Chapter 8 - WHEN THEY CALLED HER A CHEAT
The first headline called me a bitter ex-wife. The second called me a compromised official. By nine in the morning, someone had uploaded an edited clip from the lobby that began with Nathan looking wounded and ended with me smiling over my credential. It cut out everything he'd said in between.
I knew what people would do with it. They would invent a history and then demand that I disprove it one comment at a time.
My university communications director called before breakfast. We agreed on a narrow public response: the board would confirm my disclosures, the timing of my recusal, and the independence of the investigation. Nobody would release my sons' private information, and I would not discuss Nathan's history on television simply because cameras suddenly found it interesting.
The communications director had suggested that I record a personal response about abandoning spouses and their responsibilities. For fifteen minutes I considered it. I imagined showing everyone our unpaid bills, the photographs of school events Nathan had missed, and the little yellow raincoat the boys once shared. Then I imagined Eli opening his phone and finding strangers discussing the worst moments of his childhood as entertainment. I deleted the draft.
Instead, I asked our school principal to remind families not to share students' hotel-room numbers or schedules online. She sent one calm message about privacy and encouraged parents to direct inquiries to the event's official channels. It was far less satisfying than answering every insult. It was also far less likely to make one of our students a target. Mrs. Alvarez told me later that the North Harbor team had taken a vote and unanimously preferred being ignored by reporters until after the finals. They were apparently willing to forgive fame if it included free snacks afterward.
At the convention center, a woman I'd never met stopped me near the elevators. "Shame on you for dragging children into revenge," she said.
I opened my mouth to answer, then saw Eli standing several feet behind her. He had heard every word.
"Ma'am," he said, "we're children only when someone needs to tell us what we think."
I put a hand on his back and guided him toward the hallway before the encounter grew into a performance. He shook with anger after we turned the corner.
"Why do you keep taking it?"
"I'm not taking it. I'm choosing where to put my energy."
"That sounds like something you tell yourself when you're tired."
He wasn't wrong.
I looked at my son, all long limbs and earnest fury. "You don't have to defend me in every corridor. I know you love me. You can show me by doing what you came here to do."
"And if we lose?"
"Then we'll take the train home and eat pancakes for dinner. You'll still be my favorite Eli."
"Do you have another Eli?"
"I've been considering it. This one asks too many questions."
He finally smiled.
The clean mathematics final began at ten under an independent proctor. Ethan entered carrying two pencils and the battered calculator case he'd had since middle school, though calculators weren't permitted in that round. He said the case was lucky. I'd stopped arguing with luck after he'd won three contests while wearing mismatched socks.
Eli's engineering demonstration ran at the same time in a different hall. I couldn't be in both places. Mrs. Alvarez attended Ethan's exam; I watched the public portion of the engineering exhibition while an independent official handled every scoring decision. Eli's sensor failed during the live demonstration. It was exactly the sort of moment he'd feared.
The display went dark. A judge checked the timer. I saw Eli press his lips together and look toward the back of the room.
He didn't look for me. He looked for Ethan, who was busy elsewhere and couldn't help him.
Then Eli took a breath.
"The live unit appears to have lost its power connection," he told the panel. "We have a separate test log and a second unit you can inspect. May I demonstrate the documented behavior with those materials under the rules?"
The judges conferred and permitted him to use the backup equipment. He didn't claim the original demonstration had worked. He explained exactly what had failed, showed the error logs, and identified the limits of his results. It was the most honest presentation in the room.
Afterward, he came toward me looking defeated.
"I blew it."
"You showed them how a scientist handles a failure."
"That is a very mom thing to say."
"I am extensively qualified."
He hugged me anyway.
While Eli packed his demonstration equipment, a younger student approached him. She was competing in the junior engineering exhibition and had watched the power failure. "I thought you were going to cry," she said. "I would've."
Eli crouched to look at the tiny wind turbine she held. "I thought I might, too. But crying wouldn't have repaired the cable."
"Did you still get points?"
"I honestly don't know yet."
"Then why are you smiling?"
He glanced at me. "Because I know what broke. Next time I can fix it."
The girl examined her turbine with new seriousness and said she thought one of its blades was uneven. Eli gave her ten minutes of advice without touching the project or offering to solve it for her. I watched the exchange from the doorway. The entire media argument about who deserved credit seemed absurd beside the sight of two students trying to understand a small machine. That was the competition I'd wanted to help run.
Across the hall, Preston had been called before the review panel with his parents. Nathan stormed out twenty minutes later. Celeste followed him, carrying a handbag clutched so hard the chain dug into her palm. Preston emerged last with Nadia Brooks. He looked pale but relieved, like someone who'd finally stopped holding his breath.
He crossed the lobby and stood before Eli.
"I told them everything I know," Preston said. "Even the parts that make me look bad."
Eli nodded. "That must've been difficult."
"It was."
Ethan arrived just then, flushed from his mathematics final. Preston looked at both twins and said something none of us had expected.
"I think my father has been lying to all three of us."
May you like
He handed his phone to Nadia before anyone could ask what he meant. On the screen was a message Nathan had sent Julian Voss weeks earlier. It didn't mention a math problem or a leaked question.
It mentioned an old court file containing Eli and Ethan's names.
