Mom opened her eyes and burst out laughing.
I said, “Got spontaneity on the calendar for next Tuesday.”
She doubled over again, letting out a snort. I joined her and we laughed until the nurse called my name.
TWO, FOUR, SIX, EIGHT, WHO’S GONNA HELP ’EM GRADUATE?
SAMANTHA!
SAMANTHA!
SAMANTHA!
THREE, FIVE, SEVEN, NINE, AND SHE WON’T FORGET THE LINE!
ANXIETY!
ANXIETY!
ANXIETY!
I did it, though. I wrote the speech, and transferred it to notecards. I’d prefer to memorize it without any resource, but, you know. At least I’m not going to read it off a paper like some kind of amateur. I went with an “overcoming your obstacles” theme. I’m digging it. Some highlights, for posterity (as in, at least someone should be able to experience this if I have a repeat blank-out on the stage this coming weekend and have to be carried off like an invalid):
“I think it’s easy to group all the factors that get in your way into one big wall: money, race, sexuality, relationships, health, time. These are the forces we supposedly have no control over, that conspire against us. But we’ll never get over them if we look at them that way. As we grow older, we have the opportunity to learn where exactly these obstacles find their root.
“If we keep learning about the history of our obstacles, we will have the opportunity to dig the poison out of the world. We will have purpose. Whether the obstacles are individual, like a disease, or bigger than that, like a societal injustice, once we clear one, we have room for hope.
“Optimism does not have to be blind.”
Et cetera.
I just wrote the speech that I would like to hear, you know? After listening to Dr. Clarkington tell me that I might start declining more rapidly, I kind of, just… I don’t know. I wanted to write about optimism. I wanted to write the speech I need.
Because honestly, who’s to say that I won’t improve?
We can’t eliminate that as a possibility.
I could get way better instead of getting worse. Is it likely? No. Is it possible? Absolutely. I mean, just getting this disease in the first place was against all odds. One in one hundred fifty thousand. Was that likely? No. I have a hot boyfriend who is a published writer. Was that likely? No.
Not much is likely. Anything is possible.
PDA
I’m at dinner with Stuart (well, technically I’m in the bathroom on my phone—I couldn’t wait to record this). Over Vietnamese food, we got into a disagreement about whether the formation of capitalism was an inevitable part of human nature.
When it got so heated that I banged on the table, lifting the hot sauces a centimeter out of their brackets, Stuart said, “Sorry. I didn’t mean to argue.”
He looked actually worried, as if I would storm out or something, and took my hand across the table. “You’re really torn up about this,” he continued. “We should stop.”
He looked so cute. He was wearing a blinding-white button-down that brought out the best brown in his skin and the lights in his eyes.
I leaned across the table and whispered, “Are you kidding?” I hadn’t argued like that since before Nationals. I could feel my cheeks full of blood and heat, and my head was still climbing all over his position, scrambling to spar with a worthy opponent. “This is the most romantic thing we could possibly do.”
“Really?”
“I want to…” I looked around. The place was full to capacity with chattering families. “I want to make out with you in the middle of this restaurant.”
Stuart leaned back in his chair and raised his eyebrows. “Then do it,” he said, daring me.
So I did.
I mean only for a few seconds. But I did it.
LAST FINAL, LAST DAY OF SCHOOL
I drew a blank.
It was not as huge as Nationals, but all of a sudden, in the middle of an equation, I forgot what I was doing. And again, Future Sam, it was so strange because, yes, I was confused and upset, but there was also this sort of loopy happiness that made no sense, like I had just woken up from a long nap. And again, I almost laughed or smiled or something at the absurdity of it. Like, huh, what did I come in here for? What was I doing? Was I multiplying something? Huh, well, la-di-da.
As the fog cleared, I retraced my steps. I went back to the beginning of the problem and tried it again. But I couldn’t keep track of where among the numbers I went astray. I couldn’t reroute without erasing everything and starting completely over, and I didn’t have time for that. I was panicking.
So I cheated. I thought of which of Coop’s methods would work, and I really, really cheated. I made sure no one was watching, I licked my thumb, and I moved it across the ink of the next problem until the numbers were unrecognizable.