“The power rule,” Olivia recited, flipping her phone open. “The derivative of any given variable (x) to the exponent (n) is equal to product of the exponent and the variable to the (n-1) power.”
I just looked at her. “Exactly right,” Gervais said, beaming. “See? Olivia gets it.”
Of course she did. Olivia was apparently a whiz at calculus, something she had neglected to mention the entire time we’d been sharing our lunch hour. Now that Gervais had joined us, though, they were in math heaven. That is, when they weren’t talking about one of the other myriad, inexplicable things they had in common, including but not limited to a love of movies, the pros and cons of various college majors, and, of course, picking on me.
“What exactly is going on with you two?” I’d asked her recently after one of Gervais’s visits, which I had spent alternately struggling with the power rule and sitting by, open-mouthed, as they riffed on the minute details of a recent sci-fi blockbuster, down to the extra scenes after the credits.
“What do you mean?” she asked. We were crossing the green. “He’s a nice kid.”
“Look, I have to be honest,” I told her. “He likes you.”
“I know.”
She said this so simply, so matter-of-factly, that I almost stopped walking. “You know?”
“Sure. I mean, it’s kind of obvious, right?” she said. “He was always hanging around the theater when I was working. Not exactly slick.”
“He wants to be friends with you,” I told her. “He asked me to help him do it.”
“Did you?”
“No,” I said. “But I did tell him he could help me with my calculus at lunch. And that you might, you know, be there.”
I kind of spit this last part out, as I was already bracing myself for her reaction. To my surprise, though, she seemed hardly bothered. “Like I said,” she said with a shrug, “he’s a nice kid. And it’s got to be tough for him here, you know?”
Ah, I thought, remembering back to what she’d said to me about having things in common. Who knew Gervais would count, too? “Yeah,” I said. “I guess you’re right.”
“Plus,” she continued, “he knows nothing is going to happen between us.”
“Are you sure he knows that?”
Now she stopped walking, narrowing her eyes at me. “What?” she said. “Do you think I’m not capable of being clear? ”
I shook my head. “No. You are.”
“That’s right.” She started walking again. “We both know the limits of this relationship. It’s understood. And as long as we’re both comfortable with that, nobody gets hurt. It’s basic.”
Basic, I thought. Just like the power rule.
Calculus aside, I had surprised myself by not only keeping up my end of the deal I’d made with Jamie but actually feeling slightly confident as I sent off my applications back at the end of January. Because of ongoing worries about my GPA, I’d done all I could to strengthen the rest of my material, from my essays to my recommendations. In the end, I’d applied to three schools: the U, Cora’s alma mater and one town over; a smaller, more artsy college in the mountains called Slater-Kearns; and one long shot, Defriese University, in D.C. According to Mrs. Pureza, my guidance counselor, all three were known to take a second look at “unique” students like myself. Which meant I might actually have a chance, a thought that at times scared the hell out of me. I’d been looking ahead to the future for so long, practically my entire life. Now that it was close, though, I found myself hesitant, not so sure I was ready.
There was still a lot of the year to go, though, which I reminded myself was a good thing whenever I surveyed what I had done so far on my English project. One day, in a burst of organization I’d hoped would lead to inspiration, I’d spread out everything I had on the desk in my room: stacks of notes, Post-its with quotes stuck up on the wall above, the books I’d used as research—pages marked—piled on either side. Lately, after dinner or when I wasn’t working, I’d sit down and go through it bit by bit waiting for that spark.
So far, no luck. In fact, the only thing that ever made me feel somewhat close was the picture of Jamie’s family, which I’d taken from the kitchen and tacked up on the wall, right at eye level. I’d spent hours, it felt like, sitting there looking over each individual face, as if one of them might suddenly have what I was searching for. What is family? For me, right then, it was one person who’d left me, and two I would have to leave soon. Maybe this was an answer. But it wasn’t the right one. Of that, I was sure.
Now, I heard Harriet call my name, jerking me back to the mall, and the present. When I looked up, she was waving me over to the kiosk, where she was standing with the reporter.
“This is my assistant, Ruby Cooper,” she said to the reporter as I walked up. “She had on that necklace the day I hired her, and it was my inspiration.”
As both the photographer and the reporter immediately turned their attention to my key, I fought not to reach up and cover it, digging my hands into my pockets instead. “Interesting,” the reporter said, making a note on her pad. “And what was your inspiration, Ruby? What compelled you to start wearing your key like that?”
Talk about being put on the spot. “I . . . I don’t know,” I said. “I guess I just got tired of always losing it.”