Love and Other Unknown Variables (9 page)

How’s that for a metaphor, you old hag?

2.9

I
have to shower twice. The first time I don’t get all the mud out of my hair. I find some in my ear when I dry off. Shower v2.0 is much more successful.

Mud-free, I clear the steam from the bathroom mirror, double-checking my reflection before opening the door, my towel hanging low on my hips.

“Oh.” It’s the faintest of sounds, an inhalation more than a word, but it pounds in my ears like a gong. Charlotte halts on the top step, one hand over her open mouth. Her eyes roam over my torso, as one brow twitches upward.

I clutch at the towel wrapped around my waist with one hand, hitching it up and securing it in place, and try to casually drape my other arm across my chest.

“Sorry. I mean, don’t mind me,” Charlotte says, the words tumbling over one another in a rush to get out of her mouth.

“No. I mean. Why would I mind? I, uh…” I drift off and stare at her feet. I’m an idiot. I should have guessed Charlotte would be here. She spends most of her time at our house.

Mom and Dad love her. They love the way she makes Becca more like a normal teenage girl rather than the paper doll she used to be. I get the feeling they’d like some of that normalcy to wear off on me, but Charlotte’s different around me. We juggle lemons in a grocery store, hold hands in my kitchen, and argue over the logic of old movies…and then she shows up at Dimwit’s and lobs mud at my balls? What the hell? How am I supposed to know how to act around her?

It’s like I’m being tested somehow. I’d easily pass the test, if only I understood what she wants.

Charlotte chuckles and says, “I had to shampoo my hair four times to get all the mud out. I even had mud between my teeth. Why didn’t you tell me I had something in my teeth?” I peek up at her and see that she’s smiling, but her eyes are darting around like she’s looking for a safe place to rest them. Her gaze settles on her own feet.

“So, listen,” Charlotte continues without waiting for my response, “Becca and I are making pizza for dinner. We just picked up the ingredients. You want to help?”

I glance at her face for a second, but my own is so red I look back at my bare feet. “Can’t,” I say, “I have to be somewhere.” I take a few sideways steps toward my door.

“Right,” she says. “Of course.”

I peek at her again. She’s smiling this crooked smile with her full lips closed and hiked up to the left. I’d love to close the gap between us, just one step now, and kiss those lips. The thought hits me so hard that I begin to worry about the flimsiness of the towel currently hiding my growing interest in Charlotte Finch.

Don’t mind me, Charlotte, just pitching my tent here in the hallway.
You know the motto: thrifty, clean, brave, uh, I don’t know—I totally flunked out of Cub Scouts.

Once she turns back down the stairs, I fall into my room and close the door. Leaning my back on it, I thump my head softly against the wood. I’m in over my head. Trouble is that I’m not sure I want to surface again.

---

W
hen I get to James’s, Greta is already there. I can hear his deep laugh, and when I peek through the sidelights, I see them in the kitchen tossing bits of bread at each other, trying to catch them in their mouths. Greta lunges to catch one, and they both cheer.

I don’t want to intrude, and I know that’s weird because we’re all friends and I’m invited and—I don’t know. But James is looking at Greta like her athletic display of bread-in-mouth catching is the coolest thing he’s ever seen anyone do, and I don’t want to be the third vertex tonight. Without me, there’s no triangle. They get to be something entirely different. Adjacent points.

When I get home, I text a lame excuse.

I’m just in time for pizza.

Charlotte hands me a plate with a large wedge of pizza, the steam still rising from the cheese. She and Becca are at the table. Mom and Dad are perched on the stools around the kitchen island. Charlotte pats the chair next to her. We begin to eat in comfortable silence.

I take a bite of my pizza, immediately spitting it back onto the plate. “Hooooot,” I breathe, my upper palate cauterized.

“You okay, honey?” Mom asks, holding out a napkin for me, like a paper napkin is any kind of salve for fried flesh. I’m afraid talking would slough off the tender layer of skin I’ve singed, so I give her a thumbs up before waving away the napkin.

Charlotte hands me her water, saying, “This’ll help.” Our fingers overlap around the glass. Adjacent points.

The heat between our fingers is more intense than the molten cheese that just laid waste to my mouth. Dear god of numbers, help me, but I want to be burned alive right now.

3.0

G
reta and I are lab partners. As soon as Dr. Hale sets us loose to run our lab experiments the next morning, Greta says, “We need to talk.”

I freeze with my head in the storage cupboard, wondering, if I stabbed myself in the eye with this test tube, would I still “need to talk?” Probably.

I grab our supplies and set them on the lab table between us. “I’d love to talk about how we’re going to test Hooke’s Law on this rubber band.” I pull one of the rubber bands taut and let it loose. It flies across the room and lands in Misty’s hair. She doesn’t notice.

Greta gives me a why-are-you-so-dense look before pulling the equipment toward her on our table. She moves with speed and grace setting up the experiment. Once it is ready, she crosses her arms over her chest and snaps, “Happy? Now listen.”

“How’d you do that?” I nod at the elaborate set-up before me.

Greta shrugs. “About last night—”

“Yeah, sorry to bail, but I got home from Dimwit’s and was too tired to go out. I didn’t think you guys would mind.”

“I saw you. At the window. I saw you leave.”

I’ve wrapped a rubber band around my finger so that the tip is turning purplish. “I didn’t want to be in the way.”

“That’s stupid. You know that, right?”

“Of course I know that.” I release my finger from bondage. I can feel my heartbeat throb under the nail.

Greta grabs a rubber band from the pile on the table and aims it at me. “I mean it. Chances of me killing James are much less if he’s got a witness around. You’re doing him a favor.”

“Sure.”

“You don’t believe me?” She pulls the rubber band tauter.

I hold my hands up in surrender. “I totally believe you.”

Dr. Hale walks by checking experiments. “At ease, soldier,” he says to Greta. He rushes to help Jacob and Rashaad shouting, “Nonononono! Not like that, boys!”

We turn back to our own work. I appreciate what Greta is saying. It’s not like she and James throw their relationship in my face. They’re discreet.

But three is an odd number.

I want to tell her about Charlotte. I want to explain that I couldn’t hang out with James and her last night because for the first time ever I want what they have. Maybe. At least, I think I want what they have. I don’t know. I do know I want to kiss Charlotte.

That I know.

---

B
y the time I reach Mrs. Dunwitty’s house, my nerves are as knotted as the gray clouds looming over the pines. She’s waiting for me, as usual, on her front porch. When I get out of the car, she motions for me to follow her around to the back of the house.

“You’ve got to get busy if you’re planning on staying dry,” she’s saying as we walk to a small outbuilding made of windows.

“What’s this?”

“Greenhouse. My Darryl built it for me years ago.” She opens the door and we duck inside. “I keep my babies in here.”

The heat in the greenhouse hits me like a fist in my chest. The idea of Dimwit as the old witch in the candy house cooking up children feels about right.

Mrs. Dunwitty picks up a tray of young plants. “Harvest Moon roses. My own breed.”

I can tell she thinks I should be impressed from the way her eyes are lit from behind, but they look like plain old roses to me.

Dimwit purses her lips and shoves the tray at me. “Plant the roses, and don’t screw it up.” She waits for me to leave then turns back to the other plants.

Kneeling in the soil I tilled yesterday, I snatch a plant from the tray and wince as its tiny thorns bite into my fingers. I stare at the rose in my hand for a second and cram it in the hole I’ve dug.

“Christ, Charlie, a turkey could do a better job than you.”

I mumble to myself, “I’d like to see your ancient butt do a better job.”

She may be old, but her hearing is seriously intact. From three yards away, she hears me and counters, “My ancient ass had planted perfectly good roses before you drove over them.”

Should have said ass. Your ancient ass is some sweet alliteration. Or is it assonance? Crap. Ms. Finch is a bad influence.

I roll my eyes and attempt to push dirt around the prickly rose. The thorns lash out at me once again, drawing fresh blood. Frustrated, I swat at the beastly plant with the trowel.

“There you go again,” she says. “Messing it all up.”

Exasperated, I snarl, “Show me then. Teach me, Obi Wan.”

Mrs. Dunwitty snatches the trowel out of my hand and waggles it in my face. “All right, jackass. Let’s get to work.”

Kneeling next to me in the dirt, she lovingly lifts the rose out of the hole I’d shoved it in. Her nimble fingers brush the dirt off the roots. “These right here are the life of the plant. The soul.” She checks to see that I’m paying attention. “These hold the power to regenerate life year after year. This here is the beginning.”

She prepares the hole with compost and gently places the plant inside. She covers the roots with more dirt and soft, black compost. The plant is spindly now, but it has one big-faced flower open on it, a deep orange rose with petals smooth as velvet. Mrs. Dunwitty breathes in the scent of the rose and sighs.

“Nothing like it. Reminds me of my momma and her garden. Of late summer and fireflies and big orange moons hanging in the sky. That’s what a rose smells like to me.”

She rocks back on her heels, her face grimacing like something hurts. Getting old does not look fun.

“Funny how it works,” she says. “The scent of this rose is made from one chemical compound, but it smells differently to each of us.” She pulls off her garden gloves, stretching her long, dark fingers out to touch the rose. “It’s a rose, plain as day, but what I smell is so much more. Perception is a powerful tool.”

My mouth is hanging open out of pure shock. I know about plants and roots and growth patterns from botany classes, but this is something different. Something alive. This is poetry. Dimwit is a poet.

“Close your mouth, son. You’ll swallow a fly.” She stands, her joints sounding like a bowl of Rice Krispies. “How about you perceive yourself planting the rest of these?”

I watch her back as she shuffles to her rocking chair. She closes her eyes, and I guess she is remembering the smell of her youth and the big orange moon.

3.1

T
he clouds let loose as I pull into the driveway. I jog into the mud room, shaking off my wet jacket, and see Charlotte leaning on the kitchen counter thumbing through an MIT course catalogue that I had left out. I was inspired to finish my short answers after watching the movie with her (forty-seven days to spare), and am just waiting for all my transcripts, scores, and recommendations to come in before I double-check that everything is in order and hit send. Greta says she’s proud of me, but every time I think about it, I feel like I’ll puke or crap my pants or maybe both at the same time.

I push the application and MIT from my mind.

“Hey,” Charlotte says, smiling and closing the booklet. Her face looks pale with dark circles under her ocean eyes. “We need to talk.”

“Ugh,” I groan as I toss my keys on the counter. “I’m no good at talks.”

The half-smile on her lips makes my blood rush audibly past my eardrums. “Regardless,” she says, pulling me toward the table. “We need to talk.”

Charlotte sits at the kitchen table, her knees facing me with her ankles crossed and fingers intertwined in her lap. It reminds me of Mrs. Web, my third-grade teacher; nothing good ever came out of her mouth when she assumed this position.

I flump into a hard wooden chair beside her and fight the urge to put my head down on the table. “Okay. Talk.”

“I appreciate whatever it is you’ve been doing to drive my sister crazy.”

“You’re welcome.”

“But—”

I can no longer hold my head up. It thuds to the table.

“I was wondering if you could maybe do something else.”

“But this is working. You said this was working.”

“It was, but—”

“She’s miserable at school.” I lift my head.

Charlotte bites her lip and turns her face to look out the window. “I think that has less to do with you and more to do with me.”

She pauses, taking a deep breath and forcing a weak smile. “Look, Jo’s been acting as surrogate mom to me since our mother died fourteen years ago.” She shushes the condolences on my lips. “I don’t remember my mother.” Charlotte covers my hand with hers. “I’m only telling you to illustrate the depth of experience I have in the field of Jo-isms. She’s not going to give up on you because you ignore her. I’ve tried. She has ways of getting in.”

I’m looking at my dry, cracked fingers under hers as she continues to speak. Her fingernails are painted a pinkish orange, like the roses in Mrs. Dunwitty’s garden. I envision the tips of her rosy fingers tracing circles down the back of my neck just before I kiss her. Obviously, I’m not listening anymore.

Charlotte removes her hand and snaps her fingers in my face to awaken me. I feel my ears flame up. An apology tumbles off my lips. “Sorry.” Why am I always apologizing to this girl? Greta’d have a fit if she saw how easy it is for me.

“Me, too,” Charlotte says, her voice full of disappointment. She pushes away from the table and stands with her hands in fists on her hips. I can tell I’ve missed something during my daydream.

I stand to face her, even risk putting my hand on her shoulder. “Look, Charlotte, I want to help you. I think I mean that.”

She shrugs away from me. “But?”

I don’t want to hurt her, but I need her to understand I’m doing the best I can. “You don’t know me. You don’t know that I feel like I’m constantly teetering on a fine edge of madness and the only thing that keeps me balanced is focusing on a steady horizon. My carefully planned future is what keeps me sane—a future I’ve been working toward since well before I met you.”

Charlotte’s lips part as a breath hisses past her teeth.

“This is my future.” I pick up the MIT catalogue. “This is who I am.”

“Some ass puppet on the front of a brochure?”

A hybrid scream/groan gurgles up from my chest. “Why do you need my help?”

Charlotte looks away, her breathing ragged. “I need more time—”

“For what?”

Charlotte practically spits her answer in my face. “To figure my shit out.”

“See? I don’t know what that means.” Frustration, fueled by anxiety, is crawling up my spine. I don’t even try to keep my voice low. “We’ve all got shit to figure out!”

My outburst surprises us both. We’re inches from each other, too close. In the aftershock of my yelling, we each take a step apart.

“You’re right,” she says before she turns and walks away, rubbing at her eyes with the heels of her hands. “Just forget it. Forget the whole thing.”

The front door slams right about the same time the adrenaline washes over me with a wave of jitters so violent my skin crawls. Now that she’s gone, I feel like my entire future may hinge on the girl I’ve driven away.

Sighing, I follow her outside.

Charlotte’s legs extend from the top step of our porch into the rain. Rivers of water are running down those long legs and pooling in her sneakers.

“I shouldn’t have shouted,” I say, as I close the door behind me. She looks up at me with dull eyes, but doesn’t answer. I try again. “Will you be okay?”

She looks out at the gray rain and chokes on a bitter laugh.

I’m not sure if that was an answer. Should I leave her alone? Offer her a ride home? Stand here and recite pi to the thirty-fourth decimal?

“Sit with me?” she asks, her eyes still on the rain.

I lower myself onto the step next to her, trying to tuck my legs under me in some strange yoga pose to keep them from sticking out into the rain. It’s no use though. I end up losing my balance and toppling into Charlotte. I jut my legs onto the steps below and watch as the rain splatters on my pants, dark pinpricks that spread into thumbprint sized splotches.

Charlotte groans next to me. “Oh, God, Charlie,” she exhales. “I’m sorry, too. I know what I’m asking you to do is insane. You should just forget you even know me.”

“We both know that’s not possible.”

Charlotte’s eyes seem so much older, full of things I can’t understand. When she smiles, it doesn’t reach them. She wraps her hands around my arm and shakes me as she pleads. “Okay, don’t forget me, but please, don’t make me go home. It’s miserable.”

She drops her head on my shoulder and looks up at me. “Did you know Jo doesn’t allow sugar in the house? Has us on this horrible whole foods diet. It’s all antioxidants all the time. How’s a girl supposed to survive like that, Charlie?” She’s trying to be funny. I think. It feels so sad though that I just stare at her.

She drops her hands back into her lap.

“You can stay for dinner,” I offer.

The right side of her mouth pulls up a little. “You asking me to dinner?” Her shoulder nudges mine.

“No,” I say too quickly.

More silence as the rain continues to kiss the ground.

“Why don’t you and Ms. Finch get along?”

“Because I’m sick in the head.”

I think she’s joking, so I say, “Crazy teenager,” but her laughter feels wrong. My body shivers with the sound of it. Or, perhaps, I’m just cold. My pants are soaked and the fabric is wicking the cold rainwater toward my crotch. “Charlotte, is there something I don’t know?”

“Despite your IQ, I’m sure there’s plenty you don’t know.”

“That’s not what I mean.”

Charlotte watches the rain instead of me. My ears are feeling hot. Why won’t she just say what she means? Girls defy all logic. Or maybe I’m just incapable of understanding their brand of logic. I don’t know. What I do know is that I can’t sit here any longer, feeling the touch of her arm on mine and imagining her head resting on my shoulder. I hop up, wrenching myself from the closeness of her skin.

Charlotte grabs my calf. “Wait. I’m sorry. Again. Pay no attention to the foolish girl in the rain.”

We chuckle, but it’s hollow. I shift my weight from foot to foot and wish I’d been able to get Becca out here to help. I think I’ve only made Charlotte’s mood worse.

Charlotte tugs on the leg of my pants. “Where ya headed?”

Crap. Uh, wherewherewherewhere? Somewhere she’d never want to go. “Comic book store.”

“Take me?”

It’s a simple question. She wants me to take her to the comic book store. Right? Simple question = simple answer. Except what I say isn’t simple.

“Love to.”

---

C
harlotte may be beautiful and cool, but as soon as I get her into Comic Place, her true colors are out. Charlotte is a nerd.

She’s in love with every comic and graphic novel she touches. I’m surprised once again by the things we share—the things that move us both. We pour over the racks as she devours the colors, action, and shapes that move for her across the pages.

“Look at the lines in this one, Charlie,” she says, shoving another
Avengers
in my face. “Look at the expression on Hulk’s face.”

“Well, it’s hard being Dr. Banner,” I say, looking up from my book. She stops flipping through pages and looks at me with her brows pulled together. “He’s hiding a monster inside himself. Never sure when it’ll erupt and tear down, like, a city block.”

She looks back at the illustration. “I totally get that.”

I reach over and pull out a
Fantastic Four
, pointing to The Thing on the cover. “It’d be worse to be Ben though. All everyone sees is the monster.”

Her expression gets serious, lip clenched between teeth, eyes narrow, as she studies Ben.

“I feel his pain,” I say.

“Why?”

“Well, look at me,” I pause, frozen in her eyes as she looks at me. I swallow. “I’m a geek, right?”

“If you say so.”

“No. Everyone says so.”

There’s a half-smile pulling at her lips. “So, what you’re saying is that you are a geek on the outside, but a muscle head on the inside?”

“Sure,” I say, drawing the word out. We laugh. “I’m just saying, it’s hard to be anything but a monster, when that’s what everyone expects of you. Plus, we can’t all be gorgeous like—”

“This guy,” Charlotte says, pulling Thor off the rack and shoving his blond, muscleyness in my face.

I laugh. “I hate that guy.”

Charlotte puts Thor away, and takes the comic with The Thing. “I’d like these,” she says, handing the cashier an
Avengers
and my
Fantastic Four
. When we leave, she touches my arm. “Thanks.”

“For what?”

“For making me feel like less of a monster.”

On the drive home, I consider her from every angle. But any way I look, she’s beautiful.