The Calculus of Change

by Jessie Hilb

  The nurse calls us to the exam room. I planned on waiting outside, but Marissa forces me to accompany her. I want to remind her that I’ll be out of state next year. I can’t be her person. We need to talk about it. But not now. Right now I’m here.

  “They are trying to destroy my nipples,” she says adjusting the hospital gown while she sits on the exam table.

  She’s holding the paper away from her breasts. Marissa says she wasn’t expecting her boob changes. The nausea and belly growth, sure. But that her boobs have taken on a life of their own has been a very unwelcome shock, as she really did have wonderful breasts.

  The tech knocks on the door and enters the room. She’s all business, wheeling the ultrasound machine over to the bedside and flipping the switch.

  “Are we finding out the sex of the baby today?”

  “I’m sorry?” says Marissa.

  “Are we finding out the sex of the baby?”

  “I didn’t know we could do that. I mean, I didn’t know we could do that today.”

  The tech looks at her watch.

  “We should be able to do that today,” the tech says. “You’re seventeen weeks. There’s no guarantee at this stage, given the age of the fetus and the positioning, but there is a strong chance we will see the boy or girl parts. So, would you like to know?”

  “Well, obviously,” Marissa says. “Yes.”

  The tech applies goop to Marissa’s belly and uses the machine to spread it around.

  “That’s your baby.”

  Wow. It really does look like a baby. There’s a real baby in there. I was expecting something resembling a peanut, but what I’m looking at is unquestionably a baby.

  The tech points to the screen and angles it toward Marissa.

  “Congratulations,” she says. “It’s a boy.”

  Marissa wipes tears from her eyes, and I squeeze her hand. Knowing the sex of the baby makes this one step closer to real.

  Marissa told Danson and Josh the truth. That she’d slept with two people in the same time frame and she wasn’t sure whose baby it was.

  Josh called her a slut and hasn’t spoken to her since. Funny how you think you’ve got someone pegged and they turn out to be the complete opposite. I thought Josh was a good guy.

  Danson was surprising. He told his wife and agreed to a paternity test, the results of which return in ten to fourteen days. If it’s his, he’ll show up. I guess he and his wife are going to work it out, though I can’t imagine how she can forgive the sleazebag for sleeping with a student. Apparently everyone’s decided to keep the whole affair hush-hush, and after Marissa graduates they can sort out the details. I hope it’s his, because Marissa could use all the support she can get.

  But she said even if it’s Josh’s, she won’t roll over without a fight. She’ll tell his mom that she has a grandson. Marissa says Josh’s mom is good people and his family is totally loaded. I hope that’s true. The good people part.

  The pregnancy seems to have changed Marissa. I’ve never seen her with a purpose. I’m weirdly less worried about her now than I was before she got pregnant. She got her acceptance letter from Metro State University last week. Since then, she’s spent a lot less time with celeb magazines while lying on my bed after school. She’s either sleeping or working on homework. She saw the school counselor and found out that Metro has a “young moms’ house” affiliate off campus. I guess all the girls in the house have babies, and if you go to school and have a job, you can live there all four years and get childcare.

  I don’t want to leave Marissa. It kills me that I can’t be the one to take care of her. But we both know I can’t.

  Me

  My dad took us all out for ice cream to celebrate my early acceptance to Brandeis. Though I could see some of her sadness, Marissa looked truly happy for me that night. And she actually ate her entire container of ice cream.

  Dad has said we’ll figure it out—two private schools, one family—but Jon and I both feel the undercurrent of his worry.

  I stare at the scholarship applications open in my web browser—one for women in math and science, and one for students with a deceased parent.

  I start to write the essay for the deceased-parent scholarship, but how can I put words to having lost my mom to cancer and what it’s been like to be me without her? Music keeps filling my head. Melodies and lyrics, the strum of a guitar. So I decide to send song lyrics and a video of me performing them as my “essay.”

  I flop onto my bed and look at the twelve-string guitar propped against my nightstand. I think of my mom, the word proud on the tip of my tongue.

  Me, Jon, Dad, Mom

  It’s her birthday. In the past we’ve avoided talking about it because it hurts. Usually, the only noticeable thing about my mom’s birthday is that my dad disappears. And then we keep on living like her birthday never came and went. Like she never came and went. But she did, and I’m here because of it. And Jon’s here because of it. And this is what life looks like because my mom came and went.

  Jon and I walk into the house, and see the note: JON AND ADEN come downstairs.

  We look at each other, eyebrows raised, a question passing between us as we make our way to the base-ment.

  When my eyes adjust to the dark, I see our dad standing with the remote in his hand.

  He grumbles, motioning for us to sit.

  Wow, there is a lot of popcorn. Two giant bowls of it and a few fun-size candy bars on the coffee table.

  “I, uh.” It takes a minute for him to collect his thoughts and words. He clears his throat. “The pictures had me wondering what else was in the attic. I found another box.” He doesn’t acknowledge the birthday, but we all know.

  Without saying more, he presses a button on the remote, and there’s my mom, alive and well on the screen, holding the hand of a toddler as she walks. It’s me. Me and my mom. Her hair is dark and wild, just like mine. In the next clip there’s Jon as a baby, playing in an empty diaper box. My mom is laughing. It’s nothing like my laugh. It’s this mix of flute and trombone and singing soprano. Robust. Beautiful, if slightly grating. I remember the singing soprano—but the depth and breadth of her laugh, of her person, it was lost to me. Dad was right, she is kind of loud and bossy. And funny. I don’t remember that about her.

  There is so much live footage of my mom. I’ve never seen any of this.

  We’re three sitting on the couch together watching the family we once were. It hurts, but it’s the best kind of hurt I’ve had about her since she died. It’s like my dad has somehow made it all real. That she existed. That she left. That it hurts. It wasn’t real until now. It occurs to me that even if she were still alive, we wouldn’t be that family anymore. Things are always changing; time changes everything.

  I lean into my dad’s sweatshirt and wipe my tears.

  After, when we’re eating the candy that was on the table, I announce, “I’m going to get involved at the synagogue until I leave for Brandeis.”

  They both look at me, surprised, and I explain that I’ve been in touch with Rabbi Morrey. Knowing him and knowing more about Judaism connects me to her. I need that. Because knowing her better helps me know myself.

  “This is the way she would’ve wanted it all along.” My dad’s voice is tinged with regret. “I just couldn’t . . .”

  He trails off, and Jon and I exchange a look. But this time, we don’t try to make it okay or rescue him from the truth.

  Jon says, “I don’t remember her voice sounding so . . .”

  “Unsettling?” I offer.

  “Kind of, yeah. She sounds a little sharp.”

  We laugh, even my dad.

  “The voice of a singer,” I add.

  “Like you.” There’s a longing in Jon’s voice that I recognize because it mirrors my own. It occurs to me that maybe he’s envious of the way I’ve found our mom—through the rabbi and even before that, through song. In the same way Jon has been a barricade between Dad and me, maybe I’ve been a
barricade between him and Mom.

  “Do you want to come with me sometime?”

  “Where? To temple?”

  “Why not?”

  Jon looks from me to Dad as if asking permission. Dad shrugs. “Dad, do you want to come?”

  “I think I’ll leave you guys to it.”

  “Yeah, I think I do,” Jon says. Dad and Jon exhale in unison, and Jon chuckles before he breaks the silence. “I didn’t realize how badly I needed to see her.”

  I know exactly what he means.

  Me

  The Colorado sky is an explosion of orangey pinks and blackish blues as I pull into the strip mall parking lot. A ceremonious display of beauty in a moment I wouldn’t have noted otherwise. I turn off the car engine and let the music play while I stare at the sky. I have five minutes, and I’ll take them.

  There’s a knock on my window. Three minutes into my five. I turn to see Dustin. He points at the sky, and I nod in agreement.

  “What are you up to?” I say as I make my way out of the car precisely one minute earlier than I’d planned. I’m trying to decide if he’s worth it.

  “I have two clients and then I’ll work out myself,” he says.

  I know he has two clients on Saturday evenings because I see him training every Saturday. He laughs a lot with his clients. But when it’s go time, he pushes hard. He’s a good coach. He seems like a good guy. I try not to think about Dustin too often, because I can’t go through another Tate. Dustin’s warm eyes and infectious laugh are noise in the background, except when I’m near him. When we’re in the same room, I don’t care that Tate crushed me. When we’re in the same room, it’s easy laughing and light blue eyes. It’s brushes on the shoulder or hands touching, and I wonder, Was that an accident? But I know it wasn’t. This is flirting.

  When we’re not together, I wonder how Dustin could want me. And then I let the insecurity wash away, because how could he not?

  Maybe it’s my body in the water day after day, or the sheer movement, or the ritual of coming here, or Nancy or Dustin, but something in me transforms a little every time I walk in the door and walk back out. I think it’s all of it. This transformation—it’s like I’ve finally found a way to anchor my body to my soul. So to say that I’m losing weight and feeling better is wrong. It’s just that I’ve finally found a way to be more fully me. Not all the time. But enough of the time. For now.

  I’m walking on the treadmill when Dustin comes to my side, sweating and breathing heavily. He pushes two buttons twice, and now I’m half jogging up a hill.

  “Go harder,” he says. “You’re tougher than you think.”

  So I do. Not because he tells me to, but because I know he’s right. I am.

  I stare at my reflection in the locker room mirror for a long time after my workout. I threw off my T-shirt while I was on the treadmill—something new; it was hot, and I have nothing of myself to hide. Now I know what they mean when the say life is too short. What I see isn’t perfect, but it’s mine. And as I look at myself, I think, I look beautiful because I’m strong.

  Me

  I’ve fixed the broken D on my mom’s twelve-string, and I’m ready to play it, not just in my room, but at Ike’s. I can’t see my dad, Jon, Marissa, or Sabita as I get ready for my last song. The one I wrote. But I don’t need to see them right now. They’re here. Mostly, though, I’m here. Out of my head and here in the room with the people who came to see me play. I’m ready to let them see me, because right now, and always, I have something to give. Freely.

  It’s in the push and pull

  It’s in the pain and joy

  It’s in opening up

  Love is the knowing of souls

  And even when it’s not perfect

  It might be

  Enough

  Because I am

  Enough

  And so are you

  It’s in the push and pull

  It’s in the pain and joy

  It’s in opening up

  So be beautiful

  And love with abandon

  Because as far as we know

  This

  Is it

  It’s in the push and pull

  It’s in the pain and the joy

  It’s in opening up

  So open up

  And be free

  Because as far as we know

  This

  Is it

  This is it.

  Acknowledgments

  And now I get to gush about all the people who’ve helped me along the way.

  I owe a huge debt of gratitude to my talented, articulate, warm, and brilliant agent, Renee Nyen. Thank you, Renee, for your keen editorial insights, for holding fast to the soul of this book, and for just being the kind of person who gets it. Words fail me. I’ve loved being on this journey with you and knew from our first conversation that you were the agent for me. I got so, so lucky that you felt the same way about Calculus and me.

  I am grateful to my editor, Anne Hoppe. Anne, I’ve been amazed by your editing wizardry, and your ability to deliver insights with so much respect for the artistry and heart of the work. I am beyond grateful to you for having absolutely pored over every detail, theme, character, and storyline in this book. Thank you for giving Calculus (and me) a chance to live up to its potential. I have loved working with and learning from you and consider myself insanely fortunate for having had this opportunity.

  Thank you to Christine Kettner for a gorgeous design and cover; to my meticulous copy editor, Ana Deboo; to publicist Tara Sonin; and everyone at Clarion who touched this book and made it real.

  I would not be the writer I am, nor would this be the book it is, without the unwavering support and insight of Robert Gatewood. RPG, I am indebted to you—your belief in me, in this book, and in the ones to follow. You see writers as they could be and as they are. You work tirelessly to support and uplift. Your capacity to understand the core of a manuscript but break it down and make it better is unmatched. And you do it all so carefully and respectfully. The community that you’ve created at the Boulder Writing Studio is a true stronghold, and I’m glad you built it and glad I found it. Your mentorship, vision, and smart-assery are a light in the dark. Thank you is the most inadequate phrase.

  I am overflowing with gratitude for the support of my dear, dear friends and writing comrades at BWS—most of whom have known this book since it was an infant. In no particular order: Mark, Tom, Laura, Suzanne, Shannon, Chris, Alicia, Arlee. Words can’t capture the depth of some of these friendships and the admiration I have for each of you as writers. Thank you for being my people. Thank you for your rich, perceptive feedback. I am a better writer because of you. Suzanne—for being one of the best friends I could never deserve. I love you so much.

  Thank you to Anne Marie O’Brien and all my friends in Anne’s class at Stanford. Anne, you introduced me to so many influential YA authors. Fifty pages in, I put this book in first person because of you all, and that was so right.

  To my brother, Ben. How can I articulate what your support means to me? Thank you for believing in me, and pushing me, and hearing every neurotic thought I’ve ever had about myself as writer. Thank you for knowing that I am a writer in spite of myself. I am so glad I got to grow up with you, and that you are one of my very best friends, and that I get to call you my brother. I am so proud of the man you are—passionate, calculated, funny, articulate, and brilliant, to name a few qualities. And to my lovely and bright-and-shining sister-in-law, Laura. You are the most humbly amazing woman. Thank you for giving this book a read in its middle stages—you made it better.

  To my sister and dear friend, Laura, for supporting me through leaps and bounds, mistakes and triumphs.

  To my mom and dad for loving me and dealing with me and always being proud of me. Now that I’m a parent, I think I can understand what it’s meant for you to love and support me all these years. I love you both so much and am so, so grateful that I got you as my guides. Mom, you are t
he very embodiment of love and integrity, and it shows in everything you do. I will always hold in my heart how much you love me and let it guide me. Dad, you have always seen and honored all the sides of me, even if those sides are dark or rebellious or stubborn—thank you for holding space for me in the dark and the light. I know you’ve given so much to being a dad.

  I want to thank my generous and loving in-laws for watching my children on countless occasions while I wrote, and for just being great and tremendously helpful.

  I want to thank the many pockets of friends who support me in life and life’s endeavors—you know who you are, and I can only hope you know how much I appreciate you.

  I want to thank my high school English teachers who turned me on to reading and writing and taught me how to do it better—Mr. Foster, Mr. Feld, Mr. Kascht.

  Last but most, Dennis. Because only the two of us really know all that’s gone into writing this book. I’ve always wanted to write this—thank you not only for supporting, but in many ways enabling, this dream come true. I know it’s impacted us and our family every step of the way. You never, for one second, questioned the legitimacy of this endeavor or its importance to me. Your support is the single most important thing that made this happen. I am forever grateful to you, and I love you.

  Zeke and Sage—because you’ve shared me with this book. Because you’ve made me a more whole and honest person. Because my love for each of you is its own universe.

  About the Author

  Photo by Lauren Hassan

  JESSIE HILB holds a B.A. in English literature and a master’s degree in social work. She lives with her family and their ever-loyal herding dog in Boulder, Colorado, where she constantly reinvents herself. This is her first novel.