Love and Other Unknown Variables

by Shannon Alexander

Dr. Whiting leans back in his chair, his hands behind his head; his elbows jut out, reminiscent of less than and greater than symbols. “We on the staff are all aware that Brighton has a reputation where the humanities are concerned, chiefly our literature classes.” He pauses to let that sink in, still reclined like a sleeping puma ready to shred our skin when we least expect it. Greta and I steal glances at each other. Her face has gone so pale even her freckles have disappeared. “Unfortunately, that reputation is starting to spread into the STEM community. I will not be a laughing stock. I’m expecting both of you to be the kind of leaders Brighton deserves. The kind of leaders I can feel good about standing behind when universities come calling.”

  He drops his arms and leans forward to turn a picture frame around on his desk. “Mr. Hanson, this may interest you.” It’s a picture of a young man and a younger Dr. Whiting at a graduation. MIT banners are unmistakable in the background. “That’s Devon, my son. Graduated a few years ago. And let’s see…” He turns to the bookshelves along one wall and points to another picture. “My daughter Annabelle is there now. In fact, she’s one of Dr. Bell’s research interns. You’re a fan of Dr. Bell’s research, if I’m remembering correctly?”

  My ears are on fire and the heat has dried out my mouth. I’d choke if I tried to answer.

  “You must be proud,” Greta says beside me.

  He looks her straight in the eye. “As proud as a Stanford man can be.”

  Holy mother of batshit. He’s passive aggressively threatening us. Greta’s number one university choice next year is Stanford. And MIT has been a plot point on my straight arrow lifeline since I was ten. The fire in my ears spreads to my whole body, scorching my insides so that I fight the urge to scream and run away.

  Greta is cool, though. She just smiles and nods. “You needn’t worry, Dr. Whiting. Charlie and I are committed to our studies. Just the other day, we were commenting on how much more agreeable English is this year because Ms. Finch is trying her hardest to help us relate it to math and science.” She nudges my knee with her own. “Right, Charlie?”

  “Uh,” I cough to clear my baked throat. “Yes. Books are fun.”

  Greta groans imperceptibly.

  Dr. Whiting smiles as he stands and comes around his desk, his arms open. We stand and he takes each of us by a shoulder. “That’s just what I expected to hear. You should also know that I have other, particular, reasons for wanting Ms. Finch to have a smooth year here.” He walks, tucking us under his arms, to the door of his office. With a final squeeze he pushes us gently out the door. “I’m glad we’re all on the same team.”

  ---

  Greta rages the whole way home. She pulls strings of curses out of her mind like she’s unraveling the universe’s favorite sweater. James is in freak-out mode.

  “How does he know? Who ratted?” He’s dented the kinky curls on both sides of his head, squeezing it tightly between giant palms, so his head now looks oblong, like an egg.

  “He doesn’t know dick,” Greta says. The sound of her voice is a fierce growl in her throat. “How dare that pompous, meddling…” She continues to unwind another mile-long thread of swear words.

  I agree with Greta. Dr. Whiting doesn’t know we’re actively doing anything to harass Ms. Finch. Probably because we’re passively harassing her. In the past, seniors were a bit more up front about their distaste for literature. And the thing is that Dr. Whiting didn’t do much to stop them.

  Brighton recruits students from all over the state. The facilities are immaculate, the teachers are top in their fields (at least math and science), and the students are indulged like rock stars. Normally, our more displeasing attributes are overlooked in the name of status quo. That status being that Brighton produces some of the brightest minds in the southeast and therefore has very generous donors. I’m not sure why this year is different, but something is going on.

  “What’re we going to do, guys?” James is rolling his head from side to side on the back of the seat. “I’m the one who dragged you into this, but I had no idea Whiting would—” He smooshes his hair again. “What do we do?”

  Greta looks at me and I’m reminded of a story her father loves to tell about her great-great-great-grandfather who was a street fighter in Ireland. He saved every penny from his fights and bought two tickets to America on the earliest steamer. Then he went to his favorite girl’s house and proposed. I’ve even seen a picture of him, his arm thrown around Greta’s great3-grandmother.

  Greta gets her looks from granny, short and curvy with fair, freckled skin and fiery hair the color of a bonfire at full blaze, but the fierceness in her eyes that burns brighter than the fire of her hair is from her impetuous, street fighting great3-grandpa.

  “No one threatens Greta Lynn McCaulley,” she says through gritted teeth. “We carry on.”

  “But—”

  “We. Carry. On.”

  3.3

  Charlotte is curled up on the couch in my living room with a single light on when I get home. The steady rain has begun to rumble with thunder like Smaug waking from his sleep.

  “Don’t you ever go home?” I ask, flopping down on the chair adjacent the couch.

  She closes the book in her hands and I can see Shakespeare’s face peering out from the cover. Yes, I know who Shakespeare is. No, I haven’t actually read any of his plays.

  “Who wadded up your panties and shoved them down your throat?” she asks, sitting up.

  I mentally gag on that unpleasant image. “Ew, Charlotte. Just. Ew.”

  A smile snakes across her face.

  “Seriously, why are you always here?”

  She hugs the book to her chest and picks at the binding. “I like it here. Gotta problem with that?”

  I shrug. “Are you fighting with your sister? Something is up with her and I don’t think it has to do with a bunch of math geeks ignoring her. Is she sick or something?”

  Charlotte sits up straighter. “She’s not sick.”

  “Okay, then what?”

  “I don’t want to talk about Jo.”

  “Well, neither do I, but my principal felt the need to drag me into his office this afternoon and threaten me if I mess with her.”

  Charlotte sinks back into the cushions, curling in on herself like smoke in a vacuum.

  “Spill. Why not go home, Charlotte?”

  “What home?” Charlotte’s voice drowns under a roll of thunder. “My sister’s house? My stupid, selfish father’s house full of sad memories and empty bottles?” She stands, clutching her book. “What home, Charlie?” Her cheeks are flushed and I have to look away to ignore the way her ragged breathing is rattling her very bones.

  I stand, too, but I’m afraid to move closer to her, afraid she’ll move farther away, like an electron repelled by one of its own kind, which strikes me instantly as strange because Charlotte and I seem so different. How can we be made of the same stuff? I pitch my voice low, in yet another attempt to keep her from skittering away. “I don’t understand.”

  “Neither do I. I can’t explain what I don’t even understand in my own head. I just know that when I’m here,” she gestures to the space between us, her hand fluttering like a flame about to be guttered, “I am home.”

  I unintentionally take a step away from her, surprised by her admission. It’s what I thought I wanted, but it scares me, too. Charlotte looks away, swiping at her eyes with the back of one hand.

  When a beautiful girl says you are like a home to her, you should swoop in and kiss her or something. Not leap away. I try to bridge the fissure opening again between us. “Am I like home?”

  “I don’t know, Charlie. Are you going to let me in?” Her glare is a paradox in itself. It freezes my heart, but ignites other parts. It’s like I’m constantly being torn in two whenever I’m around her. It’s inevitable. I snap.

  “Me?” My voice cracks on the word. “You’re the mystery woman, asking about theoretical cats and refusing to explain what’s going on with you an
d your sister. You lay all this shit out at my feet, but don’t bother to explain any of it. What am I supposed to do?”

  There is a tiny moment where I can see past the seething anger in her eyes. One tiny moment when I can see something else—fear, confusion, hunger, maybe even hope. But then it’s hidden again, deep below Charlotte’s surface.

  She spits the words, “Figure it out, genius,” at me before turning to leave, but I step in front of her.

  “I’m trying to, but you need to let me in, too.”

  “Don’t tell me what I need to do, Charlie.” Her voice wavers, sad and angry tones tearing each other apart in her throat. “I’ve got enough people telling me what to do.”

  “I’m not telling you what to do. I’m asking you to let me in.”

  “What if I can’t do that?”

  “Then why should I care?” This I ask as much for myself as her.

  Charlotte’s intake of breath is quick and sharp, like I’ve plunged a syringe of adrenaline into her chest.

  “I thought we were friends,” she says, her voice breathless.

  “If we were friends, you’d trust me enough to tell me the truth.”

  Her eyes waver, and I think I’ve done it. I think I’ve cracked her code. But then she shakes her head, crossing her arms over her chest, a universal sign she’s done talking.

  I want in. Why won’t she let me in? I’m helping her. I’m—tired.

  “I don’t need this,” I say, and every atom in my body feels how wrong it is, but I turn away from her.

  3.4

  The next day, school was pretty uneventful, which was good because I can’t handle much more. The only problem is that the crack in the wall Ms. Finch made is growing. Today we read a science fiction story about time travel. Afterward she asked if anyone had an opinion about the probability of the author’s time machine actually working. Three people’s hands sprang up before they realized what they’d done. Charlotte was right. We’re going to need a new plan.

  On top of that, I kept thinking I heard Dr. Whiting’s loud whistle out in the hallway during English, but I never caught a glimpse of him through the small window in the door, so I can’t be sure.

  When I arrive at Mrs. Dunwitty’s to do my penance, she calls me up to the porch and motions for me to sit in the other rocking chair. “Sit your bony ass down, Jack.”

  I want to ask who Jack is, but decide to do as I’m told. I remind myself this is the last day I’ll have to put up with her. I’d have bailed on her weeks ago, but she wouldn’t think twice about narc-ing on me to Dad.

  “Tools can get you to powerful places,” Mrs. Dunwitty says, turning the fraying brim of her sunhat in her hand.

  We’ve been rocking along in silence for a few minutes when she hits me with the crap about the tools. I raise my eyebrows and she finishes, “But having the tools doesn’t mean you know how to use them properly. Understand, son?”

  No, you insane bat, I have no idea what you mean. But I nod and mumble, “Yes, ma’am.”

  Mrs. Dunwitty is no dimwit. “Don’t lie to me, Jack.”

  “My name’s Charlie,” I say, but I can’t make myself say it loudly and it comes out like a question.

  Dimwit rolls her big eyes at me. “Short for jackass.”

  “Oh, well. Okay…” I look down at my hands gripping the arms of the chair. The white paint is worn.

  “Today, Jack”—she puts great emphasis on my new nickname—“you’ll clean and store the garden tools. Winter’s coming and the tools will be put away.”

  “Easy,” I say, standing. “I’ll get right to it.”

  “You do that then,” she says in a tone that indicates I’ve made a fatal mistake. I pause and glance back at her. She looks expectant, but seriously, how hard can it be to shove some tools in a shed? I shrug and walk around to the shed at the back of the house. She’s still rocking when I come back ten minutes later.

  Wiping muddy hands on my stained T-shirt, I declare, “It’s all done.”

  She gets up from her chair, reaching for her cane, and follows me to the back yard. She’s slower than usual and I have to stop and wait for her to catch up a few times. Must be all the rainy weather affecting her joints. My grandma used to complain about that.

  Mrs. Dunwitty nods toward the door of the shed, which I open obediently only to have a rake handle crack me viciously on the forehead.

  “Ow! Crap.”

  “Yep. Crap job. Do it again,” Mrs. Dunwitty says as she begins walking away.

  I stand rubbing my forehead. She won’t let me go until I get it right. She’ll keep me here cleaning tools until spring arrives.

  “Wait,” I call. “Aren’t you going to tell me how you want it done?”

  “I want it done correctly,” she says, still walking away from me.

  “But—”

  She stops.

  “I don’t know how. Can you teach me?” I ask, defeated.

  She turns around with a wide smile, “Yes, Charles. I can.”

  When we’re finished, we walk back to the front. “One last thing. Would you please put the new angel in the garden for me?”

  I’d laugh, but I’ve just swallowed my tongue. Mrs. Dunwitty just said please. The world must be coming to an end. She laughs at my expression and shakes her head as she walks up to the porch, “She’s in the garage. Don’t break her.”

  I find the new angel where Mrs. Dunwitty said, but this angel is twice as big as the old angel and probably weighs as much as me. I’m not sure how to move her. I can’t even heft her into the wheelbarrow myself. I need help. Crafty old biddy is testing me. The angel’s wisp of a smile agrees with me.

  I walk back out to admit that I can’t move her alone and see Mrs. Dunwitty scratching the pointy ears of a familiar hellhound. She looks up at me with a knowing expression in that wrinkly face. “Problem?”

  “I need help.” I peek at Charlotte, her cheeks pink from walking her dog. “The angel’s too heavy.”

  “Don’t look at me,” Mrs. Dunwitty chuckles. “That’s why I’ve got you around. I’m too damn old for lifting angels.”

  Charlotte pushes a curl behind her ear. She holds my gaze prisoner with her own. “I’ll help, if it’s okay.”

  “Well, aren’t you lucky? Looks like you’ve got a personal savior.” Mrs. Dunwitty leads Luna up to her porch for some water.

  Charlotte and I stand like we’re stuck in tar. My savior is looking hot today in a pair of running shorts that show off her long legs. She catches me staring and bites back a grin. I motion for her to follow me to the garage.

  “Charlie,” Charlotte says as soon as we’re out of Mrs. Dunwitty’s sight.

  I don’t want to fight. Not now. Not where Mrs. Dunwitty will inevitably butt in and spout out more metaphors about gardening and life and crap. “Let’s just move this thing,” I say, positioning the wheelbarrow by the angel.

  Charlotte swallows whatever she was going to say. She nods and follows my lead as we lift the new angel and settle her carefully in the wheelbarrow without incident. It was so easy that I’m thinking I could have lifted the stupid thing by myself after all.

  I roll the angel out to the garden where I’ve prepared a spot for her amongst the roses. “I think I can get this,” I tell Charlotte, stepping up to the angel. I bend my knees, take a deep breath, and grip as hard as I can. Blowing all the air out of my lungs as I lift, I manage to pick the angel up in one swoop. I open my eyes and yelp. Charlotte is standing so close, just opposite the angel, her arms out like she was about to offer to help. She laughs and between that and the surprise and the actual weight of the angel, my grip slips.

  “Whoa there.” Charlotte steps in to help. Her hands meet mine under the angel’s wings and we clasp them together to make a human safety net for the statue.

  Protecting my machismo, I say, “I got it,” and try to yank the angel away, but Charlotte is freakishly strong and won’t let go of my hands.

  “Let me help. Would it be so
bad if you let me help?”

  I sigh and study her face, soft and inviting, dissolving my residual frustrations. If the angel didn’t weigh so much, I may have lingered on it longer, but the rough concrete begins to dig into my skin. Without a word, I nod and we sidestep our way into the garden. Carefully, we tip the angel into place and step back to admire our work.

  “See,” says Charlotte, wiping her hands on her shirt. “We make a good team.”

  I snort. “Yeah. We make something.” Her smile is crooked and an errant curl is looping across her temple.

  Mrs. Dunwitty and the dog join us by the garden. It looks good with the new angel resting at its center. Which reminds me, the old one is still rolling around in the trunk of my car. Must dispose of broken angel.

  My hands are calloused, my back is sore, and I’ve ruined all my gym clothes, but I also feel stronger somehow. I guess it’s all the endorphins or whatever, but I feel good, better than I’ve felt in a while, so I give Mrs. Dunwitty a small smile.

  She shakes her head slowly and says, “Don’t get all sappy. You’re done here. Next time, stay on the road.”

  My smile slips away. “Don’t flatter yourself, old woman. If I never have to see this garden again it will be too soon.”

  “That’s more like it,” she chuckles. “Now please escort this young lady home.”

  I nod. “Yes ma’am.” That’s two pleases in one day.

  Luna hops into the backseat of my car and begins drooling right where James sits. “Good girl,” I say as I close the door. Charlotte and I are quiet on the drive back to her house.

  “Turn here,” she says. “Mine’s the third one on the left. Jo’s not home yet, so you can pull in the driveway.”

  “As opposed to slowing down and tossing you out as I drive by?”

  “Something like that.”

  Before opening the door, Charlotte touches my arm. “Thanks, Charlie.” She looks like she may say more, but bites down on her bottom lip. Her hand slips away from my arm, leaving a warm spot under the memory of her touch.

  “I should be thanking you. I’d be crushed under an angel if it weren’t for you.”