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.