The Impossible Knife of Memory(35)

Then I’d see Finn in the hall, or I’d catch a glance of his profile out of the corner of my eye while we were driving to school, and he would turn to me and smile. And I didn’t want to be a hermit anymore.





_*_ 41 _*_

He was waiting for me when I got out of detention on Friday.

“Rogak?” he asked.

“Diaz.”

We fell into step next to each other and headed for my

locker. “What did you do this time?”

“It wasn’t my fault.”

“That’s what they all say.”

“I just pointed out that calling it the ‘Mexican–American War’ falsely gives the impression that the Mexicans

started it, and that in fact, in Mexico they call it the ‘United

States Invasion of Mexico,’ which is the truth, or the ‘War of

1847’ which is at least neutral-ish.”

“You got detention for that?” Finn asked.

“Not exactly. Mr. Diaz, who really needs to work on his

anger management issues, yelled at me for disrupting his

class with what he called my ‘pedantic quibbles.’ Then this

idiot named Kyle lost it because he thought ‘pedantic’ meant

the same thing as ‘pedophile,’ and I sort of melted down a

little.” I handed him my books and dialed the combination

on my locker. “And I wasn’t being pedantic or quibbling.

Diaz was being an imperialist first worlder.”

“How do you know such a bizarre amount of history?”

Finn asked.

“Dad was a history major at West Point. I know more

about the fall of the Roman Empire than the Romans did.”

I lifted the latch. The locker didn’t open. I dialed it again.

“But that’s the wrong question. Ask why everyone else is so

pathetically stupid and why they’re always whining about

how hard American history is. Instead of getting detention,

I should get a medal for not slapping people in the face every day.”

The latch still would not open. I kicked the locker, remembering too late that I was wearing sneakers and not

boots.

Finn nudged me to the side and spun the dial. “You

whine about precalc.”

“That’s different,” I said, trying to stand casually on the

foot that wasn’t throbbing in pain. “The zombie overlords

numb our brains with math so they can implant their devious consumer-culture agenda in us.”

Finn pulled up the latch. My locker magically opened. “I hate you,” I said.

“I’m not being obtuse,” he said as he crossed his arms

over his chest, “but you’re acute girl.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It’s a math joke.”

I shoved my books into the locker. “‘Math joke’ is an

oxymoron, Fishhead, like ‘cafeteria food’ or ‘required volunteer community service.’”

“I think we should take each other to the limit to see if

we converge,” Finn said.

“Shut up,” I said.

“I’m flirting with you, Miss Blue, flirting in the perfect

language of calculus. It’s a sine I think you’re sweet as pi.

Get it?”

I paused. He’d said “flirt” twice. My detention rage

contracted into a small, spinning ball. Finn raised his eyebrows, waiting, maybe, for me to say something. What was

I supposed to say to an irritatingly good-looking guy using

stupid math puns to flirt with me in an empty hallway on a

Friday afternoon?

“You are the biggest dork in the history of dorkdom,” I

declared.

“Even though you have a mean value,” he said with a

grin, “one of these days I know you’ll want to integrate my

natural log.”

“Okay, that’s just awkward,” I said.

“Maybe,” he said. “But you stopped scowling.” “The library is closing in five minutes so you don’t have

to tutor me today.” I slammed the locker closed. “But can I

get a ride home with you?”

“Um . . .” He suddenly frowned and spun the dial on the

locker next to mine. “Yeah . . . about that.”

“What? Is your car dead?”

“No.” He lifted the latch to check if he had broken in.

He hadn’t. “I was thinking maybe we could do something.

Together. Do something together.”

“Now?”

“Well, yeah. Now.”

“Like what? Write another article?”

“Um, no.” He jiggled the locker latch again. “I was

thinking more like a movie. Or maybe we could go the

mall.”

“A movie or the mall? Are you asking me on a date?” “Not quite.” He brushed his hair out of his eyes. “What

was that word you used at the game? ‘Anti-date’?” “Yeah, an antidote to the stupidity of dating. An anti-date by definition can’t be a brain-dead movie or a spirit-crushing trip to the mall.”