Walsh Family Universe V2

Chapter 86
The Teacher Meeting

Monday at 2:30 PM. Ash was excused from last period and walked to the main office, backpack slung over one shoulder.

Through the conference room window, he could see them already assembled: Principal Donovan, Mom, Dad, and three teachers. Ms. Callahan looked curious. Mr. Patel appeared professional and neutral. Mr. Kowalski—the science teacher Ash had for accelerated science—was frowning slightly, like he was trying to solve a puzzle.

Dr. Reeves was on the laptop again, her face on the large monitor.

Ash took a breath. Knocked.

"Come in, Noam," Principal Donovan said.

The conference room was too small for this many people. Ash took the empty chair between his parents, feeling every eye on him.

"Thank you all for coming," Principal Donovan began. "What we're about to discuss is highly confidential and relates to Noam's unique educational needs. Before we proceed, I need verbal confirmation from each of you that you understand the sensitive nature of this information."

"Understood," Ms. Callahan said immediately.

"Of course," Mr. Patel nodded.

"Yes," Mr. Kowalski said, though he still looked confused.

"Good." Principal Donovan glanced at Dad. "Patrick, would you like to explain?"

Dad went through it again. The Fresh Start Regression Program. Twenty-four years old when regressed. Adult consciousness retained. Nine years living as a child. Now eleven physically, thirty-three mentally.

Ash watched his teachers' faces as the information sank in.

Ms. Callahan's eyes widened with understanding. "The Lord of the Flies essay," she murmured. "That's why—"

"Yes," Dad said. "That's why."

Mr. Patel leaned back, processing. "So when I'm teaching algebra, I'm teaching someone who already took algebra... when?"

"Sophomore year of high school," Ash said quietly. "About eighteen years ago. But I don't remember most of it."

"And your college education?" Mr. Kowalski asked.

"One year of art school before I dropped out. I'm not actually that educated." Ash felt his face heat. "I have an adult brain but I didn't use it particularly well."

"He has significant knowledge gaps," Dr. Reeves said from the screen. "His education was disrupted by addiction in his late teens and early twenties. He never completed college. His knowledge is spotty—deep in some areas, completely absent in others."

"So what are we working with?" Ms. Callahan pulled out a notebook. "What does he actually know?"

"That's what we need to figure out," Mom said. "He's been holding back for months. Giving minimum effort because he was angry about being in gifted classes. Now that he's more emotionally regulated, we need to actually challenge him appropriately."

"But not overwhelm him," Dr. Reeves added. "He's dealing with complex psychological issues—loss of autonomy, grief over his adult life, testosterone-driven mood volatility. The academic engagement should be therapeutic, not another source of stress."

Principal Donovan opened a folder. "I've pulled his test scores and recent work samples. Let's go subject by subject and figure out what appropriate accommodations look like."

"English first," Ms. Callahan said. "That Lord of the Flies essay showed sophisticated analysis. College-level critical thinking. But when I asked him to cite textual evidence, he struggled with proper MLA format."

"I never learned MLA," Ash admitted. "Art school didn't really care about citation styles."

"So you can analyze literature at an advanced level, but you're missing some basic academic skills," Ms. Callahan mused. "That's... actually fascinating from a teaching perspective."

"What would appropriate work look like for him in your class?" Principal Donovan asked.

Ms. Callahan considered. "More complex texts. I'm thinking high school AP Literature level—maybe Faulkner, Morrison, advanced poetry analysis. But with explicit instruction on the technical skills he's missing. Thesis statements, citation, academic writing conventions."

"So harder content, but scaffolding for the mechanics," Dad said.

"Exactly. And essays that ask for synthesis and original thought, not just comprehension." Ms. Callahan looked at Ash. "I want to see what you're actually capable of when you're trying."

Ash nodded. Felt a flutter of something—nervousness? Interest?

"Math," Mr. Patel said, pulling the attention to him. "Algebra is clearly below his level if he took it eighteen years ago. But how much does he actually remember?"

"Some," Ash said. "I can do basic equations, factoring, graphing. But I'm rusty on a lot of it. And I never took anything past Algebra II."

"So no pre-calculus, no calculus?"

"No."

Mr. Patel nodded slowly. "Here's my concern. You have adult reasoning skills, so you can understand mathematical concepts quickly. But you're competing against students who've been doing competition math since elementary school. Students like Sarah Kim and Dev Patel—" He paused. "No relation. They're doing math at a level that requires years of practice and pattern recognition, not just intelligence."

"So I'm not actually the smartest person in the room," Ash said quietly.

"Not in math, no. You're smart, absolutely. But being smart doesn't automatically make you good at math." Mr. Patel's voice was matter-of-fact, not unkind. "What I'm proposing is this: you work through algebra at an accelerated pace—self-paced, actually. When you've mastered it, move to geometry. Then Algebra II. I'll give you challenging problems, but I'm not going to pretend you're ready for calculus just because you're an adult."

It was humbling. And somehow... a relief.

"That works," Ash said.

"Good. And if you struggle, you ask for help. No pretending you understand when you don't." Mr. Patel looked at him seriously. "Being an adult means being honest about your limitations."

"Yes, sir."

"Science," Mr. Kowalski said. He'd been quiet, but now he leaned forward. "I teach accelerated science. We're doing ecology and environmental systems right now. You're in my class—have been for months. And I've noticed something."

Ash tensed. "What?"

"You know random facts. Trivia. You can tell me what photosynthesis is, name the parts of a cell. But when we did the lab analysis last week, you were lost. You didn't know how to interpret data, couldn't identify the control variable, mixed up correlation and causation."

Ash felt his face burn. "I never took much science. Just the basics in high school."

"So you have surface knowledge without deep understanding," Mr. Kowalski said. "You're like Wikipedia—good for facts, bad for synthesis."

"That's... accurate," Ash admitted.

"Here's what I want to do." Mr. Kowalski pulled out his tablet. "I'm going to teach you actual scientific thinking. Not just facts, but methodology. How to design experiments, interpret data, think critically about evidence. I don't care if you can name all the elements—I care if you can think like a scientist."

"What does that look like practically?" Mom asked.

"Independent research projects. Real ones, not middle school poster boards. I want him to pick a topic that interests him, design an experiment, collect data, analyze results, draw conclusions. Write it up like a real paper with a literature review and everything."

"That's college-level work," Dad said.

"He has a college-level brain. Let's use it." Mr. Kowalski looked at Ash. "What are you interested in? What would you actually want to study?"

Ash blinked. No one had asked him that in months. "I... I don't know. I never really thought about science as something interesting."

"Then we find out what interests you. Ecology? Chemistry? Physics? Astronomy?" Mr. Kowalski waited.

"Maybe... environmental stuff? Like pollution and climate change?" Ash felt tentative saying it. "I used to care about that. Before."

"Perfect. We'll start there. Research project on local water quality. You'll collect samples, test them, analyze the data, write it up. Real science."

Ash felt something shift in his chest. Actual interest. "Okay. Yeah. I'd like that."

"Social studies is with me too," Ms. Callahan said. "Honors level. Right now we're doing American history—Civil War era. What's your background?"

"I took AP US History in high school," Ash said. "Got a four on the exam. But that was... sixteen years ago? I remember the big stuff but not the details."

"So you have the framework but need to rebuild the specifics," Ms. Callahan said. "I'm thinking historiography. Instead of just learning events, you analyze how historians interpret them. Read primary sources, compare different historical perspectives, write analysis papers on historical debates."

"That sounds hard," Ash said.

"It is. But it's also interesting." Ms. Callahan smiled. "You're an adult who's lived through history. You watched 9/11 happen, lived through the 2008 recession, saw the Trump presidency. You have context these twelve-year-olds don't have. Use it."

Dr. Reeves spoke up. "I want to emphasize something. The goal here isn't to pile on work or prove he's gifted. The goal is engagement. Giving him something intellectually meaningful to work on so he's not just marking time until adulthood."

"Agreed," Principal Donovan said. "Let's talk about practical accommodations. Grading, deadlines, that sort of thing."

"I'd like to grade him on a portfolio basis," Ms. Callahan said. "Not individual assignments but overall growth and effort across the semester. That gives him freedom to struggle without penalty."

"I'll do the same," Mr. Kowalski agreed. "Focus on the research project, not the daily classwork."

"Math is more sequential," Mr. Patel said. "But I can do self-paced mastery-based grading. He moves forward when he's ready, not on a fixed schedule."

"What about testing?" Mom asked. "The standardized tests, state assessments?"

"He takes them like everyone else," Principal Donovan said firmly. "We can't exempt him without raising questions. But they won't count for much in our internal assessment of his progress."

"And socially?" Dad asked. "How do we handle this with other students?"

"We don't tell them anything," Ms. Callahan said immediately. "As far as his peers know, he's just a gifted kid getting differentiated instruction. Teachers do that all the time."

"Some students might resent the special treatment," Mr. Patel warned.

"Let them. He's not getting easier work—he's getting harder work. If they want to complain, they can try writing college-level essays." Ms. Callahan's tone was protective.

Ash felt a weird surge of gratitude toward her.

"What about outside support?" Dr. Reeves asked. "Tutoring, academic counseling?"

"I can provide after-school help if he needs it," Mr. Patel offered. "Tuesdays and Thursdays I stay late anyway."

"And he can come to my classroom during study hall for writing help," Ms. Callahan added.

"I'd like him to check in with me weekly," Dr. Reeves said. "Just to monitor stress levels, make sure the academic load isn't overwhelming him emotionally."

"We're already doing twice-weekly therapy," Mom said.

"Good. Let's keep that consistent."

Principal Donovan looked around the table. "Any other concerns or questions?"

Mr. Kowalski raised his hand slightly. "Just one. Noam, why art school? What made you choose that originally?"

The question surprised Ash. "I was good at drawing. Painting. It was the only thing I was good at. And it was... mine. Something I could do that didn't involve trying to be what other people wanted."

"Do you still draw?"

"Sometimes. Not much anymore."

"Why not?"

"I don't know. Feels pointless? Like why bother?" Ash shrugged. "I'm not that person anymore."

"Maybe you could be again," Mr. Kowalski said. "Art is science—observing, interpreting, expressing. Maybe that's part of your project. Use art to communicate your findings."

Ash blinked. "Like... scientific illustration?"

"Or data visualization. Or whatever you want. Just don't abandon it because you think you have to be someone different now."

There was something in his voice—understanding, maybe. Like he got it.

"Okay," Ash said quietly. "I'll think about it."

"Good." Mr. Kowalski leaned back. "That's all I wanted to say."

Principal Donovan checked his watch. "It's 3:15. Let's wrap up. To summarize: Noam will continue in his current classes but with differentiated assignments appropriate for his cognitive level. Teachers will grade him based on growth and effort rather than comparison to peers. He'll have access to additional support during study halls and after school. And this information stays confidential. Agreed?"

Everyone nodded.

"Noam, anything you want to add?"

Ash looked around the table. At his teachers who were trying to figure out how to teach someone like him. At his parents who were trying to give him something meaningful. At Dr. Reeves who was trying to keep him psychologically intact.

"Just... thank you. For not making this weird. For treating me like... I don't know. Like a real person with a real problem, not just a curiosity."

"You are a real person," Ms. Callahan said firmly. "An incredibly complex one, but real. And you deserve to be challenged intellectually, not just babysat until you age out."

"We'll figure this out together," Mr. Patel added. "It's going to be trial and error. Some things will work, some won't. But we'll adjust as we go."

"And if it gets too hard, if you're struggling, you tell us," Mr. Kowalski said. "No shame in asking for help. That's what adults do."

Ash nodded, not trusting his voice.

The meeting broke up. Teachers gathering their things, Mom hugging him quickly, Dad shaking hands with everyone like a lawyer.

Ms. Callahan caught Ash on the way out. "I meant what I said in there. That essay showed real talent. I'm excited to see what you can do when you're actually trying."

"What if I can't live up to expectations?"

"Then you don't. Failure is part of learning. I'm not expecting perfection—I'm expecting effort. There's a difference."

She squeezed his shoulder and left.

In the parking lot, waiting for Mom to finish talking to Principal Donovan, Ash stood in the autumn sunlight and felt... different.

Not lighter, exactly. The weight of his situation hadn't changed. He was still trapped as an eleven-year-old with seven more years to go. Still dealing with testosterone mood swings and lack of autonomy and the fundamental wrongness of his circumstances.

But now he had something to do. Something that might actually matter. Something that used his brain instead of wasting it.

College-level literature analysis. Real scientific research. Historical interpretation that drew on his lived experience.

Work that would be hard. Work he might fail at. Work that didn't treat him like a child or an adult but something in between—something uniquely himself.

It wouldn't make up for what he'd lost. Wouldn't give him back his twenties or his freedom or his adult life.

But it was something.

And maybe something was enough to start with.

"Ready to go?" Mom appeared beside him.

"Yeah. Hey, Mom?"

"Yeah?"

"Do we still have my art supplies? From before?"

Mom's face softened. "In the garage. In boxes. Why?"

"I might want to draw again. For Mr. Kowalski's project."

"I'll dig them out tonight." She touched his cheek gently. "I'm proud of you. For trying. For letting yourself care about something again."

"Don't get too excited. I might suck at this."

"Probably. But you'll suck at something real instead of coasting through something fake." Mom smiled. "That's progress."

In the car, Ash pulled out his phone. Opened a note.

Things I need to figure out: - What environmental issue to study - How to write a literature review - Whether I remember enough algebra to actually accelerate through it - If I still know how to draw

Four questions. Four challenges. Four things that weren't just surviving—they were living.

Not the life he'd chosen. Not the life he wanted. But maybe, possibly, a life he could work with.

One assignment at a time.

One project at a time.

One small moment of intellectual engagement that reminded him he was still a person with thoughts and interests and capabilities beyond anger.

It wasn't freedom. But it was closer than he'd been in months.

And for today, that was enough.

That evening, Mom brought three boxes up from the garage.

"I saved everything," she said. "All your art supplies from your first childhood. Sketchbooks, pencils, paints, charcoal. I couldn't throw them away."

Ash opened the first box. Sketchbooks filled with drawings from fifteen years ago. Drawings from before—self-portraits in the wrong body. Angry slashes of charcoal. Desperate attempts to capture the person he felt like but couldn't be.

"These are really good," Mom said quietly, looking over his shoulder.

"These are depressing."

"They're honest. That's different." Mom pulled out a clean sketchbook from the bottom of the box. "But this one's blank. For new drawings. For who you are now."

Ash took the sketchbook. Ran his fingers over the smooth cover.

Who was he now? Not the person from his first childhood, not adult Ash, not quite Noam. Something in between. Something still forming.

He opened to the first page. Picked up a pencil—a good one, professional quality, from when he'd actually cared about art.

Drew a line. Just one line. Then another. Not planning, not thinking, just letting his hand remember what it used to know.

The image that emerged wasn't pretty. A figure—gender ambiguous, age ambiguous. Carrying rocks up a mountain. Face turned toward something unseen.

He labeled it in small letters at the bottom: What Comes After

Not beautiful. But honest.

Just like Ms. Callahan had said.

"Can I keep this one?" Mom asked.

"Why?"

"Because it's the first thing you've drawn in nine years. Because it matters. Because you matter."

Ash tore the page out carefully, handed it to her.

"Thank you," Mom said, voice thick.

After she left, Ash sat with the blank sketchbook in his lap. Seven more years of this life. Seven more years of being Noam.

But maybe also seven years of learning to draw again. Of doing real science. Of reading literature that challenged him. Of becoming someone who could hold both the grief and the possibility.

It wouldn't be enough. Would never fully be enough.

But it was more than he'd had yesterday.

And right now, more than yesterday was progress.

He turned to the next blank page and started drawing again.