And somewhere in the back row, Grandma Ruth Montgomery tightened her hands in her lap. She didn't understand a thing on that screen, but she understood the look on her grandson's face: he was ready.
But was he ready for what Caldwell had planned, or for what was about to go wrong with it?
Daphne raised her hand, just like Caldwell planned.
"Wonderful. Daphne, come on up." Caldwell's voice was warm, proud—the voice of a teacher watching her masterpiece unfold.
Daphne walked to the stage, picked up the marker, and faced the whiteboard. Three hundred people leaned in.
Daphne started writing. Step one: solid. Step two: clean. Step three: the setup for the final move.
Then she stopped. Three seconds of silence. Her marker hovered over the board. The audience held still.
Caldwell's smile tightened, just barely. She gave Daphne a small nod—the signal: Use the trick. Finish it.
Daphne didn't use the trick.
She went back to step three, drew a line underneath it, and started writing something new: a different approach, a modular arithmetic framework, clean variable transformation, boundary case acknowledged and solved. Miles' method, right there, on stage, in front of three hundred people.
Caldwell's face froze. Not anger, not yet—confusion. Like watching your own reflection do something you didn't tell it to do.
Daphne finished, put the marker down, and stepped back. Her answer was correct, but the method... the method was not what Caldwell had rehearsed with her. Not even close.
Caldwell recovered fast. Twenty-two years of teaching had given her that skill. She stepped to the microphone, smooth and controlled.
"Very creative, Daphne, but that's not quite the standard approach. Let me show everyone the more rigorous method."