shook her head.
“More for me,” I shrugged, and by the time Connor came over that night to study calculus, I had eaten a third of the box.
• • •
Connor and I started our open-book calculus final by sitting on the couch with the TV on. We liked to ease into our homework, calculus being like a cold pool that you could just dive into if you wanted to flash-freeze your nervous system,but if you had any sense you would lower yourself into it an inch at a time.
Of course, when I sat next to Connor, the only calculation I was doing was measuring the space between us in heat and electricity. When he first sat down and Mom looked in on us, that space was the width of my hand (with fingers spread). Gradually we edged closer, until there was maybe half an inch between his blue-jeaned leg and mine. His arm rested on my shoulders, his skin hot against the back of my neck.
My grandfather stalked into the room. “Shove over,” he said to Connor.
We moved over. Connor took his arm from around me, and Gramps dropped on to the sofa cushion next to him.
We all stared at the screen. I was so close to Connor that I could feel his heart beating, hear how his breath had shallowed and sped up. My grandfather glowered at the end of the couch.
“Sarah! What’s this crap you’re watching?” Gramps said.
I honestly had no idea. I’d been paying attention only to Connor, calculating the narrowness of the gap between us, breathing the scent of his soap. But on the TV screen in front of us, a guy dressed in camo fired off a machine gun.
“He’d never be able to hold that weapon,” Gramps said. “Firing over and over like that. It’d be too hot to hold!”Which was as much as I’d ever heard about Gramps’s experience in the war.
Connor’s eyes slid sideways, toward me.
“Why are you watching this, anyway?” Gramps went on.
“I don’t know,” I said, thinking, Because Connor’s thigh was about one centimeter away from mine, and I wasn’t actually watching the screen, thank you very much .
“Where’s the remote?” Gramps leaned forward and saw mybirthday present on the coffee table. “What the hell are those?” He stabbed a finger at them.
“Brains, sir,” Connor said. The only time I ever heard Connor say “sir” was when he spoke to my grandfather.
“What? Speak up.”
“Brains, sir! I got them for Sarah.”
“Brains?” Gramps raised his eyebrows at me, and I nodded.“Well.” He hooked one out of the package with a long, white-bristled finger and popped it into his mouth. We watched him chew and swallow.
“You’re a very strange young man,” he said to Connor, and licked peanut butter off his teeth.
“Yes, sir.”
“Is that some kind of fad now? Chocolate brains?”
“No, sir.”
“I didn’t think so.” Gramps grabbed the remote.
“It’s because we’re going to be doctors.”
I poked Connor’s thigh. The rule about dealing with Gramps was, Never volunteer information . The less Gramps knew about my dreams, the less material he would have for hollering questions at me about why the hell was I doing this or why the hell was I planning that.
“We really need to get going on that homework!” I said, jumping up. Connor jumped up, too, and we left Gramps on the couch, popping another brain into his mouth.
* * *
“I don’t get it,” I groaned, rolling over on the bed onto the papers full of Connor’s diagrams and explanations.
I hated not getting calculus. I’d always been good at school. In chemistry, I knew the reactions backwards and forwards. In bio, I’d been the one who drilled the parts of the cell into Connor’s head and helped him remember all the steps ofprotein synthesis. Now, with calculus, he was the one whose brain made all the connections while I floundered in the dust.
Numbers used to be sure and definite and straightforward. They didn’t change; 4 was 4 and 77 was 77. But the further we went in school, the stranger things got. I suppose my first hint
“More for me,” I shrugged, and by the time Connor came over that night to study calculus, I had eaten a third of the box.
• • •
Connor and I started our open-book calculus final by sitting on the couch with the TV on. We liked to ease into our homework, calculus being like a cold pool that you could just dive into if you wanted to flash-freeze your nervous system,but if you had any sense you would lower yourself into it an inch at a time.
Of course, when I sat next to Connor, the only calculation I was doing was measuring the space between us in heat and electricity. When he first sat down and Mom looked in on us, that space was the width of my hand (with fingers spread). Gradually we edged closer, until there was maybe half an inch between his blue-jeaned leg and mine. His arm rested on my shoulders, his skin hot against the back of my neck.
My grandfather stalked into the room. “Shove over,” he said to Connor.
We moved over. Connor took his arm from around me, and Gramps dropped on to the sofa cushion next to him.
We all stared at the screen. I was so close to Connor that I could feel his heart beating, hear how his breath had shallowed and sped up. My grandfather glowered at the end of the couch.
“Sarah! What’s this crap you’re watching?” Gramps said.
I honestly had no idea. I’d been paying attention only to Connor, calculating the narrowness of the gap between us, breathing the scent of his soap. But on the TV screen in front of us, a guy dressed in camo fired off a machine gun.
“He’d never be able to hold that weapon,” Gramps said. “Firing over and over like that. It’d be too hot to hold!”Which was as much as I’d ever heard about Gramps’s experience in the war.
Connor’s eyes slid sideways, toward me.
“Why are you watching this, anyway?” Gramps went on.
“I don’t know,” I said, thinking, Because Connor’s thigh was about one centimeter away from mine, and I wasn’t actually watching the screen, thank you very much .
“Where’s the remote?” Gramps leaned forward and saw mybirthday present on the coffee table. “What the hell are those?” He stabbed a finger at them.
“Brains, sir,” Connor said. The only time I ever heard Connor say “sir” was when he spoke to my grandfather.
“What? Speak up.”
“Brains, sir! I got them for Sarah.”
“Brains?” Gramps raised his eyebrows at me, and I nodded.“Well.” He hooked one out of the package with a long, white-bristled finger and popped it into his mouth. We watched him chew and swallow.
“You’re a very strange young man,” he said to Connor, and licked peanut butter off his teeth.
“Yes, sir.”
“Is that some kind of fad now? Chocolate brains?”
“No, sir.”
“I didn’t think so.” Gramps grabbed the remote.
“It’s because we’re going to be doctors.”
I poked Connor’s thigh. The rule about dealing with Gramps was, Never volunteer information . The less Gramps knew about my dreams, the less material he would have for hollering questions at me about why the hell was I doing this or why the hell was I planning that.
“We really need to get going on that homework!” I said, jumping up. Connor jumped up, too, and we left Gramps on the couch, popping another brain into his mouth.
* * *
“I don’t get it,” I groaned, rolling over on the bed onto the papers full of Connor’s diagrams and explanations.
I hated not getting calculus. I’d always been good at school. In chemistry, I knew the reactions backwards and forwards. In bio, I’d been the one who drilled the parts of the cell into Connor’s head and helped him remember all the steps ofprotein synthesis. Now, with calculus, he was the one whose brain made all the connections while I floundered in the dust.
Numbers used to be sure and definite and straightforward. They didn’t change; 4 was 4 and 77 was 77. But the further we went in school, the stranger things got. I suppose my first hint
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