The Meet-Cute Project

by Rhiannon Richardson

  I push away the jarring thought that there’s a possibility the wedding will be cancelled. It has only been a couple of days. Maybe Sam and Geoffrey need a little more time to cool down and they’ll find a way to move past it. They’ll have the wedding. We will all get to watch her walk down the aisle in her gorgeous dress and dance at the winter-themed reception, under fairy lights, with a fire going and pine-scented candles making us light-headed because they’re eating up oxygen from under Sam’s heated tent.

  All I have to do is get through this competition, and then I can focus my attention on trying to help Sam and figure out what to do about Ben.

  I pass the school Christmas tree on my way into the library for study hall. As I head deeper into the shelves of books, passing the cooking section and the natural history section, I check over my shoulder to make sure no one is following me. I turn right, then left, and walk to the end of a bookshelf that takes you into a dead-end corner where two other bookshelves were pushed together, and then I turn right again and find our secret table.

  “There she is,” Grace says, staring at me.

  I pull out a chair and look down at all my friends and Victor.

  “Hi.”

  “What happened?” Sloane asks, gripping her pen so hard, her knuckles are turning white.

  “What?” I ask.

  “Your parents texted Grace to let us know that the wedding might NOT be happening!” Sloane clarifies, her eyes wider than a six-lane highway.

  “They did what?” I ask, my heart racing. Grace holds her phone out to me, and there is, in fact, a text from my mom saying to be on standby because the wedding might be off.

  “Mia!” Abby says, pulling at my attention. But I’m still focused on this text, on the fact that my mom is telling people—that my mom believes there’s a real chance the wedding won’t happen.

  “Oh my gosh,” I say, deflating. I sit back in my seat, feeling a weight pressing down on my shoulders. “Oh my gosh.”

  “Mia, what happened since the other night?” Sloane presses.

  “Nothing,” I say, feeling like the walls are closing in. “I mean, she still hasn’t gone home. They haven’t worked it out yet.”

  I replay the entire ludicrous moment in my head again—as I’ve done so many times since Saturday night. Sam accused Geoffrey of cheating on her, over a picture where he was clearly trying to get the waitress’s attention. Clearly. But how could I see that? How could all of her closest friends see that, and she couldn’t? And how can he not see that it was a slipup, a moment when Sam went too far, but not a moment that should change everything?

  Sloane closes her mouth and looks down at the table. Grace watches me for a moment before looking away, processing her own thoughts. Abby and Victor look at each other before looking back at me.

  “How is she taking this?” Abby asks.

  “Not well at all. I guess if my mom is texting that to people, then things are much worse than Sam’s let on to me.”

  “How are you handling it?” Grace asks.

  “It’s not my life that’s ruined,” I say, holding down the lump trying to rise in my throat. I lean forward and pull from my backpack my math notebook and folder, with the practice problems Ben gave all of us.

  * * *

  By the end of the day, I’m annoyed. The guilt over Sam’s bachelorette party is building under my skin, and when you mix in Ben’s lack of replies to my texts, and my stress over today’s math competition, the combination doesn’t bode well for my performance. At this point, I figure Ben and I aren’t going to get any closer than we already are. Still, he could at least respond when I ask if he feels ready for today. I check my phone again as I pinch my coat into the crook of my elbow and close my locker. Still, nothing.

  It doesn’t help that as I’m approaching the math club classroom, I see Ben and Michelle framed in the doorway. He’s sitting on top of the desk that she’s sitting at. They’re laughing about something together. He’s showing her something on his phone. At least I know his phone is working.

  “Hey, guys,” I say, smiling and holding my shoulders back as I walk around Michelle and pull up a chair next to the desk. “Do you feel ready for this?”

  “Yeah,” Michelle says, fidgeting with her mechanical pencil. “I’m just ready for this semester to be over, to have a break from math and science and—well—everything.”

  I stop myself from admitting the same, and look to Ben. “How about you?”

  “I practiced, studied, did some reverse problems. I’m as ready as I’ll ever be,” he says, only glancing up at me before looking back at his Instagram feed.

  “Oh, and there’s this one of her chasing a duck,” he says. Before he tilts his phone so that only Michelle can see, I catch the corner of Carly’s face.

  “Where is everyone?” I ask.

  “They probably already headed to the auditorium,” Michelle says, reaching behind her for her backpack. When she stands up, Ben stands up and grabs his bag.

  “That’s where we’re meeting for the competition,” Ben adds, all three of us heading to the door, but the two of them pass through together, since I don’t fit.

  “Oh,” I say, swallowing my next question with a little bit of my confidence.

  The auditorium is dark save for the stage lights shining down onto the two podiums facing each other. Each one has a mason jar with mechanical pencils and a short stack of block erasers. In between them is a table where the proctor is already sitting, going over the rules with our faculty advisor. Our team has set up on the left side of the stage, and all our coats and bags are strewn over seats in the two rows. We all sit and get clipboards and paper so that we can solve the problem our teammate is working on onstage. It gives us both a chance to practice and a chance to show them what they did wrong if they don’t answer the question correctly.

  I don’t make the effort to try to get a seat next to Ben. He and Michelle sit toward the center, and I sit next to Constance Bowler and Brendon Dockey. We compare our answers to the practice problems Ben gave us and go over how we solved them, what steps we followed. Brendon and I remind Constance to write down the full additions and subtractions when she’s solving a problem for the judge. It will take away from her final score if she doesn’t show all her math.

  When our opponents show up, they don’t need time to prepare. They put their stuff down, pick up their clipboards and face forward, ready to begin. We start off with algebra equations. They win the first two questions before Brendon steps up and puts us officially in the game. The judge then moves on to derivatives, and Michelle and our other two Calculus 1 teammates bring us into a leading position. We move on to logs. We only have one person on our team who specializes in those, so she takes all three rounds, and misses only one question.

  Then it’s time for Ben and me to compete. We decide that I’ll go first. I bring my clipboard up to the podium and put a new piece of paper on it. I take one of the mechanical pencils and test it out, writing the date at the top of my paper.

  The stage is hot from the lights, and they’re so bright that it’s hard to make out my individual teammates even though they’re sitting in the front row. Someone waves at me, and another person, I think Constance, gives me a thumbs-up.

  “Are you ready?” the judge asks, looking back and forth between me and Canterbury’s polynomial competitor.

  “Yes,” both of us say.

  The judge taps some button on his computer, and a graph comes up on the screen. They want us to find the Taylor series for f(x) = sin (x) about x = 0. I start solving for derivatives to identify a pattern. I’ve already identified that there’s a pattern of Ben only texting me, not talking on the phone or really acknowledging me in public. We talk about the wedding and math and nothing else, and there’s a pattern where when Michelle is around, it’s like I don’t even exist, and the wedding doesn’t even get him excited. I start plugging numbers into the series and try to solve for a new pattern to generate a new series. So I plug
in the fact that the wedding might not happen. I try to evaluate these series of instances for what will become of us. If we only talk about math and the wedding, then without the wedding, we’ll only have math. And with math team ending, we won’t have that until next semester, so that means after today, after the cancelled wedding, we probably won’t talk at all. So, does x equal the wedding? Or is x, what I’m solving for, what happens to Ben and me? And if x is zero, then what’s the equation?

  The sound of my pencil scraping along the paper feels like it’s filling the room. The heat makes me sweat, and I feel an ache in my neck as I bend over to focus on the paper in front of me. Even if both of us get the question right, whoever gets it right first wins the points.

  Just as I’m identifying the pattern of odd values for n, I hear, “Sin of x equals…” I keep working up until the judge says “Very good” in that quiet yet definitive way of his.

  It doesn’t feel like a big deal until I turn away from the podium, with my clipboard against my chest, and catch Ben whispering something to Michelle. He’s shaking his head, his eyes following me as I make my way over to the steps.

  The equation would be impossible to solve without x, just like Ben and I are impossible if x equals the wedding. But now I don’t know if there’s really a point to try to make it work. Our connection is not happening on its own, not like with Gladys and Harold. And do I really want to spend the reception with Ben, do I really want to walk down the aisle hand in hand with someone who can’t focus on something other than himself to listen to me talk about the things going on in my life?

  Ben finishes his Maclaurin series in record time, leaving us realizing that no one kept track of the score. When he returns to Michelle, she beams up at him, and part of me wonders if she knows about the wedding, that he and I have been talking almost every night until recently. But, then again, does it matter? Have we really been talking about anything worth her worry?

  Asking myself these questions makes me realize what I’ve been trying to suppress. Michelle and Ben are a thing. They’re not out about it or that obvious, but to someone who has noticed that Ben’s attention has been on one thing in particular recently, it is obvious.

  From that night at the diner when Ben started taking an interest in me—or, more accurately, taking an interest in the out-of-this-world wedding—till the moment when Ben told his friend to move over for Michelle at my swim meet, the reality was in front of me, nagging at me and daring me to be in denial.

  After the competition I grab my stuff and head over to the girls’ locker room. Since math competitions run longer than regular math team meetings, I almost always miss swim practice. The girls have already finished practice and conditioning with the boys’ team. I say hi to my teammates in the locker room as I pass them on my way to the row of lockers where Abby and I keep our bags.

  “How was it?” she asks, rubbing her hair with her towel. I wish I hadn’t missed conditioning with the boys’ team because of the math competition. In that space of time between when we’re done practicing and the boys start competing, we can have fun working out in the pool together. But I care more about missing it because I could really use some time in the water. I just wish I could put on my suit and slip under right now, escape that embarrassing disaster back there in the auditorium.

  “We lost,” I say, reflexively going to sit down, but remembering I’m not wearing a soaking-wet swimsuit like everyone else.

  “Aw, well, we can get ice cream? Or milkshakes?” she offers, pulling her sweatshirt over her head.

  “I think I’m still grounded,” I remind her, feeling even more defeated.

  “When are they going to release you?” she asks.

  “I don’t know, but my mom is probably sitting at the kitchen island counting down the minutes until I should be home from that competition,” I tell her.

  “Okay, well, don’t beat yourself up too much. I know you studied your butt off for this, and I mean, what more can you say than, you tried your best?”

  “Thanks,” I say before giving Abby a loose hug so as to not get too wet. Then I head out through the locker room doors, letting the biting air wake me up.

  As I go along the walkway from the school to student parking, I hear another door open and see two entwined figures come out of the building. Our paths intersect on our way to the parking lot, and there’s no way for me to hide from Ben and Michelle.

  “What happened in there?” he asks, his arm around her shoulders, their fingers interlaced.

  “I don’t know,” I say.

  “Didn’t you practice? I mean, Mia, you basically lost us the meet,” Ben says, laughing a little.

  “That’s not nice, Benny,” Michelle says, twisting out from under his arm to look him in the eye.

  “Mia, you’re supposed to be one of our best members. I mean, you’re on the Calc 2 level. I had such high hopes for you,” he says, though I can’t tell if he’s being sincere or not.

  “A lot of people did,” I say, not stopping to entertain him.

  “Don’t take it too hard. Gosh, I know I would be beating myself up.”

  “Well, I guess it’s a good thing we aren’t the same person,” I shout over my shoulder, not waiting or watching to see his reaction.

  When I close myself in my car, I take a deep breath. Finally alone, I can’t pretend I’m not embarrassed and strung-out. I hate that Sam is hurting right now, and I can’t believe it might be because of me. And Abby was right. I did try my hardest in the competition, and I still choked. So, what does that say? What does it say that I prepared and gave it my all, in math, in swimming, and in the meet-cute project, and here I am having lost a race, lost a math competition, and failed to find a suitable date to Sam’s wedding? I mean, Sam already doesn’t want to be in the same room as me, so how much worse will I make things when I tell her I’m disinviting Ben?

  My phone buzzes, and I see a text from Mom asking me where I am.

  On my way home, I reply.

  I drop my phone onto the passenger seat, put my car in reverse, and start moving. I turn around just in time to see someone right outside my back window, and I slam on the brakes. I can’t see their face, but I see them shrug and throw their hands up incredulously. Great. I can now add “almost ran over a student” to my list of failures.

  I throw open my door, already vomiting apologies, only to look up and see Ritchie.

  “So now you’re trying to kill me?” he asks. Even though I know he’s joking, I feel rotten all over again, and tears come pouring out of my eyes.

  “I didn’t know it was you—I mean—I’m sorry. I wasn’t trying to run you over, I promise. I was just trying to leave—”

  “Mia, wait, hold on.” Ritchie stops me, stepping closer. He pulls me into a hug. As weird as it feels, it’s the most comfort I’ve gotten from anyone in a long time. I feel like with Sam being annoyed, my parents grounding me, and things with my friends being hot and cold after I settled for Ben, I haven’t necessarily been the apple of anyone’s eye lately. I rest my head against his chest, thankful that his Holloway Charter hoodie is so soft.

  “What’s wrong?” he asks, taking a step back.

  I laugh a little, which might look weird, since my mascara is definitely streaking down my face. “It’s kind of a long story,” I say, “and I’m actually grounded and was supposed to be home, like, five minutes ago.”

  “Here,” he says, taking his book bag off his shoulder. He unzips one of the pockets and rips the corner of a page out of his notebook. He pulls a pen out, writes down his number, and hands it to me. “If you want to talk about it, call me later. Okay?”

  “Thanks,” I say, feeling a little confused.

  “What?” he asks, closing his bag.

  “I thought you didn’t like me anymore.” I wipe my nose on the sleeve of my sweater, trying to make myself less gross.

  “I was more upset that I never got to explain myself to you, that you were walking around thinking I was a ch
eater and a liar and wouldn’t even give me a chance to tell you the truth. But once I got it out, I felt okay again.”

  “That’s good,” I say.

  “I think part of me thought maybe you’d give me another chance, and then when I was making a fool of myself in the hallway, I realized that wasn’t it. I needed to find closure, for me, to admit how hard this move and my parents’ divorce has been and how it’s been holding me back.”

  We fall silent, and I feel the urge to hug him again, but I don’t know if it would be weird.

  “You can talk to me too,” I say. I hold up his scribbled phone number. “I’ll text you.”

  “Sounds good.” He smiles, and we stand awkwardly in the space between my car and someone else’s. Before he leaves, he asks, “Are you sure you’re okay?”

  And for the first time in weeks, I am.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  When I get home, I take a shower and continue working on one of my finals essays. My mind keeps drifting back to Ritchie’s hug, the way he was still able to be vulnerable with me right after I almost ran him over with my car. I look down at his number. He offered to listen, which is all I’ve been wanting from Ben. And Ritchie already has listened. That night at the team dinner, I started talking about Sam and how things have changed, and he and I could relate to each other. We were able to talk about something real, more important than theorems and mini fridges.

  So I call. I tell him everything, and I figure at this point I have nothing to lose and it’s not like I’m trying to win him over, so I even tell him about the meet-cute project and how he factored into it. I catch him up to when I was crying in my car, ready to peel out of the parking lot, and nearly hit him. We actually laugh about some of it, about his ex-girlfriend barging in, and the dog park. He reminds me that all of these instances are just brief moments. It’s been rough, but everything always seems bigger in our heads than it is in reality.