by Emme Rollins, Julia Kent, Anna Antonia, Helena Newbury, Aubrey Rose
His eyes scanned the room, and before I could duck behind Quentin again, he saw me. I swallowed hard. He caught himself, doing a second take upon seeing me, then turned back to the other students.
“No? Then we will begin.” He moved back to the blackboard behind him and wrote the problem on the board, then read it to us out loud, the problem appearing on the top of our tablet screens. “Write all partitions of the number 13. Begin.”
My mind flashed back to my first discrete math class. I had always been good at math, but it was discrete that made me realize I loved it more than anything. And partitions were easy—just different ways of writing numbers as sums. Thirteen could be written as 10+3, or 5+6+2, or thirteen ones all added together.
I took a deep breath. The students around me scribbled furiously on their tablets, and I was worried about going too slow, but I was also worried about being sloppy and missing a partition. And to top it all off, I was worried about Eliot figuring out who I really was. I thought we would have to register at the beginning of the test, but he’d said it was anonymous—would he ask for our names at the end? Did he already know the student list somehow? Did he already know I had lied to him? Take it easy, Brynn. Step by step.
There were so many partitions. Start with the basic ones. 13. 12+1. 11+2. 11+1+1. I settled into an easy rhythm, breaking up the numbers in order and writing them down in separate columns. Not so bad, once I got everything organized. 10+3. 10+2+1. 10+1+1+1. I heard a chair behind me creak as a student got up. Dismissed already? Well, the physics majors probably didn’t even know what a partition was. I felt better, more certain, and I kept on working steadily. 9+4. 9+3+1. I had gotten down to the line of fives when a voice broke my concentration.
“Next question.” Eliot’s voice startled me. He erased the question from the blackboard and began to write another. My tablet screen blanked out the question as well as all of my work, and the second question appeared.
“What if we aren’t finished yet?” a student from a few rows back called out.
“You’re still here, aren’t you?” Eliot said. “Then you’re finished. Next question.” He drew a circle on the board and began to sketch out chords between the points on the circle. “Let M be the midpoint of the chord PQ…”
I knew this proof. The butterfly theorem. The chords sketched out drew the shape of a butterfly in the circle. I quickly wrote out the proof, adding in the missing perpendiculars. I finished in only a few minutes and looked around the auditorium, surprised at what I saw. Already a third of the room had been eliminated. I leaned back in my chair but then remembered what he had said. We were being tested on creativity, and my proof was the most straightforward version. I panicked and went back to the problem. There must be another way to do it. I scrambled to think of another proof, maybe one based on angles. Maybe projecting the circle, or maybe thinking of it as a conic section…
Math was wonderful for me. It was an escape from the world which was messy and full of vague ambiguities a frightening muddle, into a new world of perfection. A world of lines which had no end, and points which were infinitely small, of curves that reached out always further and further into the plane, functions that repeated themselves in undulating waves which had no beginning and no end.
It was only in this clean, perfect space that I felt comfortable playing. In my imagination I could drift off into daydreams, and in math I could construct the realities that I wanted to live in. I worked for twenty more minutes until Eliot called time, but couldn’t finish a second proof.
“Next question.” I sighed as my tablet blanked out again. I must be doing okay, but this test stressed me out more than any other I’d ever taken.
The next question was even harder, involving some partial differential equations that I had just learned. I worked on it without success for a half hour, but when time was called I wasn’t even close to an answer. I gulped, waiting for the red DISMISSED bar to appear on my screen, but it never did. Eliot wrote the next problem on the board and we continued working on our tablets. Students left the auditorium throughout, a stream of dismissals at the beginning of every problem that trickled down as time went on.
Eliot sat quietly at the large desk in the front of the room, watching us through his tablet. Watching me. I stole quick glances up at him every so often, convinced that his eyes were on my screen. He wiped at his eyes with the sleeves of his rumpled shirt, occasionally frowning. With so many other students in the room, it was impossible to tell whose work he was following, but my imagination made me feel like I could tell. Some hidden sense inside of me activated and I knew that he was watching over me.
The problems became more and more impossible and I became more and more desperate, writing down any solutions I could think of, regardless of whether or not they were elegant or creative or hell, even right. I fell into the work with the kind of determination a marathon runner uses in the last mile of the race, throwing my all into a last desperate effort not to be eliminated.
“Stop.” Eliot’s voice broke my focus and I leaned back into my chair and closed my eyes, sighing deeply.
“Congratulations,” he said. He looked straight at me and I felt my skin burn red. Turning away, I saw that only three other students remained in the auditorium: Quentin, Mark, and one guy I thought I remembered from a combinatorics class. Quentin turned around to glance back at Mark and me, his eyes wide with pleasure. Hell yeah!
Eliot said something about interviews, and called Mark first. Mark crossed by me and gave my shoulder a squeeze, his face beaming with pleasure. We had done it! I smiled back at him and gave him a quick thumbs up. Eliot led him out to the interview and the rest of us waited.
“Hey, how did you do that last one?” Quentin said, turning around eagerly.
“I don’t know,” I said honestly. “I tried to get it into a graphable form, but it wasn’t working.”
“Oh,” Quentin said. “So you didn’t finish it? That’s weird.”
“What, you finished all of them?”
“Mostly, or at least a partial answer.” Quentin continued talking about the last question, but a root of worry had dug itself into my chest and wouldn’t come loose.
What if Eliot knew which tablet was mine? What if he had rigged the test? I had been terrified of having to confront Eliot and tell him my real name, but worse than that was the possibility that I didn’t deserve the prize at all. Surely it wasn’t a coincidence that I still sat here in the auditorium. My palms gripped the armrests of the seat.
Eliot returned alone and called the other student, the one I didn’t know, for his turn. By the time Eliot came into the room to call in Quentin for his interview, my heart was racing. I wanted to speak up, but didn’t know how, and they had left the room before I could say a word. Now, alone in the auditorium, I cursed myself for being such an idiot. I couldn’t stay. Eliot would think of me as a complete liar when I told him who I really was. Not only that, I hadn’t even finished half of the problems. As much as I wanted to win, I didn’t want to win unfairly. My grandmother had always told me that cheating was wrong, and if I won the prize it would be by cheating. I could always find another way to get to Hungary.
Liar. Cheat. Liar. The words reverberated in my head. The lecture hall closed in on me and I gasped to breathe. I couldn’t stay. I couldn’t.
My heart pounded in my chest as I rose from my seat. I crossed over to Eliot’s desk and picked up a scrap of paper, pulling a pen out of my jacket pocket to write a brief note.
Sorry. I don’t deserve this.
I didn’t sign the note. Who was I to him, anyway? Valentina was nothing more than a wisp of imagination.
I left the note on his desk, and before I could change my mind, I turned and ran.
* * * *
Eliot reached his hand out to dismiss the first student, someone who hadn’t written down a single partition for the first problem. Surely Valentina would know what a partition was? A flash of anxiety surged through him. If she were the
first student to be dismissed—
Never mind that. Eliot berated himself for being so biased. Perhaps it was for the best that he couldn’t tell whose work was whose. Valentina had been writing, anyway, or pretending to. He pressed the button on his screen, sending the dismissal out into the auditorium. He stared at his screen for a moment until he heard a seat creak, and then he looked up to see a boy rolling his eyes as he left.
Not her.
Eliot pulled himself upright in his seat, wiping at his weary eyes. The night before already felt far away, the stuff of dreams and magic. He had looked forward to the internship test because he knew he would see her. And yet he was scared, too, for what reason he could not tell. Perhaps he worried that she would fail. She did not seem like the kind of person to take failure lightly. Perhaps he worried more that she would win, and all that would mean for him.
He flipped through the students’ work on his screen quickly, dismissing all those who had nothing written down. Then he went back and dismissed all those who were simply writing down partitions in any random order. He did not want guessers. He did not want anyone whose brains were disorderly.
Valentina still worked on in the second row. Her dark hair fell over her face, obscuring her eyes. She held the stylus carefully, precisely, as though cutting one slice of cake in two perfectly equal pieces. As he scanned through the remaining students on his screen, he tried to guess whose screen belonged to her. Perhaps this one, with the delicate handwriting, the numbers slanted in a hurry toward the right of the page. Perhaps this other one with the sums in an orderly matrix. One student had written all of the partitions out already and was beginning to show the proof for a general case.
Enough. He deleted the problem set, erasing all of the answers. Anybody still here deserved to move on.
As the problems went on and he dismissed the students more slowly, he grew prouder and prouder of Valentina. She certainly would become a great mathematician if she kept at it. All of the remaining few students—four of them—had done a remarkable job in their attempts at finding the answers to unreasonably hard questions. He thought he knew which tablet was hers before erasing the last question.
“Congratulations,” he said, looking directly at Valentina. She blushed and looked away. “You have passed the first round of testing. We’ll start the interview portion of the test now. Relax here; the interviews should take less than a half hour each. You first,” he said, pointing to the young man sitting next to Valentina. Eliot glanced back at the tablet on his desk. Although he wanted to be impartial, he knew that it would be hard to interview anyone after he had spoken with Valentina. He held out his hand to the young man who approached the front of the lecture hall.
“Hello, I’m Dr. Herceg.”
“Mark. Mark Joseph.” The boy shook his hand firmly and they walked out of the back exit of the auditorium to the empty classroom Eliot had chosen for the interviews.
“Very impressive. You and your fellow students. This is one of the finest test groups I’ve seen.” Eliot didn’t have to lie; the competition had grown fiercer each year, and this selection of students did not disappoint. Pasadena University, for all its administrative idiocy, certainly admitted some of the top mathematical talent in the country.
“Thank you, sir.” They sat in the student chairs, Eliot leaning back with his tablet in his lap. The boy scratched nervously at the side of his glasses.
“Mark Joseph. Any relation to the dean?”
“He’s my dad.” The boy stared down at his feet as though significantly embarrassed by having to reveal this fact. Eliot had to keep himself from laughing at the irony. After all that nonsense with Patterson, to have the dean’s son show up as a top candidate!
“Don’t worry, I won’t give preference one way or another. I only care about your math.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Which problem gave you the most trouble on the test?” he asked.
They sat and talked about the problems for quite some time before Eliot glanced at his watch and noticed over thirty minutes had passed. The boy impressed him, a good fit for the program and able to communicate his difficulties easily. A strikingly intelligent student. In any other year Eliot would have had his winner right there. And yet—
He had not dared to hope that Valentina would make it this far on the test. He thrilled to know that her mind was as top-rate as any of the other students there. He interviewed the other two boys in succession, leaving her for the end. Neither of the two other boys impressed him as much as Mark had. The red-haired one couldn’t explain his process except to repeat the particular steps he had taken, and Eliot needed someone who would be able to understand the broader strokes of the field he worked in. The same issue plagued the other student, who got frustrated while explaining his missteps on one of the proofs and clammed up completely when asked to describe his overall process of thought. No, he needed someone able to acknowledge their mistakes, someone who could talk him through their work. He hoped Valentina would be that person. If not, well, at least he had one candidate who could fill the spot.
Walking back down to the auditorium, Eliot felt his step grow lighter. She would do well, he knew it. She was a brilliant mathematician if she had gotten this far, and he already knew her temperament suited the internship. He walked into the auditorium filled with hope.
“Valentina—”
Her seat was empty. Eliot’s mouth stopped half-open. His thoughts turned slow, fuzzed.
“Valentina?”
There was only a note on the desk in the front of the room. He read it and crumpled the page in his hand. He looked out, as though expecting her to materialize from nothing into the seat where previously she had been sitting.
Eliot shoved the note into his pocket. He would not let her disappear so easily.
* * * *
Fate told me I wasn’t a Disney princess, and I agreed. When the other girls at school wanted to play in imaginary royal palaces built out of cardboard and imagination, I went along. But I was never the princess. I was the funny sidekick lobster that helped the princess get the prince. What I never saw in myself—what nobody ever saw in me—was the slim grace of the hand that rests the tiara on her brow.
Instead, I looked to the older legends, to the stories my mother told me about the goddesses: their vengeances, their fury.
Me, Cinderella? A dainty, feminine orchid, destined to be plucked? No. I was Artemis, strong and intelligent and cunning.
Of Artemis,—her bow, with points drawn back,
A golden hue on her white rounded breast
Reflecting, while the arrow’s ample barb
Gleams o’er her hand, and at his heart is aim’d.
Nobody would come looking for me if I ran away, I thought.
I was wrong.
Princes don’t always go for the ones in glass slippers, it seems, and Eliot already had a hold on my heart that I could not escape from, no matter how fast or how far I ran.
Chapter Five
“Who is she?”
“I don’t know her name.”
Patterson’s brows sloped deeply into the wrinkled skin above his nose. He shook his head at Eliot, who paced across the oak floors of his office in vain.
“You have to pick a winner. We have to announce a winner. Today.”
“I have picked,” Eliot insisted.
“There is no Valentina Alastair!” Patterson looked at Eliot like he was a crazy person. Who knows, perhaps the man was right. Perhaps Eliot was crazy. But if there was one thing he knew, it was that Valentina was real, even if her name wasn’t really hers. And he wasn’t about to tell Patterson that his intended winner had turned tail and fled. It irritated him that the tablet system designed to preserve anonymity had backfired on him so miserably.
“She must have given the wrong name.”
“Then she must not want the prize. Pick another winner.”
“There isn’t another.” Even as he said this, Eliot knew the stude
nt he would pick if Valentina failed to materialize. Patterson sighed, crossing his arms and leaning back onto his desk.
Damn her! Why did she force him to chase after her? He felt ridiculous. He felt—
He felt as he had when he spoke to Clare for the first time, when she told him that her boyfriend was on his way to pick her up. He had persisted despite his mind telling him that he would surely fail, and eventually he won her over. Now, he felt the same stirrings of desire, the same desperate, ridiculous pangs of longing that made him rush headlong into foolishness.
“We can choose another for you, then. The Joseph kid. You mentioned him, and it would be beneficial for your status at the university...”
“Let me find her.” Eliot’s mouth set in a hard line. “Email the student list—”
“Dr. Herceg!” Patterson sounded incredulous. “Do you expect me to send out a missing persons alert for the winner of the most prestigious prize in the department?”
“Why not?”
“If you knew the kind of outrage that this would provoke—”
“Please!” Eliot knew he had reached the thin edge of Patterson’s tolerance, but he could not stop a last brutal effort. “Let me find her.”
“Then find her,” Patterson said. “Today. If I have not received an answer from you in the next two hours, I’m naming Mark Joseph the winner.”
“This is my internship—”
“Then stop acting like a fool! Eliot, I’ve tried to keep you here despite everything, but this is too much. I promise that the department will re-evaluate your fellowship.”
Eliot cast his eyes around the room. Truly, he must sound like a madman. Although every cell in Eliot’s body rejected it, he knew that Patterson had a point. Still, he needed to do everything he possibly could to find Valentina.
“Just one email—”
“No!” Patterson snapped down on the word as though cutting it off with his teeth. “You have until I leave campus tonight. I’ll be awaiting your reply.”