by Greg Pincus
“You could borrow my camera, Kelly,” Gregory said softly.
“I’ve taken photos, but I’m working on memories.” Kelly’s eyes stayed wide, watching Gregory walk up the short path to the front door. Moments later, she hurried after him, catching him as they entered the house together.
Inside, they both moaned as the sweet smells from the kitchen struck them full on. They stopped in their tracks as if they’d hit a wall, nostrils flaring and eyes tearing up with joy.
“Here’s the deal,” Kelly’s mom said as she came out of the kitchen carrying two baking sheets in her oven-mitted hands. “You can only have the broken pieces and misshapen cookies. Everything else is spoken for.”
The two friends followed Kelly’s mom into the kitchen and stared at the counters piled high with one-dozen-cookies-to-go boxes from the Slice. There must have been over fifty of them.
“Who are the boxes for?” Kelly asked as her mom pointed out a heaping bowl of broken bites to her and Gregory.
“Your teachers, your friends, the mailwoman, the garbagemen, the … the … everyone, Kelly. I just kept baking.” Kelly’s mom put down the baking sheets and started neatening the piles of boxes.
“My dad does the same thing,” Gregory said between bites of bites. “Except he does complex math stuff instead of baking. But when he was switching jobs, he filled up three notebooks in one day.”
“I’ll miss him,” Kelly’s mom said simply.
She grabbed a box and put it in front of Gregory. “This is for your dad. It’s chocolate chocolate chip. His favorite. I’ve got boxes for everyone in your family, actually, but please make sure you take these home.”
Gregory figured it was just the heat from baking that made Kelly’s mom say she’d miss his father. He’d really never thought of them as friends, though they certainly spoke often when dealing with their kids and schedules. And he knew that when Kelly’s dad had left, his parents had helped out in a lot of ways. That was a long time ago … though apparently it still deserved cookies.
When their snack time was done, Gregory grabbed his notebook and headed toward the dining room table as he’d done many times before. This time, though, he stopped short.
The dining room was full of big, packed-up boxes, sealed and ready for the move ahead.
“Wow” was all Gregory could say.
“We were going to wait until school was done,” Kelly said, “but we realized there wouldn’t be enough time.”
“Wow.”
“I haven’t packed up my room yet. I just … can’t.” Kelly disguised her sigh by devouring a cookie bite. “Oh, I found something I wanted to show you.”
For the next hour, they looked through a tattered scrapbook full of old photos of themselves together through the years. The pictures led to stories about kindergarten and classes and birthday parties, the two friends remembering tiny little bits of nothing that meant so much.
“Look at that,” Gregory said, pointing to a photo of the two dressed up for Halloween. “Dr. Seuss and Laura Ingalls Wilder. Our parents thought we were nuts!”
“I remember your mom asking if you wanted to be the Cat in the Hat instead, and you just kept saying ‘Noooo! I wanna be the Doctor!’” Kelly laughed.
“Yeah, I never understood that question,” Gregory said. “Why not be the person who gave us the Cat instead of being the Cat? Isn’t he the really cool one?”
“No one guessed who we were all night.” Kelly shook her head. “We were, like, total oddballs.”
“But we got great candy.” Gregory smiled back.
The friends flipped pages until the scrapbook came to an end. Finally, Gregory said, “You know I’m going to miss you.”
“I’m going to miss you too,” Kelly replied. “Now, you need to work. That’s why you’re here.”
In truth, Gregory knew, that was only part of the reason he was there. Kelly was the other reason. Still, Gregory got to work, because missing Kelly would continue whether he did or didn’t. And here among the cookie smells and happy memories was actually a perfect place to work on his City Math project.
Kelly watched Gregory intently as he jotted notes, occasionally wrote down some numbers, and sometimes worked on poetry. Occasionally he’d smile and say, “Fibonacciiiiiiiiiii!” just because.
The work went well, and Gregory really didn’t want to go home to face his father. It didn’t feel like the right time, though he secretly figured that there would never be a right time. So, he used a strategy that he knew would save him.
“Mom?” he said on the phone. “Kelly and her mom want me to stay for dinner. I might not get another chance before they move, you know?”
Kelly rolled her eyes, and her mom giggled, but Gregory got an out for dinner at home. He kept working after dinner, and Kelly’s mom, her arms full of cookie boxes, finally came in to tell him he had to go.
“I’ve called three times and told your folks you were still working, Gregory, but now I have to go to sleep.”
The walk home was a wonderful mix of cool evening air and glorious sugary aromas. He could have walked all night, but it was late and he did have cookies to deliver. He got home, balanced the boxes of treats, opened the door, and went inside.
“I’m home!” he shouted to no one in particular, hoping that same no one would answer. Instead, O did.
“I’ll alert the media,” O said. “They might get tired of seeing you, though, since they’ll be there filming you for City Math really soon anyway.”
“That reminds me … I should get a haircut. Gotta look my best.” Gregory grinned at O, totally catching his brother off guard.
Moving quickly into the kitchen, Gregory dropped off four of the cookie boxes, each one labeled for the proper recipient in the family.
He took his own box with him as he headed toward his room. He could hear his mom and dad talking in the living room. Any other night, he would’ve gone in to say good night. But tonight …
“Good night, everyone!” he shouted and disappeared down the staircase before he even heard a single reply.
In his room, he stashed his dozen cookies, grabbed some City Math files, and opened up his notebook. He worked until he fell asleep.
For the next two days, Gregory avoided his father at breakfast and spent every free moment he could at Kelly’s house — after school on Friday and all day Saturday. Each night, he worked through dinner at Kelly’s, his parents agreeing that these last days at his best friend’s house were more important than the number of outs he took at home.
And they were important.
He was working hard, it was true, but he did take breaks. And they were the best. He and Kelly spent time on the porch, him molded in the beanbag chair and her on the swing, taking turns reading aloud from old notebooks. He carried boxes up from the basement and helped pack pots and pans in the kitchen, learning to use enough padding to avoid loud clangs when he moved the boxes.
Sometimes, Gregory would simply watch Kelly pack, and sometimes he’d catch her watching him while he wrote. Her eyes sparkled like always, though every now and then Gregory saw flashes of sadness. The flashes would disappear with a newly rediscovered photo or a plate of cookie crumbs. But the flashes were there, and Gregory felt them in his own eyes too.
Both nights after dinner, Kelly dragged Gregory out for a walk. The first night, she led them by the small dance studio where she took ballet and where Gregory had tried, and failed at, tap dancing. Under starry skies, they walked past the library, the town’s one bookstore, and the school, with Kelly taking mental pictures all the time.
“I don’t know that I’d want to remember that,” Gregory said as he gazed at their big, brick, five-day-a-week home away from home.
“I don’t think I could ever forget it,” Kelly said with a smile.
On their final evening walk, on a warm May Saturday with a gentle breeze that moved along with them, Kelly’s gait was slower than normal. Gregory had to work not to zoom past her. Finally, af
ter another trip around the park, she slowed to a stop in front of her house.
“I’m done,” Kelly said with a smile.
“Done? Is that a good thing?” Gregory waited for an answer, but Kelly said nothing. Instead, she hugged him and dragged him inside for dessert.
Every second at Kelly’s house, even the time he was spending on City Math, felt really good to Gregory. But he knew there was one more reason he was hanging out there. Well, two — he was bringing home baked goods every night. Beyond that, though, he knew he was avoiding his father and, he had to admit, doing a mighty fine job of it.
Later that night, Gregory once again managed to zip into his room without talking to his parents or siblings. City Math was coming up tomorrow. Maybe after that he’d stop hiding. Maybe not. For now, though, he was happy to be alone. He pulled a folder labeled Final Project from his backpack, ready to do some last-minute work.
And that’s when he noticed a package on his bed, wrapped up like a present … though covered with aluminum foil instead of wrapping paper.
The lack of aesthetic wrapping skill could only mean one thing. “Dad,” Gregory said flatly.
He had no idea what would be in the package or why he was getting a present. Or if it was a present. Maybe it would be a one-way ticket to the Live and Breathe Math Sleepaway School for Misfits or something. Still, he knew he had to open it.
As he picked it up, Gregory noticed that there was a card attached inside an aluminum-foil envelope. “Dad,” Gregory said again with a worried shake of his head.
Hands sweaty, he opened the envelope, the crinkling of the foil and his pounding heart filling his ears. Inside was a single piece of paper. He pulled it out and read.
I
Don’t
Really
Understand
How to write poems.
I hope you will teach me one day.
Love,
Dad
Gregory swallowed hard. His father had written him a note without any mathematical notation involved! Not only that, it was a poem. No. No. Not just a poem, Gregory thought. It was a Fib! His poetry!
He dropped the card onto his bed and tore the aluminum foil off the package. Inside was a thin, clearly handmade book. It had a deep red cover with what he recognized as a Fibonacci spiral printed on it near the bottom.
But that wasn’t where his eyes settled. Instead, it was the words, in a solid, blocky font, dead center on the page.
MY POETRY
by
Gregory Korenstein-Jasperton
Shaking his head in wonder, Gregory flipped through the thin volume. Inside were beautifully typed up, clean, crisp copies of every poem he’d given his father.
He had a book!
It was wonderful.
He felt fabulous, and for once, he couldn’t wait to go speak to his father.
As he went upstairs, Gregory couldn’t decide what was the strangest thing about the moment — being excited about talking to Dad, the fact that they were going to talk about poetry, or the realization that he actually could talk about City Math, instead, if he needed to.
It was a little too much to take in all at once, so Gregory focused on his feet hitting the stairs and the fact that right now, even with Kelly leaving and City Math coming, everything was good. He held on tight to the feeling.
After all, he figured, you just never knew when it all might change.
“I brought you more cookies, Dad,” Gregory said when he found his father awake in the living room, reading Mathematics Monthly magazine on the couch.
“I know! I already had two and managed to keep your mother from finding them. It’s a good evening.”
“Thanks for the book,” Gregory said to his father. “It’s really nice. I mean, really, really nice.”
“Thank you for showing me the poems, Gregory,” his father replied as he closed his magazine. “They clearly mean a lot to you.”
“Yeah, I guess they do.” Gregory shifted his weight from foot to foot. “Did you like them?”
His father hesitated, searching for words. Gregory dove back in. “Not that it matters. I’m just curious.”
“Yes. Yes, I liked them. You know, poetry’s not really my thing….” His dad shifted uncomfortably on the couch.
“Well, I didn’t know that for sure,” Gregory said. “But I guessed.”
“I saw some interesting structures in there, but some of them seemed so completely random and hard to break down.”
“Those would be free verse, Dad.” Gregory couldn’t help but grin. He sat down next to his father and gave him a playful punch.
“I do actually know that, Gregory. I went to school too, and I wasn’t allowed to take only math classes.” It was his father’s turn to smile. “But it wasn’t just the free verse. I don’t … there’s no way to understand the … when you …”
His dad pulled at his ear in frustration, trying hard to articulate something important but unable to find the right words. Still, to Gregory it was clear: His father didn’t love the poems, and Gregory didn’t have to tax his brain to say why.
“You don’t ‘get’ poetry, Dad. It’s okay. I understand.” Gregory leaned back and fell against the couch with a thump. “Believe me, I understand.”
“So, do you think you’re going to grow up and be a poet?” his father asked, completely seriously.
Gregory burst out in laughter. “Is that actually a full-time job? I dunno. Maybe. I just like writing, Dad. Everyone says I’m good at it, and I really like it. That’s all.”
“I’m glad to know that,” his father said, and Gregory could tell he meant it.
“I’m sorry I never told you.”
“Can I ask you another question?” When Gregory nodded, his father continued. “Did you enter City Math because you wanted to or because you knew I wanted you to?”
Gregory did the calculations in his head. He could answer any number of ways and feel totally justified. He certainly could say he did want to enter, even though that was only because he wanted the extra credit in class and, yes, at home.
He could also say that he entered City Math because his father had mentioned it every five minutes since Gregory was born and that not entering it had never seemed like an option even as it became clearer and clearer to Gregory that math was never going to be his thing.
Instead, he turned off the calculator. “It doesn’t matter, Dad. I’m in and thanks to O, I’m on the main stage, just like you and just like him.”
“I could probably get them to change that,” his father said quietly as he rose to his feet. “Though I have to tell you I was excited.”
“You and O both, though I hope it’s for different reasons,” Gregory said, and he and his father shared a laugh. “But you know what? I’m glad I’m in City Math. You don’t need to change anything.”
“Good. I won’t.” His father smiled as he dropped his magazine onto the coffee table in front of the couch.
“I don’t think I’ll win, Dad,” Gregory said. “Just so you know.”
His dad nodded and patted his son on the shoulder. “Get some sleep. Win or lose, and whether you love math or love writing, City Math will suck the energy out of you.” His father yawned as he headed out of the room. “And just remember the most important thing about City Math. It’s a day to have fun.”
Not very long ago, Gregory would’ve thought his father was lying. Fun never seemed to factor into it with O — it always seemed to be about winning. But today, after working as hard as he could, he understood what his father meant.
He didn’t really believe it was true, but at least he understood.
When Sunday morning arrived, Gregory was rested and ready for City Math. He grabbed his project, all neatly held in his backpack, and got in the car, ready for his father to drop him at the city’s recreation center where the contest was held every year. O came along for the ride.
“I’ve got it all arranged to record your stirring debut from many differe
nt video angles,” O needled.
“Great!” Gregory shot back. “Dad, you should bring a camera and record O so we can see his reaction too.” O’s crooked smile disappeared, much to Gregory’s pleasure.
Mr. Davis was already waiting when the Korenstein-Jaspertons pulled up to the recreation center, a sprawling brick building that housed an auditorium, a huge gymnasium, and dozens of smaller offices and community rooms. Banners for City Math hung all around the entrance, huge splashes of color and excitement on an otherwise dull facade. Gregory hopped out of the car to join his teacher.
The walkways around the building were bustling with kids carrying complex models, intricate pieces of equipment, and giant posters with detailed research. Some appeared to have teams of helpers carrying boxes full of what he figured must be their notes. Why they’d need notes today, he didn’t know.
For a moment, as he watched the kids entering the center, he thought about turning and running the other way as fast as he could go. He knew he could outrun Mr. Davis, and there were areas nearby where he could hide all day.
But he didn’t run. Instead, he and Mr. Davis headed into the fray.
Inside, the gym was full of serious-looking children, even more serious-looking parents, and clipboard-wielding judges. Dozens and dozens of tables had been set up throughout the cavernous room, each one soon to be the home of a math project. Gregory heard snippets of conversation about things like “directrices of an ellipse” and “logarithmic differentiation,” and he still didn’t run.
On a big, raised stage at one end of the gym, Gregory finally found his assigned table. He spent five minutes setting up his stuff — thirteen different poems printed on plain pieces of paper and mounted on thin cardboard frames — then turned to Mr. Davis.
“Now what?” he asked.
“This would be your time to go look at the other projects and talk to the other students. You have almost two hours before the judging starts,” Mr. Davis said.
It took Gregory about twelve minutes to zoom through and see the other displays. It would’ve taken less time, but he stopped and tried to stump a math-doing robot. He failed.