High School Redux

High school felt like a lucid dream. I sat in AP Physics, watching Mr. Peterson explain concepts I'd used to develop quantum audio processing thirty years from now. The equations on the board were childishly simple compared to the algorithms that would power our neural production interface, but I forced myself to take notes, to look interested, to play the role of the seventeen-year-old I technically was.

"Mr. Johnson?" Mr. Peterson's voice cut through my thoughts. "Perhaps you'd like to explain to the class how wave interference applies to sound modulation?"

I almost laughed. I'd literally written the book on quantum wave manipulation in audio production – or would write it, in 2025. But that Marcus Johnson didn't exist yet. This Marcus Johnson was supposed to be struggling with basic physics.

"Uh, when two waves intersect," I started, deliberately keeping my explanation at high school level, "they can either amplify or cancel each other out, depending on their phase relationship." I stopped there, fighting the urge to dive into how we'd use that principle to revolutionize three-dimensional audio spaces.

"Very good," Peterson said, surprise evident in his voice. "Been studying harder?"

If he only knew.

Between classes, I walked halls that felt simultaneously familiar and foreign. Kids huddled around iPods sharing earbuds, marveling at technology that would be museum pieces by 2035. Conversations swirled around albums and artists I remembered clearly – both their public successes and the behind-the-scenes dramas I'd later be part of.

At lunch, I sat alone, using my phone's primitive notepad to outline the next thirty years. The challenge wasn't knowing what to do – it was figuring out how to do it without revealing what I knew. I couldn't exactly tell Beyoncé's team about musical trends that hadn't happened yet, or pitch streaming platforms to an industry still fighting Napster.

"Yo, Marcus!" 

I looked up to see Derek Matthews approaching – future Grammy-winning producer, but right now just another kid from the block. In my original timeline, we'd lost touch after high school. By the time he won his first Grammy in 2018, I was too busy running my empire to reconnect.

"You coming to the battle tonight?" he asked, sliding onto the bench across from me. "Heard Rico's got some heavy hitters showing up."

"Yeah, I'll be there." I studied my old friend's face, remembering the articles about his overdose in 2024. Another thing I could change this time around. "Actually, I've been working on something new. Different from anything out there."

Derek raised an eyebrow. "Bold claim. You finally figure out how to make that MPC sing?"

"Something like that," I said, thinking of the beat that would start everything tonight. In my original timeline, I'd created it by accident – a lucky combination of samples that caught Rico's ear. This time, I'd refined it with thirty years of production knowledge, subtly enhanced but not so revolutionary it would raise suspicions.

The afternoon classes crawled by as I planned. By the time the final bell rang, I had my strategy mapped out: start small, build gradually, use my knowledge to position myself without revealing its source. Success would require patience – letting certain innovations wait while laying the groundwork for others.

Walking home, I felt the weight of the future pressing against the present. In a few hours, I'd step into that warehouse battle, armed with knowledge no one else had. But first, I needed to make a few careful adjustments to that "first" beat.

Time to thread the needle between achievement and believability. To build an empire without anyone realizing I had the blueprints memorized.

Tonight, Marcus Johnson would begin his rise. Again.