By the time Aryan Carter reached campus the next morning, he had decided Professor Cowel needed loosening up.
Not rebellion exactly—more like community service. For science.
He arrived unusually early, ducked into the empty classroom, and replaced every stick of chalk with an identical row of white soap. A small, neat act of genius. He stepped back to admire the spotless board, hands on hips. "Art," he whispered, and slipped out before anyone could see.
At nine o'clock sharp, Cowel entered, precise as a clock. The class straightened in reflex. "Good morning," he said, heading for the board. The first stroke squeaked, smeared, and refused to write.
A muffled snicker escaped from the back.
The professor examined the chalk, tried again, frowned slightly. Nothing. Another snicker.
"Something amusing?" he asked without raising his voice.
Aryan lifted his hand. "Sir, I think chalk's having an identity crisis."
A ripple of laughter ran through the room. Cowel's gaze found him instantly—calm, cutting. "Mr Carter," he said, "perhaps you'd like to demonstrate proper usage?"
Aryan stood, walked down the aisle with theatrical calm, and took the useless chalk. He drew an elaborate spiral on the board; the line came out as a pale smear. "And that class," he announced, "is why mathematics is an illusion."
The room broke. Even a few diligent students laughed out loud.
Cowel extended a hand. "Return it."
Aryan placed the "chalk" delicately in his palm. The professor sniffed it once, caught the scent of soap, and said, "Clever. Entirely unproductive—but clever."
He reached into the drawer, withdrew real chalk, and resumed the lecture as if nothing had happened. His handwriting was exact, each symbol balanced. Within thirty seconds, the class was silent again. Aryan slouched in his seat, pretending not to notice the small, satisfied smile tugging at his own mouth.
When the lecture ended, his friends crowded him.
"Dude, you're insane."
"You actually pranked Cowel?"
Aryan shrugged. "He needed to laugh."
"Pretty sure he didn't."
"Well, I did."
He left the room before anyone could press the point.
****
At 4:00 p.m. came the real trial: the first private tutoring session.
He had considered not showing up, but curiosity was louder than laziness. What kind of man volunteers to fix a lost cause?
At 4:10 p.m., Aryan knocked on the door.
"Enter," came the voice—steady, inevitable.
Cowel sat behind his desk, sleeves rolled, papers aligned with military precision. The ticking clock sounded louder here, measuring disappointment in seconds.
"You're late," the professor said.
"Traffic," Aryan replied.
"In the hallway?"
"Students are unpredictable. Like thunderstorms."
A sigh. "Sit down."
Aryan dropped into the chair and sprawled. "So, this is the legendary private session. Do I get a diploma after an hour?"
"You'll get silence if you're fortunate," Cowel said. He opened a notebook. "We'll begin with differential equations."
Aryan stared at the board. "You sure we can't start with basic breathing exercises?"
"Your sarcasm is noted." Chalk tapped the board. "Solve this equation".
Aryan leaned forward, pencil in hand, pretending deep study. After a minute, he scrawled a random line of nonsense numbers.
Cowel waited. "That," he said finally, "is artistic. Incorrect, but artistic."
"I prefer expressive mathematics."
"Then you're succeeding magnificently in expression." The professor circled the error with patient precision. "Try again."
Ten minutes passed in the rhythm of chalk and paper. Cowel's explanations were clear, almost hypnotic—until Aryan interrupted again.
"So, when you were my age, were you already terrifying or did that develop later?"
Cowel blinked. "Focus."
"I am focused. On character development."
Another sigh, sharper this time. "Mr Carter, if you spent half as much energy solving problems as you do avoiding them, you might even enjoy success."
"Then what would we argue about?"
"Nothing. Which sounds blissful."
Aryan grinned. "You'd miss me."
"Unlikely."
The banter bounced between them for a while, the chalk rhythm steady beneath it. When Cowel leaned forward to correct another line, Aryan caught the faint scent of coffee and old paper.
The professor's handwriting—clean, logical—seemed almost alive on the board. Aryan found himself following it, genuinely curious despite himself.
"So that's why the constant multiplies," Cowel said, tapping a line.
Aryan blinked. "Wait—oh." He filled in a missing step automatically.
Cowel stopped. "Exactly. You see it."
"Yeah, well, I accidentally paid attention."
"You should try it more often."
Aryan opened his mouth for another joke, but the edge of pride in Cowel's tone stopped him. It wasn't sarcasm. The man was actually—encouraging him.
For a few quiet minutes, they worked. Aryan's handwriting grew less chaotic; his answers, less random. He didn't notice the clock until Cowel closed the notebook with a soft snap.
"That's enough for today."
"Already?" Aryan asked. "I was just beginning to achieve mediocrity."
"You exceeded it twice," Cowel said dryly. "Next session, Tuesday. Don't be late."
"I wouldn't dream of it."
"Good. Now return the pencil you borrowed from my desk."
Aryan blinked. "I borrowed—oh." He held up the professor's pencil, twirling it between his fingers. "Souvenir?"
Cowel extended his hand. "Return it."
Aryan placed it back with exaggerated ceremony. "You really don't trust me."
"I've read your exams."
He stood, stretching, glancing at the neat stacks of papers. "Have you ever taken a break, Professor? Go outside? Touch grass?"
"I prefer results."
"Yeah, but grass is nice."
Cowel didn't reply. The silence was his answer.
Aryan paused at the doorway. "You know, most people would've given up on me by now."
"Most people aren't responsible for your transcript," Cowel said.
"That's… weirdly motivational."
"Then let it motivate you to arrive on time next week."
Aryan gave a lazy salute. "Yes, sir."
"Don't call me sir."
"Sure thing, sir."
Cowel's look could have frozen lava. Aryan laughed on his way out.
**
Outside, the hallway felt brighter than before. He stuffed his hands into his pockets, replaying bits of the session. The way Cowel explained things—methodical, patient, relentless—had started to make sense in spite of himself. It was annoying.
He passed a group of classmates who waved him over.
"Tutoring day one. How bad was it?"
"Surprisingly educational," he said.
They stared.
"I mean, tragic," he added quickly. "Completely soul-crushing."
They laughed, and he joined in, but the sound felt half-hollow. His mind was still back in that office, hearing the chalk scrape across the board in perfect rhythm.
As evening settled, he cut across the campus lawn toward the dorms. The air smelled faintly of rain and cut grass.
Somewhere behind him, the math building's windows glowed gold in the sunset.
He imagined Cowel still there, sorting papers, drawing perfect equations, the world reduced to logic and numbers.
"Private tutoring," Aryan muttered, kicking at a pebble. "More like philosophical torture."
But he smiled when he said it.
He didn't admit—even to himself—that a small part of him was looking forward to Tuesday.