“. . . two years after receiving the Nobel Prize in medicine, they were awarded the Crafoord Prize in biosciences . . .”
And each time the Campbells invited them to a parents’ organization meeting or class party, my parents’ short trips home were suddenly shorter. Excuses given, flights booked. No, they would not be coming to talk to the team or bio classes. I shifted in my seat.
Bzzzzt!
Everyone turned to see Curtis holding a buzzer. Dr. Badawi tried to continue. “And their work on—” Bzzzzt! “As an under-grad, I read—” Bzzzzt! “Mr. Cavendish!” Bzzzzt!
“Sorry!” he shouted, then lowered his voice as the buzzing finally stopped. “The button was stuck. But it’s fixed now. We’re ready to start.” He pointed to the other members of the team: a tall Black boy with a gold cross and wooden glasses; a prim white girl with pearls, but one pinky fingernail painted neon yellow; and a round Asian guy who looked up from a soccer-themed phone case and smiled. “That’s André, Lynnie, and Norman. You know me and Bartlett. Let’s play.”
I didn’t want to be beholden to Curtis and his interruption skills. I dug into my backpack, pulling out the pencil I’d carefully stowed in one of its elastic loops. “Here. Thank you for letting me borrow this.”
He waved it off. “Keep it safe for me.”
“I’m not your stationery security,” I snapped, but I slid the pencil back in my bag. Cracking it in half and flicking the pieces at him would’ve been more satisfying but also a waste of wood and graphite. And maybe he read the urge in my scowl, or he was mocking my weak comeback, because he raised his eyebrows and grinned at me. Somehow, no matter how snarky I was to Curtis, it amused him—like my irritation was an inside joke, which only annoyed me more.
We were still staring at each other. I narrowed my eyes; he laughed.
Bartlett cleared his throat dramatically. “Today we’ll be practicing with no teams, all toss-ups. Everyone can buzz and answer. We clear?”
Merri and I glanced at each other. Mostly clear? This felt like a thing that required experiential knowledge. We nodded, accepted buzzers, and joined the others in the semicircle of lab stools that faced Dr. Badawi’s podium.
She began to read from the tablet in front of her. “John Trumbull completed several oil paintings depicting the death of General Warren at this battle, the result of which was a Pyrrhic victory for the British, who suffered the highest casualty count of any battle of the Revolutionary—”
Bzzzzt! “The Battle of Bunker Hill.”
“That’s correct, Bartlett. Next. Mein Leben is the title of this famous composer’s autobiography. Often associated with the use of leitmotifs—”
Bzzzzt! “Wagner.”
“Yes, Lynnie.”
Wait. She wasn’t even finishing the questions.
“Bordered by two major rivers and named after a French king, this city is famous for being home to the world’s tallest arch—”
Bzzzzt! “St. Louis.”
“Yes, that’s two for Bartlett. Next. The author of Liber Abaci, a 1202 book on numeration and place value. This Italian mathematician was also known as Leonardo Bonacci. He popularized the Hindu–Arabic numeral system, as well as a sequence of—”
Bzzzzt! “Um.” Everyone turned toward Merri. “I think it’s . . .”
“Do you know it?” asked Bartlett. “Don’t buzz unless you do. If you don’t answer within five seconds or you’re wrong, we lose points and the other team gets it.”
“It’s Fibonacci,” Merri said.
“Correct,” said Dr. Badawi. “Next question. It’s a science one.” She looked over the top of her glasses at me before reading from her tablet. “This British baron scientist was the Nobel Laureate of 1911. Known as the father of nuclear physics, he worked on the discovery of the electron—”
I knew this one! I slid my finger onto the button, but the Bzzzzt! came from across the room. It was Norman’s buzzer that lit up: “J. J. Thomson.”
“No,” said Dr. Badawi. My chin jerked up, but she’d already resumed reading. “He worked on the discovery of the electron with J. J. Thomson, who was both his teacher and a colleague. His work included disproving Thomson’s plum pudding model of atomic structure by firing particles at—”
Bzzzzt! I felt Curtis’s eyes on me as he pressed his button. “Ernest Rutherford.”
“Yes.” Dr. Badawi set down her tablet. “Maybe our new members aren’t clear on the rules. Buzz as soon as you know. If you’re wrong, the other team gets a chance to hear the whole question before answering. In this case they would’ve heard, ‘by firing particles at thin sheets of gold, and determining that the nucleus of an atom was positively charged. Other discoveries included the concept of radioactive half-life and alpha and beta radiation. For ten points, name the scientist for whom the element with the atomic weight of one-oh-four is named.’”
“But—if they hear the whole question, it’s easy,” I said.
Bartlett scoffed. “That’s the point. The smarter you are, the sooner you buzz. But be right, because if not, it’s a freebie for the other team.”
The rules made sense, but his language didn’t. It wasn’t about being “smart”—it was about the possession of specific pieces of knowledge. I would’ve guessed J. J. Thomson too—he’d fit the given information. Two questions later, Merri incorrectly answered “Allen Ginsberg,” when it wasn’t revealed until the end of the question that they wanted the title of one of his poems.
What was the tipping point between early and informed?
Bzzzzt! “Iran-Contra Affair.”
Bzzzzt! “Chromatography.”
Bzzzzt! “Kant.”
Bzzzzt! “Azores.”
Bzzzzt! “Caligula.”
Bzzzzt! “Anne, Charlotte, and Emily.”
The questions continued. Buzzers, flashes, clues, and answers. Merri nailed another few in math and most of the literature. Bartlett was all over historic battles and world leaders and geography. Lynnie knew current events and music. André and Norman covered religion and philosophy. Curtis handled science.
I sat.
I was never quick enough on the buzzer. Never a hundred percent certain.
As practice ended, Dr. Badawi distributed question packets for us to study. She gave two to Merri and said, “Pass one to Eliza.” I was standing right there. It could’ve been for expediency, but it felt like rejection.
“Why practice old questions?” I asked. “I doubt they’re reused.”
“Spoken like someone who hasn’t answered any.”
“Shut up, Barty.” Lynnie said it with a smile. Whether it was for him or me, I wasn’t quite sure. But she added “Hang in there” before donning her tweed jacket and a wool cloche hat.
She headed out the classroom door, passing Fielding on his way in. His cheeks were rosy from the cold, and his eyes brightened as they landed on Merri. Her chin jerked up as she turned to him like a magnet that felt the pull of his presence. I watched them smile—his a quirk of lips, hers a full flash of teeth—as they met in the middle of the classroom. He tugged off leather gloves, then his long fingers were cupping her face.
He hadn’t been a PDA person before Merri. Frankly, he’d been a teenage curmudgeon before her, but she loosened his rigidity and he reined in her wilder impulses. I doubted he’d ever participate in a sloppy public make-out session, but he did lower his mouth to hers in a quick kiss that was full of tenderness. My cheeks burned with the instinct to look away.
“You’re scared of the buzzer.”
I jumped. Had Curtis watched me watch them like some creepy voyeur? He held out his hand. It took me a blink to realize he wanted the black cylinder I still clutched. At least my thumb was no longer poised over the red button on top.
Not that it would’ve done anything had I pressed it, because he’d unplugged it and wound the cord in a neat bundle—waiting, patiently but fidgety, for me to give him the handheld part.
“I am not scared of the buzzer.” But whe
n I flexed my fingers, I realized how tense the tendons had become from my relentlessly tight grip.
“You hesitate.” Curtis twisted an elastic band around the bundle. “When you do push the button, you flinch. You’re a flincher.”
I followed him as he crossed the classroom to the lab benches and tucked my torture device in a plastic bin beside the others. “I’m not a flincher. You should pay more attention to your own buzzer.”
“I can do both. You may not have noticed, because you were too busy hesi-flinching, but I got ten questions today.”
“And I got zero.” I said it before he could. “I bet you regret recruiting me now.”
“Nah. Though you’re almost hopeless.”
“How dare you!” I hated that phrase. How dare he what? State his opinion? One that was probably shared by everyone on the team? Why wouldn’t he dare? Clearly there was no real consequence to his saying the words, since I couldn’t even think of a decent retort.
“Kidding. But you need help.”
Help was something I gave, not received. But my pulse was accelerating toward another anomaly, and Dr. Badawi’s disapproval was veering toward a parent email. I swallowed, and it tasted of desperation. “What kind of help?”
“Come home with me. I’ll show you.”
8
I started for the parking lot, but Curtis pointed in the opposite direction. “It’s walkable. This way.”
I kept glancing sideways, waiting for him to tap-dance, or do some parkour. I almost wanted him to, so his noise would drown out my why-are-you-doing-this thoughts. “This had better not be some sort of trick.”
“It’s not.” He stopped walking. “We’re here.”
A short driveway led to a brick ranch. The house’s trim was painted white, and the bushes in the flower bed were wrapped in burlap to protect against winter. The walkway was salted, and the stoop had a mat that read Everyone Is Welcome. A wreath of eucalyptus and bay leaves hung on the door.
Curtis swung it open, and we stepped directly into a family room that connected to a dine-in kitchen. There were coats hanging on a rack beside the door, and a shoe mat was set next to a bench. I took these as invitations to slide off my loafers and hang my coat. I left my book bag on the bench, hoping Curtis didn’t have a dog like Merri’s Gatsby, who assumed anything at snout level was his to chomp.
I checked for dog hair but concluded that even if there were a dog, I wouldn’t see any; the house was immaculate. It was smaller than mine, Merri’s, or most in town, but everything was organized: A basket for remotes on the coffee table beside a neat stack of coasters. Blankets folded over both arms of the couch and a trio of throw pillows lined up between. The curtains were sheer with elaborate gold embroidery. The laminate floors gleamed, and the kitchen counters sparkled beneath a wire basket of fruit and a plate covered in plastic wrap.
The bookshelves to my left displayed children’s crafts and photos and cherished mementos. I wasn’t sure how a human tornado like Curtis managed to come from this space, but before I could study the other people in the picture frames, he said, “So, does it pass inspection?”
“I—uh.” Had he seen me swipe a finger across the windowsill to check if it was as dust-free as it looked?
“The curtains were sent from Egypt by my mom’s mom—my teta.”
He had. And it was.
I looked away. There was no way to explain my thoughts. Merri’s house was homey but chaotic. You were welcomed, but good luck finding things where you’d left them or leaving without needing a lint roller. Mine was pristine but sterile—people hovered in the center of rooms and never felt comfortable touching anything or sitting anywhere. How did his house do both—be organized and inviting? Like, go ahead and flop on the couch; here’s a handy basket for the pillows if they’re in your way.
“Are we the only ones here?” I should’ve asked before following him home. I should’ve insisted on knowing what he wanted to do once we got here. I should’ve taken a minute to mentally prepare myself for Curtis to look so human and vulnerable when standing beside a framed handprint turkey, signed with crooked all-capital letters.
He shook his head. “Win! C’mere.”
A guy who had to be his younger brother ambled out of the hallway on the left. His skin was a darker gold, his hair shorter and wavier, his jaw wider. They had the same wild eyebrows and long lashes, but his eyes were wary. Curtis’s default expression, I realized, was curious.
The boy approached like each step was a decision he’d rather not be making. “What?”
Curtis shot me a grin. “Before you get cranky, I want you to—”
“Nope.”
I gasped, not that he heard me. He was too busy walking away. “What was that about?” I asked.
“Eh, it’s report-card season. I don’t take it personally.” Curtis stepped farther into the room. “Win, wait a sec. I just want to introduce you to Eliza.”
Win paused and looked me up and down. “Now you’re dating the hottest girl at your school. Cool story, bro. Tell me how it turns out—CliffsNotes version. You know I don’t read.”
“That”—Curtis tilted his head at the now-empty hallway—“was typical Win. It’s not personal. He’s just . . . angry.”
“At least he didn’t fawn over me.” I’d take surly over lascivious any day.
Curtis laughed. “Oh, there’s zero chance of that.”
I wanted the beige throw rug to swallow me. Could I sound more conceited? “I didn’t mean—”
“He’s gay. You’re not his type.” Curtis flushed. So now we were a pair of awkward statues studying the ground. “I’ll clarify later—you know—that we’re not dating.”
“Good.” The word came out more emphatic than I had intended. “I take it you guys aren’t close.” I had no sibling experience, but when Merri and Rory fought, they weren’t like that.
“Not so much.” Curtis crossed to the kitchen and swiveled an empty stool. “I wish we were, but he makes everything so hard. Even when he came out last year—it was like he was expecting it to be this big deal or this fight or drama. He seemed disappointed everyone was like, ‘Cool. Love you. Love whoever you decide to love.’”
“Maybe . . .” I fought the urge to grind my teeth, because why was I wading into his family dynamics? Especially with almost zero data and less than zero desire to get entangled? Perhaps because I’d been there—the one who shared with her parents, only to be not heard or appreciated? “Maybe he was disappointed because it is a big deal to him. And he wanted you all to treat it that way. Maybe he didn’t want a fight, he just wanted acknowledgment that it was a dramatic moment for him.”
Curtis frowned. “Maybe? I don’t know. Win—I love him, but I don’t get him. He’s convinced everyone sees him as a screwup, and then he does self-destructive things to prove his point. For example: sabotaging his Hero High interview.” He yanked off his tie and shoved it into the pocket of his blazer. “It’s why he and my sister are doing their freshman year at public school.”
I was unqualified and uninterested in playing family counselor. I kept my expression neutral as I took subtle steps toward the door. Whatever help Curtis planned to offer could be found baggage-free on Google.
“At least you can meet my sister without drama. She’s probably got music on; I’ll get her.” Curtis disappeared down the hallway before I could object. I wasn’t here to draw his family tree. I didn’t need to meet his sister, analyze his brother’s struggles, or see his report card full of As hanging beneath a green alien magnet on the fridge. I wanted him to stay the obnoxious guy from my lunch table. This—the handprint turkey, the muddy running shoes beside my loafers, the Halloween picture of gap-toothed siblings in Harry Potter costumes on the bookshelf—was making it too real.
I picked up my backpack.
“Eliza, meet Wink.” The girl beside him had long, dark hair tucked beneath the white headphones looped around her neck. “Wink, this is Eliza.”
She smiled
as she said “Hi,” so already she was friendlier than her twin. I slowly lowered my backpack to the bench.
“Win and Wink? Those have got to be Curtis nicknames.”
“She’s got your number.” Wink laughed and poked her brother. “That’s how you know if Curtis likes someone, whether or not they get a nickname. My real name’s Lincoln. People shortened it to Linc, and with twins and etc. . . . it became Wink.” She pointed at her other brother, who’d reentered the kitchen during her explanation and opened the fridge. “Win’s short for Winston.”
“My parents have a thing for last names as first,” Curtis explained.
“How’d you escape?” I paused. “Though I guess Curtis can be a last name.”
“Do you really not know about . . .” Win pointed his pinky like his milk glass was a posh teacup before adding “Montgomery” in a half-decent British accent.
“Who’s Montgomery?” The question slipped out.
“Um—me.” Curtis raised a hand, then held it out for me to shake. “Hi. Montgomery Curtis Cavendish, charmed to meet you.”
I swatted at his hand. “Curtis isn’t your name?”
“Are you feeling well, Eliza? Because this isn’t a hard concept.” He pointed to his chest. “Curtis is my middle name.”
“Mine’s Conan. He definitely got the better deal,” grumbled Win, but his head was half in the fridge, so I assumed the comment was addressed to the carton of milk he was putting back and therefore required no response.
“Why not go by Montgomery?” My throat itched like I was upset or having an allergic reaction, and I didn’t have a reason for either. It wasn’t my name that had been kept secret for months. So what if I apparently didn’t even know the fundamental facts about him? Like his grades or family or first name.
“Because ‘Montgomery Cavendish’ is a lot of letters when you’re four years old and learning to spell your name. ‘Curtis’ is only six.”
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