Zenn Diagram by Wendy Brant
For Jimmy, Emma and Nathan.
Love you forever and eva.
Chapter 1
I hold Josh’s TI-84 in my left hand, press a few buttons just for show and wait for the vision to come.
The TI-84 is my favorite lower-end calculator. Not many teenagers have a favorite calculator, much less favorite calculators in different price ranges, but I’m super cool like that. My dream calculator is the TI-Nspire CX CAS Handheld graphing calculator with full-color display. I yearn for it the way some girls my age might obsess over a cute pair of boots.
Yeah. I’m into calculators like most teenage girls are into footwear.
Have I mentioned that I’m super cool?
But the appeal of the TI-84 is completely lost on Josh. From the looks of my newest tutee, I’d guess he uses it mostly to spell out upside-down words like hell (7734) or boobies (5318008). I doubt he appreciates the fact that it can do complex calculations faster than he can send a text. I glance over at his square jaw, his thick forearms, and then down at the calculator again. What a waste of a finely engineered piece of equipment — both Josh and the TI-84.
I type in numbers — 53177187714 — just to entertain myself while I wait. Some visions take longer than others and I often need to buy time while they gel, but Josh is too busy checking his phone to notice I’m stalling. Everyone is always too busy with their phones to notice anything.
We could have used the calculator app on his beloved phone instead, but if he’d asked (he didn’t), I would have insisted that we use the TI-84. The visions I get — I call them algos (short for algorithms: nerd alert!) — from his calculator tell me all about Josh’s math issues: where he’s struggling, what he gets and doesn’t get. They lay out a nice little road map for me to follow on our path to eventual trigonometry success. I wish I could take credit for being a tutoring genius, but the algos are the only reason I’m such a rock star (mathematically speaking). I don’t control the visions any more than I control the weather: it rains, I get wet. I touch the calculators, I get the algos.
Josh looks up from his phone long enough to notice the number word I’ve typed and he grins, probably surprised that nerdy math girl has a sense of humor. Sometimes it sort of surprises me, too.
“Hillbillies.” He laughs. “Classic.”
I nod and think about making a joke, but the familiar light-headed tickle has started, the vague dizziness and dull headache that signal the algo is close. I tense up a little, hoping it is just an algo vision and not the other kind. Usually the other kind won’t ease in so politely, but you never know. Once in a while a vision will start like an algo and then go all Jekyll and Hyde on me.
But this one stays mellow. I let myself relax into the familiar and almost soothing patterns, the unexplainable language of symbols and colors, and when I look up a moment later, Josh hasn’t even noticed the pause in conversation because he’s back to gazing at his phone. I set the calculator on the table, clear my throat quietly and reach for my pencil. The calculator algo gave me more information in just a few seconds than sitting with him for hours would have. I mean, I’m good at math and everything — awesome at math, actually — but without my little visions the process would be tedious. While I’m good at figuring out numbers, I’m not so good at figuring out people.
Coaches love me because I can get a flunking athlete eligible faster than you can say football scholarship. I can’t really take credit for it — I don’t cause the visions any more than I cause my own fingernails to grow. But I get the credit.
And of course the shit that sometimes goes with them.
“So, you drew the short straw, huh?” Josh says, putting down his phone and spinning his pencil across his knuckles with a flick of his thumb. I wonder how he learned to spin it like that, like a little yellow baton floating around his fingers. It’s quite impressive actually. I suppose it’s what he does in trig instead of paying attention.
“Hmmm?” I flip through his book, looking for the right section. His algo told me he’s just not grasping the idea of basic trigonometric functions: sine, cosine, tangent. Easy peasy. I feel a happy anticipation that I’ll get to unravel it for him. In the beginning I’m always optimistic that I can make everyone love math, like when you try to convince someone to watch your favorite TV show. Eventually I realize that my tutees are not usually the right audience for math appreciation, but in the beginning I am the master of hope.
“I suck at math,” he says apologetically. “Like, big ol’ legit bucket of suck.”
I shrug and try to offer some consolation: “I suck at football.”
He silently flips his pencil again as I find the right page. When I glance up, he’s looking down at the tabletop, the tips of his ears a little red, a small patch of pink on each cheek. If I didn’t know better, I’d say he looks embarrassed. Maybe even … ashamed. Is it possible for boys like him — football-playing boys with pecs and blue eyes and basketball shoes that cost more than my dream calculator — to feel embarrassed about not being good at math? I thought boys like him reveled in not being good at math.
Whatever the reason, he looks kind of embarrassed and any other girl might reach out, touch his arm to reassure him. But for me, touching his arm would unleash God-knows-what kind of shit storm, so I fold my hands carefully in my lap and try to reassure him in a different way.
“Lucky for you,” I say, my voice purposefully cocky and light, “I’m awesome at math. Wait till you see. You’re going to. Freak. The freak. Out.”
This makes him smile a little. His pencil stills in his hand.
I clear my throat. “Cosine,” I say, and start to copy a problem onto the paper. “It’s not just something your dad does on loans.” He laughs a little, the pink in his cheeks fades and we get to work.