The Absolute Value of -1, page 4
Thank God above I’d stuck around an extra few minutes talking to Noah, or I swear, I might have heard them climax.
| chapter 6 |
On junior high track, Jake and Hank were the best milers, by far—at least, to me. Pretty early on during my first season on the team, it became obvious why they were on the track team: when it came to the team members who didn’t give any portion of a shit, Freeman was completely blind. Every day, after stretching, Freeman sent us milers up into the Hills, which is my neighborhood, for our own special run. We didn’t even have to warm up with the short-distance gang. There was this very circuitous route, up hills and down hills and around huge loping curves . . . It was boring enough to put you into a coma as you ran it. Or so I’ve heard.
Melanie and Robin lived for it. The fact that the two of them—opposite in nearly every way: her beautiful, charming, well loved; him scrawny, acne-ridden, outcast—became friends by running this route every single day together I suppose makes it a fairly magical mystery tour. But for normal people, it was hell. Or it would have been, if not for one saving grace—the one that Jake, Hank, and I (and eventually Simon) began to take advantage of.
Once we long-distancers were on our way, Freeman’s attention was focused on the 400s, the 200s, and the 100s. As long as we waved to him after our run on the way to the locker room, he would wave back and all would be hunky-dory. In other words, Jake, Hank, and I (and eventually Simon) never ran the whole route. Not once.
“Lily, Lily, Lily,” Jake said as he put an arm around my shoulders. We’d just started our first long-route run of the season—my first ever. This was probably the second week of track practice; before this, we’d stuck to the track itself. Melanie and Robin were already up the first climb, and I guess I was pretty obviously betraying my dread. “I don’t know about you, but Hank and I are not running all that distance.”
“We might pull something,” Hank explained. He shook his head. “Nothin’ doin’.”
With one arm still around me, Jake led us down a different side street, very nicely downhill and into the other side of the school’s campus, past the tennis court and fully out of view of the track.
Before us was the district-run nursery school. It was, if my understanding was correct, essentially for working and single mothers who had to deposit their children someplace but couldn’t afford day care or a nanny. Behind it was a swing set. Jake hooted and released me, then threw himself into a swing.
Hank laughed and took the swing beside him.
“Are you guys serious?” I said, looking around, half expecting Freeman to throw a clipboard at my head at any moment. “The coach will kill us.”
Jake waved me off. “Oh please. That man is entirely without a clue.”
Hank nodded sagely. “Indeed.” He reached into his sweatshirt pocket and pulled out a pack of cigarettes.
“Oh come on,” I said as he lit one. “You have got to be kidding me.”
That really had them rolling all four eyes as far back in their heads as they would go.
“What?” I said in reply to their obvious disdain. “I joined track to get in shape, not to get into worse shape and kill myself.”
“Ha,” Hank said. “If you wanted to kill yourself, I’d just say go run the hurdles.”
Jake got up from his swing as Hank handed him a cigarette. He walked over to me and lit it. “Besides, Lil— can I call you Lil?—you joined this team for one reason and one reason only.”
Yes. My hypothetical argument was about to come true, and I knew I’d lost it before it had started.
“You’re in love with Simon,” Jake and Hank finished in unison.
I think I betrayed the truth with a smile, which had them both in stitches. When they’d recovered, I hit Jake, and Hank handed me a cigarette.
“Oh, no. I don’t—” But I took it, and I smoked it— or tried to. Those two boys practically had to carry me back to the locker room, though, once I finally inhaled any of it. I got pretty seriously light-headed. Of course, that just made the whole charade look more convincing to Freeman as the three of us walked by and waved. He was probably proud of me for giving it my all.
As my guides deposited me outside the girls’ locker room, Jake whispered in my ear, “Simon is going to love you.”
I watched the two of them—hysterical—make their way into the boys’ locker room, but I couldn’t quite bring myself to enter the girls’.
While I was standing there, the short-distance crew came ambling in, along with Melanie and Robin. My stomach tightened as I realized it would have appeared to anyone that we beat them, two of the best runners on the team.
Robin headed into the boys’ locker room, and Melanie walked over to me. She twisted her mouth into this So disappointed, but not surprised look. “You’re friends with Hank and Jake, huh?”
I shrugged. “I guess.”
“That’s too bad,” Melanie said.
Then she walked past me and into the locker room. Well, if you hate them, I thought, I must be doing something right.
I crossed my arms and thought about going home without changing.
| chapter 7 |
Ms. March collected our first paper in November.
“A paper,” you say, “in math?”
Why, yes! That, my dearies, is the real thrill of Research Honors Math, 1 through 4: the research itself. Why let the history fans have all the fun?
On a Thursday in November, Ms. March held me after class to talk to me about the paper. She sat at her desk and I stood across it from her. In her hand was my paper, but I couldn’t see the grade. She opened with, “Do you play an instrument, Lily?” My paper had been called “Circular Functions and Circle of Fifths: Applications of Trigonometry in Music.”
“I did for about a second. Flute,” I replied.
“Well, this is really great,” Ms. March said, looking up at me and smiling. “It really is. Honestly, Lily—it’s college-level stuff. I’m so happy.”
I’d spent a lot of time on it, so I was pretty pleased. Mainly, though, I was happy to have proved myself as a math whiz again. I wasn’t leaving this program; my whole future—the one where I finally put my Mary Janes back on—depended on it.
“Thanks,” I said.
She kept smiling up at me, shaking her head. “You do know I’m thinking Math Fair with this, right?”
“Oh come on,” I said. “It’s not a new topic. I mean, everyone talks about the math of music. It’s like a thing.”
“It’s new from someone in tenth grade, and put so beautifully.” Ms. March stood up and handed me the paper. Then she snapped her briefcase shut. “You know the whole point of RH is to help students see the aesthetic beauty in mathematics, Lily, and you’ve done that on your own.”
She ushered me out, locked the door behind us, and walked off. I finally looked down at the paper in my hand. I wasn’t surprised to see the A, but it still felt great.
Why, then, did I skip Ms. March’s class the very next day? I guess I figured I’d earned it. She had given me an A, told me I was the best student she’d ever had in her life, and that I was ready for graduate study. One missed class wouldn’t hurt, especially a Friday.
Wait.
I’m doing it again. The hypothetical argument creation matrix was in full effect, and that was my half of the rationalization hypothetical argument.
Some truth: I skipped because when homeroom was scheduled to start, I was leaning against my favorite tree behind the high school, with the head of my favorite boy in my lap, and my fingers in his hair. Plus I had a very nice buzz on.
None of us moved much or said anything for probably an hour. We were pretty stoned. When the fog cleared a little, but not enough so I could think really straight, I looked up at Noah.
“What happened to your eye?” I asked him. He had a really wicked black eye. If he’d gotten into a fight at school, I definitely would have known about it.
“My dad popped me good last night,” Noah replied. He got to his feet pretty quickly and started bouncing a little.
“That’s ’cause his dad is a class-A fuckwad,” Simon said. I had thought maybe he had fallen asleep. His eyes were closed and he hadn’t moved in forever.
“Whatever, I don’t care,” Noah said. He pulled his bowl out of his pocket and packed it. Then he changed the subject. “There’s a party at Kyle Aaronson’s tomorrow night. Goody told me about it.”
He passed the bowl to me and I took it, but I didn’t hit it anymore. I was ready to come down, so I just passed it to Simon. “Do you wanna go?” I asked, and though I’d been talking to both boys, I was really asking Simon.
Noah answered in the affirmative, and Simon ignored the question. Instead, he asked for the time.
I checked my watch. “Second period starts in ten minutes,” I said. Simon leaned forward and sat up, leaving my fingers with no hair to be in. They suddenly felt cold.
“Okay, I’m going in,” Simon said, slowly getting to his feet.
Simon and I had second period together—social studies with Mr. Hillenbrand. I got up too, and Simon turned to look at me. “You coming, Lil?”
“I guess, may as well,” I replied coolly. And we walked together across the traffic circle and into the school. Simon felt off, though. Not just high—sad. Normally I would have taken his arm, but I didn’t. Still, it was nice to just be walking with him, talking to him.
It was during that class that Simon got called to the principal’s office. He wasn’t in school the rest of the day, and believe me—I looked for him. I wanted to bring him to that party so bad. I was sure that me and Simon plus some beers and a lot of people we don’t like very much would end in a very good night kiss. But when Saturday night rolled around, I hadn’t seen him or spoken to him since he’d looked at me with a question in his eyes and I’d shrugged back before he’d headed to Gilliard’s office.
Yeah, I tried calling him on Saturday, but I got his family’s answering machine or something. I’d only ever called his house like once before in my life, and I was probably around thirteen at the time. Looking for French homework, probably—something ridiculous like that. So when his dad’s voice came through the phone, calmly reading back the phone number I’d just dialed, I hung up.
Noah, of course, called me.
“So are we going to this party?” Noah asked. “’Cause I’m definitely going. I have some shit to sell.”
I clucked my tongue. “Have you heard from Simon at all?” It was already almost ten thirty.
“Naw, that guy’s a slacker. He’s not going to any house party, believe me.”
I didn’t respond right away. My hypothetical argument creation matrix instead kicked into gear, and I—in a matter of seconds—decided Noah didn’t know Simon like I did, and that this Saturday night would be the one I’d imagined. I had no doubt at all for just an instant—long enough to agree to go with Noah to this party.
So I did. It didn’t take me long to get ready; the faster I moved, getting into my favorite baggy jeans and that Kittie T-shirt over a white thermal, the less I thought about my decision to go out. A tip from the hypothetical argument creation matrix: once you’ve won, move fast; this is very sensitive, very precarious material. You have to handle it like C-4 on Alias or something.
Noah was at my house in no time at all, and I called out to my mom, “I’m going out. I won’t be late.”
I don’t think she heard me. To be honest, I don’t think she was sure I’d even been home at all. Come to think of it, I’m not actually sure she was home.
Kyle Aaronson’s house is in my neighborhood. He’s a junior, so it’s not like he’s a friend of mine or something. He’s also not at all my type of person. He’d never stoop low enough to join track, or concern himself at all with the aesthetic beauty of mathematics. Nope. He, you see, was popular. He had a tremendous amount of teeth in his smile, which he showed often.
Noah talked a lot on the way to the party, but aside from that, he really wasn’t acting like his normal self. He was definitely nervous, which is pretty normal, I suppose; but he also had this cocky thing going—forced cocky.
“I’m meeting like fifteen people at this party,” he said as we headed up Wren Court. Kyle’s house was up at the top of this cul de sac, on a weird little circle. The party was already going on, that was obvious. Every inch of curb in the circle had a car parked on it—mostly SUVs. The juniors and seniors at our high school are notorious environmental catastrophes, for real.
“I have more weed on me right now than I’ve ever carried before, I think,” Noah went on.
I rolled my eyes. “That’s great. When the cops show up to break up this party, I don’t know you.”
They did. Show up, that is. But I don’t want to leave you in suspense, thinking Noah’s ending up in jail or something. No one is getting arrested or shot or anything in this story. The only wounds in here will be emotional, I promise.
We went straight around to the back of the house. Most house parties around here take place out back, at full volume, with kegs. I don’t know why it always takes so long for neighbors to call the police. I mean, it’s always pretty obvious where the underage drinking is going on. Plus, hey, free pot dealer to bust, no extra charge.
Anyway, the keg, on the back deck, was being well manned by one of Kyle’s football or baseball or something cronies. He had a big neck and, as we walked up, farted loudly.
“Whoops, didn’t know there was ladies present,” he said. Then he turned to Noah. “Apologies, madame.” His buddies got hysterical all over themselves. Noah tried to force a laugh. I just glared.
“Cups are five bucks,” the thick-neck said as his smile turned into something like the face a silverback gorilla makes from behind the glass at the monkey house. Noah paid for mine, too.
“That guy’s an asshole,” Noah said as we walked away, sipping our foam.
“Everyone here is an asshole,” I said. I looked around, craning my neck, hoping to spot Simon. Of course, my hypothetical argument creation matrix had by this time shut down for the evening. Here, in the cruel dark of night, surrounded by people I didn’t like, or know, or like to know, it hit me that Simon would never—EVER— come here, especially with someone other than me and Noah. And we were already there.
“Anyway,” I went on. I noticed Noah was looking around a lot too. “They were making fun of me as much as you. He meant I’m not a lady.”
“Whatever,” Noah said. He touched my arm a second. “Look, I’m going to talk to Hilly a second. He’s right over there. I’ll be right back.”
And he left me, standing there, near the back shrubs of goddamn Chez Aaronson, holding my beer. Alone.
Three senior girls who looked pretty much like I’d like to stood in a small group nearby. They were smoking, and they didn’t seem like the kind that would sneer at me.
“Um, can I bum a cigarette off you, please?” I said, leaning a little way into the trio.
They did glance at each other, conspiratorially. But girls do that—so I’ve heard. And the tallest one, who had a serious retro hairstyle and an insane number of earrings, gave me a Marlboro Light. “Sure,” she said. Then she lit it for me. “Are you here all by yourself?”
“No,” I said, inching away a little. I hadn’t really meant to strike up a conversation or anything. “My friend is just a douche bag who left me standing here.”
I looked over at Noah, and the three of them followed my eyes.
“Noah da Stonah?” one of them asked.
I rolled my eyes and sighed, exhibiting the embarrassment I didn’t even realize I had. “Yes.”
But they didn’t laugh at me. “Does he charge you?” the tall one asked. “I bet he doesn’t. Are you guys fucking?”
Seriously, it’s not like I’m a prude or something, but I almost fell over. It was just so out of the blue, you know? I don’t even really curse that much. Plus, gross. “No, God,” I said when I got my voice back. “It’s not at all like that. But no, he doesn’t charge me.”
“She’s hooking up with that freckled guy,” another one of the girls said. “Suzanne Fisher’s little brother.”
The other two leaned back and said a long “Ohhhhh” together.
“No, really, we’re not,” I replied, putting up my hands, and I accidentally dropped my cigarette. “Shit!”
“It’s okay,” the tall one said. “Here, take another. I steal them from my mom anyway.”
“Thanks,” I said as she lit a new one for me. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t even worry about it.”
When I put my cup to my lips and nothing was left, I realized I’d been very quickly draining it as I stood there.
“Um, I’m going to get a refill,” I said, happy for an excuse to make myself scarce from this conversation. “Thanks again for the cigarettes.”
“No problem!” they said together, waving. After I turned around and had walked a few steps away, I heard them laugh a little and then go back to a loud but unintelligible conversation.
Noah found me at the keg. My second beer was already half drained. “Simon’s not coming,” I said when he walked up to me.
“Which is what I told you,” Noah replied. I looked down and noticed he was rolling a joint. “Stick out your tongue.”
“Gross,” I said. “Lick it yourself.”
So he shrugged and licked the paper and sealed up the joint, then twisted the ends. Then he handed it to me. “Your honor.”
I took it off him and he lit it for me as I puffed at it.
“Hold it, Lily!” Noah said, accusingly, like I’d never smoked a goddamn joint before. Seriously, the tiniest puff of unsmoked smoke escapes your lips, and Noah is ready call the goddamn pot police or something.
