrete plan for this new timeline. "My proposed schedule. Morning tutorials three days a week, peer tutoring after school, maintained 3.5 GPA minimum." I paused, then added, "And transparent accountability. Weekly progress reports, if you're willing to oversee them."
"And in exchange?"
"I make up the test today. And..." I took a calculated risk, "Maybe we discuss some independent study options? Applications of mathematical principles in music production and sound engineering?"
The ghost of a smile touched his lips. In the growing morning light, I caught a glimpse of who he might have been at my age—someone with dreams of his own, perhaps, before reality channeled him toward teaching.
"You know what the truly successful people in any field have in common, Marcus?" He straightened his tie absently. "They understand that every skill feeds every other skill. Music, math, physics, poetry—it's all interconnected."
He reached into his desk and withdrew a fresh copy of yesterday's test. "You have forty-five minutes. Show me what you can do." As I took my seat, he added, "And Marcus? That independent study idea? Let's talk after you ace this test."
I opened the exam booklet, the questions familiar yet strange—like meeting an old friend in unexpected circumstances. Through the window, I could hear the school coming alive: buses arriving, voices rising, the day shift of dreams and obligations beginning.
Somewhere in the building, Derek was probably already setting up our lunchtime studio session in the music room. In a few hours, I'd show him how to structure our tracks for Rico's review. Small changes, careful moves, each one designed to nudge the future toward a better harmony.
But first, these equations needed solving. After all, you can't rewrite the rules until you prove you understand them.
I picked up my pencil and began to write, each answer a step toward the future I was determined to build—one calculated risk at a time.