Chapter 3: The Magic of Math and Middle School Showdowns

The first to represent our academy was our oldest senior. He’s pushing thirty, with a farmer’s tan and a habit of showing up early for everything. He’s been Headmaster’s right-hand man since dial-up internet.

He’s the kind of guy who wears plaid shirts tucked into faded jeans, always brings an extra thermos of coffee, and still calls the Headmaster “sir.”

His opponent was a kid from Oakridge Academy, dressed in white, with a sharp and refined air—he looked to be only in his teens.

The Oakridge kid, Caleb Foster, looked like he’d stepped out of an Abercrombie catalog—hair perfectly styled, confidence practically oozing from his grin.

Seeing him, Headmaster’s expression turned grim.

You could tell from the way Headmaster’s jaw clenched, he’d seen this kind of prodigy before—the sort of student parents whisper about at PTA meetings.

“Sigh, I didn’t expect we’d meet Caleb Foster in the first round. Looks like our luck’s run out this year,” Headmaster sighed, as if our oldest senior was already doomed to lose.

He rubbed his temples, murmuring something about bad omens. You could almost hear the disappointment hanging heavy in the air.

After the two exchanged respectful nods on stage, our oldest senior was the first to take his stance, ready to attack.

No fancy salutes, just a classic American nod—the kind you’d give a neighbor you’ve known for years. I held my breath, heart thumping with anticipation.

My heart tightened. Was I finally about to see those legendary magical moves?

The whole auditorium fell silent, the kind of hush you only get before the first pitch of the World Series.

I watched as our oldest senior drew a deep breath, gathered his focus, and shouted:

“What is 2×3?”

His voice boomed out, echoing off the gymnasium rafters. An invisible current rippled through the air, like the spark of static electricity on a dry winter day.

The moment he finished, a gust of fierce wind condensed before him, surging toward Caleb Foster.

The energy whipped up dust on the floor, rattling the bleachers. I could almost smell ozone—like right before a summer thunderstorm.

But Caleb remained calm, smiled slightly, and replied:

“Six.”

He said it so smoothly, like answering a question in class he’d known since kindergarten. The magical wind stuttered, then faded away as if it had never existed.

Instantly, an invisible force dispersed the wind attack.

You could see the ripple as the spell dissolved, leaving nothing but silence and a faint shiver down my spine.

The crowd burst into cheers and applause.

A kid in a hoodie yelled, "Show him what you got, Caleb!" Someone else waved a foam finger in the air. It felt less like a duel, more like Friday night at a high school basketball game. Phones shot up everywhere, kids livestreaming on TikTok, hashtags like #MagicBee and #SATShowdown already trending.

Meanwhile, I stood dumbfounded below the stage.

I stared at my sneakers, suddenly unsure if I was at a magic duel or an after-school math club meet.

Wait, what is this?

Elementary school math problems?

My brain did a double-take, and I wondered if I’d fallen asleep during the SATs after all.