Love and Other Unknown Variables (10 page)

3.2

I
t continues to rain. Not gentle rain, but wake-you-too-early-with-thunder-and-wind-slamming-against-the-windowpane rain. When we get to English on Monday, Ms. Finch is sitting by the windows in the back of the classroom. The syllabus on the board is a unit on short stories, which will be painful, I’m sure, but at least they’re short.

A streak of lightning reaches for the ground outside, making her flinch. Forgetting we aren’t speaking to her, she asks, “Does it rain like this often here?”

The class stares back at her, careful not to shake or nod our heads.

She sighs, her chest rising as she fills her lungs with the silence. “Right.”

Another flash draws her attention back to the window. “Anyone familiar with the poet Robert Frost?” She doesn’t pause for an answer, but continues, “Normally, kids learn about him in American Lit. However, since you’re
obviously
not normal kids, you may have no idea to whom I’m referring.”

She places a hand against the windowpane. “‘Something there is that doesn’t love a wall.’” She turns and assesses our faces, her lips pressing together. “It’s from ‘Mending Wall,’” she says in exasperation. “In the poem, two neighbors meet each year to mend the gaps in the fence between their properties.”

We look uninterested, but sweat prickles along my brow. Too much talk of walls and barriers. When are we going to get to the short stories? I can’t believe the lesser of two evils at this juncture is a short story.

Ms. Finch strolls up the center aisle toward her podium. “Literature is different from math and science because we don’t always have one correct answer. So I ask not what are you keeping out,” she says, turning to face us, “but what are you holding in? The answer will be different for each of you.”

This time it’s impossible for most of the class to keep up the disinterested façade. Every one of us is searching for the answer to her question. Ms. Finch’s keen eyes are on me. She’s made a gap in the wall. She’s made her way in, just like Charlotte predicted.

And she knows it.

---

G
reta grabs my arm above the elbow as we leave Ms. Finch’s classroom. She steers me past my locker, which is far too close to Finch’s office, and around a corner before letting go.

“Something’s going on.”

“What?” I swallow a chunk of anxiety wedged in my throat. I still haven’t said anything about Charlotte, and with each day it gets harder to keep it to myself, but equally as difficult to find the words to explain her.

“Finch is acting weird.”

Yes. In my experience, this is true.

James leans against a locker beside me. “Naw. She’s just worn down. Teachers like to make an impression and all that crap.” He shrugs his massive shoulders. “She’s just bummed she’s not making a difference in our lives.”

I nearly pass out from the exertion of holding up all the irony. Ms. Finch just so happens to be making an enormous impact on my life.

Because Ms. Finch couldn’t pass up some stupid opportunities, she moved herself and her little sister here. As a result, said little sister (and her tempting long legs) have practically moved into my house, making it impossible for me to go a day without discovering something new that intrigues me—things that I must study more in depth. God help me, I love a problem to solve.

Greta’s shaking her head though. “No. It’s something else. I’m not the only one. Some of us were talking about it in—”

“Mr. Hanson,” Dr. Whiting, our principal, interrupts, his loud voice cutting through the chaos of the busy halls. “Just the young man I was looking for. A word?” He nods in the direction of his office and takes off without waiting for me.

Greta and James exchange a look, but before either of them says anything, Dr. Whiting turns around. “Actually, Miss McCaulley, please join us.” He nods once at James before spinning on his heel again.

James turns a deep mahogany, but he rolls his eyes and grins. “Later, suck-ups.”

Greta swats at him before grabbing one of the straps of my backpack and pulling me after her.

“Have a seat,” Dr. Whiting says, pointing to a set of uncomfortable-looking red chairs in front of his massive desk. He runs a hand down his tie, straightening it along his barrel chest. I keep my backpack on, perching myself on the edge of my seat.

“I asked you here because I wanted to discuss a pertinent matter with you both.” He gives us what I’m sure he thinks is a soothing smile, but since his canines are prominent, it looks more like a snarl. “As our top students, you two are paragons at Brighton. The other students look to you for guidance.”

I try not to snort because they aren’t looking for guidance. They’re looking for weak spots to exploit so they can be top of the class—chinks in my armor like Charlotte Finch.

Dr. Whiting leans back in his chair, his hands behind his head; his elbows jut out, reminiscent of less than and greater than symbols. “We on the staff are all aware that Brighton has a reputation where the humanities are concerned, chiefly our literature classes.” He pauses to let that sink in, still reclined like a sleeping puma ready to shred our skin when we least expect it. Greta and I steal glances at each other. Her face has gone so pale even her freckles have disappeared. “Unfortunately, that reputation is starting to spread into the STEM community. I will not be a laughing stock. I’m expecting both of you to be the kind of leaders Brighton deserves. The kind of leaders I can feel good about standing behind when universities come calling.”

He drops his arms and leans forward to turn a picture frame around on his desk. “Mr. Hanson, this may interest you.” It’s a picture of a young man and a younger Dr. Whiting at a graduation. MIT banners are unmistakable in the background. “That’s Devon, my son. Graduated a few years ago. And let’s see…” He turns to the bookshelves along one wall and points to another picture. “My daughter Annabelle is there now. In fact, she’s one of Dr. Bell’s research interns. You’re a fan of Dr. Bell’s research, if I’m remembering correctly?”

My ears are on fire and the heat has dried out my mouth. I’d choke if I tried to answer.

“You must be proud,” Greta says beside me.

He looks her straight in the eye. “As proud as a Stanford man can be.”

Holy mother of batshit. He’s passive aggressively threatening us. Greta’s number one university choice next year is Stanford. And MIT has been a plot point on my straight arrow lifeline since I was ten. The fire in my ears spreads to my whole body, scorching my insides so that I fight the urge to scream and run away.

Greta is cool, though. She just smiles and nods. “You needn’t worry, Dr. Whiting. Charlie and I are committed to our studies. Just the other day, we were commenting on how much more agreeable English is this year because Ms. Finch is trying her hardest to help us relate it to math and science.” She nudges my knee with her own. “Right, Charlie?”

“Uh,” I cough to clear my baked throat. “Yes. Books are fun.”

Greta groans imperceptibly.

Dr. Whiting smiles as he stands and comes around his desk, his arms open. We stand and he takes each of us by a shoulder. “That’s just what I expected to hear. You should also know that I have other, particular, reasons for wanting Ms. Finch to have a smooth year here.” He walks, tucking us under his arms, to the door of his office. With a final squeeze he pushes us gently out the door. “I’m glad we’re all on the same team.”

---

G
reta rages the whole way home. She pulls strings of curses out of her mind like she’s unraveling the universe’s favorite sweater. James is in freak-out mode.

“How does he know? Who ratted?” He’s dented the kinky curls on both sides of his head, squeezing it tightly between giant palms, so his head now looks oblong, like an egg.

“He doesn’t know dick,” Greta says. The sound of her voice is a fierce growl in her throat. “How dare that pompous, meddling…” She continues to unwind another mile-long thread of swear words.

I agree with Greta. Dr. Whiting doesn’t know we’re actively doing anything to harass Ms. Finch. Probably because we’re passively harassing her. In the past, seniors were a bit more up front about their distaste for literature. And the thing is that Dr. Whiting didn’t do much to stop them.

Brighton recruits students from all over the state. The facilities are immaculate, the teachers are top in their fields (at least math and science), and the students are indulged like rock stars. Normally, our more displeasing attributes are overlooked in the name of status quo. That status being that Brighton produces some of the brightest minds in the southeast and therefore has very generous donors. I’m not sure why this year is different, but something is going on.

“What’re we going to do, guys?” James is rolling his head from side to side on the back of the seat. “I’m the one who dragged you into this, but I had no idea Whiting would—” He smooshes his hair again. “What do we do?”

Greta looks at me and I’m reminded of a story her father loves to tell about her great-great-great-grandfather who was a street fighter in Ireland. He saved every penny from his fights and bought two tickets to America on the earliest steamer. Then he went to his favorite girl’s house and proposed. I’ve even seen a picture of him, his arm thrown around Greta’s great
3
-grandmother.

Greta gets her looks from granny, short and curvy with fair, freckled skin and fiery hair the color of a bonfire at full blaze, but the fierceness in her eyes that burns brighter than the fire of her hair is from her impetuous, street fighting great
3
-grandpa.

“No one threatens Greta Lynn McCaulley,” she says through gritted teeth. “We carry on.”

“But—”

“We. Carry. On.”

3.3

C
harlotte is curled up on the couch in my living room with a single light on when I get home. The steady rain has begun to rumble with thunder like Smaug waking from his sleep.

“Don’t you ever go home?” I ask, flopping down on the chair adjacent the couch.

She closes the book in her hands and I can see Shakespeare’s face peering out from the cover. Yes, I know who Shakespeare is. No, I haven’t actually read any of his plays.

“Who wadded up your panties and shoved them down your throat?” she asks, sitting up.

I mentally gag on that unpleasant image. “Ew, Charlotte. Just. Ew.”

A smile snakes across her face.

“Seriously, why are you always here?”

She hugs the book to her chest and picks at the binding. “I like it here. Gotta problem with that?”

I shrug. “Are you fighting with your sister? Something is up with her and I don’t think it has to do with a bunch of math geeks ignoring her. Is she sick or something?”

Charlotte sits up straighter. “She’s not sick.”

“Okay, then what?”

“I don’t want to talk about Jo.”

“Well, neither do I, but my principal felt the need to drag me into his office this afternoon and threaten me if I mess with her.”

Charlotte sinks back into the cushions, curling in on herself like smoke in a vacuum.

“Spill. Why not go home, Charlotte?”

“What home?” Charlotte’s voice drowns under a roll of thunder. “My sister’s house? My stupid, selfish father’s house full of sad memories and empty bottles?” She stands, clutching her book. “What home, Charlie?” Her cheeks are flushed and I have to look away to ignore the way her ragged breathing is rattling her very bones.

I stand, too, but I’m afraid to move closer to her, afraid she’ll move farther away, like an electron repelled by one of its own kind, which strikes me instantly as strange because Charlotte and I seem so different. How can we be made of the same stuff? I pitch my voice low, in yet another attempt to keep her from skittering away. “I don’t understand.”

“Neither do I. I can’t explain what I don’t even understand in my own head. I just know that when I’m here,” she gestures to the space between us, her hand fluttering like a flame about to be guttered, “I
am
home.”

I unintentionally take a step away from her, surprised by her admission. It’s what I thought I wanted, but it scares me, too. Charlotte looks away, swiping at her eyes with the back of one hand.

When a beautiful girl says you are like a home to her, you should swoop in and kiss her or something. Not leap away. I try to bridge the fissure opening again between us. “Am I like home?”

“I don’t know, Charlie. Are you going to let me in?” Her glare is a paradox in itself. It freezes my heart, but ignites other parts. It’s like I’m constantly being torn in two whenever I’m around her. It’s inevitable. I snap.

“Me?” My voice cracks on the word. “You’re the mystery woman, asking about theoretical cats and refusing to explain what’s going on with you and your sister. You lay all this shit out at my feet, but don’t bother to explain any of it. What am I supposed to do?”

There is a tiny moment where I can see past the seething anger in her eyes. One tiny moment when I can see something else—fear, confusion, hunger, maybe even hope. But then it’s hidden again, deep below Charlotte’s surface.

She spits the words, “Figure it out, genius,” at me before turning to leave, but I step in front of her.

“I’m trying to, but you need to let me in, too.”

“Don’t tell me what I need to do, Charlie.” Her voice wavers, sad and angry tones tearing each other apart in her throat. “I’ve got enough people telling me what to do.”

“I’m not telling you what to do. I’m asking you to let me in.”

“What if I can’t do that?”

“Then why should I care?” This I ask as much for myself as her.

Charlotte’s intake of breath is quick and sharp, like I’ve plunged a syringe of adrenaline into her chest.

“I thought we were friends,” she says, her voice breathless.

“If we were friends, you’d trust me enough to tell me the truth.”

Her eyes waver, and I think I’ve done it. I think I’ve cracked her code. But then she shakes her head, crossing her arms over her chest, a universal sign she’s done talking.

I want in. Why won’t she let me in? I’m helping her. I’m—tired.

“I don’t need this,” I say, and every atom in my body feels how wrong it is, but I turn away from her.