Shining Star: A Pavel Chekov Fanfiction

Ten

Pavel is twelve years old when he learns what college brings.

It's a lot different than he expected. One thing he likes is that he gets to choose what time he takes his classes. Of course, as a freshman, he doesn't have as many options as the upperclassmen—but still, it's nice not to have to wake up at some ungodly hour of the morning every day.

But college is also a lot more than he expected. More freedom, more work, more expectations. More time between deadlines—more time to procrastinate with the due date looming above you.

Fewer friends. His parents had spent a lot of time regaling him with tales of their university days, telling him that college was going to be the time he formed lifelong friendships because he was going to be with people who shared his same interests. (In fact, college was where they met each other.) But so far, that hasn't really worked out. Every time he tries to strike up a conversation with a classmate, his face goes red and his palms start to sweat and he starts thinking of all the ways it could go wrong. They could laugh in my face. They could ignore me. They could secretly have been transported here from a mirror universe and they'll pull out a knife and kill me. And in the end, he decides it's not worth it and goes back to his work.

Other students in his classes go to parties and drink vodka and go on dates; he holes himself up in his room and buries himself in articles on warp core drives. He hates himself for it, but he can't help it.

He must look pretty desperate, because one day in his calculus class, a guy sitting behind him leans over and whispers. "Hey, kid, what'd you get for number four?"

He frowns. It's the first time anyone's voluntarily chosen to talk to him all year, and he answers warily, without making eye contact. "I, er, I got log 343."

The guy furrows his brow. "How did you get that?"

Pavel pushes his Padd towards him. "Well, first you have to cancel out the exponents using..."

The guy nods in all the right places during his explanation—although, from his look, Pavel kind of suspects that it's going right over his head—and copies the answer down on his Padd without asking anything more. "'Kay. Thanks."

It's okay, Pavel thinks. He'll figure it out. He just needs some help. And in any case, people in this class ask their friends for help and talk through problems all the time. Although Pavel can't help but wonder why this guy chose him to ask.

A few minutes later, the professor starts to ask people for their answers. For question four, she points to the guy, who straightens up in his seat and says confidently, "Well, first I canceled out the exponents using the property of..." He goes on like this, eventually arriving at the final answer of log 343.

You didn't do that, Pavel thinks. I did.

Alarm bells go off in his head. He doesn't say anything, but he begins to worry that he's being Rosalind Franklin-ed.

He first learned about Rosalind Franklin in a biology class when he was nine. She was the first person to take pictures of DNA under a microscope back in the twentieth century. But then two scientists named James Watson and Francis Crick looked at the pictures she took and determined the double helix structure of DNA. And then they got the Nobel Prize for that discovery, and they were credited in science textbooks as the people who discovered the structure of DNA, even though all they did was piggyback on what Franklin discovered. What did Franklin get? Nothing. At least, not in her lifetime.

He admires Rosalind Franklin. A lot. But he doesn't want to succumb to the same fate as her.

Which would be all fine and dandy if he could help it. But over the next few weeks and months, every time this guy asks him for an answer—not can you help me with this, not I don't understand that, just the answer to copy down onto his sheet, followed by some empty affirmation like "How are you so smart?"—there's a strange, emotional side of his brain that actually feels special. It thinks, This person chose me to ask. He's the only person who's voluntarily talked to me this whole semester. There must be something important about me. And all the while, the rational side of his brain is banging pots and pans together and screaming, He's taking advantage of you! But the emotional side isn't listening.

So Pavel always gives the guy his answers. And the guy always copies them down, and he always takes credit for the answers that Pavel gave him, without having any idea how to solve the problems himself. He's passing the class and it's all Pavel's fault. He hates himself for it.

So the next time the guy asks him for an answer, he snaps.

"Listen. We both know you're not going to give me any credit for the answer, even if I did tell you. We both know you're not really my friend. You're only pretending to be. But you're really just taking advantage of me because I'm smart, and I'm young, and you think that makes me an easy target. But I'm not going to be an easy target for you anymore. I'm not going to let myself be Rosalind Franklin-ed. So leave me alone. Please."

His hands are shaking and his voice has gone up an octave and his face is so red that it feels like it's on fire. Tears are welling up in his eyes and he doesn't know why, and he's choking up a little but he wishes he wouldn't because it makes him sound like even more of an easy target. He faintly registers the expression of shock on the guy's face—god, he's never even bothered to learn the person's name—and hears that the entire class has fallen silent at his words. Great. As if he needed any more attention.

Before he can stop himself, he does something he's never done in his life. He gathers his things and walks out of class, straight to his dorm. And once there, he lies facedown on his bed and says nothing more.

That was a mistake. He's sure of it. He shouldn't have done that. The entire class will be whispering about it. He's wanted people to know his name, know who he is, but not like this.

University is sucking so far. He wants to go home. He doesn't know why he ever thought this would be a good idea. He wants to stay in bed all day, all week, all year—but he knows, at the bottom of his heart, that that's not a viable solution. No matter what, he's going to have to go back to that stupid calculus class sometime. And he'll have more work, more assigned reading, more papers, more tests. And once he finishes that, once he works his butt off through the wee hours of the night to get his A, what's his reward? More work, more tests.

It never ends. It never ends. Once he's done with college, he'll either have to get a job or go to a higher-up university somewhere. And that's just more work. More stress. He shouldn't even have all this stress anyway. He's twelve. Most twelve-year-olds are in seventh grade, playing with Nerf guns and watching Battles for the Cosmos and discovering the fact that romantic attraction exists for the first time. And where is he? In university, getting way more stress than it's worth. He just wants all this to be over.

And for the rest of the day, Pavel lies on his bed and cries.