Walsh Family Universe V2

Chapter 87
Homework

Tuesday evening. Ash sat at the kitchen table, surrounded by papers.

Not homework scattered everywhere—organized papers. His college-level Lord of the Flies essay draft on one side, the environmental science research proposal on the other, algebra worksheets in the middle. His laptop was open to three tabs: a PDF about historiography, a scientific journal article on water quality testing, and a Khan Academy video on quadratic equations paused mid-explanation.

He was actually working. Really working.

His pencil moved across the algebra worksheet, stopped, erased. He tried again. Frowned. Checked his notes from Mr. Patel's class.

"Noam?" Mom called from the living room. "Can you come help me with something?"

Ash didn't respond. He was staring at the equation, trying to remember how to factor it. Something about finding two numbers that multiplied to get ac and added to get b, but which numbers—

"Noam?" Mom called again, louder.

He didn't hear her. The numbers were starting to make sense. If x² + 7x + 12, then he needed two numbers that multiplied to 12 and added to 7. That would be... 3 and 4. So (x+3)(x+4). He wrote it down, checked his answer by multiplying back out. It worked.

"Noam Francis Walsh."

Ash jerked his head up. "What?"

Mom stood in the kitchen doorway. "I've called your name three times. I need help moving the side table."

"Oh. Sorry. Can it wait? I'm in the middle of—"

"It'll take two minutes. Come on."

Ash sighed but got up. Followed her to the living room, helped her shift the side table to the other side of the couch.

"There. Thank you." Mom looked at him. "You were really focused in there."

"I was focusing." Ash gestured at his homework. "This is hard."

Mom came closer, looked over his shoulder. "You're doing algebra?"

"Self-paced mastery-based learning. Mr. Patel gave me the next unit. I have to pass a test before I can move on." He pointed to his worksheet. "I remembered how to factor but I forgot how to check if it's prime first."

"When did math become hard for you?"

The question wasn't accusatory—just genuinely curious.

"When it stopped being third-grade division." Ash turned back to his work. "Can we talk about this later? I want to finish this section before dinner."

Mom exchanged a look with Dad, who'd appeared in the doorway.

"Sure," Mom said slowly. "Dinner's in twenty minutes."

"Okay." Ash was already back in the worksheet, reading the next problem.

Mom and Dad retreated to the living room. Ash heard their voices, low and indistinct. Ignored them. He had seven more problems to do.

Twenty minutes later, Dad appeared beside the table.

"Dinner time. Put it away."

"I'm almost done with this section. Just three more—"

"Now, please."

Ash sighed but closed his notebook. Followed Dad to the dining room where Mom was setting out plates.

Spaghetti. Salad. Garlic bread. Normal Tuesday dinner.

They ate in silence for a few minutes. Then Mom spoke.

"You seem really engaged with your homework lately."

"It's actually interesting now."

"Even the math?" Dad asked.

"Especially the math. I get to go at my own pace. If I understand something, I can move forward. If I don't, I can take time to figure it out." Ash speared a piece of lettuce. "It's not just busy work anymore."

"You were pretty focused in there," Mom said. "I literally called your name three times."

"Sorry. I was trying to remember how to factor."

"No, I'm not mad. I'm..." Mom paused. "I'm glad you're trying. Really trying."

The way she said it made Ash look up. There was something in her expression—relief? Pride? Maybe both.

"I told you I would," Ash said quietly. "After the camping trip. After the teacher meeting. I said I'd actually engage."

"You did. And you're following through. That matters." Dad's voice was serious. "We've asked a lot of you over the years. To participate in classes that felt too easy, to show work you didn't need to show, to follow rules that seemed arbitrary. You fought us on most of it."

Ash felt his face heat. "Yeah. I know."

"But now you're in classes that are genuinely challenging, doing work that requires real effort, and you're..." Dad gestured with his fork. "You're choosing to do it. Without us having to push."

"It's not like I have a choice. I still have to go to school."

"You have a choice about your attitude," Mom said. "About whether you engage or just go through the motions. You're choosing engagement. That's growth."

Ash pushed pasta around his plate. "It's weird. I spent months being angry about the gifted program. About being pushed into harder classes. But now that I'm actually doing college-level work..." He trailed off.

"What?" Mom prompted.

"I kind of miss being bored. Like, third-grade math was mind-numbing, but at least I didn't have to think about it. Now I actually have to work. Have to concentrate. Have to try." He looked up at them. "I forgot what that felt like. Having to actually learn something new."

"Is that good or bad?" Dad asked.

Ash considered. "Both? It's exhausting. My brain hurts after homework now. But it's also... satisfying? Like I'm using my mind for something instead of just letting it rot."

"That's exactly what Dr. Reeves hoped would happen," Mom said softly. "That you'd find intellectual engagement therapeutic."

"I wouldn't call it therapeutic. I'd call it... less awful." Ash managed a small smile. "Progress, right?"

"Significant progress," Dad agreed.

They finished dinner. Ash cleared his plate, loaded the dishwasher, then headed back to the kitchen table.

"More homework?" Mom asked.

"I want to finish the algebra section and start my literature analysis outline. Ms. Callahan wants to see my thesis statement by Friday."

"Don't stay up too late," Dad warned.

"I won't." Ash was already opening his laptop, pulling up his essay notes.

Mom and Dad retreated to the living room again. Ash heard the TV turn on—some detective show they liked.

He opened a blank document. Typed: Thesis: Lord of the Flies uses the island as a microcosm to explore how societal collapse reveals the capacity for violence inherent in human nature, while simultaneously demonstrating that civilization's constraints are both necessary and fragile.

He stared at it. Too wordy. Too obvious. Ms. Callahan would want something more specific, more arguable.

He deleted it. Started again.

Thesis: Golding presents the island not as a corrupting force but as a neutral space that removes the external structures preventing humans from enacting their existing violent impulses.

Better. More focused. Still not quite right.

He tried again.

Thesis: The boys' descent into savagery in Lord of the Flies demonstrates that violence is not learned through environmental corruption but rather represents the default human state that civilization actively suppresses.

Yes. That was arguable. That would require evidence. That would let him analyze specific scenes in depth.

He saved the document. Moved to his algebra worksheet.

Problem fourteen: Solve for x: 2x² - 8x - 10 = 0

He stared at it. This one looked harder. He'd need to use the quadratic formula, which he'd definitely learned in high school but couldn't quite remember.

He pulled up his notes. Found the formula: x = (-b ± √(b² - 4ac)) / 2a

Okay. So a = 2, b = -8, c = -10.

He worked through it step by step, checking each calculation twice. Got two answers: x = 5 or x = -1.

Checked his work by plugging both answers back into the original equation. They worked.

He felt a small surge of satisfaction. Not pride exactly—this was just basic algebra. But satisfaction that his brain still worked, could still learn, could still figure things out when pushed.

"Noam?" Dad appeared in the kitchen doorway. "It's 9:30. Time to wrap up."

"Already?" Ash looked at the clock. "I still have three more problems."

"They'll be there tomorrow. You need sleep."

"But I wanted to finish—"

"Tomorrow." Dad's voice was firm. "You've been working for three hours straight. That's enough for one night."

Ash wanted to argue. Wanted to say he was on a roll, that he was finally understanding this section, that stopping now would mean losing his momentum.

But he was also tired. His hand was cramping from writing, his eyes were starting to blur from staring at screens and papers.

"Fine." He closed his notebook, saved his documents, stacked his papers neatly.

"Good work tonight," Dad said as Ash headed for the stairs. "I mean it. Watching you concentrate like that—really focus, really try—that's what we've been hoping to see."

Ash paused on the bottom step. "It's not for you. The trying."

"I know. That makes it even better."

Upstairs, Ash got ready for bed on autopilot. Brushed his teeth, changed into pajamas, set his alarm for 6:30.

Lay in bed staring at the ceiling.

His brain was still buzzing. Still thinking about his thesis statement, about whether his argument was strong enough. Still working through that last algebra problem he hadn't finished. Still planning tomorrow's work on his environmental science research proposal.

For months, homework had been something to avoid, resist, minimize. Something done badly or not at all because it was beneath him, insulting, pointless busy work.

Now it was something that occupied his mind even after he'd put it away. Something he thought about voluntarily. Something he wanted to do well at.

Not because his parents wanted him to.

Not because teachers expected him to.

But because it was actually worth doing. Actually challenging. Actually engaging his mind in a way nothing had for months.

He thought about third-grade math. About refusing to show work on division problems he could do in his head. About sitting at this same kitchen table on a Saturday morning doing worksheets as punishment for his defiance while everyone else was at field day.

He'd been so angry about the busy work. About being forced to show thinking he didn't need to show. About wasting his time on problems that weren't challenging.

He'd been right to be angry. It had been busy work. It had been a waste of his intellectual capacity.

But he'd also been wrong about the solution. The solution hadn't been to refuse, to resist, to shut down and do nothing.

The solution had been to push for work that actually matched his abilities.

Which was exactly what he had now.

College-level literary analysis. Scientific research that involved real data collection and analysis. Self-paced math that let him move forward when ready instead of sitting through weeks of review.

Work that made him think. Work that challenged him. Work that sometimes meant sitting at the kitchen table for three hours straight and not even noticing.

It didn't make up for anything. Didn't change the fact that he was still trapped in childhood, still years away from any real autonomy, still fundamentally powerless.

But it was something.

Something that engaged the part of him that had been dying slowly for months—the part that needed intellectual stimulation, that needed to learn, that needed to feel his brain actually working on problems that mattered.

It wasn't the life he'd choose. Would never be the life he'd choose.

But it was a life where his mind didn't have to rot. Where he could use his capabilities instead of suppressing them. Where homework could be something other than torture.

And maybe, possibly, that was enough to make the rest of it bearable.

Or at least slightly less unbearable.

He rolled over, pulled his blanket up, closed his eyes.

Tomorrow he'd finish the algebra section. Polish his thesis statement. Start outlining his water quality research project.

Tomorrow he'd sit at the kitchen table and work until his brain hurt.

And somehow, improbably, he was actually looking forward to it.

Wednesday morning. Ash packed his backpack with unusual care—making sure all his homework was organized, his essay draft was in a folder, his algebra worksheets were in order.

At breakfast, he was distracted. Thinking about his thesis, about whether Ms. Callahan would approve it or push him to revise.

"Noam, you're going to miss the bus," Mom said.

Ash grabbed his backpack, shoved his feet into his shoes, ran out the door.

Made it to the bus stop just as the bus pulled up. Slid into his usual seat next to Marcus.

"Dude, you look exhausted," Marcus said.

"I was up late doing homework."

"Since when do you care about homework?"

"Since it stopped being boring."

Marcus looked at him like he'd grown a second head. "You're weird."

"Yeah. I know."

At school, Ash went straight to Ms. Callahan's room before first period. She was at her desk, grading papers.

"Ms. Callahan? I have my thesis statement. For the Lord of the Flies essay."

She looked up, surprised. "It's not due until Friday."

"I know. But I wanted to see if I'm on the right track before I start drafting."

She held out her hand. Ash gave her the paper with his thesis statement.

She read it slowly. Her expression was neutral, unreadable.

Then she looked up at him. "This is good. Really good. The argument is clear and specific. I can see exactly where you're going with this."

Something in Ash's chest loosened. "So I can start writing?"

"Yes. But I want to see an outline first. Show me your planned evidence and analysis structure before you commit to a full draft."

"Okay. I can have that by tomorrow."

"Friday is fine. You have other classes." Ms. Callahan smiled slightly. "But I appreciate the enthusiasm. This is a significant improvement from your earlier work."

"Earlier work" meaning the bare-minimum assignments he'd done before the teacher meeting. Before he'd decided to actually try.

"I'm trying harder now," Ash said simply.

"I can tell. Keep it up."

The bell rang. Ash headed to his locker, feeling something he hadn't felt about school in months.

Not happiness. Not excitement.

But purpose. Direction. The sense that what he was doing mattered, at least to him.

It was enough to get him through the day.

Enough to make sixth grade feel slightly less like torture and slightly more like an opportunity.

Not the opportunity he'd choose.

But an opportunity nonetheless.

And he was going to use it.