Today We Have a Child Genius

The headmaster's office.

"Why is there no opinion here from the rugby coach?"

"Well... it's his first year in the post. It seems he hasn't had time enough to get a grasp of the work."

"He only had to look over the rugby roster and write a single sentence. Do they have the numbers, or don't they."

"Th-that's what I thought."

At the Student Affairs Director's answer, the headmaster's eyes narrowed. The director, perhaps deciding the air had to be changed at once, hurried on.

"If you'll look at the pages in back, the disciplinary committee proceedings are set down in detail."

The headmaster worked through the file with care. Only when he had read to the very last page did he lift his head.

"Thirty ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠hours of ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠community service for the second-years, and a one-year suspension for first-year Jack Grylls. Is that correct?"

"Yes, Headmaster."

"But isn't a full year's suspension far too harsh?"

"As you'll see from the contents, he shows no remorse whatsoever. He even said that if he found himself in the same situation, he would do exactly the same thing..."

"He ought to do exactly the same thing."

"...?"

"He ran in to save a schoolmate, did he not? Are you suggesting we urge boys to turn their backs on their friends?"

"A senior calling a junior out is violence, is it not?"

"Even granting that, the violence was far too severe. No fewer than four people were hospitalized."

"So what you are telling me, Director, is that even in the middle of being lynched seven to one, he ought to have fought while making allowances for the other side. Is that it?"

"L-lynched is hardly the word. The second-years were the ones beaten one-sidedly..."

"The school bullies got hit back, and now you want them treated as the victims?"

"They are not the offenders. They only went to encourage him to join the rugby club..."

"And who storms in as if he means to break the door down, just to press someone into a club?"

The director had nothing to say.

"Bring me the papers again."

"If I'm to redo them, which part should I..."

For a moment the Student Affairs Director doubted his own ears. Surely he had misheard.

"A perfectly sound student has been hauled before the disciplinary committee from the very start of term. And now he is being pointed at, besides, for knocking his seniors down."

Still the director said nothing.

"I will ask you only one thing."

"Please."

"Are you certain that, even if the seniors had never sent for anyone, something much the same would have happened in the end?"

"...Pardon?"

"Are you certain that if his friend had not been called out, Jack Grylls would one day have assaulted his seniors anyway?"

"Th-that is..."

"That is precisely why I consider Jack Grylls the victim."

Spoken to like that, what was left for a man to say?

"I understand perfectly."

The Student Affairs Director gave a small bow, then left the headmaster's office as if something were chasing him.

At that same hour, in Park Jihoon's room, Peter was heaving one frustrated sigh after another. The second-year student-council president was the son of a famous law firm, he said, and ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠no explanation on earth was going to get through.

Hmm.

I could feel for myself that the mood was rotten. I didn't bother making a fuss of it. The giants who had cut across their ages, so far as I knew them, kept an immaculate calm every time a crisis arrived.

As I saw it, Jack's father was never going to step in. Floor leader of the majority party. A grand enough seat, and a man said to stand a long way from favors and privilege. Would someone like that spend political strength on his own son?

Unthinkable.

The other firm had swung so hard precisely because they knew it. In the end, this was going to have to be settled with me at the center.

A month in which an objection can be filed. And if I pleaded the business of retaining counsel, I could buy another fortnight or so. That was time enough to haul in more first-rate lawyers than would fit in a truck.

I've always welcomed a fight.

Sadly, the great courtroom duel never took place. A disciplinary result no one had imagined was announced instead.

The second-year student-council room.

Carl Bernstein, having confirmed the decision of the disciplinary committee, quietly closed his hand into a fist.

Astonishingly, that was the whole of it. They had never once lost after bringing a law firm to bear.

He was shaking. Carl bit down on his lower lip and turned to the lawyer.

"How did this happen?"

"The committee's own judgment was that Jack Grylls would be suspended. The headmaster reversed the result at his discretion."

"And a way to overturn that?"

"We could file an administrative suit, but..."

"...?"

"If we do, there is a risk the matter becomes known outside the school. At that point it is less likely to be about the truth of the incident than a war of public opinion..."

"So what, then? You're telling me to swallow it as it stands?"

The lawyer held his tongue. Scraping together every last document and dragging the thing even this far had already been something of a miracle.

At a moment like this, the best a man could do was bow his head like someone already guilty.

"There's a crack in my pride."

"I'm sorry..."

"Don't just say it. Don't you have something?"

"Pardon?"

"You always have something prepared, don't you."

What he meant was plain enough. Had nothing been set aside for the chance that they lost?

The lawyer was just drawing an awkward smile when Carl spoke again.

"There is something, isn't there."

"Well... Peter. You know the boy. The one who shared the first-year dormitory room."

"And?"

"While we were looking into him, some interesting material turned up."

"Interesting material?"

"He changed his name to Peter last year. I wondered why, and it turns out the boy was quite the celebrity. In my generation there is hardly a soul who doesn't know him."

With that, the lawyer drew a document envelope from his bag.

"Footage from a variety show he appeared on, some years ago."

Carl Bernstein looked quietly down at the beige paper envelope.

Peter Bint. He had warned the boy, clearly enough, not to step forward. And still he had gone and given testimony that favored the first-years, hadn't he?

"If he went so far as to change his name, there must have been a past he wanted hidden."

"There certainly must have been."

And if a past he had tried so hard to bury were laid bare before the whole world?

Carl's face had been nothing but dark. Then, for the first time, a smile found it.

Dawn the next day. I ran the grounds with Jack, the same as always. Amusingly, we had a third this morning.

"I-I can't... I'm dying."

Huff. Huuuff.

"You two go on ahead..."

Peter, of course. I had asked him, and he had come along with the face of a boy who couldn't refuse.

Cough. Cough.

Regret was packed into his face until it overflowed.

"I must have lost my mind..."

"Why?"

"Trailing after a pair of monsters for no reason..."

"Everyone's like that at first."

He didn't answer.

"You get better the more you run."

He looked ready to lie down that very instant, but he kept hauling his feet forward anyway.

"I'd go back to the dorm, but... damn it, we've come too far."

"Heh."

And so the run started up again. Jack, unable to keep his strength in, shot off far ahead, his feet striking the path in a hard, even rhythm. I matched Peter and ran only a little quicker than a walk. Even that, of course, turned into walking before long.

"You... do this every day?"

I nodded.

"No, I mean, why are you running at all?"

Right. Why did I run? The answer, surprisingly, was simple.

"When I run, all I focus on is my own breathing."

"...?"

"And then I don't think about anything."

"Your head clears?"

"Something like that."

"Even the memories you want to forget just vanish?"

"Mm... I think so?"

"Really?"

"Run it yourself and you'll see."

"No, that isn't what I meant..."

From then on we were running again. A ragged gasp, and ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠he ran. A pair of blowing breaths, and he walked. A choking cough, and he ran. Silence, and he walked. After several rounds of that, the day had come up bright.

"Feels good, doesn't it?"

"Good, my ass... I'm one step from passing out..."

I snorted.

"Let's just eat."

Peter, Jack, and I headed for the student cafeteria side by side. In my heart I would rather have gone to a French place.

Peter looks thoroughly miserable at the very idea.

You know how it is. If I paid, then someday Peter would have to pay too, and when money is tight even that someday arrives as a burden.

I know that feeling well.

So we went into the student cafeteria. The facilities were certainly good: wide, clean, and tidy, with a help-yourself line and a menu worth the trouble. Jack and Peter came away with two kinds of soup and no fewer than three sandwiches. Jack I could excuse. The boy ate like a furnace. Peter was the surprise.

He must have caught the look.

"I r-ran, so I'm hungry. Ha ha."

Peter laughed, awkward about it. All I took was orange juice, bacon, and scrambled eggs. What I actually wanted that morning, more than any of the food, was coffee.

We sat somewhere reasonable and started in, no one waiting to be first. There were plenty of other students besides us. Not one of them said a word. Drilled in table manners from the time they were small, no doubt. Because of it, the television sounded unusually loud. The news had been on last time as well. They seemed to leave it running at every meal.

Ten minutes or so passed that way. I had finished long ago and was waiting on Jack and Peter. They must have been starving. There was still a good deal left. I turned toward the television without much thought. Wasn't it about time for the sports?

It wasn't.

Huh?

The set buzzed as if with static, and then the picture washed out gray. I was just about to look away, thinking it had died, when a booming voice came out of the television that had gone dead.

The picture was wretched, like an old tape being played.

Completely shot.

This is why people ought to use Hyeon-gang.

The thought was only half a joke. Right after it, the voice came again.

A little boy appeared in the studio on a burst of cheerful music. No one had told him to do anything. Cute in a tiny suit, he hurried to the blackboard, snatched up the chalk, and began to solve the problems like a man possessed.

A moment later the host went on.

And indeed the boy filled the board with tangled equations. The host soon passed the microphone to a renowned scholar.

Even while the panel made a great fuss, the child went on demolishing one problem after another.

And then, of all things, the table in front of me shook hard. I turned my head to see what it was.

Peter had gone white. Trembling, he stared at the television with a blank face.