head—her latest work. I wish I knew the name of it, that she’d play it here in the hallway. Now.
I wonder if she knows how good she is. I almost tell her.
“There’s gotta be more than Carson City, you know?” she says.
I shrug. I’m not one of those get-out-of-Carson City types, and next year I’ll be sent away to some fucking college, probably end up rooming with the biggest slob on the planet who doesn’t keep his clock wound. My stomach burns, and I shake the thought away.
What if I can do college correspondence?
What if I could do my whole life correspondence?
I’m seriously wacko .
“Out of Carson?” I say. “Half the time I don’t even want to leave my room. But Anthony Bourdain’s show is good.” I can’t believe I admitted that to her, and I hold my breath.
She raises her eyebrows. “Oh yeah, traveling and eating with a cynical bastard.”
Exhale.
“Two o’clock a.m.,” we both say. She smiles. She looks pretty when she smiles. Real pretty.
“You still don’t sleep either?” she asks.
“Good memory,” I say, and shrug. “Just lots on my mind, I guess.” Fucking numbers.
“I guess.”
She pulls out a sandwich. Sprouts and mushy white things stick out of the sides. It smells like onions and old socks. She takes a big bite. “Want some?” she asks between gulps.
“Not a chance.”
She laughs. We’re quiet. And I feel okay. Like her silence isn’t bursting with ugly words. Like we can just be, and having Mera sit next to me is a good thing.
My mind is still.
When we were little, Mera, Luc, and I built a fort in Luc’s backyard. And we’d all hang out there on Saturday mornings just doing kid shit. Like nothing in the world mattered. Mera would bring her violin and we’d invent songs. Luc would be lead ’cause he’s a really good singer. I’d write most of the lyrics with Mera and sing backup. He’d shit if anybody knew about the singing part.
It all seemed easier back then. I guess when we’re little pretending is okay. But when we grow up, pretending is more like lying. I don’t know.
“Remember the song game?” I ask.
She looks up from the book and nods. “Yeah. I haven’t thought about that for a while.”
“Today’s category: country-western song titles for every profession. I’ll start with butcher: ‘Stand By Your Ham’ or ‘Go-Lean.’ ” I half laugh and turn to Mera’s pale-eyed stare. “Well?” I ask.
“Jake, we’re not twelve anymore, you know.” She tucks pale strands of hair behind her ear.
I return to the hallway, the way things are , kind of wishing for then. “Yeah. I know. I just thought—”
She shrugs and goes back to reading.
I think about the line from the book again: You are one of the rare people who can separate your observation from your preconception. You see what is, where most people see what they expect . “It’s not about what’s real and what we expect to see,” I mutter. “I think it’s the doubting, the wondering about it all. Like how nothing makes sense unless—I dunno. Always doubting, wondering. What if—”
Why don’t I just shut up? Now. Christ .
Mera closes her book, picks at a hangnail, and waits. “What if what?” she asks.
What if the numbers aren’t prime? Now that sounds crazy. I rub my eyes and pull my fingers through my hair. I know I’ve said too much, like a little part of me just hangs there in the hall. But it’s just Mera. UNICEF. Ultramarathon Mera, who has been categorized as social untouchable since seventh grade.
She doesn’t matter. She’s not supposed to, anyway.
“What if” doesn’t matter. It’s a kid game—a stupid thing I do. So I tuck that piece of me back inside—way down deep where nobody will see it. The magic is protected. Everything is right again.
“Jake?” She looks at me hard—a long, blinkless stare. “I mean, this morning at the shop, during the rally. You seem—”
Blink, I think. Just blink. And I count.
She breaks my
I wonder if she knows how good she is. I almost tell her.
“There’s gotta be more than Carson City, you know?” she says.
I shrug. I’m not one of those get-out-of-Carson City types, and next year I’ll be sent away to some fucking college, probably end up rooming with the biggest slob on the planet who doesn’t keep his clock wound. My stomach burns, and I shake the thought away.
What if I can do college correspondence?
What if I could do my whole life correspondence?
I’m seriously wacko .
“Out of Carson?” I say. “Half the time I don’t even want to leave my room. But Anthony Bourdain’s show is good.” I can’t believe I admitted that to her, and I hold my breath.
She raises her eyebrows. “Oh yeah, traveling and eating with a cynical bastard.”
Exhale.
“Two o’clock a.m.,” we both say. She smiles. She looks pretty when she smiles. Real pretty.
“You still don’t sleep either?” she asks.
“Good memory,” I say, and shrug. “Just lots on my mind, I guess.” Fucking numbers.
“I guess.”
She pulls out a sandwich. Sprouts and mushy white things stick out of the sides. It smells like onions and old socks. She takes a big bite. “Want some?” she asks between gulps.
“Not a chance.”
She laughs. We’re quiet. And I feel okay. Like her silence isn’t bursting with ugly words. Like we can just be, and having Mera sit next to me is a good thing.
My mind is still.
When we were little, Mera, Luc, and I built a fort in Luc’s backyard. And we’d all hang out there on Saturday mornings just doing kid shit. Like nothing in the world mattered. Mera would bring her violin and we’d invent songs. Luc would be lead ’cause he’s a really good singer. I’d write most of the lyrics with Mera and sing backup. He’d shit if anybody knew about the singing part.
It all seemed easier back then. I guess when we’re little pretending is okay. But when we grow up, pretending is more like lying. I don’t know.
“Remember the song game?” I ask.
She looks up from the book and nods. “Yeah. I haven’t thought about that for a while.”
“Today’s category: country-western song titles for every profession. I’ll start with butcher: ‘Stand By Your Ham’ or ‘Go-Lean.’ ” I half laugh and turn to Mera’s pale-eyed stare. “Well?” I ask.
“Jake, we’re not twelve anymore, you know.” She tucks pale strands of hair behind her ear.
I return to the hallway, the way things are , kind of wishing for then. “Yeah. I know. I just thought—”
She shrugs and goes back to reading.
I think about the line from the book again: You are one of the rare people who can separate your observation from your preconception. You see what is, where most people see what they expect . “It’s not about what’s real and what we expect to see,” I mutter. “I think it’s the doubting, the wondering about it all. Like how nothing makes sense unless—I dunno. Always doubting, wondering. What if—”
Why don’t I just shut up? Now. Christ .
Mera closes her book, picks at a hangnail, and waits. “What if what?” she asks.
What if the numbers aren’t prime? Now that sounds crazy. I rub my eyes and pull my fingers through my hair. I know I’ve said too much, like a little part of me just hangs there in the hall. But it’s just Mera. UNICEF. Ultramarathon Mera, who has been categorized as social untouchable since seventh grade.
She doesn’t matter. She’s not supposed to, anyway.
“What if” doesn’t matter. It’s a kid game—a stupid thing I do. So I tuck that piece of me back inside—way down deep where nobody will see it. The magic is protected. Everything is right again.
“Jake?” She looks at me hard—a long, blinkless stare. “I mean, this morning at the shop, during the rally. You seem—”
Blink, I think. Just blink. And I count.
She breaks my
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