I push down the panic. The calculator itself is not the issue; I have one in my backpack. It’s the algos I really need. Without his calculator, I’ll actually have to spend time trying to figure out where he struggles with math.
I look at his hands again. His eyelashes. And I think maybe that wouldn’t be so bad, spending some extra time with this one.
“It’s okay. I think I have mine.” I reach for his trig book instead, hoping it will give me some insight into where we need to start. Books don’t usually work as well as calculators; something about paper is less … absorbent? And while kids struggle with their math homework, the book usually sits on the desk, oblivious to their frustration. A disinterested observer presenting a problem, not an active participant trying to find a solution. Calculators have witnessed the battle firsthand, clutched tightly in nervous fingers, wrong formulas entered, wrong answers given. They know. But sometimes, when I’m desperate, books will give me something to go on. I press my palms firmly against the cover and wait … but there is nothing. Not even a flicker. Given the fact that he needs a tutor, I’m guessing he either never opens his math book or it sits on his locker shelf 99.9 percent of the time and hasn’t had a chance to absorb the feelings that go along with his math frustrations.
“I’m sorry … I forget your name.” To be honest, I didn’t pay much attention when Mr. Haase told me about this kid. Blah, blah, blah, new to the school, blah, blah, blah, needs help with trig. Same story, different student. I think his last name is Bennett, but his first name was something weird …
“Zenn,” he says. His voice is like gravy. Like … melted peanut butter.
“Right. Zen. Like …” — I pinch my middle fingers and thumbs together and place them, palms up, on the table — “Buddha?”
“Kinda. But two n’s. Like …” — he makes a circle with each of his hands and overlaps them slightly — “Venn diagram.”
Oh, lordy. He’s using math analogies. I think I’m in love.
“That’s an interesting name.”
“Yeah.” He nearly snorts. “I have interesting parents.”
“Ha. Who doesn’t, right? I’m Eva. Like …” — I put on my gangsta voice and hold my hands in what I can only assume is a gangish symbol — “you neva met a girl named Eva?” It’s the kind of thing a girl trying to be pretty probably wouldn’t do. But we’ve already established that I’m way too cool to worry about such things.
He full-on smiles now, with both sides of his mouth. I can’t tell if he finds me amusing or if he’s a little embarrassed for me.
“Neva Eva,” he says. His gangsta voice is much more street than mine.
I blush, even though it’s not like he said I was cute in a hot-librarian sort of way. I’m not sure why I blush, actually. I look down at the trigonometry book and stammer, “I, um, I’m named after évariste Galois? He was a French mathematician.”
“Ah. So I must be in good hands, then. Mathematically speaking.”
I blush a little more at the mere mention of hands.
Good lord, what the hell is wrong with me? I’m turning into Charlotte!
I stall, trying to think of how else I can figure out where he’s struggling with math. I think Mr. Haase said he does okay on tests but rarely turns in his homework, which makes me think he’s either cheating on the tests, or he’s lazy. But his hands are not the hands of a lazy guy.
Crap. Without the algos to help me, I have to rely on my people skills, which I’ve already mentioned is not my strongest skill set.
“Is there something in particular you’re having trouble with?” Asking someone what they don’t understand is kind of pointless, but I’m not sure what other tack to take.
Zenn doodles shapes on his notebook paper. I can’t seem to tear my eyes away from the tip of his pencil or the hand that holds it.
“Time management,” Zenn offers, and I look up. His mouth is quirked in that half smile and I can’t tell if he’s joking. “Well, that, and graphing amplitude and period cosine transformations.”
Aha! Now we’re talking. I grab my pencil and draw two axes on my paper. “That I can help you with.”
I work through a problem, catching his eye occasionally to make sure he is not distracted, but his eyelashes end up distracting me. I lose my train of thought twice.
Jeez. Pull it together, Eva.
We get through a couple of problems but I feel inefficient without my calculator visions, like I am wasting his time. I plod on, reminding him more than once to bring his calculator next time.
When our half hour is up, he stands and stretches, thanks me and grabs his book in one of his rugged hands.
“See you next week, cleva Eva.”
I’m starting to wonder if my flushed cheeks will ever cool off. “You bet.”
You bet? When did I start saying you bet? Weird.
He’s already out the door and down the hall by the time I notice that he’s left his jacket behind. I grab it and I’m halfway across the room when the fractal hits me hard.
Chapter 3
Holy shit.
They usually don’t come that fast or that hard. Even fractals usually creep up slowly, like a migraine, and then spread like when your hand has fallen asleep and starts to regain feeling one tingly bit at a time. But this one, it does not creep. It does not tingle. It hits me like a cement truck of inky-black lightning bolts, a crimson hurricane, and I am on my knees on the linoleum floor before I even realize what caused it.
I toss the jacket away from me like it’s covered in tarantulas. I was so hypnotized by Zenn’s cute-without-trying looks and charm-without-effort manner that I picked up his coat without thinking. Like a normal person would.
I rub my forehead and find it slick with a fine layer of sweat. For a second I think I might throw up, but the wave passes. Eventually I stand again.
That one was nothing like an algo. It was a full-out massive whack of a fractal, a chaotic, messy jumble of dark feelings as heavy and real as my dad’s fifteen-passenger church van. Nothing specific, nothing clear. Just the weight of a concrete block on my chest.
This is why I don’t touch people’s stuff. Even really cute people’s seemingly harmless stuff.
I hook his jacket on the toe of my boot and kick it back toward the table. I’m in the process of trying to lift it, with my foot, back to its spot on the chair when I hear the door open behind me.
It’s him, isn’t it? I know it’s him.
I try to think of how to make this — me balancing on one foot with his coat dangling from the other — look less weird, but my mind is completely blank. I kick the jacket back to the floor, lower my foot and turn around.
“I just …” I gesture lamely to the floor. “You forgot your jacket.”