November 1996, Cambridge, Massachusetts
Sleek. Fast. Lean. To Frederick, the effect was perfect. A slim, white cardboard aircraft, stripped bare of all extraneous trappings, not even encumbered with the weight of colored paint, shot forward in a clean, straight line and landed neatly at the other end of the room, inches away from the opposite wall.
Their freshman engineering design course had culminated in this little show-and-tell: a competition where each student designed, built, and demonstrated a launching mechanism for a projectile of their choosing. And nobody did show-and-tell, at least the "show" part of it, better than Frederick Wentworth. Every inch of him radiated with confidence and self-satisfaction as his creation performed exactly as it was designed to do. The image was completed by the fact that he'd volunteered to go first, just so that he could open the session with a bang.
This was Frederick at his best - hungry, restless, and addicted to the thrill of flight. Ever since he had learned to crawl, Frederick had never been content just sitting still. As a little boy barely starting school, Frederick had already roamed all the parks in his suburban neighborhood of Plymouth, Michigan, finding the best - which usually meant the highest - obstacles from which to launch himself on his skateboard. Getting air was the way he escaped the stuffy atmosphere of the house with its perennially quiet, hushed tones. Nobody was allowed to make any sound inside, because his mother was always ill. Back then, he hadn't understood the nature of cancer; he had just wanted to get out of the house, far away so that he could do his own thing without his siblings saying "Don't" over his shoulder all the time. Being airborne provided a welcome release to all his pent-up energy; and he had an uncanny ability to always land on his feet. He would trudge home filthy, scuffed and scraped; but in all his years of going to the skate park, he never got any injuries more serious than that - it was as though he was a cat with nine lives.
Amongst the three Wentworth siblings, Frederick was somewhat a misfit - with their parents being both university dons, academic inclination had been a basic expectation of a Wentworth kid. But when Frederick was growing up, his mother was already fighting her battle with cancer; and with everyone caught up in looking after her and the household at large, there was very little time for anyone at home to mentor or teach Frederick. The issue wasn't really Frederick's grades per se, for he was a bright kid and always managed to perform respectably at school no matter how little time he appeared to be spending at his books. But unlike his bookish brother Edward, action interested him more than theory; and he had too much energy to be cooped up in the house for any length of time. And so every day after school, he wandered farther and farther away from home with his skateboard.
By the time he was thirteen, Frederick knew all the skate parks in metro Detroit like the back of his hand. He'd bought a BMX bike with the money he earned from his paper route, and it served not only to expand his radius of exploration, but also as another platform for performing stunts. On that fateful day, though, he hadn't gone far. With his mother having been hospitalized for six weeks on end, he'd known the situation wasn't good. The last few days, she had already fallen into a coma, but nobody could predict exactly when the moment would come. So he stayed close in order to be there when it was time to say goodbye; only that when he finally did, he wasn't sure if she could still hear him anymore.
Still, with their mother they'd had some advance warning; when their father's heart gave out, it was swift and sudden, and it had happened right in the middle of a tennis game, no less. The sea change in their lives came when they vacated their house to rent it out - their mother's treatment had sapped the family's savings, leaving the orphaned Wentworth kids asset rich but cash poor - and moved to a tiny apartment in inner-city Detroit. Still only twenty, his eldest sister Sophia dropped out of college, working as a receptionist to support the family; while Edward and Frederick had to brave the hostile environment of inner-city public school and establish their social pecking order amongst the kids in the 'hood.
Though Frederick knew that remaining on the path of the straight and narrow was the only hope he had to reclaim their former lifestyle, he wasn't like Edward, who was completely impervious to all the social ostracism that came with being classified as a geek. "Higher Ed" was just the tamest name the kids threw at Edward, in the mocking way that only high school kids could; the names and the bullying got worse every day and it still rolled off Edward like water off a duck's back. Not so for Frederick, though. Appearances and image mattered to him too much.
Surviving, fitting in, that was his skill. He was a cat with nine lives, after all. Frederick had the all the accoutrements of just any other kid in the 'hood - the knitted skullcap, the baggy sweatshirt and jeans, right down to the oversized sneakers. His hair was perpetually overgrown, hanging into his eyes on purpose so nobody could remember what his face looked like. In this way, he went on - quietly slipping out of the less desirable activities that he wanted no part of, yet trying to blend in perfectly so no one would notice. He also used his prowess with the skateboard and the BMX to distract his peers from the fact that he had a different set of aspirations from them. At that point, though, he had no idea what kind of tangible form those aspirations would take. Most white-collar jobs were staid and boring, and he couldn't imagine himself sitting at a desk all day without feeling stifled. So although Frederick knew that not going to college was not an option, he had no idea what he would do after that, or even how he would be able to afford college in the first place. With the future being so uncertain, it was more convenient to just live in the present, so he spent day after day getting air at the skate parks, getting by one day at a time. Trying to do well enough in school to go to college, while trying not to let anyone see how hard he tried.
Yet without even trying so much, somehow he managed to emerge tops in Michigan for the American Mathematics Competition 10 during sophomore year. He resented it - that was a surefire way to fly the freak flag, or rather (and worse), the geek flag - but it just happened. That exploit earned him an appointment with the guidance counselor. Despite all his efforts to stay under the radar, Frederick was forced out of hiding.
Mr. Raftery had absolutely no idea what type of kid to expect in his office that morning. Kids from inner-city public schools like this just didn't win math competitions - not when they were put up against their peers from far more affluent backgrounds; kids who had been hot-housed for success from a very young age. The name of Frederick Wentworth was not familiar to him, which might not be a bad thing in itself - it meant that this kid had managed to stay out of trouble so far, and he had to admit, it wasn't often that a kid got his notice for any good reason. Perhaps this kid would be some king of precocious Doogie Howser, chattering on a mile a minute; or maybe he would be a skinny awkward kid with big plastic-framed glasses.
Whatever it was, Mr. Raftery was actually slightly disappointed with the kid who finally slouched and shuffled into his doorway. This kid didn't look like anything out of the ordinary - he could have passed hundreds of kids in the hallway, and this boy was so underwhelming in his appearance, he would have faded right into the background.
"Good morning, Mr. Raftery, sir," the kid mumbled, but didn't take a step forward. He remained standing in the doorway, looking at the floor. His face was hardly visible behind the too-long locks of hair that obscured his eyes. Though the kid had clearly been brought up with some concept of manners, it was equally obvious that he was more frightened than anything else.
"Good morning, Frederick. Come in and have a seat," Mr. Raftery tried to keep his tone as friendly as possible. He extended a hand to the kid, and tried to look him in the eye. "Congratulations."
"Thank you, sir." The kid took the proffered hand and shook it, but didn't look up.
"Frederick, you may wish to know that you're the first student from our school to ever win the AMC at a statewide level. That's an honor. And it means a lot of new opportunities will be open to you. For starters, you'll be invited to take the AIME - that's the American Invitational Mathematics Examination - and then if you do well there, you can continue to the USAMO - that's the USA Mathematical Olympiad. After that, you could qualify for a summer program to prepare you for the International Math Olympiad team. I strongly encourage you to take the AIME - we'll try our best to give you the coaching you need. That will give you exposure to a much higher level of math training and competition than you can get in your regular classes here. The fact that you've been able to hold your own, even against others who have benefited from more coaching and more resources, shows just how much potential you've got. I'd be happy to work with you to make the most of that potential."
"Sir -" the kid gave him a flickering glance - "thank you, that's very kind of you. But I... I don't know if that's really what I want to do."
"Why? Then, what do you want?"
"I don't know." The kid slouched in his chair, his eyes wandering all over Mr. Raftery's desk. "But I... sitting at a desk doing math all day... I'd be bored. And miserable."
"So what do you like to do? What do you do in your free time?"
"Um... getting air. On my skateboard," the kid hastily explained. He looked like he wished he could just bolt out of the room any minute.
Suddenly, the kid's eyes focused on something on the desk. It was an ROTC brochure. For the first time in the entire interview, the kid looked up and faced Mr. Raftery directly.
"Sir? May I borrow this, please? About the Olympiad - I'll think about it and get back to ya. I promise."
"Sir." It was a very different Frederick Wentworth who walked in the door one week later. The kid seemed to be almost reborn - he had a clear sense of purpose and self, and he showed it. "I've made my decision about what I want to do with my future, and I'd like to tell you about it. Do you have some time for me now?"
"Sure - come in."
The kid - no, Frederick - for now that he had finally found his identity, his name was indelibly stamped on him - sat down smartly. He had taken the effort to slick his hair off his face with pomade - never mind that after this meeting he'd probably run to the bathroom and wash it off all over again.
"Sir, I know I have to go to college. It's the only way I can get myself out of this neigh- um, I mean, how I can build a better life for myself and my family."
"All right, and what do you plan to study in college?"
"Engineering. Aeronautical engineering. It'll help me when I go into the Air Force. I've thought it all out - I'd die of boredom doing those kinds of work where I'm parked at a desk all the time. I need a job that gives me a kind of kick, like how I feel when I'm on my skateboard, y'know? So flying, it's like the same feeling, only even more exciting. That's what I wanna do."
"So you won't be doing the AIME then? Can't I at least try to change your mind? It seems to be such a waste - it's not easy to find kids like you around here. You would do our school proud."
"No, I won't. I'm sorry. But I will be trying for college, and for the ROTC scholarship. See, they even pay for your college. The military, that is. And in the Air Force, I could do our country proud."
"Well, then. I guess you've made up your mind. But at least, you could shoot for one of the top colleges. For aeronautical engineering... hmm... let's see... you could go to MIT, or Stanford. You at least owe yourself that, to do proper justice to your talent."
"Yessir. I'll try."
"Do you know what it takes to get into a good college?"
"I have to study hard, I guess. I've got a 4.0 GPA now and I'll try my best to keep it up."
"Well, you'll need more than just a 4.0 GPA to distinguish yourself when you're competing against kids from all across the country, the entire world in fact. A 4.0 is a dime a dozen out there. So you have to build up some special achievements, if not in math, then in some other area. It'll help you not only for college, but for the ROTC scholarship as well."
"Like, how?"
"For one, the military needs people with good leadership skills. So you need to find ways to show you can be a leader. You like action - say, why don't you ditch the skateboard some of the time and join a team sport in school?"
Frederick beamed. For once, he felt like they were both on the same side.
"Thank you sir, I'll do that. I need to go to class, so I've gotta be going." Standing up, Frederick pulled out the ROTC brochure from his backpack and handed it to Mr. Raftery with both hands. "Here's your brochure."
"Keep it, son. And good luck."
From then onwards, Frederick relegated the skateboard to being a hobby, rather than being an obsession. Taking Mr. Raftery's advice, he tried out for the football team and ended up playing quarterback in junior and senior year. In that way, he established his status as a jock, which actually enhanced his popularity, while also giving him something else to round out his resume with.
From then onwards, whenever he did go to the skate park, Frederick embellished his moves a little more each time. He honed his showmanship skills carefully, all the while dreaming about a future when he wouldn't just be getting air on the skateboard, but getting truly airborne in his fighter jet.
From then onwards, Frederick cropped his hair close to his head. Now that he had a clear goal he could wear on his sleeve, he could start to show his face to the world again. He had already proven his ability to survive - now that he had successfully blended in, he could finally afford to stand out.
And once Frederick stopped being ashamed of having ambitions, he would settle for nothing less than perfection. That was how he got himself into MIT.
Chapter Notes:
Easter Eggs - Frederick grew up in Plymouth, MI, a nod to the canon original's naval background which would have led him to spend a good deal of time in the British port city of Plymouth.
