My eyes drift down the wet road. If I don’t leave now, I’m going to miss the bus. Toby and his study partner have a revision session planned, so our place will be in full Arctic-mode, complete with soft-rock radio and the occasional maths problem that a leery Viljami will bark at me, apparently in an attempt to catch me in a mistake.
I gesture at the space beside him. ‘Can I sit?’
He leaps up quickly. ‘Of course. Ah, just wait one sec.’
He fishes through his bag and emerges with a crumpled piece of black fabric. He folds it in half and places it on the wet bench.
‘Thanks,’ I say as I sit, somewhat primly. The material is soft velvet, thick and plush. ‘Do you carry this around in case of emergencies?’
He perches on the very edge of the seat. ‘Well, you never know when your expertise might be called upon,’ he says, enigmatically.
I clasp my hands in my lap. He is sitting several handspans from me, a relatively safe distance away. He unsticks a wet maple leaf from the side of the bench and twirls it in his long fingers. In the brief time I have been aware of this boy, I don’t think his hands have stopped moving.
‘So today was an odd day,’ I say experimentally, not prepared to give voice to any of my formless theories just yet. ‘Admittedly, there have been times when I’ve hoped for a fissure to open up beneath the Arts building and suck us all into oblivion, but this morning was … unique?’
‘I heard,’ he says evenly. He holds out his hand, and a sprinkling of red maple pieces flutter to the ground. ‘Sounds eventful.’
‘Eventful. Sure, that’s one way of putting it.’ I fix my eyes on him, but he seems to be intently scouring the ground. He reaches down for another leaf but freezes midway when I drop my bag with an annoyed thud. ‘Another way would be to say that someone constructed an elaborate prank. A pointless elaborate prank, because if it was aimed at anyone in particular, the recipient has no way of knowing that she or he was the target.’
His eyes flicker to mine. ‘It didn’t sound like a prank. It sounded like someone went to some effort, although, now that they think about it, maybe they’re worried their motives could be considered … questionable?’ His eyes remain on me, more direct than flighty. His cheeks are pink, though that could just be a result of the chill evening air. ‘And if the recipient chooses to remain in the dark, well, does that make it any less clever?’
I stare openly back. I don’t know what comes over me, but I feel suddenly reckless, bolder than I have all day. ‘I’ll admit, it was technically adept. But fire isn’t miraculous alchemy. Our Palaeolithic ancestors managed to figure it out, and those guys found the wheel confusing.’ I shrug. ‘There are plenty of people who could have pulled that off.’
‘Oh really?’ he says. He turns, facing me straight on. One eyebrow is raised, his mouth turned up at the corner. I believe the descriptor for his expression is incredulous. ‘Explain it then, if it’s so simple?’
I rarely have the occasion to feel smug, you know, on account of the whole freak-brain thing. But Joshua’s expression makes the cogs in the corner of my head start to whirr. I narrow my eyes.
‘Potassium permanganate and glycerine can induce spontaneous combustion, or maybe sodium chlorate and sulfuric acid with a sugar starter, although that probably would have burnt a hole in Ms Heller’s fingers. Obviously it used some sort of incendiary chemical or compound that reacts with oxygen and possibly friction, or home-made flash paper of some kind –’
He is grinning widely at me, his dark eyes sparkling even in the fading light.
‘You know that pyromania is considered an impulse control disorder?’ I blurt.
He leans back. ‘Wouldn’t know. Fire doesn’t really do it for me,’ he says lightly. ‘It’s kinda show-offy. Even if you could, say, stand in the middle of a tornado of fire and, you know, the gallon of hairspray on your head didn’t melt your face off.’
I frown at him. ‘That’s very specific?’
He chuckles. ‘It’s a David Copperfield thing. You know, the Vegas guy? Too much make-up, permanent git-face.’ Joshua folds his arms on his bag and rests his chin on his hands. ‘But maybe the thing itself isn’t what’s important,’ he says, that small glitch in his voice making an appearance again. ‘Maybe the how isn’t the point.’
I find myself staring at his perpetual-motion hands, which are now tapping a rhythm against his school bag. I test, and discard, a few questions before settling on the most pertinent problem.
‘So, all right, theoretically then, why would someone do that?’
Joshua shoots me a brief side-eye, and suddenly I’m not at all sure if I want him to answer.
I stand up quickly. ‘Um, I should go. Home, I mean. I should go home now.’
He stands as well, and digs his hands into his pockets.
‘Okay. Sure. It’s late.’
‘Yes. Late. I’ll see you,’ I say with a half wave as I head towards the main gate.
‘Sophia?’ he calls out.
I turn around again, compelled somehow by the odd urgency in his voice. He’s still standing, fidgeting with the brim of his cap. He pushes it up slightly so that his eyes are exposed.
‘Yes?’
‘The how is easy,’ he says in a rush. ‘The how is just a Google search, a bit of library research or whatever. It’s not the most important thing. The why … the why is much more interesting. It’s the question, isn’t it?’ He smiles and gives me a brief, shy wave.
I leave him standing in the drizzle as I walk to my bus. I’m thinking about questions, and I’m thinking about fire. But in all the calculations that my brain is capable of factoring, I think I may be overlooking a few very relevant variables.
CHAPTER SEVEN
The extra dimensions in string theory
I arrive at school the next morning with a new, fluttery feeling of anticipation. I want to attribute it to this morning’s Physics class, because today we are starting a unit on particle accelerators, and really, who wouldn’t be excited. But then I find my eyes drifting down the year-twelve corridor. And I realise it’s possible that I am, in fact, assigning my anticipation in totally the wrong direction.
After morning break I have double Biology, where I take my usual front-row seat. I think I’ve been a bit preoccupied at recess. Part of my brain was focused on Elsie’s description of this Rosalind Franklin documentary she watched last night, the rest sliding sideways into untested territory.