Clever Girl

Chapter 14: Am I blushing?

"What? Why?" I manage to say, sounding a little too pathetic, as if the notion of someone asking for my number just for the hell of it is an alien concept.

Sometimes it helps me to relate reality to mathematical truths, or theories in physics. I find solace in the equations because there is always a balance that exists within them. Life is often unbalanced and uncertain. But in this particular moment, I'm reminded of what Albert Einstein said, that 'as far as the laws of mathematics refer to reality, they are not certain; and as far as they are certain, they do not refer to reality.'

There is nothing I can use to relate this to. What am I supposed to do? Maybe he's trying to pull a prank. Maybe not. Maybe I'm overthinking, as I always tend to do.

"Nevermind, forget I asked." He leans back in his chair and crosses his arm across his chest. This time I can clearly read the inflexible lines of his mouth. He's offended.

"Why are you upset? You hate me. We hate each other."

"I don't hate you."

"Really? Could've fooled me. I'm not about to give my number to the Golden Boy Of Apollo, so that he can continue torturing me even after I'm gone."

"I wouldn't do that. And I'm sorry if it's been torture for you. It hasn't exactly been a picnic for me either, princess."

"And here I thought you got off on making me miserable," I say with a slight smirk on my face.

"Why do you always do that?"

"Do what?"

"Make everything so difficult."

I wait for him to explain further. Difficulty is not a concept I enjoy, whether it's myself emitting it unintentionally or someone else causing it. Though when the silence continues, with his forever sad eyes observing me, I decide that it's probably best to lower my guard. Once I'm actually gone he'll forget about me anyway. I lean in swiftly and grab his phone, leaving him a little bewildered.

"Hey, what do you think you're doing?"

"Calm down, I just entered my number, like you asked. Here." I hand it back to him. "But I swear to God if you're planning some sort of sick joke with your psycho friends, I'll make you regret ever asking. And I also hope you don't think this means we're friends."

"Us? Friends? That's the last thing I want." He puts the phone in his pocket, and I can swear there's a whisper of a smile on his lips. "So what's your plan anyway? Once you're done with school, what'll do you?"

"I don't know... hang out at home."

"That's it? You're quitting just to stay home all day?"

"Maybe I'll get a job. Something that doesn't require a high school diploma."

"Why not graduate then, if it doesn't matter to you either way? You've already wasted all these years of your life here. What's a few more months?"

His point is undeniably reasonable, and I would have plodded through the last few months of this nightmare had it not been for my mother's health. I need to be home with her, continuously observing her illness. Especially now, which I believe to be the most crucial time. The charts and notes I have been keeping will be infinitely more useful if all the missing hours throughout the days are filled in. "I would, but I'm just not interested. I can't wait to get out of here."

He frowns for a moment, possibly wondering why someone would so easily dismiss something that is very important to him. But then his frown turns into a smile – the first genuine, complete smile I have ever seen on his face. No hint or whisper.

"What are you smiling at?" I ask, somewhat suspicious.

"Nothing... it's just... this is the first conversation we've had that didn't end in bitterness."

"Excuse you, I'm never bitter."

"Right, of course not."

His smile doesn't waver, which turns my suspicion into unnerving discomfort. "Stop smiling at me!"

"Why?"

"Because it's weird, and it's making me nervous."

"You're kind of cute when you're nervous."

I'm not sure if I heard him right. Am I blushing? I don't know if he is being facetious, if he's mocking me, or if he's serious. Though I have never been one to assume the worst, to believe them to be vicious underneath any thoughtful expressions - with Jay, it's as if my mind can't properly interpret kindness from him. "Uh... right, well... I think this session is over."

"We still have another fifteen minutes."

"I'm done though. You can tell Cranston if you want, if the librarian doesn't tell him first. I really don't care either way." After placing everything back into my backpack, I give Jay one last look, "See you around."

***

As I step off the walkway leading to the school's main entrance, it's as if a massive boulder has been lifted off my soul. No longer tied to the prosaic landscape of systemic education, I can walk through life the way I see fit. The final task will be to convince my parents this decision is the right one. Knowing how they feel about education, they will most certainly put up a fight.

"What are you doing home so early?" my father says as I walk into our house.

"I had a spare after lunch, and then my last class was cancelled. The teacher wasn't at school." I don't like lying to my parents, but I need to organize everything for the long, long talk that I have been dreading. I need to run through the presentation I have prepared, include as many examples of successful high school dropouts as I can, and follow it up with a solid conclusion. I've set time aside on Saturday to discuss it with them.

Today my mother is weaker, and my hope in her recovery has vanished. I find her in bed, her face pale with illness, her eyes open but slightly out of focus. After getting her a glass of water with her daily pills, I call Dr. Manning. We can now pay for at least two home visits, and I schedule the first appointment for Monday.

While I continue to wear a brave face for her, I am left empty. This life is unfair – it rips and tears and breaks apart, and when there are no more pieces left to destroy, it emanates a smoke so thick that it chokes me. This Woe-Is-Me feeling, no matter how hard I've tried to ignore it, keeps on pushing through, and I hate myself for it.

When there's an hour left until the party, I make my way up to my bedroom, and promptly begin to stare at my reflection in my vanity mirror. Have I always been this sickly looking? There are large dark circles under my eyes, and my lips are rather dry and unsightly. Can I possibly cover my face up enough to appear halfway decent? Will anyone even notice if I do? Stop it, Veronica, you're going to that party, and you're going to have fun.

Though as the hour goes on, my nerves begin to have a mind of their own. They are set to overdrive, and I can't seem to calm myself down. With every deep breath it gets worse, like going to a party is some tragic, insane, unreachable feast, and I'm not equipped to handle it.