What to Say Next

by Julie Buxbaum

  I want to tell her David was Dad’s patient, but I can’t say that word out loud: Dad.

  “Really? So you want to start playing with David again?” My mom raises her eyebrows.

  “It’s not like that.”

  “Is he still cute?”

  I find myself smiling up at the ceiling in the dark. And I almost laugh out loud, because of all the guys in my school, of all the guys in the whole wide world, I’m thinking about David Drucker. The oddest of ducks.

  He is cute.

  Sort of.

  But he’s still David Drucker.

  “Any port in a storm, my love. Any port in a storm,” my mom says, and laughs.

  I cross my fingers. Childish, yes. And of course irrational. I am not superstitious. I don’t believe in made-up things like fate. I believe in science. In what we can see and feel and calculate with well-calibrated instruments. Still, three days in a row of Kit sitting at my table seems like the probability equivalent of flipping a coin a hundred times and consistently getting heads. That sort of thing just doesn’t happen.

  No doubt I said something accidentally offensive yesterday, as I’m prone to do, and we will no longer be friends, if you can classify sitting together twice and talking in the bleachers as friendship. I do, of course, but I’m sure Kit has a higher tipping point. I recounted our conversation verbatim to Miney, and she said that under no circumstances should I ever talk about a girl’s weight again, even if they bring it up first. She was so adamant about this that she made me put it in the Rules section of my notebook.

  As a corollary, there is also only one correct answer when a girl poses the question Do I look fat?

  That answer is no.

  Which is why I cross my fingers, hoping against hope that I haven’t ruined things already and that, despite all evidence to the contrary, wanting something can actually will it to happen. Five minutes into our lunch period, just as my optimism dissipates, there she is, Kit Lowell, walking directly toward my table. Maybe soon our table, though I don’t know how many times we’ll have to sit together for the plural possessive to be appropriate.

  “I took notes for you in physics yesterday,” I say as she takes out today’s lunch, which is leftover Indian takeout. Hopefully from Star of Punjab, which is the second-highest-rated Indian place on Yelp in Mapleview. My dad and I both refuse to patronize the number-one-ranked Curryland, despite the statistical significance of the additional seven five-star reviews in their favor, because as a rule we avoid restaurants that rely on a theme, especially one as nonsensical as pretending that each customer is a tourist in a mythical place called Curryland.

  “Thanks,” she says, scooping both rice and a piece of naan onto her plate. A double serving of carbohydrates, which is a bad idea if she is, as she suggested yesterday, worried about gaining weight. I keep this observation to myself. Thank you, Miney.

  “I don’t usually take notes, and I bet your friends did it for you too, but I figured mine would be better,” I say. She frowns at me, a common expression of displeasure, and I wonder where I’ve gone wrong. I’ve also made an outline for her for AP English Lit and AP World History, but Miney said not to offer these up unless she asks for them. I don’t want to be “over the top,” whatever that means.

  “Holy crap, you don’t kid around,” Kit says as she looks at my notes, which include elaborate three-dimensional drawings for each step of our lab experiment with potassium permanganate, and just like that her face transforms. A smile. Which means I’ve made her happy. “These must have taken you forever. They’re beautiful. For reals.”

  “Not forever. Approximately seventy-six minutes.”

  “These aren’t physics notes. This is art. Seriously, you didn’t have to do this.”

  “Seriously, I wanted to,” I say.

  “Well, thank you. Seriously,” she says.

  More banter, which may be my new favorite word.

  “Star of Punjab?” I ask.

  “Yup. I don’t like Curryland. It’s like Indian food for idiots,” Kit says. I am grinning, but I can’t help it. “Want some?”

  I nod, even though I don’t like to share food. Kit looks perfectly healthy, robust even, and anyhow she’d be worth getting sick for, presuming I don’t catch something that lingers, like mononucleosis. At my house, my dad is the one who does most of the cooking, with the exception of Tuesday’s pasta night, since my mother is Italian. I wonder if Dentist was interested in the culinary arts, which would explain Kit’s family’s recently acquired affinity for takeout. She used to eat only sandwiches, though I sat too far away from her old table to decipher what kind.

  “You’d probably be surprised to learn that I’m a very good chef. I can make this,” I say, pointing to the chicken tikka.

  “Really? My mom keeps promising she’ll teach me how to cook one day, but she never has the time. How’d you learn?” She leans forward, resting her chin on her hand. Her elbows are twenty centimeters from mine. Our knees are even closer. Better measured in millimeters. I wish I could take out my tape measure, because it would feel good to fix an exact number to the distance. A measurement that I could then write on a piece of paper and put in my pocket and take out on days when I needed the reassurance of a number.

  “I like science. Gastronomy seemed a natural extension.” I don’t mention that I also cook to help out at home sometimes, especially with Miney away, because teen movies have made clear that it’s not cool to help out your parents. Which makes little sense to me, as does everything else about the word cool.

  “Please don’t take this the wrong way, but you’re so weird,” she says. I look at her, or at least her chin, and discover that an offhand comment by Kit can disrupt my respiration. “But good-weird, you know?”

  Good-weird.

  Good-weird is what I’ve been telling myself I am for years, when being just plain weird was too much of a burden to carry. Good-weird is the only solution to the problem, when normal isn’t a viable option. Good-weird may very well be the opposite of cool, but I’ve never aspired to cool. At least not the version of it I’m familiar with.

  “Thank you.”

  “Speaking of weird, I have a random question for you. What can you tell me about quantum mechanics?” Kit asks, and a shiver makes its way from the bottom of my spine all the way to the top.

  Miney suggested that I think up some small-talk ideas in case Kit came back to my table today.

  Top of my list?

  Quantum mechanics.

  It’s almost enough to make me reconsider the entire concept of fate.

  —

  Maybe it’s because my brain is so saturated with Kit that I forget to keep my head down and my eyes trained on the floor. I have my headphones on, of course, but my volume is turned lower than usual, because unlike usual, I don’t want to drown out my thoughts with sound. I want to dwell on lunch today, to replay Kit’s Well, thank you. Seriously, over and over again. Her smile too. How our conversation went back and forth, specific and precise, leaving little room for misunderstanding.

  “David! David!” José says, and waves his hands in my face so I have no choice but to stop and pause the music on my phone. This encounter will throw me off schedule, which means that there is little chance of Symphony no. 36 in C ending just as I slip into my seat in physics. Damn it.

  JOSE´ GUTIERREZ: Glasses. Brown hair, center-parted. Unibrow. Second-smartest kid in school, after me.

  Notable Encounters

  Ninth grade: Wanted to borrow my notes after he was out sick with the flu. I gave them to him, and he said, “Thank you,” and I said, “Well, I assume if I’m sick, I can borrow yours, though I don’t really get sick,” and he said, “Everyone gets sick. It’s basic biology.” And I said, “I mean, I really don’t get sick often,” and he said, “Okay.”

  Friends

  Aaron C. because they run Physics Club together.

  “David!” José says for a third time, though by now it’s obvious he has gotten
my attention.

  “Please don’t ask me to join the Academic League again. You’ve asked me twenty-six times already and I’ve said no twenty-six times.” I volunteer this information.

  “Twenty-seven times, actually. This will be twenty-eight,” José says, and inexplicably remains standing in front of me, blocking my way. “Will you please join the team?”

  “No,” I say. Had it been twenty-seven times? It’s unlike me to miscount. Math is not my chosen field—I’m more interested in the sciences—but I like accuracy.

  “We need you. There’s a big meet coming up against Ridgefield Tech, and they are really good. Name the mathematician who proved the infinitude of prime numbers.”

  “Duh. Euclid.”

  “See. You’d be perfect.”

  “Did you know Einstein said the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting a different result?” I ask.

  “I’ve heard the quote, but Einstein didn’t say it. In fact, most of the quotes attributed to him in nonscientific contexts are misattributed.”

  “Really?”

  “Yup. And I’ve thought about it, and realized that since each time I ask you it’s one more time than the last time, it’s not doing the exact same thing over and over again, and so there is, at least, a small possibility of a different result. Hence, I’m not insane. At least not because of this.” José delivers his monologue to my left shoulder. “Also, do you believe in the multiverse?”

  I blame Kit and her asking me about quantum mechanics and making me think anything can happen, because for a second I imagine it: me up on a stage and Kit in the audience, me answering question and after question, saving Mapleview from defeat at the hands of Ridgefield Tech. Kit impressed by my vast knowledge of thermodynamics and aroused by the size of the trophy I’ll invariably take home. When talking trophies, size totally matters.

  “Yes and yes,” I say.

  “Yes you’ll join the team and yes you believe in the multiverse?”

  “Yes,” I say again, and then José smiles and I realize I have something new to add to his description in my notebook. How could I have not noticed until today that he wears braces with pink fluorescent rubber bands? I hope that distraction doesn’t affect my performance.

  —

  Later, after school, I watch Kit walk to her red Corolla. Her hand shakes as she takes out her electronic key fob to open the lock. It’s not that cold out, so I assume this tremor is most likely due to anxiety. We have two tests tomorrow, world history and English literature, and she missed yesterday’s classes. I was relieved to see that she didn’t flee campus again today. Things are better when she’s at school, just across the room, no farther than fourteen feet away. I liked her being there even before she started talking to me.

  I consider calling out. Breaking Miney’s rule. My notes would be helpful, and certainly superior to whatever her friends have passed along. But no. Miney knows what she’s talking about. Better to rely on the laws of comparative advantage and outsource my social decisions.

  “Hey!” Kit calls out, and I look behind me to see who she’s talking to. Probably Justin or Gabriel. “No, dummy. You!”

  “Me?” I ask. I examine the context of our interaction. She’s not being literal. Dummy may even qualify as a term of endearment here.

  “Yeah. You need a ride home?”

  My car, a 2009 Honda Civic hatchback with 93,875 miles, is parked, as it is every day, two rows over and six spaces behind hers. Spot number eighty-nine. I don’t need Miney to know what the right call is here.

  It’s not even a real lie. People use the words want and need interchangeably all the time.

  “Yes, please,” I say. “I need a ride.”

  —

  “Explain again the theory that consciousness survives death? Because that doesn’t sound like science to me. That sounds a lot like religion,” Kit says, checking that my seat belt is fastened before pulling out of the lot. She drives with her hands gripped at ten and two, and she flicks her attention to her rearview mirror every five seconds, as suggested by the guide handed out by the DMV. My mom, who taught both me and Miney to drive, would be impressed.

  “Basically, the gist is that our brain is the repository of our feelings, thoughts, desires,” I say, and blush. I wish I hadn’t used that word: desire. “It’s the in-box of our consciousness. And when we die and that physicality erodes, our consciousness may still live on.”

  Her eyebrows knit, and she leans forward farther over the wheel. I wonder how long I could watch her think without getting bored. I estimate at least thirty-nine minutes.

  “The duality between body and mind mirrors that of the relationship between wave and particle, which leads modern quantum physicists to posit that the mind is ruled by the same quantum mechanic rules as particles, like it’s a physical object,” I say. I wonder for a moment if I’m right. I find this whole area fascinating, but it’s a little slippery. One second it’s clear in my brain—I can see it, the three-dimensionality of the theory laid out in front of me in pictures—and then a moment later, it’s gone.

  “My dad told me you talked to him about this stuff when you came in for an appointment. Is this what you guys discussed? Whether consciousness survives death?” she asks. If I had thought that what I said in Dentist’s chair would get back to Kit, I would have been much more careful with my words. Maybe even strategic. Isn’t there some sort of doctor-patient confidentiality? I know she thinks I’m weird. Good-weird, maybe, but still: weird. I don’t need her to think I’m a dork too.

  “Not really. We talked about a new quantum theory about the flow of time. I can tell you all about that too if you want.”

  “Nah, it’s okay. My dad was always interested in random stuff. Like he had this collection of antique microscopes and magnifying glasses. And he loved art books, so our house is full of them. He was totally obsessed with meteorology and the Weather Channel and those tiny plants. Bonsais. That’s what they’re called. Anyhow, I’m rambling. My point is, he mentioned you to me and he liked you.” I stare out the window as we drive down Main Street. Though still cold, it’s sunny today, and people are out with strollers and dogs, their winter jackets on but unzipped.

  There’s too much to look at. Too many colors and people and shapes. Babies in fleece hats. Signs advertising one-day sales. An old-fashioned revolving barber pole. I turn my attention back to Kit and focus.

  “The feeling was mutual.” I picture Dentist, that bright light he wore on his forehead and how he always smelled like latex because of his rubber gloves. I’d have loved to discuss meteorology with him, as my own knowledge in that area is rudimentary at best. “Who knows? Maybe the physicists are right and he’s not gone. I mean, of course your father’s dead, but I think it’s comforting to believe or at least hope that a small part of him, actually the most important part of him, his consciousness, may be out there somehow.”

  “Yeah, it is,” she says.

  “But it still sucks that you’ll never ever be able to see him again. I mean, consciousness is not the same thing as him continuing to be your dad. Obviously that would have been the preferable outcome.”

  She snorts. I have no idea what that means. Whatever way it falls, a snort does not feel neutral.

  “You sure tell it like it is. Not many people do that, you know.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Everyone tiptoes around me these days. Even my mom. Your brutal honesty is…bizarrely refreshing.”

  I tell her to turn right, that my house is up at the corner. She pulls into my driveway, and now there is nothing left to do but get out of the car.

  “Thanks for the ride.”

  “Anytime,” she says, and I want to ask what she means by that. If it’s a real offer or just a courtesy. The English language, like all languages, is full of frustrating ambiguity. Well, except, of course, for Loglan, which was derived from mathematical principals of logic to avoid just this sort of confusion. Honestly
, we’d all be better off if we spoke that instead.

  Once inside the house, I watch from my front window as Kit’s car retreats. The distance grows between us exponentially, and I wait there, hands on the glass, until I no longer have a sense of its measurement.

  Ten minutes later, my mom drives me the five miles back to school to pick up my car.

  She smiles the whole way there.

  To: Kit

  From: Mom

  Subject: The Five Stages of Everything Sucks

  It’s the middle of the night. Just stumbled across this attached article re the five stages of grief:

  1. Denial

  2. Anger

  3. Bargaining

  4. Depression

  5. Acceptance

  Of course BACON should totally be number one on this list. Also, I’ve decided I’m skipping over the first three steps and heading straight for DEPRESSION. You with me?

  * * *

  To: Mom

  From: Kit

  Subject: Re: The Five Stages of Everything Sucks

  You should really text like a normal person. Who emails anymore? Things this list is missing: Chocolate. Netflix binges. Pajamas.

  As for depression, already beat you to it. Sure am #livingmybestlife

  —

  “Hey!” Gabriel says when I walk in to the Pizza Palace. He is overly excited, as if I didn’t just sit behind him in calc less than two hours ago. Like we are in the arrivals hall of a large international airport and I’m just back from a yearlong trip around the world. He lets go of Justin, who he has in a headlock, to envelop me in a big hug.