Page 4 of The Naughty Professor

Chapter Three

Felix

I pulled into my grandmother’s driveway in Lakeside, the tires of my battered Volkswagen crunching over gravel that had probably been there since Reagan’s first term.

The little bungalow looked the same as always—white siding in need of a fresh coat of paint, flowerbeds choked with weeds, and the sagging porch where I’d once sat with Popsicles dripping down my arm while Grandma told me stories about my parents.

The grass was long again. Knee-high in some spots. Great. I could already feel my sinuses closing up just looking at it.

“Hell,” I muttered, flipping open the glove-box. My trusty inhaler rolled out between some old fast-food napkins and the owner’s manual. I gave it a quick shake and took a puff, the chemical tang hitting the back of my throat. At least I wouldn’t keel over before I finished mowing the yard.

The house’s front door creaked on its hinges, but I didn’t even bother heading that way. Grandma would already know I was here—she always knew—but the lawn came first. I cut across the yard and went straight to the shed out back.

Inside, it smelled like motor oil and mildew. My dress shoes came off, and I traded them for the ancient pair of work boots waiting by the wall, their laces stiff with dried mud. I tugged on a pair of thick gloves and clipped the straps of my dust mask over my face.

The mower was leaning in the corner, a red relic from the last century. I heaved it out into the yard, muttering encouragement like it was a stubborn old dog. When I yanked the cord, the thing coughed out a cloud of smoke and roared to life, loud enough to rattle my teeth.

I started with the backyard, circling around the rusted swing set where I’d once launched myself into the air, convinced I could fly. The chains creaked when the mower rattled past, like they still remembered me. I pressed on, sweat prickling under my shirt.

By the time I reached the pond—a green, algae-choked mess that used to house my mother’s goldfish—the mower sputtered and died. Out of gas.

“Fuck,” I muttered.

“Felix!” Grandma’s voice rang from the back porch, sharp and clear despite her years. “You need to go to the gas station and get more gas!” She was grinning at me, a casserole dish balanced on one hand like a trophy.

“I made tuna noodle surprise,” she announced. “You need to eat something before you keel over.”

The “surprise” was always what she threw into the mix—peas, cornflakes, occasionally a can of mushrooms if she was feeling fancy. My stomach already twisted at the thought, but I’d eat anything she put in front of me. She’d raised me from the time I was an infant, after all.

I trudged up to the porch and hugged her, breathing in the familiar scent of lilacs and laundry soap.

“I’ll eat after I finish the lawn,” I mumbled.

She squinted. “What? I can’t hear a thing through that silly contraption. You sound like Darth Vader.”

I tugged the mask down and repeated myself. She nodded, satisfied, and went back inside, the door swinging behind her.

Back at the shed, I grabbed the gas can—dented, rusty, and probably a fire hazard—and started the two-block walk to the station.

I was halfway there when I spotted him: a boy sitting on the curb, knees pulled up to his chest, his face blotchy from crying.

There was a paperback book torn to shreds next to him.

Who the hell does that to a book? It couldn’t have been him, or he wouldn’t be crying.

My gut twisted because I knew exactly how it felt to sit like that, trying to make yourself small while the world kicked you around. But what was I supposed to do? If I stopped, would he think I was some creep trying to lure him into a van I didn’t even own?

I slowed for a second, words fumbling around in my head, but nothing came out. Finally, I kept walking, guilt chewing at me with every step.

The gas station sat on the corner. I filled the can, the gas fumes rising thick in the air, then carried it inside to pay.

A group of boys crowded the counter. They were all elbows and laughter, with the energy that came from knowing you were safe in a pack.

“Man, you showed Josh!” one of them crowed, punching the smallest in the arm. “He’s such a loser.”

“Seriously,” another chimed in. “He’s always got his nose in a book. Like, dude, read this—” The boy held up his middle finger and everyone laughed.

The words hit me like a punch in the gut. And I knew exactly who the poor kid was.

Geek. Loser. Always with his head in a book. I’d heard every one of those before, back when I was the skinny kid with allergies who couldn’t catch a ball to save his life. I’d been the easy target, the one who stayed quiet because I knew speaking up would just make it worse.

My throat tightened, and for a moment I wasn’t thirty-five anymore. I was nine, standing on the playground while a group of boys circled me, chanting names that burned hotter than the sun overhead.

I gripped the handle of the gas can, knuckles whitening.

“Let’s get some chocolate,” one of them said, and the others crowded closer to the display, hands hovering over Snickers and Milky Ways like they were vultures about to snatch up their next meal.

Anger rose fast, sharp, hotter than it should have. They were laughing, teasing each other about who’d made Josh cry harder, and every word dug under my skin.

Before I could stop myself, I stepped forward.

My boots thudded against the tile as I pushed between them and the display.

The boys blinked up at me, mouths open, as I reached out and started grabbing.

Snickers, Twix, Hershey’s, KitKats—every damn bar on the rack.

I dumped them all onto the counter with a satisfying smack.

“Uh—sir?” the cashier asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Put it all on the card,” I said, fishing my credit card from my wallet. My voice was calm, but I could feel the grin stretching across my face.

The boys stared. One of them—tallest of the group, clearly their ringleader—cleared his throat and asked, “Hey, could you maybe leave a couple for us?”

I turned to him, still grinning. “Nope. My friend down the street’s in the mood for chocolate.”

The cashier snorted and started scanning, sliding the pile into a big plastic bag. The crinkle of the wrappers was the sweetest sound I’d heard all day.

The boys just stood there, slack-jawed, as I paid for the candy bars and my gas, hefted the bag onto my shoulder, and headed for the door. Their laughter had died, replaced by stunned silence.

On the walk back, I saw the little boy by the curb, picking up scraps of paper from the destroyed paperback. His eyes were red, his cheeks streaked, and he didn’t even look up when I approached. I slowed just enough to let the bag drop beside him. He glanced up at me, swiping at his eyes.

“Enjoy.”

* * *

By the time I wrestled the mower back into the shed, my arms were trembling and my shirt clung damp to my back. I kicked off the boots, tugged on my regular shoes, and yanked the mask down. The moment it cleared my face, I sneezed so hard I nearly toppled into the doorframe.

“Yeah, I’m the real picture of health,” I muttered, grabbing the gas can and shutting the shed door with a bang.

I hurried up the back steps and into the kitchen, where the cool air and the smell of casserole hit me at once.

The space was tiny—yellowed linoleum floor, cabinets painted robin’s egg blue in the ‘70s, a single round table tucked into the corner.

Grandma was waiting with a can of beer already in hand.

“Here,” she said, pressing it toward me like it was communion wine.

“I shouldn’t. I’m going to the gym later.”

Her mouth dropped open like I’d just told her I was joining the circus. “The gym? You’ve never been to the gym in your life, and you don’t need to go.”

Before I could answer, she disappeared down the hall. I heard a drawer slide open, some rummaging, and then she reappeared with a couple of photographs.

“You’re the spitting image of Leon, the handsomest man in the neighborhood.”

I stared at the photo. My father was leaning against a car in a sharp suit, grin easy, posture perfect.

He had movie star looks—square jaw, dark hair, eyes that seemed to catch the light.

In the other picture, he was in uniform, playing baseball for the Richmond Squirrels.

The Squirrels were a minor league team, and the New York Mets had offered him a spot right before the accident.

I looked nothing like him. Not the jaw, not the hair, not the smile. Everything about him screamed ease, charm, athleticism. Everything about me screamed… not that.

“I don’t see it,” I said, and Grandma put the pictures aside.

“That’s because you don’t want to.” She plucked the beer from my hand, popped it open, and poured it into a glass. “Mowing the grass was more than enough exercise for you. Sit.”

I obeyed, dropping into one of the creaky chairs while she slid a steaming plate of casserole in front of me. It was a crime scene of noodles, peas, and something suspiciously crunchy on top.

“Oh, before I forget,” she said, wiping her hands on her apron. “Another one of your magazines arrived in the mail yesterday.”

“Really? Thought I’d gotten most of that switched over to my house already.”

She disappeared into the other room again and came back not with one, but four. The glossy covers gleamed under the kitchen light.

Chemical Horizons.

“I tried to read one,” Grandma said, shaking her head. “But ooh, all those strange numbers and words. Looked like gibberish to me.”

I smiled faintly and flipped through the stack. Then one cover stopped me cold. Bold letters ran across the top: New Compound Discovered: Dramatic Changes in Brain Chemistry Observed.

My chest tightened. I opened the magazine and skimmed the article, half-listening as Grandma chattered about Mrs. Richardson’s roses blooming late this year.

The formulas were familiar, almost insultingly simple. Nerve conduction modifiers, neurotransmitter regulators, all combined into a structure that clicked together in my head like puzzle pieces.

Then I hit the case study. A woman, speechless since childhood trauma in war-torn Syria, had undergone treatment.

Within days, she was transformed: outgoing, fashionable, vibrant.

She’d fallen in love with the scientist’s assistant, of all people, and married him. The article described it as a miracle.

“Grandma,” I interrupted, unable to keep it to myself. “Listen to this—this chemist figured out a way to literally change someone’s personality. A woman who hadn’t spoken since she was a child—she became this whole other person. Confident, happy, married. Isn’t that incredible?”

Grandma frowned, setting down her glass. “People should be happy just being themselves. Messing around with your brain like that ain’t healthy. You start tugging on the strings of who you are, you don’t know what’ll unravel.”

I wanted to argue, but my eyes had already drifted back to the page. My pulse kicked up as I scanned the next section.

After six months of her new life, the woman had deteriorated.

Worse than before. She’d reverted not only to silence but to total immobility.

The words were clinical, detached, but the meaning was brutal: at twenty-eight, she was living in a nursing home, unable to speak or move, her miracle burned out.

The casserole in front of me suddenly smelled less like food and more like ashes.

I traced the half-finished formula printed in the magazine, my finger following the jagged lines and letters. They’d never publish the whole thing—academic journals always gave you just enough to whet your appetite, never enough to replicate the work. But even the fragments fascinated me.

The structure was crude, a scaffolding that worked but looked like it had been hammered together in the dark.

I could see the gaps, the shortcuts, the missed opportunities.

What if someone smarter, more careful, improved on it?

What if I could take this chemist’s shaky miracle and refine it into something that actually lasted?

My chest thudded with a rhythm I hadn’t felt in years.

What if I could transform myself?

The words settled into me like a weight.

Leon—the perfect father I’d never known.

Carrie—the brilliant mother who’d been halfway through medical school before her life was cut short.

And me, stuck in the middle, a pale imitation, a man who mowed lawns in a dust mask and had never been on a single date in his life.

I scanned the byline: Dr. Adrian Hargreaves, Easton University. He had an email address listed at the end of the piece. I could reach out tonight, see if he’d share more.

“Felix!”

I jerked my head up. Grandma was staring at me, her lips pressed thin.

“I’ve been talking about Mrs. Richardson’s garden for the last five minutes and you haven’t heard a word,” she said. “You sit there, lost in your scribbles, and forget there’s a whole world outside those numbers.”

“Sorry, Grandma,” I murmured, though my eyes dropped back to the page.

She shook her head, muttering under her breath, and carried the casserole dish back to the counter. The kitchen was filled with the sound of her clattering plates, but I hardly noticed.

If this compound could turn a mute survivor of war into someone vibrant and whole—even for a short time—what could it do for me?