Chapter 7

Nicholas was nineteen when he started at Riverside Community College, just a bit older than his classmates. The campus itself wasn’t particularly impressive, a collection of low-slung brick buildings arranged around a modest quad, nothing like the ivy-covered universities he’d seen in books. But to Nicholas, it represented something monumental: a doorway to a different kind of life.

Registration day had been an exercise in restraint. The course catalog was like a Christmas wish list to him. He was greedy for everything. The academic adviser, a middle-aged woman with reading glasses dangling from a beaded chain, had raised her eyebrows when Nicholas requested permission to take eighteen credits his first semester.

“That’s a heavy course load for a new student,” she cautioned, peering at him over the rims of her glasses. “Most freshmen start with twelve or fifteen at most. Gives you time to adjust to college-level work.”

“I’ve been preparing for this,” Nicholas replied simply.

Something in his steady gaze must have convinced her. After reviewing his exceptional GED scores, she shrugged and approved his schedule: Introduction to Philosophy, General Psychology, English Composition I, College Algebra, Introduction to Sociology, and a biology course with a lab component.

On the first day of classes, Nicholas arrived thirty minutes early, a new notebook for each course tucked neatly in his backpack alongside precisely sharpened pencils and several Bic pens. He’d mapped out the campus the week before, walking the routes between his classrooms to calculate exactly how long it would take to move from one to the next. Nothing would be left to chance.

It was the first time he’d been back to a school since he was thirteen.

He chose a seat in the center front row of his first class, Philosophy 101, and waited as the room gradually filled with other students. They trickled in by twos and threes, laughing and talking about their summer breaks, comparing schedules, complaining about having to take early morning classes. Nicholas observed them with anthropological detachment.

His eighteen-year-old classmates seemed impossibly young to him. Careless. Like nothing bad would ever touch them. They slouched in their seats, scrolled through their phones, sipped from oversized coffee cups emblazoned with the campus café logo. Some looked half-asleep. Others were clearly still riding the social high of reuniting with friends after summer break.

When Professor Bennett entered—a tall man with a salt-and-pepper beard and elbow patches on his tweed jacket, a walking stereotype of an academic. Most of the students didn’t even notice. He had to clear his throat twice before the chatter began to subside.

“Welcome to Philosophy 101,” he announced, writing his name on the whiteboard. “This semester, we’ll be exploring the fundamental questions that have occupied human thought for millennia. What is knowledge? What is justice? What constitutes a good life?”

Nicholas had already opened his notebook to a fresh page, pen poised. When Professor Bennett began distributing the syllabus, he noticed Nicholas’ readiness and gave a small nod of approval.

“At least someone came prepared,” he muttered, just loud enough for the front row to hear.

The pattern repeated throughout that first day. In each class, Nicholas positioned himself front and center, materials ready, attention focused like a laser, while his peers struggled with varying degrees of first-day disorganization. He watched as they rummaged through backpacks for writing utensils, asked to borrow paper, or worse, sat empty-handed with the apparent expectation that showing up was participation enough.

By the end of that first week, Nicholas had developed a detailed study schedule that accounted for every hour of his day. He woke at 5 AM, exercised for precisely 45 minutes, showered, ate a simple breakfast, and was on campus by 7:30 AM, regardless of when his first class started. He continued his habit of writing every day, recording new thoughts and observations. Those early morning hours in the library became sacred—uninterrupted time to review notes, complete readings, and prepare for the day ahead.

Between classes, when other students congregated in the campus center or sprawled on the quad’s grass patches, Nicholas found quiet corners to study. Lunch was eaten quickly at his makeshift workstations—usually two protein bars and an apple, nothing that required much attention or cleanup. Every minute was valuable; every moment was accounted for.

What struck Nicholas profoundly during those early weeks was the syllabus that professors handed out at the beginning. His learning had been largely self-directed, pieced together from whatever books he could get his hands on. Now, amazingly, here were experts who had taken the time to organize entire fields of study into coherent progressions, who could contextualize facts within broader frameworks, who could answer questions he hadn’t even known to ask. He experienced college with the same sense of boundless discovery Aladdin did when he “open sesamed” his way into the treasure cave.

His Psychology professor, Dr. Levine, was particularly impressive—a former clinical psychologist who could move seamlessly between theoretical concepts and real-world applications. During the third week of class, she returned to their first essay assignments. Nicholas had written his on behavioral conditioning, drawing connections to his observations in juvenile detention without explicitly mentioning his personal experience.

“Mr. Carter,” she said, handing back his paper with a red “A” circled at the top, “would you be willing to stay after class for a moment?”

When the room had emptied, she gestured for him to take a seat closer to her desk.

“Your essay was graduate-level work,” she said without preamble. “Your analysis of institutional behaviors and reinforcement patterns shows unusual insight. Have you studied psychology before?”

“Just on my own,” Nicholas replied. “Reading whatever I could find.”

She nodded, studying him with professional curiosity. “Well, you have a natural aptitude for it. I’d like to suggest some additional readings that might interest you, if you’re open to it.”

Nicholas accepted the list she scribbled on a notepad with gratitude. He added it to his already substantial workload without hesitation. This was exactly what he wanted—to be challenged, to be pushed beyond the basics.

As the semester progressed, the contrast between Nicholas and most of his classmates became increasingly stark. Three weeks in, attendance in his early morning classes had already dropped noticeably. Those who did show up often arrived late, coffee in hand, apologies mumbled as they slid into seats at the back. During discussions, it became painfully obvious who had done the reading and who was trying to fake their way through with vague generalizations.

In his English Composition course, Professor Winters asked students to share their drafts for peer review. Nicholas found himself paired with a girl named Jessica, a marketing major who had clearly written her essay the night before.

“Sorry it’s so rough,” she said, sliding her paper across the desk. “I had a thing last night and didn’t get started until, like, midnight.”

Nicholas nodded without judgment and began reading. Her essay was a scattered collection of opinions without evidence, personal anecdotes without analysis, and sentences that wandered like lost tourists. He provided specific, constructive feedback, noting places where arguments could be strengthened, where transitions were needed, and where citations should be added.

When he handed her his draft in return, she stared at it for a long moment before looking up.

“Dude, did you type this up for real or is this like, from somewhere else?” she asked suspiciously.

“I wrote it,” Nicholas said simply.

“It’s like ... perfect. All formatted and everything. With footnotes.” She flipped to the last page. “And a bibliography. We need a bibliography?”

“It was in the assignment guidelines,” Nicholas pointed out.

Jessica sighed dramatically. “Great. Guess I’ll be up all night again.”

Exchanges like this became routine. Classmates began to view Nicholas with a mixture of admiration, resentment, and bewilderment. Some labeled him a brownnoser or a teacher’s pet. Others attempted to befriend him, largely in hopes of accessing his impeccable notes or receiving help with assignments. A few seemed genuinely curious about him, this oddly intense guy who never socialized, never complained, never seemed to struggle with the workload.

One of these was Marcus, a slightly older student who had served in the military before starting college. After repeatedly finding themselves the only two who had completed all the assigned reading for Sociology, Marcus took to sitting next to Nicholas.

“You remind me of some guys I knew in the service,” he commented one day as they packed up after class. “That same focus, like you’re on mission time. Most of these kids are just wasting time.”

Nicholas considered this. “I’m building something.”

“Yeah, I can see that,” Marcus nodded. “Mind if I ask what?”

Nicholas didn’t have a simple answer. He was building knowledge, yes, but also possibilities, identities, futures that hadn’t been available to him before.

“A life,” he said finally.

Marcus seemed to understand. He didn’t press for details or try to draw Nicholas into the usual college friendships built around shared complaints and weekend plans. Instead, he occasionally shared articles related to their coursework or recommended books that went beyond the syllabus. A friendship that suited Nicholas perfectly.

Midterm week arrived, bringing with it a wave of panic that swept through the student body. The campus center became crowded with study groups cramming information they should have been absorbing all along. The library, usually Nicholas’s quiet sanctuary, was suddenly packed with anxious faces and whispered pleas for assistance.

“Hey, Nicholas, right?” A young woman from his algebra class approached his table one evening. “We’re putting together a study group for the midterm. Want to join? We could really use your help.”

“No, thank you,” he replied, not looking up from his notes. “I prefer to study alone.”

“Come on, man,” her companion added. “Professor Chen’s tests are brutal. Everyone says so.”

Nicholas finally raised his eyes. “I’ve been preparing since the first day of class,” he stated simply. “Good luck with your group.”

He wasn’t being deliberately unhelpful. He simply recognized a fundamental truth for him—education wasn’t a team sport where stronger players could carry weaker ones across the finish line. Real learning required individual commitment, consistent effort, personal responsibility.

When midterm grades were posted, Nicholas found himself with a perfect 4.0 GPA. His professors had started to take special notice of him. In Philosophy, Professor Bennett had taken to calling on Nicholas when discussions lagged, knowing he would have something substantive to contribute. In Biology, Dr. Rashid had offered him a position as a lab assistant for the following semester.

“You show an unusual level of precision in your thinking,” she told him. “And your reports are exceptionally detailed. Have you considered a science major?”

Nicholas hadn’t. He was still exploring, still sampling different fields of knowledge to determine where his interests and abilities best aligned. The opportunity was tempting, though—a chance to deepen his understanding and perhaps earn some additional income.

As the semester continued, Nicholas maintained his rigorous schedule while his classmates experienced the predictable mid-semester slump. Attendance dropped further. Excuses multiplied.

“My computer crashed and I lost my essay.” “I had to go home for a family thing.” “I’ve been really stressed and couldn’t focus.”

Nicholas heard these explanations offered to professors with increasing frequency. In his mindset, commitments were absolute, not suggestions. If you agreed to complete an assignment by a certain date, you did so, regardless of circumstances. If difficulties arose, you adapted, overcame.

This mindset set him apart as sharply as his study habits. When a massive snowstorm hit in November, canceling classes for two days, most students celebrated the unexpected break. Nicholas used the time to work ahead, completing readings and assignments for the following week. When classes resumed, he was ready with questions about material they hadn’t even covered yet.

“Mr. Carter,” his English professor commented dryly, “are you operating on a different academic calendar than the rest of us?”

A few chuckles rippled through the classroom. Nicholas didn’t mind. He understood that his approach was unusual, but he also understood what most of his classmates didn’t: that education was a precious resource, one he had nearly lost forever. Every lecture, every reading, every assignment was life or death.

As finals approached, Nicholas found himself in an unexpected position. Several professors had approached him individually, suggesting advanced courses for the following semester, mentioning potential research opportunities, even bringing up the possibility of eventual transfer to prestigious four-year universities.

“With your academic record and personal discipline, you could go anywhere,” his academic advisor told him during registration for the spring semester. “Have you thought about where you might want to transfer after you complete your associate’s degree?”

Nicholas hadn’t allowed himself to think that far ahead yet. The idea that doors might be opening—doors to institutions he’d only read about, to careers that had seemed impossibly distant—was still difficult to fully process.

“I’m focused on next semester for now,” he replied cautiously.

She smiled, understanding his measured approach. “Well, keep it in mind. And consider adding some extracurriculars next term. Graduate schools and transfer admissions like to see well-rounded applicants.”

Nicholas nodded, though the concept of “well-rounded” was foreign. He made his life deliberately narrow, focused on learning. The suggestion that he should dilute that focus, even slightly, felt wrong on every level.

The day before finals began, Nicholas was in the library as usual, reviewing his meticulously organized notes. The large study area had once again transformed into a last-minute cramming zone, filled with stressed students surrounded by energy drinks and junk food, frantically trying to absorb a semester’s worth of material in hours.

At a nearby table, a group from his psychology class were quizzing each other on theories of cognitive development. Their information was jumbled, their understanding shallow. Nicholas could hear them confusing Piaget with Vygotsky, misconstruing basic concepts that had been covered repeatedly throughout the term.

For a brief moment, he felt a flicker of superiority. But it quickly gave way to something else—a recognition that their struggle wasn’t entirely their fault. They hadn’t been taught how to learn. No one had shown them the value of consistency, of building knowledge day by day rather than attempting to construct it all at once.

Nicholas returned to his notes, feeling a new appreciation for his own unusual path. The hardships he’d experienced, the isolation of solitary confinement, the discipline forced upon him by circumstances, these had shaped his approach to education in ways that were serving him well now. His classmates might view him as strange, intense, even alien, but he was exactly where he needed to be, doing exactly what he needed to do.