The Love Hypothesis

by Laura Steven

  God, it’s so ridiculous, but I actually tear up with the shock of it. In the past, whenever I’ve shown signs of low self esteem, they give me the talk on how beauty doesn’t matter, about how nobody has the obligation to be pretty. And it’s true. But I guess it’s just human nature to want what you don’t have.

  And now, this. From Keiko, the most beautiful person in the world.

  ‘Nobody’s ever said that to me before,’ I mumble. Instead of tapping my phone, I clutch it tightly. ‘About being beautiful. Well, apart from Vati. But he is legally bound to say such things.’

  Keiko shuffles over to me on her knees and cups my face in her hands. They smell of jojoba and almond oil. ‘Caro, listen to me.’ Her eyes flicker back and forward across my face, like she’s reading a book. ‘You’re beautiful. I don’t want you to ever think otherwise, okay?’

  ‘Okay,’ I say, and it just means so fucking much. Because somehow I know she’s not bullshitting me. I can feel it in the heat of her gaze.

  And yet. And yet, and yet, and yet.

  The pills.

  Is she just . . . Is she only saying these things because of the pheromones? The thought crushes me.

  She pulls her hands away, and the air around my face feels cool without them.

  ‘So, you’re not mad?’ I ask, dabbing my eyes on the back of my sleeve.

  Pushing a cuticle down with her thumbnail, she says, ‘About what?’

  ‘Me and Gabriela going on the double date. And not telling you.’

  ‘No,’ she says, jaw taut. ‘Of course not.’

  ‘Keiko . . .’

  ‘I’m not mad,’ she insists, cutting me off. ‘God, my vagina is ablaze.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Yes. You could fry bacon down there.’

  ‘I mean about not being mad.’

  ‘I’m sure.’ She goes to suck her thumb, like she did when she was a kid, but stops herself just in time, sucking on her bottom lip instead. She looks kind of sad, even if she isn’t angry. ‘But just . . . tell me next time, okay? It’s okay to hang out without me. I just don’t like feeling like you’re doing it behind my back. That’s when a bitch gets paranoid.’

  I smile. ‘Deal.’

  Keiko and I met back in kindergarten. I can barely remember those early days, but Vati says I had to be dragged there on my first day kicking and screaming in my tiny overalls. I was an anxious kid. There was the trauma of being torn away from my birth mother, the trauma of being told I had two new parents and both were men and I had to forget the notion of a mother altogether. The trauma of overcoming that trauma and creating a happy little nest with the two overgrown weirdos who’d taken me in, only to be told that actually, I had to spend hours and hours every day away from that nest I’d grown to love so much.

  So I arrived at kindergarten a blubbery, snotty mess, and set myself up in a quiet corner arranging the building blocks by colour and size. For the first few weeks, I wouldn’t speak to anyone, wouldn’t participate in the group activities, and cried whenever anyone tried to hold me. I was swiftly assessed for autism, which came back inconclusive. It must’ve been pretty difficult for any child psychologist to try to untangle that web, but the eventual verdict was that my symptoms were of PTSD, not ASD.

  Meanwhile, Keiko had already established herself as queen of the beehive. She wore glittery scrunchies and jelly shoes and her mom let her paint her nails blue, so she had an army of fans and a whole bunch of teachers infatuated with her cuteness.

  A few weeks in, I was robotically arranging my building blocks when Keiko came over and picked one up. I immediately started crying, but instead of freaking out or walking away, Keiko sat cross-legged next to me, wrapped her pudgy little arms around my shoulders, and told me it was going to be okay. I sobbed and sniffled. She asked me what I was building, and I said I was just arranging things. She said that was okay, and that maybe we could make a castle where every tower was a block of the same colour. That way things could still be arranged, but we’d also have a cool castle to play with.

  Of course, this charming tale has been recounted by Vati, who had it recounted to him by a teacher, but it honestly hasn’t been embellished in the thirteen years since it happened. And it just . . . rings true. I can’t remember it, as such, but it feels right.

  From then on, we were inseparable. Keiko’s army of fans was jealous of me, but Keiko didn’t care. She liked me most. That continued throughout grade school, and kids were often mean about me, saying that Keiko should ditch me and hang out with the Populars. But she never did. And she told them precisely where to shove it.

  So the way I see it is that . . . so what if she’s a little possessive? For the longest time, I’ve been hers and she’s been mine. Even if I’ve never really understood why she liked me to begin with.

  13

  When I get home, I don’t take the pills straight away. I’m not going to see Haruki or any other eligible bachelors tomorrow, so I give my body – and my conscience – a day off.

  On Sunday morning, I lie in bed for much longer than I usually do, drinking milky coffee and playing Words With Friends against Leo, who prefers to communicate with me through the medium of board games as opposed to actual human conversation. My window is cranked open to let some fresh air in, and Vati can be heard cutting the grass while belting out the Pina Colada song at the top of his lungs. Every time he croons about making love at midnight, a small piece of me dies.

  For some reason, as I try to figure out what word I can possibly play with the letters QVBNNTX, I keep running over last night in my head. Not the disastrous date, but the moment with Keiko on her bathroom floor. Her hands cupping my face as she told me I’m beautiful. I’m not sure why it means so much, hearing those words from her. I’m not sure why she said it so passionately, like she really, desperately wanted me to believe it.

  Maybe it means so much because I can’t remember her ever saying it to me before. Maybe she said it so passionately because she was only just realizing it for the first time. I don’t know. Whatever the reason, I want to relive that moment over and over again, savoring every detail. I want to bask in its warmth.

  And I want to know that it wasn’t because of the pills. But how can I?

  On Sunday night, Gabriela eventually starts messaging back as though nothing has happened. When I message her separately to ask if she’s okay, she just writes yep, why wouldn’t i be? and even though I’m dying to ask whether she and Ryan are okay, I take her tone as my cue to leave it alone until she wants to talk about it. Even though I’m glad we’re still okay, my stomach still behaves largely like a tumble dryer. Guilt is the worst emotion, don’t @ me.

  Keiko’s continuous stream of commentary does ease the pain, somewhat.

  Okay: Fuck, Marry, Kill. Nicki Minaj, Cardi B, Iggy Azalea. Go.

  Two seconds later:

  I literally don’t care that you’re not lesbians. You gotta fuck one. Don’t be homophobes.

  Then:

  Also there’s only one correct combination, so choose your next words carefully. Or you’ll meet the same fate as Momo’s unicorn collection. #MassHornAmputation

  I consider this cautiously, trying to figure out not just who I would fuck, marry or kill, but who Keiko would too. I fire off the combination I think is correct.

  Ding, ding, ding! We have a winner! Caro Kerber-Murphy, your horn remains intact another day.

  I snort and type a response.

  This is a really fucked up gameshow. I’m totally reporting you to the Federal Communications Commission.

  Gabriela doesn’t really contribute, but there’s nothing new there. Sometimes I wonder if she finds the nonsense conversations Keiko and I have annoying. I’m pretty sure her cheerleader friends don’t make jokes about unicorn mutilation.

  Haruki and I don’t have each other’s numbers, and for a while I don’t even open the Instagram app to see if I have a message from him. Okay, so he technically didn’t do anything wrong, apart fr
om maybe being a coward in the face of a douchebag friend. And transform into a different human being the second his guy pal showed up. But apart from that, we had an awesome afternoon in B&N. Still, something has soured after last night.

  It’s weird. Past me would’ve done anything just to talk to Haruki, and now I’m reluctant even to open the app and see if he’s tried to reach out. I think of the me of a few weeks ago, lying in bed and willing my phone to buzz with something, anything to prove I’m not a pariah. That me would’ve shit herself there and then if Haruki had got in touch to say hi, I want to see more of you. That me would’ve done anything for it.

  Hell, she did do anything for it.

  When I open Instagram, though, there’s no message from Haruki. There are a bunch of new follow requests – almost half from other girls, no doubt trying to see what all the hoohah is about – and I accept them all, glowing a little as I do. There are a million DMs from my group with Keiko and Gabriela, Keiko having sent us about ten memes in a row.

  Keiko has also sent me a video about time crystals, a new state of matter proven to exist alongside solid, liquid and gaseous states. Created in the lab, time crystals are structures that repeat periodically in time rather than space, potentially defying the laws of physics. Keiko has sent me the link with the comment: wHaT tHe AcTuAl FuCk? How do you understand this shit, my head hurts. Please explain it to me sometime?

  But there’s nothing from Haruki.

  That’s when I realize I do care whether or not he talks to me. The lack of communication stings. I want this to be on my terms. I want to be the one calling the shots. I’ve had a taste of that already, and it’s intoxicating. I want more of that feeling – the feeling of being able to do whatever you want without fear or rejection.

  The fact is, Haruki is not that interested in me when I’m not around. Apart from the fake-out text Ryan sent from his account, he never messages or calls. There’s no point in lying to myself; it’s because of the pills. When I’m near him, he can’t resist my boosted pheromones. When I’m not around, though, does he wonder what he’s doing? Does he think, wait, why did I want to go on that date again? Does he study my selfies and think . . . yikes?

  The sensation of powerlessness, of losing control over the situation, makes me feel cold and panicked. Haruki’s attraction to me is a fragile thing, at least until we spend enough time together for the connection to take root. I have to let it get that far. I have to give him the time and space to develop real feelings for me.

  I pop a pill before I can talk myself out of it; before I can remind myself of the heartbroken look on Gabriela’s face when Ryan gazed at me instead of her.

  Maybe it’s because I talked so candidly about my mom with Haruki in the bookstore, but I have the dream two nights in a row. Something’s different, though. I don’t wake in a cold sweat, scared out of my mind. The fear is lessened, somehow, as though discussing it head-on has removed some of its hold over me. Instead what I’m left with is a burning, scientific curiosity. A churning desire to know more. What happened? Who am I, really? What would that sixth dimension with my mom look like?

  But I can’t, I can’t, I can’t. I can’t hurt my dads like that.

  On Monday morning, I arrive at school to find Keiko already hanging by my locker. This is a miracle on par with the creation of all things, since she’s usually at least an hour late to school. Dressed in a lime green sweater and ankle boots so high they must be giving her vertigo, she looks wide awake, waggling a Tupperware box.

  ‘I made brownies!’ she says by way of greeting, opening the box and wafting the smell of cocoa and sugar in my direction.

  ‘Ohmygod, they smell insane,’ I say, digging my hand into the box. Which is . . . a mistake. Since the brownies are . . . sticky. Very sticky.

  ‘Yeah, I don’t think I baked them long enough,’ Keiko laughs, stifling a yawn with the back of her hand. ‘I got impatient and wanted to taste them. They’re pretty good, if raw brownie batter is your thing.’

  ‘It just so happens that raw brownie batter is precisely my thing. Do you have a spoon?’

  Without hesitation, Keiko whips two spoons out of her black jeans pocket, and we dig in. Give her her due, it is precisely like eating raw brownie batter, in the best way possible. By the time Haruki arrives with my morning cinnamon roll, I’m too stuffed to eat another thing. I stuff it in my locker when he’s not looking, and I swear there’s the slightest trace of triumph on Keiko’s cocoa-smeared face.

  Monday is also cross-country day, and the fierce heat is finally losing its edge. There’s a breeze on the air, and fine hazy clouds in the sky. Mr Chikomborero, our gym teacher, is hyped. He gives us this overblown speech about how the gods are shining on us today with this dry warmth, and we owe it to them to run our hearts out. Or something. Keiko rolls her eyes so hard that ground tremors can probably be felt in Jakarta.

  We set off, and to begin with we fall into our usual pace, which is somewhere between ‘snail chasing a leaf ’ and ‘toddler crawling for the first time’. I’m antsy, though, maybe from pent-up guilt, maybe from the intensely sugary brownie batter. I feel myself pulling ahead, pushing my foot too hard on the gas. Keiko and Gabriela struggle to keep up, and no matter how hard I try to rein it in, I can’t.

  ‘God, wait up.’ Keiko harrumphs. ‘What’s gotten into you? Have you suddenly transformed into . . . nope, for love nor money I cannot name a single famous sprinter. That is how absurd running is as a concept.’

  ‘Usain Bolt?’ I suggest.

  ‘No, I’m not saying bolt. I’m saying stay put.’

  Gabriela gulps down some air and breathes out, ‘Caro, if you want to run ahead that’s cool. Me and Kiks can hang back here.’

  ‘Um, rude, it’s not cool.’ Keiko comes to a complete stop, hunching over with her palms planted on her thighs. We stop too, even though my legs are tugging me forward. ‘We are in this hell together.’ A heavy gasp. ‘Plus, you hate running as much as we do, right?’

  ‘I dunno,’ I shrug, stretching out my calves. ‘Maybe I do want to see how fast I can go.’

  For a second, Keiko looks like she’s been slapped. She recovers fast, but her features harden regardless. ‘Whatever, dude. Your funeral.’

  Part of me gets why she’s pissed. She’s ‘hung back’ with me ever since kindergarten, going at my pace in social situations, saying no when the Populars continually tried to poach her friendship from me. But I never asked her to do that, and it’s not fair of her to hold it over my head now. I’ve always just accepted it as our dynamic, and yet right now, with the breeze on my face and the yearning ache in my lungs, it’s hard not to resent it.

  I take off.

  My feet thump the dry, compacted earth as I leave the school grounds and emerge into the cool of the woods. Everything stills to a quiet around me; the only things I hear are my sneakers thudding on the ground and my breathing as it steadies into a rhythm. I quickly catch up to the few groups jogging in front of me. Overtaking them sends a jolt of electricity through my veins.

  After a mile, when I’m nearly at the halfway point, I’ve almost caught up with the more serious runners – the ones who don’t travel in packs. The ones who see each other as competition, not companions. My lungs are burning now, and lactic acid races up and down my legs. It hurts, but not in a bad way. In an alive way.

  The weird thing is, I’m not thinking about science, or MIT, or Haruki, or Keiko, or the dreams about my mom. I’m putting one foot in front of the other, taking off through the front of my foot like there are springs in my shoes.

  I hit halfway and loop back on myself. I still haven’t caught the fastest runners, and I was never going to with so much ground to make up – and zero training under my belt – but I’m solidly in the eightieth percentile, ahead of most of my classmates. Every time I think, Shit, I’m going to have to stop soon before my lungs implode, I challenge myself to keep going to the next tree, the next rock, the next splintering of sunlight through
the canopy.

  Half a mile later, I pass Keiko and Gabriela. Gabriela stares at me in amazement, and while I expect Keiko to avert her gaze or tilt her chin upward in defiance, she can’t hide the awe in her eyes. They both stop and follow my path back towards the football field.

  Now that my friends are watching, I focus all my attention on not dying. My breathing is erratic, my gait out of control, and I know I probably look like an escaped axe murderer, but all I do is push faster, leaning into the pain.

  Four hundred meters to go. Three hundred. Two hundred. Final push.

  As I cross the finish line, the runners who’ve already finished gaze at me in astonishment and also horniness. Ryan is there, staring, and my insides cramp with guilt. Mr Chikomborero looks like he might shit himself from excitement and/or arousal. My blood roars in my ears, but I can just about hear him screaming ‘Kerber-Murphy! The gods are within you this day!’ and I laugh and collapse to the ground, forehead pressed into the grass.

  Fuck. That was fun.

  14

  All day, the air around me crackles. Guys vie for my attention, sending notes in paper airplanes and offering to carry my lunch to my table in the cafeteria. Haruki comes up to my locker to say hi, to apologize for Ryan’s behavior at the weekend, and we plan to hang out after school.

  I carefully avoid Ryan himself, which also means I have to avoid Gabriela, ducking into classrooms as they stroll toward me in the hallway, and rejecting their invite to eat at their table at lunch. It sucks, having to hide from my best friend, but it seems like the safest way. I don’t want to do any more damage.

  Keiko and I end up sitting in the corner of the cafeteria, near Madison Spencer and Guadalupe Martinez, the couple that were kissing in chess club all those weeks ago. Guadalupe is crying softly into Madison’s shoulder, and Madison is reassuring her, stroking her hair and squeezing her arm with delicacy and affection. From what I can make out, it sounds like Guadalupe’s grandma is sick.