The Math of Survival Chapter 1

On my fourth birthday, my dad established the "Problem Penalty System."

One wrong word? That’s 30 extra math problems. Wake up one second late? 40 problems. Not loud enough during morning reading? 50 problems.

"You have to study hard, Lucas. You have to do these problems. You need to be better than her child. You need to make the Vance family proud!"

My dad raised me alone. It was hard on him. So I had to be good. I had to listen.

Even if my hand cramped so bad I couldn't hold a pencil.

It went on until my first school field trip. While the other kids were trading snacks and playing Pokémon cards, I was kneeling on the ground, knees bleeding, frantically solving math problems.

"Mrs. Miller," my dad had said to my teacher that morning, "I assigned Lucas 200 problems today. Please take a picture and send it to me so I know this brat isn't slacking off."

The other kids laughed and threw pebbles at me.

"No wonder he doesn't have a mom! Who wants a kid who only knows how to do math problems?"

I buried my head low, thinking a secret, forbidden thought:

If I were that woman's child, would I still have to do math problems?

...

"Lucas, did you finish the 200 problems I assigned today?"

Dad's voice was low and heavy. To my small ears, it sounded like a monster grinding its teeth behind a door.

"Dad, t-today... the bus ride on the field trip made me dizzy. I only finished..."

My voice got smaller and smaller. Sweat slicked my palms as I gripped my pants.

"Excuses! All excuses!"

Dad’s eyes suddenly bulged, staring at me viciously. He snatched my backpack.

"You got three wrong! Three! How can you get such simple problems wrong? How are you ever going to beat her kid like this?"

"Twenty extra problems for every mistake. Plus another 60 before dinner. Or you don't eat!"

I grabbed the workbook back, my chest tight with a damp, suffocating feeling.

Before the field trip, I thought everyone's parents were like this. I thought every kid had to do hundreds of math problems a day.

Dad glanced at me, seeing right through me.

"What? You see them playing while you're working, and you feel it's unfair?"

"Ha! Let me tell you, they are all losers! If they don't study now, when will they? Every problem you solve makes you better than them!"

I wanted to tell him my classmates weren't losers.

Sometimes when I got stuck on a hard problem, I'd secretly ask my desk mate, Chloe. She'd look at it once, know the answer, and whisper how to solve it.

But Dad never believed me. He always said they were no good.

Another thick stack of worksheets landed in front of me.

The remaining 50 problems, plus the new 60. That’s 110 problems total.

Dad said if I didn't finish, I couldn't eat.

I scrunched up my face and rubbed my flat stomach.

I hadn't eaten lunch because I was afraid I wouldn't finish the problems. Now it looked like I wouldn't get dinner either.

It was okay. I was used to it.

Tears dripped onto the paper, blurring the ink. Plip, plop.

I didn't want to do math anymore.

In a dark corner of Dad's room, there was a hidden photo of two people.

Dad was smiling a big, goofy smile. But the woman next to him had a giant 'X' scratched over her face.

I found a slip of paper tucked behind the photo. It had a phone number on it.

I knew she was the "bad woman" Dad talked about. The one who abandoned her husband and son.

I used to hate her. I hated her for making Dad sad. I never thought about finding her.

But now...

I pulled an old, secondhand phone from under my bed.

I pressed the screen, lighting it up, and dialed the number.

"Hello? Who is this?"

"Mom... I don't want to do math problems anymore."

The voice on the other end paused. My heart jumped into my throat.

"Little boy, what is your father's name?"

"Frank Vance."

Silence.

"Where do you live?"