Tiptoe

Merciful

{ dedicated to my wife, because she's holding me at gunpoint }

Merciful

Although Grace does not find particular excitement in multivariable calculus, she finds more solace in definite calculations than she does the infinitely possible.

(i) A · r = A1x1 + A2x2 + A3x3, ∇(A · r) = (A1,A2,A3) = A. (ii) rn = |r|n = (x2 + y2 + z2)n/2. ∇(rn) is ∂rn∂x = nrn−1 ∂r∂x = nrn−1xr= nrn−2x.

Easy, solvable, definite.

Anthony+ X= Missing (Solve for X)

A dilemma of no immediate ease.

X could be depression or a taste for adventure or a disgust for the ordinary or academic pressure or a girl he met on Skype or a desire to taste foreign food or a dramatic gesture or a cry for help or an accidental misplacement of footing on a hiking trip or teen angst or an overdue library book. Maybe a combination of the things. Maybe none of the listed.

Grace felt it was inappropriate for herself, such an insignificant part of Anthony’s life, to meddle in the affairs that should be reserved for his parents and family and friends, but every time his name was tossed around in the halls or accidentally mentioned in present tense, Grace felt the burden of the loss. It was like losing the veil of omnipresent leg hair following a generally satisfying shave, then feeling the loss upon a cold night wearing shorts without the benefits of the free winter coats on either limb.

Except Anthony wasn’t (isn’t) leg hair, and those that lost him did not (will not) simply grow a new Anthony.

Especially Luke.

An asshole in Grace’s English class estimated a thirty day period of grieving and urgency before Luke discarded all hope of Anthony and found a new person to comfortably share his flatulence with.

It’s been thirty seven days, and Luke still sits alone (and presumably, farts alone) at lunch, surrounded by people but not quite immersed in their presence the way he was with Anthony.

There are no more highly disruptive rap battles, no more rapid shifts of population distribution due to extreme concentration of intestinal gases, no more inappropriate objects or fruits projectiled across rooms, no more poorly calculated attempts to steal pears from the cafeteria, no more distinguishable life in the table Luke and Anthony once dominated entirely by themselves.

Grace walks home now on the crowded, lively, arguably dangerous streets, unable to focus on the noise and conversation of the people around her, her thoughts heavy with Anthony Stanton and Luke Galloway and the fact that even though multivariable calculus is less complicated than the equation of Anthony it still sucks and so does the fact that she has to walk home every day right after the already vigorous activity of 9th period multivariable calculus and walking in this time of year particularly sucks because all the bugs are rioting and tipping trucks over and biting her skin and crawling up her legs and legs and bugs and bugs on legs suck.

She keeps a can of insect repellent in her bag due to her father’s extreme case of arachnophobia, which would be helpful except bug spray doesn’t do shit but drain her savings so she’s taken to filling it with water and the only time she’s ever regretted it is now, when she is apparently interrupting a block party of gnats, hosted by horseflies.

In an attempt to avoid the parade of caterpillars advancing towards her, she swerves off course much like one would do in mario kart when encountering the mushroom turd, accidentally veering into someones lawn. That someone immediately brings out the 72nd property rights amendment, and Grace stumbles off the grass, her bright red shoes caked in manure.

“Thx.” She says to the man sitting at his doorstep.

“Np.” He says.

“Ignore him.” Says the woman across the street. “He’s a hairy, unwaxed--”

“MOM OH MY GOD YOU CAN’T SAY THAT TO PEOPLE.” Says her daughter.

Due to living in an arguably horrid section of the town, Grace is exposed to violent variations of people. She isn’t quite sure she can even create a classification system. There’s the woman walking past her now, wearing heels and business casual and fixing her lipstick, and a girl with waist-length maroon hair hopping on one foot in a leotard chattering on the phone about marrying a rich boy who is stuck on a boat, and a boy whose pants seem to retain magical qualities and manage to stay firm on his body despite revealing the greater portion of his asscrack as he sings along to Beyonce, and an old woman smoking weed, and an old man wearing a thong, and a young girl holding a briefcase. The town was teeming with diversity, and also adversity. Where there is high miscellany of people, there is to be high variations of humanity remaining in each.

And she sees that in her life now, what with Anthony missing and people either caring too much or not caring at all.

Buzzing fills her head as she thinks about Anthony again, and, distracted, she runs into a post. She shakes her head, trying to rid her thoughts of him.

She swats a spider off her leg, sweaty and strained, her head teeming now with irrelevant recollections.

Something bites her ankle.

I don’t bite, Grace.

I would hope not, Anthony.

Something brushes up her leg.

Would you mind moving your leg? It’s rubbing against mine.

Oh, sorry. I thought you would enjoy our limbs gyrating together on a 94 degree day.

Something grabs her attention.

You’re kind of hard to miss, you know?

Actually, I don’t. Nobody’s told me such a thing before.

A lone ant, dangling to her leg. Seeming to look up at her.

Call me Ant, will you? I gave you the right already, you never use it.

Sorry, Anthony.

She crouches down and stares at the insect, clinging so fearfully onto her leg, disturbed but still curious at it’s refusal to move. However, instead of beady eyes and sharp mandibles and pincers, she’s met with fear. Relief. Gratitude.

Strangely, she’s not disgusted. Maybe she’s endeared. Probably delusional. Most definitely suffering from heat stroke. She clears her throat and stands, brushing the ant off casually.

Her eyes focus on the post she previously assaulted. Despite the oppressive humidity, her mouth goes dry.

A watermarked photograph of Anthony Stanton is stapled onto the soft, rotting wood, his brooding eyes and his troubled lips apprehended through the faded lines of ink and frayed edges of paper.

Missing. It declares. And he has been, for too long. She blinks, surprisingly uneasy.

His eyes.

She ducks down and peers at the ant again. It looks at her evenly, then begins marching towards the post. Defiantly. Deliberately.

She rises and looks at the poster. Ducks and looks at the ant.

Impossible.

“Oh,” says the wind. “But not quite.”

a/n

THIS DOESN'T MAKE ANY SENSE

ugh basically the highlight of my week was getting a 74 on my english quiz when i really should have gotten a 64 

i apologize that this chapter makes no sense, i was rushing like crazy to include the twist and actually form a plot and try not to make too many run on sentences (which i noticeably failed at) 

thank you so much for reading, and again i'm sorry this is so all over the place and that my author's note is horrible; i'll be editing later and thank you all like srsly ahh

*if you happen to see which character i ungracefully shoved in here, tg maybe i'm not a failure, though i doubt anyone can percieve it*