That's when Mr. Anderson showed up in my life.
He was my 11th-grade math teacher.
Late 30s, messy hair, tie always loose, coffee permanently attached to his hand.
"I just… like this stuff."
One day, he walked past my desk and stopped.
I was doing extra problems I'd printed off a college website.
"Those aren't from the book."
I jerked my hand back like I'd been caught cheating.
"Uh, yeah, I just… like this stuff."
He dragged over a chair and sat next to me like we were equals.
"Those schools are for rich kids."
"You like this stuff?"
"It makes sense. Numbers don't care who your mom works for."
He stared at me for a second. Then he said, "Have you ever thought about engineering? Or computer science?"
I laughed. "Those schools are for rich kids. We can't even afford the application fee."
From then on, he kind of became my unofficial coach.
"Fee waivers exist. Financial aid exists. Smart poor kids exist. You're one of them."
I shrugged, embarrassed.
From then on, he kind of became my unofficial coach.
He gave me old competition problems "for fun."
He'd let me eat lunch in his classroom, claiming he "needed help grading."
He'd talk about algorithms and data structures like it was gossip.
"Places like this would fight over you."
He also showed me websites for schools I'd only heard of on TV.
"Places like this would fight over you," he said, pointing at one.
"Not if they see my address."
He sighed. "Liam, your zip code is not a prison."
