What to Say Next(18)

“David! David!” José says, and waves his hands in my face so I have no choice but to stop and pause the music on my phone. This encounter will throw me off schedule, which means that there is little chance of Symphony no. 36 in C ending just as I slip into my seat in physics. Damn it.


JOSE′ GUTIERREZ: Glasses. Brown hair, center-parted. Unibrow. Second-smartest kid in school, after me.





Notable Encounters


Ninth grade: Wanted to borrow my notes after he was out sick with the flu. I gave them to him, and he said, “Thank you,” and I said, “Well, I assume if I’m sick, I can borrow yours, though I don’t really get sick,” and he said, “Everyone gets sick. It’s basic biology.” And I said, “I mean, I really don’t get sick often,” and he said, “Okay.”





Friends


Aaron C. because they run Physics Club together.



“David!” José says for a third time, though by now it’s obvious he has gotten my attention.

“Please don’t ask me to join the Academic League again. You’ve asked me twenty-six times already and I’ve said no twenty-six times.” I volunteer this information.

“Twenty-seven times, actually. This will be twenty-eight,” José says, and inexplicably remains standing in front of me, blocking my way. “Will you please join the team?”

“No,” I say. Had it been twenty-seven times? It’s unlike me to miscount. Math is not my chosen field—I’m more interested in the sciences—but I like accuracy.

“We need you. There’s a big meet coming up against Ridgefield Tech, and they are really good. Name the mathematician who proved the infinitude of prime numbers.”

“Duh. Euclid.”

“See. You’d be perfect.”

“Did you know Einstein said the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting a different result?” I ask.

“I’ve heard the quote, but Einstein didn’t say it. In fact, most of the quotes attributed to him in nonscientific contexts are misattributed.”

“Really?”

“Yup. And I’ve thought about it, and realized that since each time I ask you it’s one more time than the last time, it’s not doing the exact same thing over and over again, and so there is, at least, a small possibility of a different result. Hence, I’m not insane. At least not because of this.” José delivers his monologue to my left shoulder. “Also, do you believe in the multiverse?”

I blame Kit and her asking me about quantum mechanics and making me think anything can happen, because for a second I imagine it: me up on a stage and Kit in the audience, me answering question and after question, saving Mapleview from defeat at the hands of Ridgefield Tech. Kit impressed by my vast knowledge of thermodynamics and aroused by the size of the trophy I’ll invariably take home. When talking trophies, size totally matters.

“Yes and yes,” I say.

“Yes you’ll join the team and yes you believe in the multiverse?”

“Yes,” I say again, and then José smiles and I realize I have something new to add to his description in my notebook. How could I have not noticed until today that he wears braces with pink fluorescent rubber bands? I hope that distraction doesn’t affect my performance.

—

Later, after school, I watch Kit walk to her red Corolla. Her hand shakes as she takes out her electronic key fob to open the lock. It’s not that cold out, so I assume this tremor is most likely due to anxiety. We have two tests tomorrow, world history and English literature, and she missed yesterday’s classes. I was relieved to see that she didn’t flee campus again today. Things are better when she’s at school, just across the room, no farther than fourteen feet away. I liked her being there even before she started talking to me.

I consider calling out. Breaking Miney’s rule. My notes would be helpful, and certainly superior to whatever her friends have passed along. But no. Miney knows what she’s talking about. Better to rely on the laws of comparative advantage and outsource my social decisions.

“Hey!” Kit calls out, and I look behind me to see who she’s talking to. Probably Justin or Gabriel. “No, dummy. You!”

“Me?” I ask. I examine the context of our interaction. She’s not being literal. Dummy may even qualify as a term of endearment here.

“Yeah. You need a ride home?”

My car, a 2009 Honda Civic hatchback with 93,875 miles, is parked, as it is every day, two rows over and six spaces behind hers. Spot number eighty-nine. I don’t need Miney to know what the right call is here.

It’s not even a real lie. People use the words want and need interchangeably all the time.

“Yes, please,” I say. “I need a ride.”

—

“Explain again the theory that consciousness survives death? Because that doesn’t sound like science to me. That sounds a lot like religion,” Kit says, checking that my seat belt is fastened before pulling out of the lot. She drives with her hands gripped at ten and two, and she flicks her attention to her rearview mirror every five seconds, as suggested by the guide handed out by the DMV. My mom, who taught both me and Miney to drive, would be impressed.