His father, a physics teacher, had named him Newton, which felt like a curse to a boy who knew he was destined to fail Combined Science next week. There was always tension between them. His older brother Kelvin did his best to field the questions that Dad threw at them across the dinner table. Kelvin had got an A and was able to answer some of them. Newton hadn’t a hope. His father had a short fuse, so if either of them made a mistake, he would turn the laser focus of his rage on them both, turning scarlet, as though his thermostat had broken. They called it his red shift. Sometimes he threw things. There was a dent in the wall where a teaspoon had reached its terminal velocity.
Their mother would try to divert his attention by using the vacuum nearby. It was an old model: a generator of so many decibels that speech was pointless. The upcoming exam had given momentum to Newton’s decision to lock himself in the bedroom and stay there. His father was now hammering on the door.
“Newton! Come out. Do some revision with me. You don’t understand the gravity of the situation. Do you want to fail? You have no impetus to work! Do you realise what a potential difference a few past papers could make? Why do you have such a resistance towards work?
Newton, safely behind the door, finally explained.
“Dad! I don’t like science and I don’t need it! I’m here listening to music, using my new amplifier, and enjoying simple harmonic motion as I mark the beats. I have plenty of potential energy if you just let me study what I like. I can’t bear this half life of science. I want to be a conductor!
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