Where You Are. J.H. Trumble
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Название: Where You Are
Автор: J.H. Trumble
Издательство: Ingram
Жанр: Короткие любовные романы
isbn: 9780758277176
isbn:
I study the figure a moment, then look up and see that Mr. McNelis has returned to his desk. He’s kicked back in his chair, his ankles crossed on his desk, and he’s looking at his phone. I let my eyes trail along his gray corduroys to his feet. He’s wearing loafers, these two-tone brown and gray leather things with a slot for a penny on top and a rubber outsole. I’m trying to guess his shoe size when he lifts his eyes and catches me.
I quickly return to the puzzle, but I’m thinking about all the things I like about Mr. McNelis, besides the shoes.
For one thing, he cusses in class. He doesn’t use real cuss words—you can’t do that in public school if you want to keep your job. Instead he says stuff like, What the L-M-N-O-P are you doing? Or Son of a bit-my-finger. Just sit down. If you’re chewing gum, he’ll say something like, Get rid of the gum, or I’m going to kick you, then I’m going to kick your dog. And if you get on his nerves, he’ll get on yours. He can be kind of weird, but he makes us laugh.
And he’s a super math nerd. Fridays are jeans days for teachers, and he always wears some funny math T-shirt. He must have a dozen or more. Last Friday it was a black T-shirt with this slogan:
π
IRRATIONAL
BUT WELL-ROUNDED
And then there’s this—he’s gay. He thinks we don’t know; we do. And it’s not because he’s an impeccable dresser; he’s not, although he does look damn hot in those cords. It’s not because his nails are always clean and neatly trimmed; they are, but that’s not it either. And it’s not because he sashays around the classroom; he doesn’t.
It’s because he follows AfterElton on Twitter. It’s amazing what girls can dig up when they’re motivated. And when it comes to Mr. McNelis, some of them are pretty damn motivated.
The girls think they can change him; I know they can’t.
The solution to the puzzle suddenly presents itself in my mind. I use my pencil to scratch out then redraw two of the matches. Then I outline the new squares again with heavy lines.
Mr. McNelis gets up and moves down the side of the room. He’s allowed us to work in pairs or small groups, but I’ve chosen to work alone today. There’s something about being in this room with him that makes me feel good, normal, relevant, but that doesn’t mean I want to interact with any of my classmates. Not this week. He stops at a small group in the back—two girls and a guy in a football hoodie—and looks over their shoulders.
“Are there any days you can eliminate?” he asks.
They all look back at the question, then one of the girls offers up a Hail Mary answer. He smiles and tells them to keep working on it.
I scan the page and find the question they are on. It’s a logic question. I think about what Mr. McNelis just said to the group and begin working my way through the problem backward.
I’m writing out the explanation when I feel his hand grip my shoulder. I look up and he winks. Something inside me shifts.
On Friday he passes out strips of paper and another packet of puzzles. His T-shirt today reads:
ARE YOU CRYING?
THERE’S NO
CRYING IN
MATH CLASS!
But I do want to cry.
Unlike my classmates, I’m dreading the bell at two thirty. I don’t want to spend two weeks on death watch. I don’t want to open gifts under the fat, eight-foot noble fir Aunt Whitney had delivered yesterday. God, I hate that tree.
The noble is an upgrade. So are the shiny new beads and angels and snowflakes.
The Scotch pine Mom and I spent an hour decorating with the accumulated odds and ends of Christmases past just two nights ago is back in the garage, lying on its side on the concrete, still clinging to its humble adornments.
The noble is so tall that the delivery guy had to trim several inches off the tip of the tree so it could stand upright. Then last night, Aunt Whitney wheeled Dad into the living room and she and Aunt Olivia and all the cousins decorated the new tree themselves, the whole time pattering on about how beautiful the angels are, my aunts reminiscing for the kids about all the fun they had decorating Christmas trees together when they were younger. I can just picture it—Olivia and Whitney (six and eight years older than dad, respectively) doting on their baby brother, dressing him up in reindeer pajamas, guiding him through the gluttony of a Westfall Christmas.
Mom and I watched mutely from the kitchen as we threw together another prefab meal for the masses.
When they finally left, Mom disappeared into the garage and a moment later let loose a primal scream. I was sure she’d been cornered by a monstrous rat or a rabid raccoon that had slipped in unnoticed. I sprinted for the garage, but before I could get to her, she calmly walked back in and closed the door behind her.
“What?” she’d said to me. That was it. Just, “What?”
I pick up one of the strips of paper and read the first question.
Make a Möbius strip.
I give one end of the paper a half twist and secure it to the other end, using tape from one of the dispensers Mr. McNelis has placed around the room along with multiple pairs of scissors.
Question: What do you think will happen if you cut all the way along the strip in the middle?
I don’t bother to answer. I just cut the strip. The paper separates into one long strip, twice the length of the original.
I toss it aside and look at the next instruction.
Make another Möbius strip.
Done.
Question: What do you think will happen if you cut all the way along the strip a third of the way from the edge?
Answer: I don’t give a flip.
I pick up the scissors and make the cut. What I’m left with are two interlocking rings.
Normally I’d try to understand how that one loop of paper had become two, but today I’m just thinking about the loops. I place my fingers on the inside of each loop and apply pressure outward. How much pressure will it take before one of the loops snaps? I increase the pressure.
As it turns out, not much.
Andrew
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