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?" Chapter 2 "Lucas! How many problems have you done?" My heart stopped. I hung up the phone in a panic. I was stupid. How could I hope the mom who threw me away would want me back? Lucas Vance, you've done so many math problems, why are you still so dumb? By the time I finished, my stomach was cramping so hard it felt like it was twisting into knots. Dad checked my work with a red pen, problem by problem. Every time he did this, I felt like I couldn't breathe. Like I was drowning. Suddenly, Dad smiled. A big, bright smile. "Good boy! You got them all right! That's my Lucas. Dad knew you were the smart one." Dad smiled, so I smiled too. These were the rare happy moments. "Lucas, tomorrow is your sixth birthday. How about Dad takes you to a fancy restaurant for a big meal?" "Okay!" My eyes lit up. Happiness bubbled inside me. Kids at school always bragged about their birthday cakes. I'd never had one. I was already drooling thinking about it. That night, even though Dad assigned me another 100 problems as punishment for something small, and even though I was starving and my throat burned, I fell asleep smiling. The next day, watching Dad stick six candles into a big cake, it finally felt real. "Lucas, close your eyes and make a wish." I gazed at him. If only Dad could be this gentle all the time. I closed my eyes and made my wishes silently. [First wish: I hope Dad is healthy and happy every day.] [Second wish: I hope Dad stops making me do math problems.] When I opened my eyes, Dad’s face had turned cold. "Lucas, what did you wish for? Tell Dad." My heart trembled. I whispered, scared, "Dad, the books say if you say it out loud, it won't come true..." "You dare talk back? Getting brave, huh? Add 100 problems! Do them now! While you eat!" Whispers erupted from the tables around us. My face burned with shame. But I didn't dare disobey Dad. I whispered, "I wished for Dad to be healthy and happy." Dad froze for a second, his voice softening again. "Blow out the candles." I took a deep breath, trying to gather enough air to blow them all out at once. But I hadn't eaten properly in a day and a half. I was weak. I couldn't even get a full breath out. Only three candles flickered and died. "Why are you always like this?!" Dad's roar seemed to shake the roof. His eyes were filled with rage and madness. He flipped the cake over, smashing it onto the table. "You can't even blow out candles like a man! You're acting like a little girl! How are you going to accomplish anything when you grow up?" "Add 500 problems! Start writing now! You don't leave until you finish!" I couldn't hold back the tears. Looking at Dad, I hated myself. I knew Dad was sick in his heart. I had to do better. I shouldn't worry him. But I was useless. Why couldn't I do even the smallest thing right? If I was gone, Dad would be happy, wouldn't he? I pulled out the workbook Dad made me carry everywhere. People started gathering around, whispering. A kind-looking grandma stepped forward. "Sir, it's the child's birthday. Is this really necessary? 500 math problems? When will he finish?" "Yeah," someone else added. "Kids have it hard enough. Look at him shaking from hunger. Let him eat something!" Dad exploded. He screamed hysterically at them. "This is my son! How I teach him is none of your business!" "What's 500 problems? If he can't handle a little hardship, he'll never amount to anything!" "If you want your kids to be losers, go home and raise losers! Don't tell me how to raise my son! He's going to bring glory to our ancestors!" "You! You're hopeless!" Dad scared them all away. He looked at me coldly. "Cry, cry, all you know is crying. Just like a little girl. Add another 100 problems. Finish them or you don't leave!" Dad went to the bathroom. I knew he went to smoke after yelling at me. He was probably frustrated that I was such a disappointment. The area around me cleared out. "Is this guy trying to dine and dash?" "Haha, probably putting on a show so he can steal the AC." I wanted to defend Dad, but a man in a black suit walked up to me. "Master Lucas, please allow me to take a strand of your hair." Chapter 3 Before I could react, I felt a sharp pinch on my scalp. The man carefully put my hair into a small plastic bag, took a photo of me, and vanished. I was too dumb to figure out what the weird man wanted. Was he a bad guy? I didn't know. That day, I wrote for a long, long time. The numbers and symbols twisted together, blurring before my eyes. My stomach was empty and dizzy. While Dad wasn't looking, I crawled under the table and picked up crumbs of cake from the floor, stuffing them into my mouth. They were dusty, but to me, starving for two days, they tasted like heaven. The restaurant was closing, but I still had 100 problems left. Dad dragged me outside by my arm. "Get on the ground and write. You don't come home until you're done." People walked by on the street, glancing at me. Their eyes felt like needles. My knees were bleeding, sticking to my pants with a sharp, stinging pain. I didn't dare cry. I just gripped my pen and wrote for my life. My sixth birthday ended like that, in a sea of math problems. Even in my dreams, all I saw were formulas and equations. As for the phone call and the weird man, I completely forgot about them. ... "Happy Birthday, Ryan!" I sat in the corner, watching enviously as classmates surrounded Ryan. He looked like a little prince. I wanted friends too. But I had to bring my workbook even to the bathroom during recess. Otherwise, I couldn't finish Dad's penalty problems. "Lucas, yesterday was your birthday, right? Happy Birthday!" Chloe poked me, startling me. "Thank you!" She helped me with math problems and gave me a birthday present. I wanted to ask if we were friends. But I was afraid I was dreaming, afraid I'd just be a joke. Inside the blue gift bag was just a card and some candy, but I was thrilled. But the next second, Dad stormed into the classroom like a madman. He pointed at me and screamed. "Lucas Vance! What are you doing?! Instead of doing problems, you're flirting with girls!" "I came to ask your teacher something and check on you, and look at you! Disappointing!" The whole class stared. Chloe turned pale with fright. She stumbled back three steps, staying far away from me, like I was something dirty. My blood turned to ice. I sat frozen in my chair. "Forget school. Come home and do problems." "I walk in and see you flirting. Who knows what other shameless things you do behind my back!" He wasn't done. He scanned the class with contempt. "I'm warning you all. My son is going to be a great scientist. You losers better not try to seduce him and drag him down!" On the way home, Dad tore the gift bag to shreds. The card became confetti. The candy was crushed into powder. "1,000 problems! Kneel on the balcony and write! Don't get up until you're done!" I wrote in a daze until my legs went numb, until I passed out on the balcony floor. After that day, the other parents petitioned to have me moved to the worst class in the grade. My classmates avoided me like the plague. Dad didn't care. "Hmph. Geniuses are forged in hardship. So what if the environment is bad?" "Teacher, don't let him sit with anyone. Let him sit by the trash can. It won't affect his studies!" I huddled in the dark corner, smelling like garbage. Classmates threw trash at me. They called me "Trash Boy." I did math problems desperately, but my hands shook more and more. I made more mistakes, and the penalty problems piled higher and higher. My fingers were deformed from pressing on the pen. Old blisters broke, new ones formed. I could never finish. I was always hungry, always dizzy. Until one day in P.E., everything went black, and I collapsed.
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