What to Say Next(35)

Me: Let’s go now.

David: Now? But…physics.

My hand raises in the air, an impulsive move, and I talk without waiting for Mr. Schmidt to call on me.

“I’m going to the nurse,” I say assertively, like I’m not asking for permission. I pack up my books and my computer and walk out the door, my brain still a few steps behind my legs. Better make good use of my one short life.

I leave it up to David whether he wants to follow me.





If I hadn’t gotten Miney’s makeover, I could have just walked right out. Slipped through the door without a single person noticing. Now, because of new clothes and three fewer inches of hair, I need to come up with an excuse, a lie, because I have shed my cloak of invisibility. Of course I’m following her. That’s not even up for debate. There’s just no way I could stay here and finish out the remaining forty-two minutes of this period staring mournfully at her empty chair. Also, Gabriel is sitting next to me in all his olfactory glory and I can’t bring myself to ask about my missing notebook. It’s gone. Stolen. I feel it nearby, though, like a phantom limb. I’ve decided not to worry. Surely they’ll read the first page, realize it’s not full of history or physics notes, and then give it right back. No harm, no foul.

“Mr. Schmidt? I need to…” I make a mental note that next time I will think of my excuse before I raise my hand. He’s looking at me. No, not just Mr. Schmidt. The entire class. Again. “I need to empty my bowels.”

I say it loudly and with confidence, which Miney claims is the key to a good lie. Sounding like you believe it yourself. There is laughter, but it holds a different quality than usual. It doesn’t sound like breaking glass. It sounds collaborative. Could the change be a result of my haircut and new clothes? Nah. I may not like my classmates, but they can’t be so stupid that their opinion of me could be swayed by something as inconsequential as my appearance.

“TMI,” Mr. Schmidt says, which I know from Urban Dictionary means too much information, an expression that makes little sense to me, because my defining ethos is that there is never enough information. That’s how one gets smarter. “Go, Mr. Drucker.”

He points to the door, and though it doesn’t fit my cover story—I’m a terrible liar—I throw my backpack over my shoulder and run.

—

I find Kit in the school parking lot, standing in the middle of the road with her head back and her arms outstretched.

“It’s snowing,” she says. “Can you believe it?”

I nod because I can believe it. Last night, when I checked my NOAA Radar Pro weather app, it said there was a seventy-two percent chance of precipitation today between the hours of one and five p.m. It’s twenty-six degrees.

“Sorry to make you skip. I just thought—” She doesn’t finish her sentence, just lets the words trail off into the air. Sublimated into another form, like snow to fog. I reach over and catch a flake just before it lands on her cheek.

“Did you know that it’s not mathematically impossible for two snowflakes to be identical? They’re made up of a quintillion molecules that can form in various geometries, so it’s just highly improbable.”

“A quintillion?”

“Picture a one and then add eighteen zeros.” She shrugs and I don’t think she pictures it. Which is too bad because the image of a quintillion looks just like a line of poetry. “The point is it’s totally possible. Unlikely, of course. The chances are like one in a gazillion. Which is not an actual number but an exaggerative placeholder, but you get my point. It’s possible.”

I look at the falling snow. Wonder if any of these flakes have a twin somewhere, if they have somehow defied the odds. Here’s the thing about making a friend that I didn’t understand before I started talking to Kit: They grow your world. Allow for previously inconceivable possibilities.

Before Kit, I never used the word lonely, though that’s exactly what I was. My mind felt too tight, too populated by a single voice. I don’t like excessive noise or light or smell, which are the inevitable by-products of human interaction, and yet my consciousness—that which will hopefully survive my inevitable death—still longs for personal connection. Just like everyone else’s.

It’s basic physics, really. We all need an equal and opposing force.

Kit stares at me, and I stare back. Eye contact usually feels like an ice headache. Just too much, too fast. Sharp and unpleasant. With Kit it feels like the first few seconds on a roller coaster, all gravitational force, no escape, pure thrill.

I am nervous. I keep talking.

“There’s something comforting about the thought, isn’t there? That even something crazy like that—two identical snowflakes—can actually happen? I think about that sometimes when I’m upset.” She flashes her perfect smile at me, which isn’t perfect, not really. Her third tooth from the left is slightly chipped. But it’s literally breathtaking, and so I stop talking because I don’t want to activate my asthma.

“Everything is so unbelievably shitty right now,” she says, even though she’s still smiling. “I can’t even begin to tell you how shitty.”

I nod. I don’t know what to say to this. I want her words to match her face or, maybe to a lesser degree, vice versa. A tear escapes out of the corner of her eye, and she wipes it away, fast.