Schwarz, with the rare exception, set none.
And then the exception walked through his unlocked door and he slammed the lid of the laptop shut, his palms sweaty, his face red, and his throat clenched.
"Oh--sorry to bother you," Stephanie said, leaning against the door frame and not looking sorry at all. "You busy?"
"No!" He shoved the laptop onto the desk and threw a pile of papers on top of it for good measure. "I was not doing anything of any importance."
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"Good." She threw herself on his bed, rolling over onto her back and kicking her legs up against the wall. "I'm bored."
You are beautiful, he wanted to say.
She had the eyes of Miss September, 1967, and the glossy blond hair of Miss December, 1974. But her smile was something he'd never seen in any of his magazines. It was generous and impatient at the same time, like she was willing to grant any request--but only until she got bored and moved on to something else.
She flipped over on her stomach and made the half-whine, half- grunt that he recognized as the Give me a massage command. Schwarz sat down on the bed, his fingers trembling.
He didn't want to touch her.
He wanted to touch her.
"You're sitting on my hair," she said.
"Sorry!" He hopped up again, and she swept her hair away.
He had a take-home exam due by nine the next morning, and he'd barely gotten started. But that didn't seem to matter. Not with Stephanie lying across his bed, her hair splayed out on the "sensible" navy plaid comforter his mother had insisted on buying.
She turned her face toward him and patted the side of the bed. "Come on."
Schwarz sat down again. His fingers hovered over her shoulders. Finally, his heart thumping, he pressed his fingertips against her back and began to knead. His fingers kept slipping on her T-shirt.
What if she takes it off? he thought and, for a moment, feared that his imaginary asthma had come to life because he couldn't suck in enough air to fill his lungs.
"Ever wonder why they let you in here?" she asked suddenly.
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Schwarz barely heard her. He was too focused on the smooth curve of her back and the slim band of bare skin peeking out just above her jeans.
"You know, do you ever think you were a mistake?"
"Um, not really," he said.
"Me neither." She took a deep breath, then let out a sigh. "Cassie's always angsting about whether she really belongs here and why she got in, like she thinks she doesn't really belong, and I just don't get it." Cassie was Stephanie's roommate, the rower. Schwarz was a little afraid of her. "I never think that way. I know I belong here. Do you think that makes me some kind of narcissist? Like I just assume that I should get whatever I want?"
Stephanie was taking intro psychology and had been diagnosing herself--and her dorm-mates--all semester.
Schwarz shook his head, forgetting that she couldn't see him. Not that she was waiting for a response.
"Except I don't even know what I want. You know, my dad wants me to be a lawyer, like him. You should have been there when my brother told him he was going to film school. Insane. You don't get a physics degree from Princeton and then spend the next thirty years fetching coffee for some Hollywood nutjob, right? But at least he knows what he wants. He's got this passion, this thing that he's going for, and sometimes I think I'm never going to have that--I mean, I like my classes, and yeah, I could be a psych major, or social studies seems cool, but if I'm never going to really ha ve any of them, maybe I should just forget it and go to law school and make a million bucks. If you can't be happy, be rich, right?"
"Stephanie, maybe you should--"
"I know, I know, we're only freshmen, but it's not like I can just
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stop thinking about this stuff until graduation. I mean, that's fine for Cassie, she'll probably just get her degree and move back to Indiana and be a doctor or something, but that's not what I want. I want to be ... I don't know. It sounds stupid to say it out loud, but I really feel like I could be . . ."
"Great?" Schwarz suggested.
Stephanie pushed his hands away and sat up. "Exactly! So you do know what I mean." Then she shook her head. "What am I saying? Of course you know what I mean. You're the prodigy, right? You're already great. You probably have no idea what it feels like not to know who you want to be--you've got math, you're set for life."
He wanted to tell her that he did understand, and that he was confused, just like her. But it would have been a lie.
"You will figure something out," he said instead.
"You really think you can do it?" she asked.
"What?"
She pointed at the poster of a bushy-haired Einstein that was hanging over his bed. "Fulfill your dream. Be him."
Schwarz could feel his cheeks heating up. "What makes you think I want to be him?"
"Well, you obviously want to be a famous scientist--"
"Mathematician."
"Whatever And, you've got the hair thing in common--"
Schwarz touched his puffy curls self-consciously. Max, who called it his Jewfro, always begged Schwarz to shave it all off. Maybe it wouldn't be the worst idea.
"Plus, the socks," Stephanie added.
"What socks?"
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"You never wear them. Just like him."
Schwarz couldn't believe she'd noticed--or that she'd figured out the reason.
"What?" she asked, seeing his look of shock. "Everyone knows Einstein didn't wear socks. It was his thing. Like it's your thing." She looked triumphant.
He had stopped wearing socks when he started at Harvard--partly because it was one less thing he had to wash, but partly because, as Stephanie guessed, he thought it might bring him one step closer to greatness. She was the only one who'd noticed.
"So, he's your hero, right?" She laughed. "I'm a little disappointed, you know. The whole Einstein thing's kind of a cliche."
"He is not really my hero," Schwarz said quickly. He glanced up at the poster, saying a silent apology to the great one. "I mean, yes, he was remarkable, but it is not like I worship him."
"Okay, then who?"
"Why does it have to be anyone?"
Stephanie leaned toward him, and he realized her eyes weren't the pure, emerald green he'd imagined them to be. They were more washed out, with a little brown mixed in. There was a tiny discoloration just below her left eyebrow. Some kind of raised red bump. Not a zit, he thought. Her skin was too creamy smooth for that.
"Come on, play along. Let's say you could be one famous scientist--"
"Mathematician."
"Whatever. Who would it be? I'll tell you mine--Mozart."
"He is not a scientist."
She shoved him, hard enough that he nearly tipped onto his side.
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"That's not the point. I mean, if I could be anyone from history, anyone great, it would be him. They say he just heard music in his head, constantly, like it was in the air--like all the songs he wrote already existed in some perfect form--and all he had to do was write them down. Amazing."
Schwarz eyed his violin case, which had lain untouched under his desk since the first day of school. "Do you play something?"
She laughed. "Can't even read music. But I can imagine. . . ." She gave herself a little shake. "Okay. Your turn. Famous guy--or girl-- you'd want to be. Go."
He pretended that he had to think about it. But he didn't, not really. "Descartes."
'"I think, therefore I am'?" She nodded, and tapped him on the chest. He tried not to flinch. "So deep down in there lies a philosopher? I like it." Her smile popped out again.
"No, not that," Schwatz said. "That is all anyone remembers now, but that is not what made him truly great." He couldn't believe he was talking about this, talking about it with a beautiful girl. A beautiful girl who was sitting on his bed. "It was his math--it was his system. Before Descartes, people were always trying to explain the
universe like it was alive. The math never made sense, but they just ignored it, because they did not believe the numbers could reveal essential physical truth. Then came Descartes. He eliminated the human element. He boiled the universe down into something that was clean and pure and mechanical. Bodies in motion, every movement determined by a mathematical rule. It was the first purely mechanical system. It was the first system that made sense? He suddenly noticed that Stephanie was staring at him. "What?"
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"Well, for one thing, that's the most you've ever said at one time. And for another, you're like . . . glowing."
"Like I am radioactive?"
"No, like you're ..." But she didn't finish the thought, just kept staring, like she was trying to figure something out.
Then her cell phone rang, and instead of ignoring it, like he'd hoped, like he would have prayed if he didn't believe that praying was pointless and illogical, she answered.
And turned her back on him.
"What? I'm--oh. Yeah. Of course--now? Okay." Stephanie flipped the phone shut and stuffed it back into her pocket. "Gotta go."
"Now? Where?" Schwarz hoped he didn't sound like he was whining.
"That was Anders. He's lonely." She rolled her eyes. "He's such a little baby, always whining about something."
"He is the lacrosse player?"
She snorted. "No, that's Jack. That was last week's disaster. Anders is the one from my gov class, the hot one with the girlfriend back home--though I think he's getting ready to break up with her. She called when we were hooking up last night, and he didn't even try to pretend I wasn't there. It was kind of pathetic." She tipped her head back and ran a hand through her hair. "Listen to me, I sound like a total bitch."
"You do not sound--"
"And I know, I know, if he's cheating on her, what makes me think he wouldn't cheat on me?" She sighed. "He's just so freaking hot--yesterday, he came over straight from the gym, and he was just all--" Her cell phone rang again, and she glared at it. "I'll get there when I get there!" she complained, pressing a button to silence the
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ring. "Guys are such babies, aren't they? Or maybe I just need to find myself one who doesn't suck."
Schwarz could have pointed out that she'd found one--and she was the one walking away.
He could have stood up, rushed across the room, and answered her with a kiss.
He could have railed at her for being bossy and vain and rubbing her love life in his face, and then tossed her out of his room.
He could have declared his undying love and begged her not to go.
But instead he chose E.
None of the above.
Max tossed down the controller in disgust. "I give up. Tell the truth. You don't do anything but play with your Wii, practicing to beat me."
Eric rolled his eyes. "You got it. That's my main goal in life. Beating you."
"Beating off is more like it," Max shot back.
"Who am I, Schwarz?"
Max snorted. "Everyone has his or her own special talents," he said in a saccharine, kindergarten teacher voice. "And Schwarzie's are legion."
"I don't know," Eric said, with fake skepticism. "You know what he always says."
"Yeah. Right. Kid's got a collection of six hundred Playboys because he just likes to 'appreciate the perfection of the female body' And I'm sure he reads the articles, too."
Eric handed him back the controller. "Not everyone's as obsessed with their Wii as you are."
"What did I tell you about making jokes?" Max asked.
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"What?"
"Don't. It's embarrassing, and painful for those of us with an actual sense of humor."
"Are we playing another game, or are you ready to surrender to my inevitable superiority?" Eric asked.
"Much as I'd like to wipe that ugly smirk off your ass--oh, excuse me, face, I get confused--I can't." Max jerked his head toward the long hallway that stretched toward his parents' room. "Time for me to pretend to be asleep."
"It's only eleven," Eric pointed out.
"I didn't say sleep, I said pretend to sleep. As you so astutely point out, it's almost eleven, meaning any minute now, Maxwell Sr.'s going to come out here and 'invite' me to breakfast with him and his alumni cronies tomorrow."
"And you know this because ..."
"The man runs his life like he's in the army. Comes home at precisely six forty-five every night. Eats dinner at seven on the dot. Does the crossword puzzle in thirty minutes--unless it's Sunday, when it takes him forty-five. He probably craps on a schedule too. Every Saturday morning he has a liquid lunch with his Harvard buddies, and every Friday night he reads a week's worth of Crimson sports pages, makes his West Coast fund-raising calls, and then darkens my doorstep to try to suck me into his cult."
"I take it he's still not down with your brilliant no-college- Internet-millionaire scheme?"
"Is that a note of sarcasm I detect, young Roth?"
"You're a big boy. Old enough to do what you want"--Eric pursed his lips--"even if it is a dumbass idea."
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"Stick around--you and Maxwell Sr. will have a lot to talk about." Max grabbed a folder from his desk and handed it to Eric. "My Harvard application. He's already filled it out for me. All I need to do is attach an essay and sign my name. The man's delusional."
"Your father's fifty years old and still goes to keg parties," Eric pointed out. "You're only just now realizing he's delusional?"
"Two hundred and twelve days," Max said fiercely. "Just two hundred and twelve days to graduation, and then I'm out of the nuthouse and on my way." He gave himself a violent shake. "Forget it. We ready for the big day tomorrow?"
"The equipment's set."
"Clay knows what he needs to do?"
Eric shrugged. "I explained it to him, twice. As for whether he gets it. . ."
"You underestimate him."
"He's a moron."
"He'll be fine," Max said. "I've got a good feeling about this."
"Must be nice," Eric muttered.
"Do we have a problem?"
"I just don't like this."
Max pressed his hand over his eyes and began to massage his temples. "Look, I know you and the moron have a history, but--"
"It's not about that," Eric said. "I mean, yes, I have a problem with him, given that he's a thug with an ugly soul--"
"Was!" Max exclaimed. "When he was eight?
"As I was saying, it's not about the thug and his ugly soul. It's about tomorrow. The SATs."
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"I'm guessing I don't want to hear this."
"You know how I feel about cheating," Eric began.
Max blew out an angry burst of air. "It's not cheating! The terms of the bet state very clearly--"
"I'm not talking about cheating on the hack, I'm talking about cheating on the test." Eric waved his hand toward the file cabinet where Max kept his supply of term papers. "I know you don't care, but I don't like it."
"Don't remind me," Max groaned. "If you didn't have your pathological obsession with honesty, do you know how much money--"
"Spare me the lecture, I know all about my 'disease.'"
"Look, it's not cheating," Max argued. "Not in this case. Not really. If Clay was some wannabe Ivy Leaguer who couldn't quite make the cut, like Bernie Salazar, and we were helping him scam a better score, that would be cheating, right?"
Eric nodded.
"But he's not. Clay won't be using his perfect score for evil. He'll be proving a point. Our very worthy point, remember?"
"I know we've got to do it, and we'll do it. I just--" Eric pressed his lips together tightly for a moment. "I just wish there was another way on this one."
"But you do know there isn't, right?"
"I know." Eric headed for the door.
"And you'll be there tomorrow?"
Eric paused in the doorway and gave Max a wry grin. "Would I ever let you down?"
"You haven't yet," Max
admitted.
"Then there's your answer."
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? ? ? Two trains are on a collision course. Train A leaves point A at 4:20 p.m. Train B leaves point B at 4:35 p.m. Point A and point B are twenty miles apart. For the first ten minutes, train A travels twice as fast as train B. Then both trains continue on at the same speed. At what time will the collision occur?
A. 5:00 p.m.
B. Dinnertime
C. When hell freezes over
D. Not enough information to determine an answer
E. Plenty of information to determine an answer, but you're too dumb to know it
Sometime after midnight, I finally gave up on falling asleep. Lying in bed with impossible questions and nightmare scenarios whizzing through my head just wasn't cutting it. So, wide awake and too jittery to lie still despite a weeklong moratorium on coffee and chocolate, I got out of bed and, without turning the lights on, felt my way over to the computer to check my e-mail and research the fear of taking tests which, if you can believe it, is actually called testophobia.
I'd only been on for ten minutes when the IM popped up on my screen.
GodwinAdama: your up late
Glassgirl: who is this?
GodwinAdama: maybe it's a secret
Glassgirl: maybe I'm gone
GodwinAdama: wait
GodwinAdama: eric roth
Glassgirl: how did you know this was me?
GodwinAdama: i know everything.
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I had to laugh. The kid was even cockier in writing than he was in person. It would serve him right if I just shut my laptop and went back to bed, I thought.
But I didn't.
GodwinAdama: whats w/the name? you
don't wear glasses