Then we start the next chapter, The Language of Nature. It’s another simple read, about quantities, measurements, and units, understanding time, length, and mass, and a basic introduction to the SI system.
It takes us more than an hour to finish. Leo stretches his arms over his head with a low sigh.
“So, Mr. Zloban Bennett,” he says with a grin, “let’s see how much you learned. What’s the difference between a quantity and a unit?”
I think for a moment before answering. “A quantity is what exists in the real world like the length of this table, or the time it takes to reach from the door to this seat. A unit is how we choose to describe it, in meters, seconds, kilograms.” I pause, tapping my pen against the paper, then add, “Quantity is nature. Unit is our translation of it.”
Leo smirks. “If two people measure the same event, and one records ten meters while another records thirty-two feet, who’s correct?”
“Both,” I answer easily. “They’re using different words to describe the same truth.”
Leo nods. “Okay, last question, why is physics called the language of nature?”
“Because nature doesn’t speak words,” I answer quietly, my gaze drifting to the pendulum on the table where a student is playing with it. “It speaks in patterns, ratios, and relationships. When a pendulum swings, it’s not talking, but its timing tells a story. Mathematics is the grammar of that story.”
Leo’s brows lift, impressed. “I didn’t tell you all this.”
“I concluded,” I say simply.
He grins. “Okay, let’s move to the next chapter.” He picks up his water bottle, shakes it, and frowns when it’s empty. “I’m going to fill it. You can start the next chapter.”
I nod, already turning to the next page. How Scientists Think.
The first page talks about curiosity, questioning everything, and building logic from observation. I turn the page when suddenly someone snatches the book out of my hands.
I look up. Two boys, both around Leo’s age and height, are standing in front of me. One of them smirks. “This is our desk, boy. Get lost.”
He throws my book onto the nearby desk. My jaw tightens. I clench my fists but shake my head.
The boy in front laughs and slams both his hands on my desk.
“I’ll ask nicely one more time,” he says, leaning closer. “Get lost.”
I shake my head again.
His hand shoots forward, gripping my collar, yanking me toward him. “Pretty boys don’t shake their heads,” he sneers.
I grab his wrist and shove it away from my collar. His face turns red, eyes narrowing, brows furrowing in fury. He’s angry.
His fist comes flying toward my face, but I tilt my head back just in time. My own fist follows through, landing squarely on his cheek. Leo often takes me to practice fistfights with him, I’ve learned this from him.
The boy in front of me grits his teeth and tries to grab my collar. I catch both of his hands and hold them back. The other boy comes from behind, grabs my neck, and pushes my head down on the desk. My chest hits the edge. They hit my back, but I don’t feel anything.
I try to push them away, but they’re stronger. They pin me down.
“Two against one. That’s cheating.” Leo’s voice comes.
The weight on me disappears. I lift my head and see many students crowding around us. Leo is fighting with the boy who hit me first. The other one tries to attack him from behind, but I circle around the desk, grab his arm, and twist it around his neck. With my other hand, I hit him in the side. He yells, “Let me go!”
“What’s going on here?” A man’s voice comes from the doorway.
Everyone freezes. The students quickly scatter back to their desks. A man about Dad’s age stands at the door.
“You four, come out,” he orders.
He takes us to an office and sits behind a large wooden desk.“Who started the fight?”
The boy who attacked me first points at me. “He did.”
