by Sarah Kuhn
“Anyway, you’re asking for a lot from free clothes that you’re probably going to wear home and never return to me, don’t you think?” he said.
“I’ll make do with your disgusting workout gear,” I said, letting out an over-dramatic sigh. “Where’s Leah? Did she have to close today? Damn, it’s been hours since I checked my texts.” I fumbled around in my pocket for my phone.
“No, she had to go help her mom with something—”
“Ah, something involving her mom’s seven lizards?” I guessed. “Which is why Pancake is hanging out here solo.” Leah’s mom was a reptile enthusiast—and her menagerie did not get along with Pancake. I pulled up our group chain in my texts and saw the Pancake-relevant exchange between Sam and Leah. “I should go help her. Or I should’ve been around when she needed help. Or something.” I usually accompanied Leah when she had to help her mom out with the lizards. If one (or more) of them escaped, it was useful to have both of us there so one person could hunt down the wily reptile and the other could comfort Leah’s mom. Teamwork in action. I rubbed my eyes and texted a message of encouragement and an offer to help if Leah needed it. Yes, I’d just had a long day, but I’d totally down some caffeine and Uber it over if she needed me.
“She’s got it under control, I’m sure,” Sam said, just as Leah texted me back that she was handling things fine solo. “Stick with me and Pancake, we’re having a slumber party.”
“Then you better invest in some pajamas,” I called out, stuffing my phone back in my pocket as I headed down the hall and into his bedroom. “Because Pancake won’t stand for any of that human nudity nonsense. He needs a nice, soft fabric to cuddle against—consider flannel.”
I found the bin of workout clothes next to Sam’s bed and was pleased to see everything was neatly folded and appeared to be clean. I plucked out a long, worn tank top with a faded boxing gym logo and a pair of striped boxer shorts—really? He had special workout boxer shorts?—and quickly changed out of my sweaty superhero costume. It wilted into a limp pile of glittery material as I dropped it to the floor.
Hmm. Would I need to get my costume cleaned every day? Would I have to invest in multiple costumes? That was what Aveda had done, but she’d been a few months in before she’d gone all-out with wardrobe.
I rolled the top of the boxers over so they would stay put and headed out of the bedroom and into the kitchen, where Sam was whistling and drinking a glass of red wine as he fried up katsu cutlets. Pancake was on the floor, eagerly snarfing up a plate of bacon set in front of him.
“Did you cook him his own special dinner?” I said to Sam, inclining my head toward the bacon-crazed pup.
Sam shrugged, looking moderately embarrassed. “Leah said he can’t have the breading on the cutlets. And he definitely can’t have curry, it’s too spicy. So. . .”
“Most spoiled puppy ever,” I said, nudging Pancake with my foot. He ignored me in favor of continuing his love-fest with the bacon. I padded over to the fridge and opened it, scoping the interior for potential katsu beverage pairings.
“Oooh,” I said, spying a bottle of something pink and bubbly, “what’s this?”
“Some kind of grapefruit-flavored prosecco something-or-other that’s probably mostly sugar,” Sam said. “I got it for you and Leah.”
“Because heaven knows your palate can only take the most refined, expensive, altogether snooty pinot type things. That’s okay, more girly trash for me.” I liberated the beautiful pink bottle from the fridge, twisted off the top (because of course it had a twist-off top), and took a big swig. The bubbles went immediately to my head, making me feel weightless and wobbly, and I remembered I hadn’t eaten anything since the elephant ear-pretzel combo at the Grand Lake Market. “Whoa,” I said, my knees buckling a little.
“Bea!” Sam looked up from plating his katsu masterpiece and crossed the room in a few steps, grabbing my elbow. “Can you maybe not chug that garbage before you’ve cushioned your stomach with actual food?”
“Unhand me, good sir,” I said, affecting a terrible British accent. I shook him off and took another swig. “I’ve had a long fucking day, and I need to unwind.”
I settled in at the table with a heavy thump and waited patiently as Sam brought the food over, taking more ladylike sips of my bubbly pink drink.
I really should save some of this for Leah, I thought, as my head became even lighter and fizzier. Eh. She’d understand. I’d buy her a bottle of her very own and we’d toast tomorrow—to triumphing over evil and jerky lizards. It would be magical.
“Here we are,” Sam said, placing a heaping plate of food in front of me. He set his own plate in front of the chair next to me, then grabbed his glass of (snooty, pretentious) wine from the stovetop and sat down.
I took a deep inhale of the deliciousness in front of me. The rich smell settled over me like a fuzzy blanket, and the sight of that big, oozy curry pool soaking into fluffy rice was so welcome, I nearly teared up.
“Yesssssss,” I whispered, letting out a sigh that bordered on orgasmic. I took another swig of pink drink, then picked up my chopsticks and started shoveling food in my face with gusto. Pancake, having finished his bacon feast, figured out there was something new and exciting happening at the kitchen table, so he trotted over and bumped his head against my leg. “Oh, I am for sure not dropping any of this,” I said, pointing my chopsticks at him. “Your mom will murder me if I let you eat something that’s been specifically designated as off limits. Also, it’s just too good.”
“You’re welcome,” Sam said, cocking an eyebrow at me and raising his wine glass.
“Thank you.” I lifted my pink drink bottle in a toast. “And thank you for driving me to the East Bay today. And then back to the bookstore. And for this incredibly fashionable ensemble.” I gestured to the clothes I’d snagged from him. (And that I probably wasn’t giving back. They were so comfortable.) And then, because I was feeling generous, I added: “Bea: 1275, Sam: 1164.”
“So I’m catching up to you,” he said, cocking an eyebrow.
“I’m just letting you think that. All part of my grand plan.”
“Oh, like losing to me at the Great Calculus Bee of Sophomore Year was part of your grand plan?”
“By one point!” I protested, poking him with my chopsticks. The alcohol was fizzing around my brain in earnest now, making my voice louder and my gestures more expansive. “One. Tiny. Point.”
“One very important tiny point,” Sam countered, batting my chopsticks away.
“I’m still ahead in the grand scheme of things by double digit points,” I said. “And that’s, like, in the game of life.”
We stared at each other, that familiar competitive flame sparking and transporting us back to that seminal moment of our shared teenagedom. The Great Calculus Bee of Sophomore Year stood tall as one of the main incidents that had solidified our ongoing competition. Our calc teacher, Mr. Palmer, set up a friendly afterschool competition for our class, wherein we had to take turns solving increasingly complicated equations. And, as in a spelling bee, we were eliminated whenever we got a question wrong.
“Remember, kids, this is all in good fun!” he’d said, beaming at us as he crossed his arms over his festive holiday sweater vest. (Mr. Palmer had a sweater vest for every occasion, even Groundhog Day.) “Let’s enjoy ourselves while we get our integrals on, eh?”
Slowly, the whiteboard at the front of the classroom had exploded in a rainbow of equations, solved with lightning speed by the best and brightest our high school had to offer. But none were quite as bright as Sam and I, who picked off every so-called competitor one by one, taking them down with lightning-fast mathing. Until we were the only two left standing.
We faced off across the whiteboard, markers in hand. Ready and waiting. I could still remember the way he’d smirked at me, the way he always smirked at me—like he knew everything about me, al
l my vulnerabilities. That smirk should have gotten under my skin, but in a weird way, I found it comforting. Even if he did know everything about me, he never judged me for any of it. He never whispered behind my back like Nicole and so many of the other kids did—about how weird I’d gotten after Mom died, about how I’d started wearing too much eyeliner and stopped hanging out with my queen bee crowd and isolated myself in a permanent sulk because I thought I was “too good” for the rest of the student body. I never thought that. I just couldn’t bear to be around anyone who looked at me with pity.
Sam was the only person who never did. He never looked at me like I was a sad puppy in need of rescuing. Sure, perhaps this spoke to his deeply ingrained shallowness and the fact that he never wanted to deal with anything as complicated and messy as, you know, death. But it also meant he always treated me as an equal when we went head-to-head in any kind of academic battle. I never had to worry about him letting me win because he felt sorry for me. Whenever I beat him, I knew it was fair and square.
“Shout out to my esteemed opponent,” he’d said, giving a little bow and gesturing to me with his marker. “Let’s fight this shit out to the death.”
“Language, Sam,” Mr. Palmer said wearily.
I think Mr. Palmer expected the entire competition to last about an hour. Instead, Sam and I kept going back and forth, back and forth, neither of us willing to give up ground. The whiteboard got so covered, it looked like it was bleeding rainbows. Sweat beaded my brow, and my hand cramped up as I scrawled out answer after answer. I waited in heady anticipation for each new problem, my brain latching on to numbers and how they fit together to produce the correct solutions. It was as if the world narrowed to include only me and Sam, the whiteboard, and our endless series of equations.
The competition ended up lasting well into the night, Mr. Palmer growing more aggrieved the later it got and making a big show of clearing his throat and checking his watch. But Sam and I were oblivious. We were lost in Fight It Out to the Death Calculus World. And as Mr. Palmer delivered the equation that would be my undoing, I realized I’d gotten so lost in this world, in this narrow plane of focus, that I felt euphoric. My face was flushed, and the fact that Sam refused to go even a little easy on me goosed my competition-loving adrenaline. Our tiny world, our back-and-forth, made me feel alive. And I hadn’t felt like that—not really—since Mom died.
To be honest, it had been so much fun, I hadn’t even cared that much when I lost. Sam, however, had been so gleeful over his win that he still had the “prize” Mr. Palmer rustled up out of his desk drawer—a novelty eraser shaped like a trophy with a big, cheesy “#1!” emblazoned on it. It was proudly displayed on his TV stand, and I threatened to steal it pretty much every time I came over. Since I was currently the real #1 and all.
“So do you want help with your posterboard?” Sam said, snapping me out of my trip down memory lane. “Or I could coach you on the presentation part. You know, help you find that essential charm that really makes it sing.”
“I think I’ve got this,” I said, rolling my eyes. Pancake head-butted me again. “Really, there’s no one better than me to chronicle the dead mom conversations.”
“Right,” he said slowly. He set his chopsticks down. “So. Are you, like, okay with all this?”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, like you said when you got here. You’ve had quite a day. And actually, the one before that had a ton of shit going on too.” He regarded me keenly, his gaze sweeping over my face. His expression had gone all serious again, his eyes intense, and I squirmed uncomfortably.
“Oh, no, don’t try to hug me or give me Calendar Sam again,” I said, taking another swig of pink drink. “I’m here for Supportive Friend Sam, remember? Supportive Friend Sam makes me curry and loans me his ugly sportsball clothes and buys me shitty pink alcohol. That is all I require from him.”
“Don’t forget the part where he also gives you rides everywhere,” he said, raising an eyebrow. “I’ve already done all that, so what can I do for you now? Since you won’t let me make your posterboard as definitively awesome as we both know it could be.”
“Ooh!” I said, perking up as I drained my pink drink bottle. I waved it around in his face. “You got any more of this? Because it’s de . . . delishussssss.”
“Yes, lush, I have more,” he said, downing his own glass of wine.
“Then I have something fun for us to do,” I said, clapping my hands together. “Everyone’s favorite sergeant, Rose Rorick, gave me a very special gift today: one of the old-school demon traps to tinker with. Maybe make better. And I thought you might have some ideas for that as well.”
He shook his head, trying to fully wrap his brain around what I’d just said. “You got the head of the Demon Unit to give you official tech to tinker with? Only you, Beatrice.”
“She’s my frieeeeeeeendddd,” I protested, poking him in his arm. Whew. I probably shouldn’t have chugged the last of the pink drink quite so fast.
“Rose is a kind, decent person with many friends,” Sam said, standing and walking over to the fridge. “I don’t think most of them are getting traps to tinker with.”
“Come on, then!” I yelped, leaping to my feet and clearing the dishes with much fanfare. “Let’s tinker. Let’s tinker our collective ass off.”
“Aw, shit.” Sam pulled something out of the fridge and made a face. “I’m out of real wine. Looks like I’ll be indulging in this sugar slop with you.” He waved around an unopened bottle of pink drink, then unscrewed the top and took a long gulp. “Gah. It’s like fucking Kool-Aid.”
“Hey, don’t hog it all,” I protested, dumping the dishes in the sink and crossing the room. “Leave it for the people who can actually enjoy its fine fizzy charms.” I snatched the bottle from him and headed for the living room, chugging all the way. I felt loopy and light, like any worries I’d accumulated over the course of the past two days were evaporating in a cloud of pink bubbles.
I pulled the trap Rose had given me from my bag and settled on the couch, placing it in front of me reverently. Pancake shuffled after me, depositing himself at my feet and giving me a vaguely accusing look. He still hadn’t forgiven me for not sharing my curry. Sam sat down next to me and took the pink drink bottle, eyeing the trap. I could practically see the gears in his brain shifting, cataloguing its boxy shape, its plain gray exterior.
“It’s so basic,” he said.
“I know, right?” I ran a finger along the top, where the mechanism opened. “Consider when they were invented: nobody knew what we were dealing with as far as our demon-y little friends went. I think they for real just looked to Ghostbusters for inspiration.”
“It kinda worked,” Sam said. “What do you think Rose wants out of this tinkering?”
“She wants us to see what kind of upgrades we can make. How we can make it more powerful,” I said, steepling my fingers and letting out a supervillain cackle.
We both stared at the trap for a moment, passing the pink drink bottle back and forth and taking long, contemplative sips. I let my mind wander over its gray surfaces, the little dip of the panel that popped open and shut, the gentle protrusion of the button on the side. I imagined the series of wires and gears beneath its blah exterior that connected button to panel, the mechanism that made it pop open and shut on command. I stared at it hard, wishing I had x-ray vision, that I could actually see the way it all worked. I flashed back to being in my dad’s study, staring at his radio receiver.
I looked up to see Sam studying the trap as intently as I was. He met my eyes.
“We should take it apart!” we exclaimed in unison.
“Is that okay?” Sam said, his gaze going back to the trap. I could tell his mind was working overtime, strategizing the best way to detach all the pieces from each other. “Will Rose murder us?”
“Rose will not murder us.” I defiantly r
aised my index finger in the air as I took another gulp of pink drink. “Rose will welcome our technical innovation when we present her with the best trap of all time ever, which we will only be able to achieve if we take this thing apart!”
“Yes!” Sam pumped a fist in the air and snagged the pink drink bottle from me. “Let’s do it!”
He took a drink, then passed the bottle back to me and hopped up from the couch, hustling into his bedroom. I sipped from the bottle as Pancake stared at me inquisitively.
“We’re gonna blow this thing wide open, Pancake,” I said, my words slurring. “Wiiiiiide opeeeeeeeen.” Pancake blinked at me then set his head on his paws and shut his eye. Clearly, Pancake was not as excited about this as Sam and I were.
Sam returned with a small toolkit—a pouch about the size of a paperback book containing various screwdrivers—and sat back down on the couch.
“This is delicate work requiring delicate tools,” Sam said, carefully laying the kit out between us. He ran a finger along the trap’s top panel, his brow furrowing. “So I’m thinking we should start by detaching the panel, since that and the button are probably the most detachable—”
“No way,” I interrupted, batting his hand away. I flipped the trap over and pointed to one of the tiny screws holding the bottom part in place. “We should start here so we can see how everything’s working before we completely disassemble it.”
“That would be the pedestrian approach,” Sam said, putting his hand over mine. “But if we’re going to innovate this design, we have to innovate how we’re going about it.”
“Did you just call me pedestrian?” I growled, tightening my grip on the trap.
“No, I said your approach is pedestrian,” he said, tightening his hand around mine.
I met his eyes and felt that competitive spark humming between us again, bright and sharp enough to pierce my drunken haze. Or maybe it was enhanced by my drunken haze? I wasn’t sure. All I knew was I was suddenly hyper-aware of the heat of his hand on mine, of our warring grips, of how my blood was racing through my veins and that feeling of being totally alive was swelling in my chest. It felt like the Calculus Bee all over again.
