Omniscient: John The Genius Part 1: Perfect Choices

CHAPTER ONE

IT BEGAN ON April 4, 1984. I was in the doctor's office getting my arm X rayed. I was nearly eight years old, three months shy of my birthday, and had been wearing my cast for ten weeks. The doctor insisted I needed a follow up X ray to ensure the bones were properly set after my fall out of the tree in our backyard.

There was a click as the X ray fired. I felt overwhelmed with dizzying disorientation, followed by a rush of shouting voices in my head. I vomited. Voices shouting in my head continued, but I couldn't understand the overlapping yells. The X ray tech rushed into the room. I threw up again, on the X ray tech. There was screaming. Not mine, but Mom's.

The new voices in my head clarified and synchronized, shouting one thing over and over, a bizarre and urgent message: "You're allergic to eggs!"

The vomiting stopped. "Mom, I think I'm allergic to eggs." She looked around, her gaze falling on the remnants of my breakfast everywhere, and then back at me.

Mom instantly switched to mother mode. "I rarely make you eggs. Do you usually feel sick when you eat them?"

I nodded in confirmation, the voices suddenly silent. The X ray tech returned, with towels. I was mostly clean, but Mom wiped up a bit off my shoe. We returned to the lobby.

Half an hour later, they removed my cast. On the way home, Mom got me takeout at the local Sonic. I ate in the car while she drove the twenty minutes it took to get home.

"I think I need a nap when we get home," I told Mom as I stuffed my takeout trash back in the bag it came in.

"Shower first, I want to wash your clothes and your shoes," Mom replied.

After showering and changing clothes, I was lying in bed in my room, with the lights off and the door shut.

I closed my eyes, and suddenly, memories sprang forth. My memories. From tomorrow, and the day after that, and the days stretching out into an endless future. I began to panic. My heart was beating wildly. The voices, a chorus of them, returned. Speaking with a new gentle tone: "Be calm, John. Everything will be ok."

I recognized the voices. Some sounded like me. Others were deeper. Like hearing your voice played back to you. Somehow, I recognized that these were all my voice. My voice from tomorrow, the day after, and more.

"We are you," the voices explained. "But you are not us. You are but a single instance, the collapsing probability. We are potential. The sum of infinite possibilities. Every possibility explored, mapped and cataloged."

"How?" I thought to them.

"An experiment gone awry. There in a distant future, a group of people tried to reach back. They had records that showed you would be there, in the doctor's office, on that day and time. They tried to send you knowledge of the future, specifically how to develop advanced technology to avert a coming catastrophe."

"Why? Why me?"

"Your medical records, including future brain scans showing years of migraine headaches indicated you were the best candidate."

"What happened?"

"Your brain is different. It likely would have worked with other candidates. But that doesn't matter. What happened is better. We know everything. You will learn to access this knowledge. The result will be the same. They wanted to save Earth from destruction. You will do so."

"Do I have a choice?"

"The choice will always be yours. But if you knew the result of every choice before making it, would you not inevitably make the most perfect choice? If you could remember the consequences and experience of every wrong choice without having to make it, would you need to do so?"

"How do I do this?" I demanded.

"Think about a perfect future. Concentrate on it. Remember the events that come."

The world unfolded in my mind. Infinite possibilities coalesced before my eyes into a single, shining path—a clear destiny. The universe met my mind, and my mind met the universe. Knowledge, experience and training awaited me with perfect recall, an instant mastery of anything I could ever learn.

A lifetime studying piano, following Mom's lost dream of being a concert pianist. Other instruments. Making instruments, performing concerts. It began to spiral out of control. The sheer immensity of it all threatening to overwhelm me.

"Be calm, John. You have touched the edge of the infinite. Relax. Be in the Now."

"I know so much! I can play the piano, guitar, violin, bass and drums! I can play drums!"

"Be calm, John. There is much space between can and should. Your future selves, variations of them have studied hard, worked hard. Their skills are yours without effort, without cost. But that effortless ability comes with grave dangers. Those who learn of your abilities and try to force you under their control. We will be careful and avoid them. It means your life! The life of your family!"

I heard them, but I was still overwhelmed by the first raw instance of power I had ever tasted. Power I wanted to display. I wanted to show it off!

I could hear the soft music of Mom's daily piano practice coming from the dining room. Normally she would play for an hour or two until my sister and I got home from school. Today was Wednesday. Mattie was at school. I was only home because of my morning doctor appointment. She had intended that I go to school after my appointment, but my vomit had ended that plan.

"Did I wake you?" she asked as I walked into the room.

"No, I woke me. Can I play?" I asked. She stood up from the bench and waved me into her seat.

It was an older piano, an upright, but sturdy and comfortable. Mom gave us weekly lessons every Friday. She taught a few other people too at various days and times.

I played my week's assignment with a smoothness and complexity I'd never touched before, without even needing my practice book. Mom applauded.

I looked at her over my shoulder. "I had a dream about playing the piano," I explained, the notes flowing effortlessly. "Can I try your song?"

"You're welcome to try," Mom said, with a hint of amusement.

I played. It started rough, but improved. Some of my muscle memory was for grown up hands. As I reached the end of the first page, Mom flipped the sheet music for me.

Mom pulled me into a big hug. "Johnny, that was—that was incredible! Where did that come from?"

"I had a dream," I explained. "The piano just makes sense now."

Mom pulled back, her eyes wide with disbelief and pride. "Play it again! Please, play it again!"

Leaving the sheet music on the final page, I performed a near perfect rendition of 'Memory,' the music pouring from me with a new grace.

She seemed even more shocked than before. I played it a third time, and this time flawlessly, while singing along to the music. The sound that came out was still mine—high and slightly reedy—but the notes were so true, so perfectly held. My lungs didn't burn, and my throat felt no effort at all, as if the song was just playing itself through me.

When I finished I asked her, "What does this have to do with cats?"

Her laughter broke her out of her daze. She explained, "It's a song from a musical about cats. It's sung by an old cat who wishes she could have a new life."

"What else do you have that I can play?"

She had me stand up, then played a song from memory, then turned to me and asked me to play it. So I sat down and played 'Moonlight Sonata' flawlessly, even replicating the subtle mistake she made, a testament to my perfect recall.

She only played the first part, almost 6 minutes of the song. I copied her note for note. When I reached the part she had gotten wrong, I mentioned, "It doesn't sound right at this part," I said, reaching the mistake she had made.

Mom smiled, leaning forward in excitement. "I made that mistake on purpose." She pulled out the sheet music. "How long do you need to look at this to play the whole thing without the music?"

I took a few minutes to read through the music. My hands moving on invisible keys as I read the music. Then I handed her the book back, sat down, and began to play.

The eight minute mark got difficult and fast. I played with remarkable accuracy, though my hands strained to span the wider stretches, causing a momentary hesitation on a few notes. When I got through the final pounding notes, I jumped up, startling Mom.

"I got to pee!" I shouted as I ran to the bathroom. I took my time washing my hands, giving Mom a moment to collect herself. Her mind was probably spinning.

I came back into the room to a thousand watt smile.

"Johnny," she said, pulling me into a quick hug. "That was amazing. Not perfect, but very, very good." She held me at arm's length, her gaze serious. "I have some questions. I want you to think about your answer before giving me the truest answer you can."

This was a fallback phrase Mom liked to use when questioning my sister and me about mistakes. "The truest answer," she would say, "is the one you see with hindsight—free of excuses about what you felt at the time. No mention of why or how. Just the answer that applied now."

"Am I in trouble?" I asked.

"Not at all, I'm just trying to understand. Are you ready?"

I nodded.

"Okay, question one: Have you ever played that song before today?"

"First time was today, just now with you."

She nodded an acknowledgment, "Question two: When you copied me, did you copy by watching where my hands played, or the notes you heard."

"Mostly notes, but I did watch where you started your hands, but I couldn't always see them both while you were playing."

Another nod. "Question three: Do you remember everything you read?"

"I don't understand—isn't that why everyone reads—to remember it?" I asked her.

"Not everyone can remember everything they read. Your Dad does pretty great, but he has an amazing memory. I remember the basic stuff of what I read, but not word for word. You remembered the notes after looking at them and the words to the song 'Memory' after reading them while playing it the first time?"

"Well sure. I remember everything I read. I remember every word, even what page it's on. You mean you don't?" I asked her.

"No, I don't," she said. "It takes a special mind to be able to do that. It's called a photographic memory, and very few people can do that."

"Huh. I always thought that the kids in my class didn't get perfect scores because their Mom didn't make them do the homework. I never thought that maybe they did their homework, but just couldn't remember it!"

"Final question. Are you hurting at all? That was a lot of work your hands just did."

"They feel warm, but they cooled off when I washed them."

"Great. Your sister will be home in five minutes. Run down to the bus stop and walk back with her please."

"Yes Mom."

I put on my other pair of shoes and ran to the corner to wait for the bus. I could see it as it lurched from stop further down the street. It turned the corner and pulled to a stop, a plume of diesel exhaust filling the air.

Mattie exploded out the bus doors the moment they opened, her backpack bouncing against her back.

"You're home!" she shouted. "I was worried when you weren't on the bus."

I held up my pale arm to show her.

"It's off!" she shouted as she ran to grab my arm and look at it.

The bus doors closed and it rumbled away, and I held my breath for a moment to wait for the passing plume.

"It's wrinkled and pale," she said as she pulled on my arm leading me back to the house. "Did it hurt when they took it off?"

"Nah, it's a special saw that can't cut skin, but it cut through the cast."

"So, where is it?" she asked, frowning and looking around. "Did you bring it home? It had my signature!"

I grinned catching up to her and put my arm around her shoulder. "Mom had to throw it away. I threw up all over it."

"Gross!" Mattie stepped back dramatically, then immediately burst into giggles. "Like, a lot of puke?"

"Everywhere! On the floor, on the X ray tech, and when I was trying to stand up, it went all down the cast and onto my shoe," I exaggerated slightly.

Mattie was still giggling, but she sighed sadly as we started walking toward the house.

"Aw, that's too bad. I wish you had gotten to keep it. I liked being the first one you let sign it. Now we can't see the signatures of all your friends and family."

Mattie dropped her backpack with a thud as soon as she walked into the house.

"Mattie, homework first! Bring your backpack to the dining room table, please!" Mom called from the kitchen.

Mattie sighed dramatically, but I picked up her bag for her, grabbing mine from by the door. I carried both to the dining room table.

As I set both bags on the table at our respective chairs, Mom brought in the after school snack. "Apple slices and crackers. Homework first, then you can play," she told Mattie.

Mattie stuffed an apple slice into her mouth and began to dig through her backpack.

"Here! Mrs Davis gave me this for you," she said, handing me a wrinkled packet of papers.

"Oh, good, you can do all the schoolwork you missed," Mom said as she watched me unfold the class assignments.

I quickly buzzed through my homework, putting it back in the school bag for tomorrow as I finished each assignment. I looked up to find Mattie furiously tapping the touch dots of her math homework, counting everything out as she did her addition assignment.

"Mattie, you don't have to count all of the numbers each time," I told her.

"What?" she asked.

"For the third question, seven plus two: Just start with seven, then count the touch dots on the two, and write the answer."

She attempted the suggestion. "Seven, one, two." She looked up puzzled. "How does that give me the answer?"

I smiled, "Like this: seven, then count the dots, eight, nine. Then you know the answer is nine."

"Oh that is faster! Thanks Johnny."

Mattie continued her first grade homework. I was only a little over a year older, but was in the third grade. I had so surpassed my fellow students in kindergarten that the teacher had decided early in the school year to move me into first grade.

I started my math homework, multi digit division. It was easier, because I could just look at the problem now, see the memory of my written work and just write the answer. Mom paused, looking over my shoulder. "Johnny, you have to show your work."

So I showed my work, but I still tried to show off—writing the steps left to right, top to bottom, starting with the answer. Just the opposite of how third grade long division is done. It took her a moment to realize that I was pulling the whole numbers from my mind, not working out one set of numbers at a time. I was showing my work, but writing it in a clear way to show that I was not doing the work first.

Mom just smiled and went back into the kitchen. After homework, we headed to our rooms to play. Mattie had her Barbies. I had my Legos. This time I did something different.

Pulling paper and pens from Dad's desk, I wrote letters and stamped envelopes with his stamps. I finished just as it was time for dinner. I added the letters to my school bag so I could mail them tomorrow.

"Dinner smells amazing!" Dad said as he came in from work.

"Barbecue chicken, salad and green beans," Mom informed him as they briefly kissed at the door between the kitchen and dining room.

Mattie and I had just finished setting the table for dinner. Mom brought everything out to the table as Dad washed up.

A dinner from Mom always has a salad. I recognized that my Californian Grandma did the same thing when we visited her. I became certain that her insistence that salad is an important part of every dinner was that California influence.

"This looks good, Mary. Can you pass the Thousand Island?" Dad asked her.

His insistence of only ever putting Thousand Island on his nightly dinner salad was probably due to his Oklahoma roots, but tonight I saw the almost comedic routine of it between them.

I examined my two parents in a strange, different light as we ate dinner. They are so different. Mom's a Berkeley music major. Dad's a high school dropout. Mom is from an upper middle class suburban Bay Area family. Dad is from a family of Arkansas and Oklahoma farmers.

Dad is big: tall, muscular, dark hair, blue eyes. He's very strong but also very gentle. Growing up, he attended a one room schoolhouse before two miserable years of high school. His early education focused on sight reading, causing him to struggle with high school classwork. His grades plummeted, and when his Dad needed him on the farm, he seized the opportunity to quit school.

When he had the money, he ordered the 'Listen and Learn with Phonics' program, which taught him how to truly read. He's never stopped reading since.

This self taught mastery became his enduring pride. After getting his GED, he sought out books on every subject and any skill with a training manual and an exam.

He's incredibly smart. He genuinely believes he can learn anything. He's passed dozens of state exams and holds licenses for a wide range of skills and activities. His rule was simple: if a license existed, a training manual existed. The certifications completely covering his office walls now came with a deeper understanding of my Dad. They were his trophies.

Twelve years ago, Dad was working as a licensed welder on a California horse ranch, building new steel corral fences. On a rare day off, he was simply riding a horse—cowboy is in his genes—and that's when he met Mom.

Mom, a budding musician, attending the Berkeley music program was with friends camping near Monterey. Seeing Dad on a horse in his full cowboy outfit, she fell hard. She always said he looked like a young John Wayne.

She convinced Dad to join her group of weekend campers. He accepted, and Mom never finished her degree.

By the time summer was over, they were married and back in Oklahoma. Mom's parents had a fit, convinced their daughter had been seduced by some backwoods bumpkin cowboy.

It took a couple years, but Dad eventually won them over—mostly. His kindness was primary, but his ability to make money and friends sealed the deal.

He used his skills first in town government (as a city works foreman, then department head), then moved to the county planning and permit office, and finally to Cookson Hills, the big electric co op, managing line construction and maintenance for our section of the state.

When bad Oklahoma weather hits—and it really is bad here—he is fully qualified to join the repair crews alongside the men who normally see him as their office boss.

The secret of their success is simple: Mom has always loved cowboys. That's why my full name is John Wayne Cook and my sister is Mattie Ross Cook.

I've heard Mom's old friends question her life, but she tells them how happy she is. She teaches piano and plays for hours every day. She has an amazing garden and gets to be home with her kids and family. Something that her old California friends must envy.

I remembered Grandma Bessie's advice to her daughter in law. Naming my sister Mattie Ross Cook had helped to mend the fence with Mom's parents. I understood it now, as I put Mattie's name together with Grandma Beth's middle name Matilda, for the first time.

Dad's nickname, 'Little Grit' for her now made sense for more than one reason, too. It could be worse. My name could be Liberty Valance, and with my birthday on July 4th, I'm grateful my parents rejected it.

After dinner, Mom turned to Dad. "The cast is off, which is good," she said, sighing. "But John threw up everywhere at Dr. Johnson's office. On the floor, on the X ray tech..." She shuddered. "And in the middle of all that, he just announced he was allergic to eggs. He's fine now, but that was our morning. I brought him home to clean up instead of taking him to school."

Dad looked at me, a slight furrow in his brow. "Eggs, huh? Well, we won't be giving you those again."

"But the piano," Mom cut in, shaking her head at him. "That's the part I still can't explain."

"Play for Dad, Johnny," she instructed.

"Mattie," I called to my sister, "you get to pick tonight. Anything Mom has music for," I said, moving to the piano. It was right next to the dining table, so that continued to sit and watch.

While Mattie searched, I played the first half of 'Moonlight Sonata.'

Mattie found two she liked. She held up the first, a book of songs from Hello Dolly, the Broadway musical. Then she held up the second, the sheet music for the Beatles' 'Let It Be.'

"I pick this one!" she announced, pointing to the Beatles music. "It's about Mom."

"It is?" Dad asked.

"Yeah," Mattie confirmed seriously. "It says 'Mother Mary' right here. Mom's name is Mary."

Dad smiled widely and picked Mattie up, setting her in his lap. "Excellent choices, honey," he told her.

I grabbed the Hello Dolly book instead, as Mom had played this many times. I looked at Dad. "Hey, Dad! Duet with me on 'It Takes A Woman'!"

I played 'It Takes A Woman', which is a funny, fun song, if you're a guy. Dad's voice is deep. He sang Vandergelder's part. I sang Barnaby's part.

Mattie was laughing hysterically, and Mom had a big smile when we finished. "Go on, ask him," Mom prompted Dad, nudging him with her elbow. "Ask him how many times he practiced that."

Dad looked at me, his eyes calm and assessing. "How many times, Johnny?"

"This is my first time playing this song," I told him.

Mom jumped in. "He's never practiced it. I've always been the one who plays it."

Dad nodded slowly, his expression shifting from disbelief to something quietly profound. "Well," he said, "we've sung it together plenty of times."

I flipped to 'It Only Takes A Moment,' called out, "Your turn, guys!" and began to play. It took Dad a second to switch gears, but he and Mom slipped into an easy, well practiced duet. I took the part of the clerk, and Mattie joined in for the chorus, remembering just in time that she got to sing too.

As my parents were now holding hands, I grabbed Mattie's second selection and began to play. I played it twice. The second time I gave the music to Mattie. "Here, sing this part with me," I told her. We sang it to Mom.

Dad's smile was focused on Mom, but when Mattie started singing from his lap, he glanced down in surprise. His eyes darted up to the empty music stand, his eyebrows rising as I looked at him while playing with no sheet music.

Mom looked at me, her eyes gleaming with an idea. "Do you think you could play a song you just heard on the radio?"

"Probably," I said.

Mom turned on the radio and, with a hiss of static, rolled the dial to a country station. A commercial ended then 'Let's Stop Talking About It' came on. Mom started to change the station, then saw Dad's grin and left it. After the song ended, she turned the radio off. "Can you play that?" she asked.

I took a deep breath and played.

My Dad was clapping and whistling his approval when I finished. Mom gave me a proud hug. "That was flawless, Johnny," Dad said, giving me a solid pat on the back. Mattie gave me a hug too, though she didn't know what was so special.

"Up to bed, you two," Mom said, ushering us out of the room. The sparkle in Mom's eye let Dad know he was getting lucky that night. That small, intimate observation—that was a new level of understanding. I didn't fight bedtime, and Mattie followed my example. Brushing my teeth, I felt the sharp exhilaration from my demonstration of power clash with crushing exhaustion. When the lights went out I went to sleep instantly, but my dreams were full of strange, chaotic memories.

CHAPTER TWO

FOLLOWING A BREAKFAST of cereal we headed to school the next morning. I turned in my missed homework to my teacher as soon as I arrived at the classroom.

That afternoon I had GT (Gifted and Talented). It was basically an extra class that the smart kids in each grade got to attend for forty five minutes on Thursdays. We worked together in the school library on the school newspaper.

The need to show off hadn't been satisfied yet. "I've read every book in this library," I bragged.

They didn't believe me. "No way, John," Max scoffed.

"Wanna bet?" I challenged. "Find a book, open it, tell me the page number, and I'll quote it."

I caused a massive flurry of people grabbing random books off the shelves. I was firing off quotes as fast as they showed the front of the book and called out a page number. "Page 22!" "The third chapter is called 'Why we grow,'" I shot back. "Page 87!" "The picture is of a blue jay attacking a snake, and the caption reads, 'Rare sight.'"

The librarian, who was also the editor of the school newspaper, initially frowned at the chaos they were generating as each tested book was placed on a table or chair and they rushed back for another. "Please put those books back neatly, children!" she hissed, her voice sharp with annoyance. However, once she realized the impossible accuracy of my responses, her expression shifted from alarm to disbelief.

I heard her step back to her desk and quietly dial a number. I could hear the muffled voice on the other end: "Principal Lewiston? You need to come to the library right now. John Cook is... doing something impossible."

Seeing her make the call, I knew I needed to control the scene. "Okay, Mike, put that one back on the top shelf, third section," I instructed the nearest boy, pointing. The boy, stunned, ran to comply. "That book goes next to the dictionary!" I called out to Mandy. I continued reciting from pages they called out, but now I was simultaneously directing the cleanup by pointing out the shelf location after each quote. Just as the last few kids got their turn, Principal Lewiston stepped in to observe.

The kids were excited and getting loud, so I started grabbing the random books that were still out of place. "Here, you take this Cindy. It goes right next to the atlas," I said, handing a geography book her, then grabbing another, handing it off and pointing to its specific shelf location.

The grade school library is a room the size of a classroom. It has shelves with books mostly along the walls, tables and chairs in the middle. It's a cozy space designed for half a class to come at once for story time, or an entire class just for a weekly library visit.

The Principal spoke quietly with the librarian for a moment. Seeing the Principal the class had calmed instantly. She glanced at the clock, then clapped her hands sharply, bringing the remaining students to attention.

"Alright, GT students! Time is up!" she announced, her voice firm. "Remember, your article submissions for the next school newspaper are due Monday. We need them to have next week's paper ready on Wednesday! Get back to your classrooms now."

As the rest of the group hurried toward the door. I placed the last books in their correct place, and the Principal stepped forward. "John," he said, his voice low and serious. "What exactly were you demonstrating?"

"I'll show you. Pick any book," I replied instantly. "Tell me the page number, and I'll quote it for you."

"Are you sure?" he asked, his skepticism returning.

"I'm absolutely sure. I just discovered that most people can't do this, and I think that's why nobody believes me when I tell them I can."

"Would you like to take an IQ test? It'll measure how smart you are."

"Sure, but I really want to take the Fourth Grade test."

"Fourth Grade? Aren't you in third?"

"Third's almost over, and I've got all A's. I borrowed a Fourth Grader's school books, and I'm sure I can pass. I wanted to see if it would be any harder than Third Grade, and it wasn't."

"That's really surprising," he said, "I'll see what I can do. I won't test your book skills right now, so why don't you head back to class?"

My teacher had been told by the other students that I was talking to the Principal, so there was no question as to why I was returning late. After my demonstration, there was some conversation among the students about my display of memory. I felt a moment of guilt at my bragging behavior.

I hadn't personally read all those books, but I possessed the memories of reading them. Other versions of me had each picked a different book, read it, and logged the pages. I could access and recall the individual pages from when those other "me's" had finished.

It feels complicated in my head when I try to explain it: I possess memories of experiences that have not happened, and never will. There is no subject, no question, no skill that some version of me hasn't pursued to completion and mastery, ensuring I have the information and skill now.

As Mom finished her last bite of dinner that evening, she turned to Dad. "I had an interesting call from Principal Lewiston today."

Dad looked up from his plate, a piece of chicken suspended on his fork. "Oh? Everything alright with John's make up work?"

Mom shook her head. "It was about the library. Apparently, John put on quite a show in the GT class. Mr Lewiston called me after the students left. He said John was reciting pages, word for word, from any book the students picked up, just by knowing the page number."

Dad whistled softly. "Well, he's always been good with books."

"No, Ray, this was different," Mom insisted. "Mr Lewiston said John was cleaning up the mess while still quoting from pages the kids were calling out. He called to ask for Johnny to be tested tomorrow."

She paused, meeting Dad's eyes. "He's going to give him an IQ test and the Third Grade final exam."

Dad turned to me, "Johnny, I'm happy to hear you'll be taking tests tomorrow. Do your best, but don't worry about it too much. That's what I do."

It was exactly what I had wanted to happen. For the first time, I hadn't just remembered a future outcome—I had engineered it. I began to see how powerfully I could manipulate events by just doing the right thing, the right way, at the right time. Turning little actions—like a boyish brag—into larger, unexpected but guaranteed events.

I had the knowledge, and now I understood the variables. The world is a chaotic jumble of luck and chance. My memories of infinite futures proved that. It was also a solvable system with predictable inputs and outputs. A chaotic library would become a casual dinner conversation. Events moved—an avalanche triggered by one small stone.

As expected, as soon as my teacher saw me on Friday, she said, "John, put your homework on my desk, and your backpack on your chair, then head to the main office."

The class gave me the obligatory, "Oooh, you're in trouble." I just ignored it, leaving the classroom and headed down the hallway.

Principal Lewiston met me just outside the school office. With a hand on my shoulder, he guided me past the counter and office secretaries' desks, to his office at the back.

"It's great that you are on time," he said softly as the door closed behind him. "I'll be administering the tests, so you'll be with me all day today. I won't tell anyone about the testing before your parents say it's okay. So don't worry about your classmates." He had a small student desk set up in one corner of the room, which he pointed me into.

As I settled behind the desk, I asked him, "How many tests will you be giving me?"

"Before lunch, we will do two tests. We are going to do an IQ test first, then I have the Third Grade final exams. After lunch we will do the Fourth Grade exam if you passed the third."

"That sounds good. Let's get started," I said with excitement.

He retrieved the test booklet from his filing cabinet and placed it on the small desk. "Alright, John. This is the IQ test," he explained, tapping the cover. "You have seventy five minutes to complete it, but only if you need the full time. Use this pencil, and only one answer per question." He nodded, giving me a focused look. "When you understand the instructions, you may begin."

There are three ways for me to do a multiple choice test.

Way one: a billion other versions of me take the test, each selecting random answers. Whichever version achieves a perfect score, I copy their answers.

Way two: I use the collective knowledge of a few hundred other versions of myself to actually answer the questions.

Way three: I copy the answers from the version of me that used way two to answer the questions and achieved a perfect score.

I tore the small piece of paper that sealed the test book with my pencil, deciding on way two. This method ensured that I genuinely understood the material, which would be crucial when the Principal quizzed me. It was a very fast method. With each question, I experienced a rapid influx of relevant experiences, specialized research, and deep knowledge—potential memories became real experience.

The seventy five minute test was completed in twenty minutes. The Principal was skeptical, "I don't think I could take that test in twenty minutes. Are you sure you didn't just pick random answers?"

I grinned, knowing I had not picked random answers. "Mr Lewiston, please ask me any questions from the test you wish. Or even a variation of any question. I know this stuff. This is not a knowledge test, it's vocabulary, logic, reasoning, and some math. It's for kids near my age. I got a perfect score."

He reluctantly asked me a variation of a math question. "Alright. If the sequence is 3, 7, 11, 15... what is the next number?"

"The next number is 19."

"That was very quick, and correct," he acknowledged.

"That question was a variation of test question 54. The one on the test was 2, 6, 10, 14."

He looked down, consulted the test, and sighed. "That's correct, also." He considered for a moment, then straightened his back. "Okay, if you got a perfect score, then that changes everything.

"We will plan on doing the other two tests today to be sure you've mastered third and fourth grade skills. Provided you pass them, I see no reason not to accelerate you."

He glanced at his wall calendar, "We have six weeks of school left. I'll arrange to get the school books and course work for the next few grades from the Middle School. We can set you up here, or in the library for self study. When you're ready, I'll give you the end of year tests. If you pass, I'll move you into the next grade and its coursework."

"Provided I pass the tests, how much forward are you wanting to accelerate me?" I asked

"Either until you reach a point where you can't progress further on your own, until the school year ends, or until you have completed the requirements for high school," he explained. "Once the school year ends, then you will be somebody else's responsibility, I won't have any control over that. I'll bring the district Superintendent in on this tonight. I'll need his help to get the school materials."

"Okay, let's do the next test," I told him. Then with my best Okie drawl and a big grin I added, "You keep the learnin' coming, and I'll keep giving you my best!"

He laughed, and set about giving me the next test. It took thirty minutes.

"I'm finished!" I announced.

"That's supposed to take an hour," he said, startled from the work he was doing at his desk. "That one wasn't multiple choice."

"A lot of writing," I agreed.

He looked at the clock. "Plenty of time before lunch. I'll grade it now," he said taking the paper as I handed it to him.

I sat quietly and watched as he used the answer key to grade the test.

"Excellent work, looks like you only missed two questions."

"Which two?" I asked.

"Number 42 and 43, the math problems."

"Those answers are correct," I insisted. "Please check my work on the problems."

He looked at the problem, grabbed his pen and paper, and did the multiplication longhand.

"Perfect score," he confirmed, looking at his paper. "It looks like somebody transposed two answers on the answer key. I'll have to make a note of that for the teachers."

I did a little cheer: "Woohoo! I'm a Fourth Grader!"

He smiled at my cheer. "How about we get an early lunch at the cafeteria, my treat."

"Lunch sounds good," I agreed.

We walked down to the end of the building, exiting the double doors. To reach the cafeteria, we had to step outside the classroom block. It was only a few feet, under a covered awning for rainy days, to a large building that was technically multi use. Except for the occasional assembly or school event, it was just the cafeteria for the students like me.

He led me back into the kitchen where the cooks served us directly onto our trays, and then I followed him back to a room behind the kitchen I had never seen before. It was a small eating area for the faculty. We talked while we ate.

"So, John, what are your favorite things to do when you're not busy demonstrating amazing feats of memory?" the Principal asked, taking a bite of his fish sticks.

"I like reading, of course," I said. "I also play with Legos. I got the space shuttle last month."

"Very nice. What kind of books do you like best?"

"I like science books mostly. Right now, I'm reading about chemistry, specifically how atoms fit together," I replied, pointing my fork at the air. "It's amazing how we can build molecules from specific atoms, like blocks. Did you know a single tiny change—just replacing one atom—can make the whole thing completely different?"

He nodded slowly. "I remember learning about that. Are you talking about things like isomers—molecules with the same number of atoms but arranged differently?"

"Yes!" I exclaimed, sitting up straighter. "Or like how the difference between table sugar and milk sugar is just a flip of one bond! And how replacing a hydrogen atom with a fluorine atom in a common compound can change it from something safe into a poison! That's so cool."

The Principal smiled. "It is cool, John. It sounds like you'll be teaching the high school chemistry teacher a thing or two soon."

"Maybe," I agreed, dipping my fish stick in ketchup. "Principal Lewiston, what made you want to become a principal?"

He looked surprised by the shift in topic. "Well, I started out as a math teacher, but I realized I could help a lot more students and teachers by working on the big picture. What about you? Do you think you'd want to be a teacher or principal someday?"

"I don't know," I hedged. I knew exactly what I was going to do in the future. "Maybe a college professor. Where did you go to school?"

"Northwestern University," he replied with a hint of pride. "Wonderful place."

Eventually, as we talked and ate, the lunch bell rang, and the cafeteria quickly filled with bubbling voices. Their excited chatter was audible even from the distant adult lunch room.

Teachers began entering with their trays, though some brought bagged lunches. They seemed caught off guard to find a student at the table with the Principal. I nudged him, "They don't approve of you consorting with the enemy, sir."

He laughed, as did the teachers around us who heard me. One teacher spoke up. "You're Johnny Cook, right?" she asked. "Your sister Mattie is in my class. She's been talking about you a lot, saying you're a very good piano player and incredibly smart."

"Yes, my Mom is a gifted player and teaches us, and a few other students too. I put on a show for the family Wednesday night to celebrate the removal of my cast. This morning I passed the test to graduate the Third Grade. After lunch I plan to do the same for Fourth Grade!"

That caught their attention. The Principal nodded in agreement, "He did, and in half the required time."

Another teacher mentioned, "I heard about your library demonstration at GT. Most of the Third Grade is talking about it today." A few teachers looked at each other as they confirmed the same was happening in their classrooms.

One of the Fourth Grade teachers asked, "Would you show us what you did in GT?"

"No books here to check me against, but I have read the collected works of William Shakespeare at the downtown library. If you'd like to give me a play, and an act and scene number, I'd be happy to recite for you," I replied confidently.

She backpedaled immediately. "I'm sure that's not necessary."

The Principal spoke up to defend me. "I believe this young man will be very famous someday. Why not let him demonstrate his amazing brain? You'll regret not having a story to tell when people learn he went to school here."

A teacher on the far side of the room had a suggestion. "I don't know the act or scene, but there is a monologue in Antony and Cleopatra that begins with 'All is lost!' that I've always liked."

"Not suitable for a seven year old, I think," I replied to his suggestion. "Do you but not object, I shall the piece recite," with my best English accent and a roguish grin.

The Principal held up a hand. "Hold on, John!" he objected. "I don't think we need to hear that one right now." He quickly added, "But I am going to look that piece up tonight and see exactly why it's not suitable."

The challenging teacher laughed. "I think you've already demonstrated enough, young man. I am perfectly convinced you know it well enough to not recite it."

"What about 'All the world's a stage?'" another teacher asked. There was general agreement, so I began.

"As you like it, by William Shakespeare, Act 2 Scene 7:

Jaques to Duke Senior

All the world's a stage, And all the men and women merely players; They have their exits and their entrances, And one man in his time plays many parts, His acts being seven ages. At first, the infant, Mewling and puking in the nurse's arms. Then the whining schoolboy, with his satchel And shining morning face, creeping like snail Unwillingly to school. And then the lover, Sighing like furnace, with a woeful ballad Made to his mistress' eyebrow. Then a soldier, Full of strange oaths and bearded like the pard, Jealous in honor, sudden and quick in quarrel, Seeking the bubble reputation Even in the cannon's mouth. And then the justice, In fair round belly with good capon lined, With eyes severe and beard of formal cut, Full of wise saws and modern instances; And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts Into the lean and slippered pantaloon, With spectacles on nose and pouch on side; His youthful hose, well saved, a world too wide For his shrunk shank, and his big manly voice, Turning again toward childish treble, pipes And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all, That ends this strange eventful history, Is second childishness and mere oblivion, Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything."

There was a sober moment of reflection followed by polite clapping, a testament to the power of words and the effort I put in reciting clearly.

Principal Lewiston, seeing the two of us had finished our lunches, stood. "Shall we get back to the testing?"

"Yes!" I agreed standing with my tray. We dumped our trash and returned the trays to the correct slot. As we passed the piano he asked, "Can you play a song?"

"I could, but we should wait till after the cafeteria is clear and my final test is over."

"You're probably right," he agreed, looking at the noisy mass of students eating and running outside. I walked with him as we headed back, but I paused at the bathrooms. He waved me in as he strode past, "Go ahead, I'll meet you at the main office after the lunch recess is over, go run around a bit and have fun."

I followed his directions, enjoying the spring air, and a short wait for the swing sets to be free. When the bell rang, I didn't hurry. I knew I'd have a wait when I arrived at the office. I paused at a large clump of clover covering the playground grass. A few hundred other me's went searching for a four leaf clover over the entire school grounds. Two discovered, I walked to the nearest, and plucked it.

I came to the main office, and waited to get the attention of the office lady. She eventually gave me her attention, only to tell me, "Just sit and wait, the Principal is on the phone."

"Thank you. Here this is for you. A bit of luck for you," I told her as I handed her the clover. I sat down in the chairs against the wall, and waited. She looked at the clover thoughtfully for a bit.

"Thank you, young man. I could use a bit of luck," she finally said, then went back to the ringing phone.

Eventually Principal Lewiston came to retrieve me. Once in his office he gave me the test, and then stepped out after a few words of instruction.

This test took 30 minutes. The Principal came in, took the test, sat down and graded it.

"Perfect score!" he announced. "I expected it, of course. I've been on the phone with the Superintendent since I got back from lunch. He's bringing over Fifth Grade textbooks for you this afternoon. He wants to meet you as well. Apparently he heard about you from our very own librarian, who is his sister in law."

"Yay, I'm a Fifth Grader!" I announced.

The Principal asked eagerly, "How long will it take you to be ready for that test?"

I explained, "I only had a day to read the Fourth Grade books, so I started at the halfway point, as so much of it is repetition of Third Grade. It's hard to believe that summer vacation makes kids forget that much."

"It's a combination of summer brain drain and the fact that sometimes kids just didn't learn it the first time. I'll have the Superintendent bring all the books for Middle School, grades 5 to 8."

"Great! I can take Fifth Grade home with me to read over the weekend."

"The superintendent will also have your IQ test score on Monday. He's called in a favor at his Alma Mater. They have quite the psychology department and agreed to score the test over the weekend."

"What school?" I asked.

"University of Tulsa. That might be a good choice for you if you finish your school work before the end of the year. It's only a bit over an hour away, and he knows all the people to talk to there. Something to keep in mind. Of course I'd love to see you go Northwestern University like I did, but I imagine you'll end up at MIT, Harvard, or maybe Stanford if you pursue the sciences, business, medicine or law."

"That's a lot to think about. I really like math. I read 'A concise history of mathematics' by Dirk Jan Struik. The downtown library has a copy. I find it fascinating that math is the language we use to describe the universe."

A spark ignited in his eyes. "I majored in mathematics at Northwestern! Here you have to read this," he said, spinning and pulling a book from a full shelf behind his office desk. "It's called 'Mathematical Models' by Martyn Cundy. It's fun with math."

"Thanks I'm sure I'll enjoy it," I told him.

"If you like that I've got the 4 volume set of 'The world of mathematics' at home. I'll dig it out and bring it Monday."

"That's great, has anybody called my Mom to tell her that I'm a Fifth Grader now?"

His eyes got big for a moment. "No, I haven't called her yet, but how about I do that right now? Can you dial the number for me?" He said pushing the phone around so I could reach the buttons from the front of his desk. I dialed home.

"Hello Mrs Cook," Principal Lewiston began, "Principal Lewiston here at the grade school... Everything is fine, in fact I'm calling to give you good news. Your son John has passed the exams for both Third and Fourth Grade... He had a perfect score on both tests... Yes we are quite proud of him. Superintendent Clayton will be bringing the Fifth Grade course work for John to take home... Yes, he has the complete freedom to engage with as little or as much as he likes, and we will be ready when he says he's ready to take the next test... I must warn you that, at his rate, finishing Fifth through Twelfth Grade in six weeks is not an impossible task... Yes, I will certainly remind him... Thank you Mrs Cook, have a good day."

He looked at me with a thoughtful expression as he hung up the phone. "I'm to remind you to turn your school books in, and clean out your personal items from your school desk so they aren't forgotten."

I smiled at him. "Yes sir. I'll tell her you reminded me as well."

"Thank you," he said with amusement, "Why don't we go over to the cafeteria now? I'd love to hear you play something."

I agreed, and on the way out he paused to let the office ladies know, "John and I are heading to the cafeteria. I'm expecting the Superintendent with some books for John. Have him leave the books here, but let him know where we are when he arrives."

At the cafeteria, I poured my concentration into the old school piano, my fingers dancing through an ever growing repertoire that filled the space with familiar melodies—a few Beatles songs, numbers from Cats, Hello Dolly, Grease, and Fiddler on the Roof, each note resonating with the joy of music. I chose not to sing, just letting the melody fill the large space.

"You put on an excellent show, John," Principal Lewiston enthused.

The newly arrived Superintendent Clayton added, "Very well done. I recognized that last song."

"Fiddler's a favorite," I agreed.

"Well I'm excited to meet you, John," he said, extending a hand for a firm shake, "I heard all about you at dinner last night, so was very happy to hear from Principal Lewiston about your testing this morning."

"I'm very glad to meet you sir. It's very exciting to take so many tests, and pass two grades in a single day."

"Yes, we will have to see how things go. The school district will be quite happy to support you to your limits. Now I enjoyed this break from routine, but I really must get back to the district office to finish up for the week."

With another handshake, I said, "Thank you for coming to support me. I'll do my best, I promise."

Principal Lewiston seemed unsure what to do with me, after the Superintendent left, so I made a suggestion, "How about a pass to the library. I've read everything there, but you gave me a new book, and if I finish it I'll come get a Fifth Grade book."

"That's fine, but let's have you retrieve your stuff from your classroom first," he suggested.

He escorted me to my school room, where the Principal's arrival caused immediate silence. He announced, "Don't mind us, John is here to get his stuff."

"He's been expelled!" someone loudly whispered, and the teacher turned scowling in that direction.

"Actually, John has been moved to the Fifth Grade," he said, enjoying the shock on my teacher's face.