A Northern Light(29)

Royal talked about farming as we walked. About the corn he and Dan were going to plant and how his father was thinking about buying some sheep. He talked steadily, never giving me a chance to speak. After a while, though, he took a breath, and just to say something, I told him I was going to college. I told him that I had been accepted to Barnard and that if I could only come up with some money, I would go.

He stopped dead in his tracks. "What on earth you want to do that for?" he asked, frowning.

"To learn, Royal. To read books and see if maybe I can write one myself someday."

"Don't know why you'd want to do that."

"Because I do," I said, annoyed by his reaction. "And anyways, what do you care?"

He shrugged again. "Guess I don't. Don't understand it, that's all. Don't see why your brother left. Don't see why you would. Your pa know you're planning this?"

"No, and don't you tell him, either," I said.

We had fallen behind my sisters and the cows, and it was no surprise when, halfway to the Uncas Road, they disappeared over a hill.

What was a surprise, though, was when Royal stopped suddenly and kissed me. On my mouth. Quick and hard. I didn't protest, I couldn't—I was speechless. All I could think was that kisses from boys like Royal Loomis were for girls like Martha Miller, not me. He took a step back and looked at me. He had an odd expression on his face, the kind of look Lou gets when she's tasted something I've cooked and is trying to decide if she can stomach it.

And then he did it again, pulling me to him, pressing his body against mine. The feel of him, and smell of him, and taste of him, made me warm and dizzy. His hands were on my back, pressing me tighter against him. And then on my waist. And then one moved higher and before I knew what was happening, he was kneading my breast, pushing and pulling on it like he might a cow's teat.

"Stop it, Royal," I said, breaking away, my face flaming.

"What's wrong?" he asked. "You saving them?"

I couldn't look at him.

"For who, Matt?"

And then he laughed and started back home.





mono ? chro ? mat ? ic


"No, no, no, Mattie! X is the unknown quantity. If it were known, you wouldn't need the X, would you? Jeezum, but you're making this hard," Weaver said.

I was standing in the middle of the highway, on the verge of despair, staring at the equation he'd drawn in the dirt.

"Figuring polynomials is just a matter of simplifying a bunch of values to a few. Just like boiling down a lot of sap to a little bit of syrup. It's easy, so stop being such a mule."

"Hee-haw!Hee-haw!Hee-haw!"'Jim Loomis shouted, running by us.

"I'm not being a mule. I don't get this, I just don't!" I cried, scraping my foot through the equation. We'd spent all week on polynomials, I still didn't understand them, and we had a test coming at the end of the week, a practice for our Regents exam. "I'm going to fail, Weaver, I know I am!"

"No, you're not. Just calm down."

"But I can't see how—"

"Hold on a minute, will you?" He chewed his lip and stared off down the road, tapping his stick on the ground.

"What are you doing?" I asked, shifting the books I was carrying from one arm to the other.

"Trying to think like a mule. If you want to explain something to a mule, you have to put it so the mule can understand."

"Thank you. Thank you very much."

"Look out, Mattie! Ben's coming!" Will Loomis shouted, running toward us.

"What? Ben who?"

"Ben Dover!" he yelled, knocking my books out of my arms.

"For cripes' sake!" I snapped, swatting at him, but he was already past me, hooting and laughing as he watched me stoop down and brush dust off my books.

"Here, Matt, listen," Weaver said. "Let's try a written problem. Maybe putting it in practical terms will help." He opened his copy of Milne's High School Algebra and pointed. "This one."

I read it: "A man earned daily for 5 days 3 times as much as he paid for his board, after which he was obliged to be idle 4 days," it said. "Upon counting his money after paying for his board he found that he had 2 ten-dollar bills and 4 dollars. How much did he pay for his board, and what were his wages?"

"All right. Think now," Weaver said. "How would you begin to solve it? What's your X?"

I thought. Very hard. For quite some time. About the man and his meager wages and shabby boardinghouse and lonely life. "Where did he work?" I finally asked.

" What? It doesn't matter, Matt. Just assign an X to—"

"A mill, I bet," I said, picturing the man's threadbare clothing, his worn shoes. "A woolen mill. Why do you think he was obliged to be idle?"

"I don't know why. Look, just—"

"I bet he got sick," I said, clutching Weaver's arm. "Or maybe business wasn't good, and his boss had no work for him. I wonder if he had a family in the country? It would be a terrible thing, wouldn't it, if he had children to feed and no work? Maybe his wife was poorly, too. And I bet he had..."

"Damn it, Mattie, this is algebra, not composition!" Weaver said, glaring at me.