The Thug's Genius Son

The meanest man on our block once ran off a pack of debt collectors with his bare hands.

The night he saw my report card, he drove to a laser clinic and paid them to burn the dragon off his arm. Twenty years he'd worn that ink. Gone in one night.

Tell me the truth.

My old man slammed my test, a perfect score, flat on the table and stared at me like I was an informant wearing a wire.

My mother kicked the coffee table across the room, her leopard-print coat flaring out behind her.

"This kid got switched at the hospital." Her voice shook. She snatched up the report card. "A perfect score? I never once cracked a passing grade in my life."

I sat there, pen still in my hand.

Nobody breathed.

Everybody on that street knew my father used to be the hardest man in the neighborhood. For six years they waited for me to turn: to start skipping school, throwing punches, running with a crew like some second-generation thug.

I didn't.

Turns out the one thing a career criminal can't wrap his head around is a son who aces every test.

Chapter 1

My name is Justice.

Yeah. Justice.

Story goes the delivery nurse did a double-take when my father filled out the form. Under father she watched him print Raymond Boyd (everybody called him Bull) and under mother, Roxanne Boyd, known up and down the block as Red.

Two people with rap sheets, naming their kid Justice. People on our street told that one for years.

My dad ran things back in the day. Buzzcut, loud shirts, a gold chain thick as a bike lock, a cigarette always riding his bottom lip. He could walk into any pool hall, arcade, or roller rink on the east side and never once reach for his wallet.

My mother could out-brawl most grown men and cuss you clean back to your great-grandmother. Put the two of them together and you had a problem the whole neighborhood agreed on. "Those two? No shot they raise anything worth a damn."

They waited six years for me to prove it.

Six years, and nothing.

Sixth grade. Final exams.

I came home that afternoon, set my backpack down, washed my hands, and sat down to start my winter-break homework.

Mom was on the couch cracking sunflower seeds, feet up, some soap opera going.

Dad was out on the porch with the phone to his ear, loud enough to rattle glass, setting up drinks for that night. Normal day.

Then Mom asked, not really looking.

"Justice. Finals done?"

"Done."

"How'd you do?"

I didn't look up. "English, ninety-eight. Math, hundred. Spanish, ninety-seven."

The living room went quiet.

The soap kept playing, some woman sobbing why won't you believe me, but Mom wasn't watching anymore. A seed stopped halfway to her mouth. Out on the porch, Dad's voice cut off mid-sentence.

Ten seconds passed. Mom set the seeds down. Her slippers slapped across the floor toward me.

"Say that again."

"English ninety-eight. Math a hundred. Spanish ninety-seven."

"That adds to what?"

"Two ninety-five."

"Out of?"

"Three hundred."

She stared at me for five full seconds. Then she turned toward the porch and let it rip.

"BULL. Get in here."

Dad wandered in, cigarette still between two fingers, already annoyed. "What."

She pointed at me. "Your son says he got a two ninety-five."

Dad blinked. "Out of?"

"Three hundred."

He took the cigarette out of his mouth, slow. The two of them looked at each other. A lot was moving behind that look. Confusion. Shock. A thin thread of panic.

And underneath all of it, something that looked almost like hurt.

Chapter 2

Mom spoke first. "You think... they switched him at the hospital?"

Dad didn't answer. He crossed the room, grabbed my backpack, and dug out the tests. Unfolded them one at a time.

English, ninety-eight, two off for an essay that wandered off the prompt. Math, a clean hundred. Spanish, ninety-seven, three off on the listening section. Black ink, red check marks marching down every page.

He stared at that hundred for a long time. Then he looked up.

"You... do this every time?"

"Yeah."

"Where's that put you in your grade?"

"Third. First the two times before. Essay went sideways this time, cost me two points."

Mom dropped onto the couch, seed shells scattering down her leg.

"Third... third in the whole grade..." Her voice went small, almost to herself. "A kid I gave birth to. Third in the grade."

Dad set the tests down and sat across from me. Sat up straight, too, which never happened. Usually he slouched, one leg thrown up over the other. This time he sat like a man about to be questioned.

"Justice."

"Yeah."

"Somebody out there leaning on you?"

I looked up.

"Straight up. Anybody threatening you, making you score like this?"

I set my pen down and turned to face him.

He was serious.

My own father, handed a son who pulled top marks, and his first thought was that his kid was being extorted.

"Dad. No. I just... like it."

Silence. A long one.

Outside, Tank's motorcycle coughed to life next door; somewhere down the block two people were screaming at each other. Dad got up, went to the porch, crushed out his cigarette, lit another.

Deep drag. Long exhale. He glanced back at Mom and dropped his voice. He underestimated my hearing.

"Red. You don't think he's the mailman's, do you?"

A pillow caught him in the head.

That night, Dad didn't go out for drinks. Didn't go play cards. He sat in front of the TV for hours without changing the channel once. It was a nature documentary.

Mom told me later he smoked a whole pack that night and woke up hoarse, like something had knocked loose in him.

The next morning, before I was even up, I heard him on the phone in the living room.

"Tank. You know what third in the grade means?"

"No. The whole grade. Four hundred-some kids. Third."

"Not third in a fight. Third on the tests."

"Yeah. School stuff."

"I don't know either, man. That's what I'm telling you."

"Who's he take after? 'Cause it ain't me, and it ain't his mother."

"You think it skips a generation? My grandpa sat a couple weeks of night school once, back in the day "

"Quit analyzing. One question. What's the best middle school around here?"

"Right. Whitfield. What's it take to get in? Just grades?"

"Alright. I'll ask around."

He hung up. Then dialed again right away.

Chapter 3

"Sal. It's Bull. Quick thing. Your girl's over at Whitfield, right? That place... hard to get into?"

His voice came out different.

Normally when my dad talked to people, it was all gravel and edge.

This time it was careful. Like a rough man who'd just picked up a piece of jade and was scared he'd crack it.

I lay under my covers, listening.

My nose stung a little.

Only a little, because something else grabbed my attention fast.

That afternoon, out of nowhere, Dad dropped a brick-thick SAT prep book on my desk.

"Got this for you."

I looked at the cover.

For high schoolers.

I was in sixth grade.

"Dad. This is high school stuff."

His face flickered, but his mouth held the line. "So? Read ahead. Early bird gets the worm, ever hear that one?"

Mom's head popped out of the kitchen. "Since when do you know sayings?"

"Out."

The whole thing settled for about three days. I figured it'd blow over. Everything in our house ran on a three-day clock. The time Dad swore off cigarettes, he was lit up again by morning. The time Mom announced a diet, she had a pot of ribs going by dinner.

This time was different.

Day four. Saturday.

I'd just finished lunch and was in my room working competition math when I heard people show up outside. Loud. Had to be Dad's crew.

Tank. Monkey. Dragon. Rebar.

The guys who used to run the streets with him. All legit now. One fixed cars, one worked a produce stand, one ran a pool hall, one drove a cab. But get them in a room together and it was the old days all over again.

"Bull! Where is he? Where's he at? Bring out the little professor, let us get a look at him!"

Tank's voice rattled the window glass.

My door swung open.

Dad stood in the doorway, a wall of middle-aged men in sleeve tattoos behind him.

Every one of them staring at me.

I sat at my desk, pen in hand, a math workbook open in front of me.

Two seconds of silence.

Monkey went first. "The hell... he's actually studying?"

Tank leaned in and squinted at the page. "What's that. What's he drawing there?"

"Solving equations."

"Solving what?"

"Linear equations."

He stepped back, looking at me like I'd landed from another planet.

Dragon came over with a beer and clapped my shoulder. "Justice. Your uncle's gotta ask you something. Somebody bullying you at school?"

"No."

"Then how come you're this good at the books?"

I went quiet for a second.

I couldn't answer that.

Because in their world, being good at school needed a reason. It needed a somebody-made-me.

Same way running the streets always had its reasons back when they were kids: broke at home, getting jumped, parents checked out.

So to them, choosing the books on your own didn't exist. Something had to be driving it.

"I just... like it."

The room went dead quiet.

Rebar spoke slow. "Bull. Something's off with your kid."

Dad's face went dark for half a second. Then it passed.

He turned and waved everybody back toward the living room and cracked open the drinks. On his way out he told me, "Quit studying. Come have some fruit."

"Nah. Two more problems."

Chapter 4

He stood in the doorway and opened his mouth.

Nothing came out.

Then he pulled the door shut. Gently.

Gently. Another word that didn't happen in our house. My dad closed doors with weather behind them.

I stayed bent over my desk, working, but my ears were up.

Out in the living room they'd started drinking, and the volume climbed.

"I'm telling you guys, this kid's a different species." Dad's voice.

"Never gave me one day of trouble, start to finish. Doesn't skip, doesn't fight, doesn't chase girls, doesn't live on the internet."

"Sometimes I think... did I screw this up somehow?"

"Everybody else's kid rebels by cutting class and throwing hands. Mine..."

He stopped for a beat.

"My kid's version of rebellion is being number one."

The whole room lost it.

"Count your blessings, Bull. Mine put a rock through the neighbor's window last week. Cost me eight hundred bucks."

"Mine's worse. Caught copying homework, and the teacher hauled me in. Third time now. I've worn a groove in that chair."

"At least you two still get called in. Mine? Teachers gave up. Told me flat out, 'Doesn't matter if he shows or not.'"

They passed the misery around, one after another. Then they all turned and looked at my dad.

"You really lucked out, Bull."

Tank raised his glass, philosophical. "God's fair, man. Let you run the streets half your life, now He pays you back with a genius kid."

Dad didn't answer.

He picked up his glass and knocked it back.

After they cleared out that night, I came out for water. Passing the living room, I saw him on the couch, staring at nothing.

The coffee table was a graveyard of empty bottles.

The TV was off.

He was just sitting there.

I filled a glass and set it in front of him. He looked up.

"Justice."

"Yeah."

"You... know what you want to do someday?"

"Haven't thought about it."

"Then take your time."

A pause.

"Whatever it is... your dad's behind you."

"Okay."

I turned to go.

"But "

He tacked it on fast.

"Anybody at school ever gives you trouble, you tell me. I can't beat anybody up myself. But I can still get it done for you."

I looked back at him.

Dead serious.

That got a laugh out of me before I could stop it.

"Got it, Dad."

I went back to my room and shut the door.

Same as always. My dad, forever worried I'd get picked on.

What he didn't know: the whole grade already knew I was Bull's kid. Nobody touched me.

In gym they fought over having me on their team. Not because I was any good. Because whoever had Bull's kid, the other side didn't dare foul.

The power of a family name, I guess. Just pointed a different direction than most.

Then came the jump to middle school. I tested into the best one in the county, Whitfield Prep. Top score on the entrance exam, whole school.

The day the letter came, my mom was at the nail salon, mid-manicure on a client. The courier handed it over. She signed, tore it open.

"Whitfield Prep... Letter of Admission..."

The little brush slipped out of her fingers. Polish sprayed across the client's hand.

The woman started to snap, then got a good look at who was holding the brush. Red.

The heat went out of her on the spot. "Red! Congratulations, your boy's really something."

My mom didn't hear a word of it. She was staring at that letter, turning it over and over.

Then she grabbed the phone and called my dad.

Chapter 5

"BULL. The letter's here!"

"What letter?"

"Your son's! Whitfield!"

The line went quiet for a second.

Then his voice dropped. "Hang on... isn't that place expensive? How much are we talking?"

"Are you deaf? He got in. On merit. The kind you don't pay for! They're giving him a scholarship!"

"...How much?"

"Two grand!"

Silence again.

Mom told me later that Dad was under a car when he heard, and the wrench slid right out of his hand onto his own foot. He howled. But he didn't hang up. He just said three words into the phone.

"...Alright. Good."

Then he went back to hopping around, yelling.

First day, he insisted on taking me himself. On that modified motorcycle of his, the one with the fat exhaust pipe, loud as a tractor. He rumbled up to the school gate and half the street turned to look.

The teacher running new-student check-in had a complicated look on her face.

Dad had on a black tee, sleeves out, gold chain on his neck, shades pushed up on his head, cigarette in his mouth as he headed for the gate.

"Hi, can I ask who you're " the desk teacher started, stepping in front of him.

"Dropping my son off."

She looked at him. Then at me. Then at the ink up and down his arms. Then at the badge pinned to my chest: Top Incoming Student.

Her face ran the full five stages. Confusion. Shock. Acceptance. Blank. Polite smile.

"So, sir, if you could put out the cigarette. No smoking on campus."

For once he didn't argue. Stubbed it, tucked it behind his ear.

He walked me to the dorm, hauled my stuff in, made up my bed. More careful than he ever was under a car. When he finished he stood in the doorway and gave the room a once-over.

Six beds. Bunks. Shared bathroom down the hall.

He frowned. "This... kind of a dump, isn't it?"

"Dad. This is the nicest dorm in the county."

He pressed his lips together. Said nothing.

On his way out he stopped at the corner of the hall and looked back at me.

"Justice."

"Yeah."

"Anybody messes with you "

"I know. I'll tell you."

"No." He waved a hand. "You hit back first. Then tell me if it doesn't take."

I laughed. "Deal."

He waved again and left. The motorcycle went off like a bomb through the campus. The whole dorm building leaned out the windows to watch.

My roommate came over, face doing something complicated. "That was... your dad?"

"Yeah."

"What's he do?"

"Runs an auto shop."

"Oh." He let out a breath. "A mechanic. Okay."

I didn't explain. Didn't need to.

Three years of middle school, nobody came near me. Not one person.

Not because I was tough. Because in the first week, word went around the whole school. The new seventh-grader, Boyd, that's Bull's kid, from the east side.

Nobody knew where it started. Worked like a charm.

Even the cockiest ninth-graders gave up half a step when I passed. Once, between classes, an older kid bumped into me by accident. He turned, saw it was me, and went white.

"Sorry, bro, I swear it was an accident, don't tell your dad "

And he bolted. Fast as a rabbit.

Chapter 6

The kid next to me was stunned. "Justice, what does your dad actually do...?"

"Runs an auto shop."

"A mechanic scares people like that?"

I thought about it. "He fixes a lot of cars."

I knew the real reason. My dad had been out of the life for years, but the reputation held. In our little town, the name Bull was a passport. And an umbrella when it rained.

The difference was this: other kids used a name like that to push people around. I used it to sit quietly and do my problem sets.

The power of a genetic mutation, I guess.

Eighth grade, something happened that made my dad face reality once and for all.

It went like this.

Midterms. I came in first in the school. At the grade assembly, the principal read my name himself.

"Justice Boyd, eighth grade, top of the entire grade. Come on up and accept your award."

The place clapped. I went up, took a certificate and a thermos.

Back at my seat, the kid next to me leaned over. "Dude. You're insane."

Normal enough, all of it.

What wasn't normal: this particular assembly happened to have parents invited.

My mom came.

She'd done her hair, put on something formal. Formal for her, anyway. Leopard-print coat. Red heels. Fresh set of nails, the glittery kind.

She sat in the parent section. Everyone around her was dressed plain. She was a peacock that had wandered into a henhouse.

She did not care.

When the principal said Justice Boyd, she shot straight up out of her seat.

"THAT'S MY SON."

Three hundredCsome parents turned to look at once.

Up on stage, my mouth twitched.

After the ceremony, my advisor called my mom into her office. I figured it was to say something nice. Instead Ms. Larson had a very complicated look on her face.

"Mrs. Boyd. Hello."

"Call me Red."

Ms. Larson's mouth flickered. "So... Red. Justice's mom. There's something I'd like to run by you."

"Shoot."

"Justice's scores are exceptional. We'd like to put him forward for the citywide math olympiad."

"Math olympiad? The heck's that?"

"A math competition."

"A competition? Like a cage match?"

"...More or less."

Mom slapped her thigh. "Then yeah! My son'll wreck a cage match!"

Ms. Larson took a slow breath. "It's the kind you fight with your brain."

"Even better!"

Ms. Larson told me something honest later.

"Your mom's got a strong presence. But she is genuinely proud of you."

"I know."

"When she left, she stood outside my office a long while."

"Looking at what?"

"Your certificate. On the wall in the hallway, where we post them."

"How long?"

"About ten minutes. Took a picture on her phone, too."

That night at home, I found a frame sitting on the living room couch. Inside it, my certificate. The top-of-the-grade one. Hung dead center on the living room wall.

That spot used to hold a photo of my dad from his younger days. On the motorcycle, shades, loud shirt.

That one had been moved behind the bathroom door.

Chapter 7

Dad was on the couch watching TV. I pointed at the frame on the wall.

He followed my finger, face calm. "Your mom put it up."

"Oh."

"No objections here."

"Mm."

Two seconds passed.

"That photo really going behind the bathroom door, though?"

"Your mom's call."

Another two seconds.

"You know what she said?"

"What?"

"She said, 'That picture of you's been up fifteen years. Time to abdicate.'"

I looked at my certificate on the wall. Then at my dad.

He didn't say anything out loud. But I caught one detail. He'd traded the cigarettes he'd smoked for twenty years for a pricier brand.

I asked him why.

"A genius's old man," he said, "ought to smoke decent cigarettes."

Mom rolled her eyes from across the room. She didn't argue.

Ninth grade. Two months out from the exams that would decide our high schools. The whole school went into battle mode. So did I.

But my version looked different from everyone else's. Other people ground through practice sets like their lives were on the line. I controlled the pace. Same plan every day, no more, no less. Slept when it was time to sleep, ate when it was time to eat.

Mom's review: "This kid studies like it's a shift. Clocks in, clocks out."

And it was that exact clockwork habit that ran into something the week before the exams.

Friday. Walking home from school. I'd just turned into our alley when I saw three men blocking our door.

Nobody I knew. Dressed like they'd come in from out of town. Leather jackets, buzzcuts, scars on their faces.

They saw me and traded a look.

"You Justice?"

"Yeah."

"Bull's kid?"

"Yeah."

The one in front smiled. Not a friendly one.

"You're gonna take a walk with us."

I didn't move. My grip tightened on my backpack strap. My heart picked up, but nothing showed on my face.

"If it's about my dad, go find my dad. This isn't a good time for me."

"Your dad's not picking up."

"That's his problem. I've got homework."

The leader stalled. He probably hadn't hit this before: you grab a kid for leverage and the hostage wants to talk about his homework.

"Listen, kid, you deaf or "

"He heard you fine."

The voice came from the far end of the alley.

I turned.

My dad. On that beat-up motorcycle of his, stopped at the mouth of the alley. Nothing in his hands. Just standing there.

But his face. There's no good way to put it. Like iron in winter, cold enough to peel the skin right off your hand.

"Bull." The leader's face changed, but he kept the act up. "This is easy to settle. That old debt from back then "

My dad started toward them.

Chapter 8