Читать книгу The Love Hypothesis - Laura Steven - Страница 10

4

The house is dank. The walls are dark. I’ve been here before.

The ceiling shifts and warps, and I know I am alone. I am small, and so terribly, terribly alone. My body tries to sweat, tries to cry, but there’s nothing left inside. I am a husk, and the end is near. The walls bleed darkness, and the darkness bleeds fear.

Somewhere, a door opens.

I jolt awake, my snoozed alarm blaring into the sun-dappled room. Heart thudding, I turn it off and throw the tangled duvet off my sweaty legs.

I fucking hate that dream.

Every single morning, without fail. In that half-sleep, half-wake state of lucid cloudiness, the exact same dream. I push my fingers into my eyes until they turn into kaleidoscopes, forcing out the mental image of that damn room.

I was adopted by my dads when I was tiny, and I think these dreams are memories of my past life – of which I recall almost nothing. I have no reason to. Whoever my birth mother was, she’s not around anymore. And my dads are. So why does my subconscious torture me? Why does it force me back into that room day after day after day?

For as long as I can remember, I’ve had these dreams, or flashbacks, or whatever the hell they are, while I’m dozing. And I still don’t have the self-control to stop snoozing my alarm. Figures.

I pad downstairs in my Buckbeak slippers. Dad, who is much more well-rested than Vati and thus less likely to replace the sugar with arsenic, lays out the usual breakfast buffet. This sounds impressive, but really it’s just a bunch of half-eaten boxes of cereal arranged by sugar content. As usual, I reach for the higher end of the spectrum, while Dad chows down on some sort of bran-based atrocity, washed down with tap water. Vati isn’t into breakfast, so he pours himself a giant coffee and slumps into the third chair. For all his japes and hijinks, he is not a morning person.

‘What are you guys doing today?’ I ask, crunching into a brimming bowl of Lucky Charms. I chuck one to Sirius under the table, but he just stares at it like it’s a hand grenade.

Dad finishes his mouthful of bran before responding plainly, ‘I plan to visit the police station, on account of the fact we have been burgled.’

Vati and I both gape at him. ‘What?’

‘It is the most likely explanation.’

I look at Dad in bewilderment. ‘Explanation for what?’

‘The missing object.’ His face betrays no emotion or affectation. He is impossible to read, even when you’ve lived with him as long as I have. You’d have more luck trying to psychoanalyze a park bench.

Vati drains his coffee mug and immediately pours another. ‘What’s missing?’

‘Well, Felix, during my bi-weekly kitchen stock-take this morning, I discovered a discrepancy in the quantity of wine glasses in the bar cabinet. Wine glasses are sold in boxes of four or six, to reflect the nonsensical societal preference for even numbers, and yet our cabinet currently contains a mere five glasses. Having checked the trash to ensure none had been smashed or discarded, I deduced that one had been stolen in the night. Would you like to accompany me to the police station?’

Shit! The wine glass! I was so caught up in my covert pill-purchasing operation that I forgot to return the glass to the cabinet. It’s still on my bedside, burgundy dregs turning to syrup in the bottom. I shoot Vati a panicked look, and he immediately understands what’s happened.

Unfortunately, so does Dad.

‘I see.’ Dad lays down his spoon and folds his arms. This is much more serious than it sounds, because there’s still bran cereal floating in the milk. Dad is not one to compromise the structural integrity of his breakfast by leaving it to swim in half-and-half. ‘And how long have you suffered from alcoholism, Caro?’

I splutter, trying to compose myself. ‘I’m not an alcoholic! I just had half a glass of red wine last night, that’s all. Eighteen is the legal drinking age in Europe.’

‘You’re seventeen. And this is South Carolina.’

I try to fight the urge to roll my eyes. ‘I’m not an alcoholic.’

‘Why did you want a glass of wine?’

I shrug, pushing Lucky Charms around my bowl with my spoon. ‘I dunno. I’d had a crappy day, alright?’

Dad nods knowingly. ‘Classic sign of addiction.’

Bless his soul, Vati breaks the tension with a bark of laughter. ‘Lay off her, Michael. It was one kleine glass of wine. No big deal. You’re not going to do it again, are you Caro?’

‘No.’ I suspect this might be a lie, but still.

‘And you’re going to return the wine glass to the cabinet in immaculate condition, right?’

‘Yep. Ja.’

‘So, there’s no problem, is there?’ Vati smiles, even though it looks to be causing him great physical pain. ‘You don’t have to attend the police station today, Michael.’

Dad rises from the table, pours his ruined cereal into the sink, and starts toward the door. ‘Perhaps I shall research the best juvenile rehabilitation programmes instead.’

I look at Vati, and we both press our lips together to keep from laughing. I polish off my cereal before the hilarity can escape. ‘Okay, I gotta get to school.’

‘Good luck with your seduction today.’ He winks in a horrifying sort of manner.

As a furious blush spreads across my cheeks, I roll my eyes again. ‘You’re the worst.’

‘Danke,’ he says earnestly, bowing like some kind of royal thespian.

After the last class of the day, I meet Gabriela at Keiko’s locker and we catch up about our days, since we all take such different classes. Keiko does most of the talking, as per, about how her art teacher is a pervert and her drama teacher is the single best human being on this earth.

Slamming her locker shut and popping a stick of gum into her mouth, Keiko says, ‘What shall we do this weekend? My parents and dweeb sister are out of town and I don’t have any gigs, so it’s on y’all to entertain me.’

I accept a stick of gum and start chattering like a chimp. ‘Oooh, there’s this touring exhibit in town that I’m dying to go to. It’s basically a bunch of artifacts from Pompeii, and there’s a CGI simulation of the volcanic eruption at the end.’

‘Spoilers,’ says Keiko, affronted.

I gape at her. ‘You didn’t know Pompeii was wiped out by a volcano?’

‘I thought it was just a catchy Bastille song.’

Honestly. How are we friends.

Shaking off my astonishment, I say, ‘So are you in?’

Keiko looks like I might have suggested waterboarding each other in the creek. ‘Museums are for the very old and the very tragic, and we are neither of those things. Gabs? Any ideas?’

Gabriela shrugs. She looks a little distant and jaded, and her winged eyeliner is smudged, which is pretty unusual for her. ‘I think me and Ryan were just going to hang out at home. Watch some YouTube, eat some snacks. I dunno. I’m super tired lately.’

‘Okay, grandma.’ Keiko rolls her eyes. ‘You are one hundred years old, and I’m overruling you both. Let’s go see that new movie about the rock star who falls in love with her manager. It’s basically the exact fantasy I get myself off to, so I can’t promise not to start dry-humping the popcorn bucket.’

I snort-laugh in a very elegant manner. ‘You are horrific.’

Keiko tuts and wags her finger in my face. ‘That’s slut-shaming and you’re better than that. And also homophobic. Is lesbian sex so abhorrent to you?’ I blush, and Keiko cackles at my panicked expression. ‘Anyway, I gotta scoot,’ she says. ‘Detention again. Ah, the life of a misunderstood rebel.’

‘Try not to dry-hump any desks,’ I call after her as she sashays down the hallway in her skull-print dress. Gabriela, who hates sex-based banter, squirms beside me.

As she’s about to turn the corner, Keiko presses herself against a wall of lockers and makes an elaborate groan of ecstasy. ‘No promises. Toodles!’

Once she’s shaken off the unspeakable horror of the last few seconds, Gabriela mumbles, ‘I’ll go with you to the Vesuvius exhibit, if you want.’

We start walking to the school gates. I grin gratefully. ‘Thanks.’

Gabriela smiles, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. ‘Let’s just . . . not tell Keiko, okay? That we’re hanging out without her.’

This makes me feel a little weird – Keiko has been my ride-or-die since kindergarten – but I get Gabriela’s point. Keiko only does what Keiko wants to do, but still gets upset when people do things without her. ‘Agreed. Everything okay with you? You mentioned being tired a lot.’

Gabriela stares at her black Birkenstocks as we walk. Her nails are painted paprika red, and she wears a turquoise toe-ring. ‘Yeah, I guess. I don’t know what’s up with me. Maybe I’m just lazy.’

‘Dude, you’re anything but lazy. You speak a catrillion languages, tutor six hundred kids a week, and you have your makeup Insta on the side. What are you at now, twenty k followers?’

A small quirk at the corner of her lips. ‘Twenty-two.’

‘Exactly. You’re killing the game.’

Gabriela brightens up at this and hoists her backpack further up her shoulder. ‘Speaking of, when are you going to let me give you that makeover? I’ve had the palettes picked out for months. Your cheekbones are going to look insaaane.’

Gabriela’s been asking to give me a makeover for ages, ever since she first got into the beauty scene, and it makes me feel kind of weird. I’ve never been into that stuff, and it feels kind of like she’s trying to . . . fix me? Make me less offensive to look at? In any case, no matter how uncomfortable it makes me, I’d never say anything to Gabriela, because I know how much she loves it. She probably doesn’t think of it that way at all; she’s the least malicious person I’ve ever met. Still, it’s starting to get under my skin.

Is that just friendship, though? Taking an interest in each other’s hobbies? Gabriela offered to come to the science museum with me, and we’re always listening to Keiko’s latest demos, even though neither of us knows much about music. I’m probably just overreacting.

Hell, maybe I should let Gabriela work her magic on my face. It’s possibly a less drastic measure than taking miracle drugs in order to attract guys. In the cold light of day, I’m giving myself major side-eye for buying those shady motherfuckers.

A few days later, I have AP Physics first thing. I walk in early, because punctuality is the finest quality a human being can possess in the eyes of . . . well, both dads. I distinctly remember playing model trains as a kid, and they made me write out an actual departure schedule – and stick to it. The worst part is that I don’t recall ever feeling stifled by this. I enjoyed the rules and the sense of purpose. I guess I was always destined to be a science fanatic. Or a serial killer. But there’s time yet.

(FWIW, if I were to become a serial killer, my weapon of choice would be a frozen pork chop carved into a point. I would stab my victims to death, then cook and eat the pork chop to destroy the evidence. Anyway.)

The classroom is swelteringly hot, and I’m surprised to find Haruki is already there, sitting at the back of the class. He wears a plain white T-shirt with rolled sleeves, and faded black jeans despite the fierce sun. His pale ochre-brown skin is smattered with light freckles, and his black hair is messy on top, short around the sides. Serving up your basic Hot Guy Lewk.

On his desk is a crisp printout of the same college-level paper I’m attempting this session. Torres must’ve caved and let him study modern physics too. I kind of don’t blame her, because Haruki’s parents are library donors and school-board members, but part of me is disappointed. This was . . . my thing. It made me feel special, and I earned that feeling. And now I have to share, even if it is with the most beautiful guy in school/the world.

As I unpack my stuff on the table next to him, Haruki looks over at me. My stomach flip-flops. On second thought, maybe this new common ground will be the thing that finally makes him pay attention to me – in the right way, this time. Maybe we’ll bond over particularly tricky problems, and share theories over milkshakes at Martha’s Diner. Maybe he’ll come to MIT too, and we’ll be the power couple of the Theoretical Physics Society. We’ll name our kids Volta and Galilei, and we’ll have a cat named Schrödinger just for the laughs. It’s written in the stars, right?

Nope. All that happens as we lock eyes is a smug, self-satisfied smirk, then Haruki turns the first page and starts scribbling in the margins in mechanical pencil.

Any normal person would feel annoyed right now. He’s being an immature jerk. But part of me is kind of . . . proud? Haruki is smug to have reached the same level as me. It’s a backhanded compliment, in a way. A very, very tenuous way, but still. Let me have this.

The lesson gets underway, and at first I struggle to tune out the scritching of Haruki’s mechanical pencil next to me. I’m hyper-aware of the scent of warm skin and fresh laundry, the bouncing of his knee against the table, the periodic sniffing that suggests his allergies are playing up. It’s intoxicating being this close to him, working on the same thing, breathing the same air. (Yep. Definite serial-killer vibes. Please keep me away from the frozen-pork aisle.)

But then my competitive streak takes hold, and I find myself flying through the paper at a rate of knots. If Haruki thinks I’m someone worth emulating, then I have to live up to that. I have to exceed it, even. Almost breathless, I mentally sort through complex equations and mind-bending problems. I’m both invigorated and relaxed. This is how normal people probably feel after sex. Or hot yoga.

As I stop to take a sip of water, though, I notice that Haruki’s knee has stopped bouncing, and the pencil has stopped scritching. I glance over from the corner of my eye, and notice that he’s peering at my paper, trying to copy the answers.

Resisting the urge to grin victoriously, I realize he’s not as smart as he thought he was. But he’s too proud to admit he’s struggling with the paper, so he’s cheating his way through it instead.

I weigh my options. I could cover the page with my arm or pencil-case, and leave him to flounder on his own. Or tell Torres at the end of class, and have her bring his smug ass back down to high-school level. Or use this to my advantage in the whole getting-Haruki-Ito-to-fall-in-love-with-me-and-buy-me-a-kitten-called-Schrödinger mission.

No prizes for guessing which option I choose.

I lift my gaze and quirk the corner of my mouth up in a half-smile, then angle the paper towards him so he can see better. The second he realizes I’m on to him, he quickly looks away, a faint tinge of pink prickling at his cheeks. But then he seems to swallow his pride, and turns back to face me, smiling in the most disgustingly cute and grateful way. He’s apologetic and bashful as he rubs the back of his neck. Then he bites his lip, jots down the answer, gives me a slight nod, then turns the page once more.

This may sound like a very minor chain of events, like a millipede waving to pond algae, but as the bell rings and class is dismissed, my blood is roaring in my ears. Haruki wordlessly offers to take my paper up to Torres, and I numbly hand it to him. I feel hot and cold at the same time as the adrenaline pumps through my veins, and I flee the classroom before I can screw up this perfect sequence of affairs.

Next period we have gym, and it’s cross-country season despite the lingering summer heatwave. Thanks to my height and gangly limbs, I’m actually a pretty decent runner, but I usually hang back with Keiko and Gabriela so we can chat. I spend the first mile filling them in on this morning’s veritable sex fest with Haruki.

‘How awesome is that?’ I finish, breathless from excitement if not from cardiovascular exertion. I’m basically just power-walking alongside Keiko.

Gabriela grins and yanks up her tiny spandex shorts with a satisfying snap of elastic. ‘Very awesome.’

Keiko huffs and puffs, staring angrily at the patchy grass like she wants to murder it one blade at a time. ‘Yep. You’ve basically been to third base.’ She pulls her polo shirt up to her head and blots the sweat from her face, taking half her eyebrow powder with it. ‘For the love of actual fuck. Cross-country should be illegal. How is this not a war crime?’

I try to make it look like I’m just as exhausted as she is, rearranging my features into a grimace. In reality, my muscles feel loose and strong, like they could sprint forever. Part of me wants to, just to see how it’d feel, but I don’t want to leave my friends behind. ‘So what should I do now? Should I ask him out? God, what am I saying? Of course I can’t. I can barely speak actual words in front of him.’

Keiko hacks up a lung, then says, ‘Maybe we could get you one of those robot voices like Stephen Hawking has.’

‘Had,’ I correct. ‘He’s dead. And that’s highly offensive.’

‘To who? Robots? Dead people?’

I pause. ‘Unsure. I just know it’s not a great voxpop.’

The guys appear over the hill in front of us – they set off before we do, so start looping back on us before we even reach the halfway point. Leading the pack is none other than Haruki, barely breaking a sweat as his legs pump against the turf.

‘Oh god, oh shit, what do I do?’ I mutter. Haruki is rapidly approaching, his red shorts a blur as he gains ground fast. Close behind him is Ryan Woods, Gabriela’s boyfriend. ‘Oh god. Shit. I can’t breathe.’

‘I know the feeling,’ Keiko grumbles, dabbing at her freshly buzzed undercut.

‘This might sound radical,’ Gabriela says, voice uneven from the effort of jogging. ‘But maybe you could consider not losing your giant genius mind at the mere sight of him?’

And then he’s almost on top of us, and Ryan looks over and nods in a very cute way at Gabriela, and I don’t know what comes over me but I make actual literal eye contact with Haruki, and, like some sort of sex pest, I say, ‘Hey.’

Haruki flinches – seriously, an honest-to-god recoil – and speeds up to get past us, without so much as a backward glance. Ryan winks at Gabriela, who giggles unabashedly, and takes off after Haruki.

The snub-induced humiliation must be written all over my face, because Keiko takes a deep, raspy breath and manages to puff out, ‘You know what? Screw him. You said it yourself, you’re way smarter than him. Hell, than most people.’

A gulping intake of breath. She rips her polo shirt over her head and tosses it to the ground. She’s wearing two sports bras – one pink camo, one deep khaki – and vintage gym shorts that hug her curvy waist. ‘And you’re funny and weird and an all-round awesome human. You deserve better, okay?’

‘Exactly!’ Gabriela agrees, tucking a loose lock of hair behind her ear. ‘Plus you’re sweet, and loyal, and generous, and a way, way faster runner than us. Not that it’s hard. So yup. Screw him.’

A pang of dejection stabs at my gut. I know they’re trying to make me feel better. And yet it stings that neither of them included the word ‘beautiful’ or ‘pretty’ or even ‘cute’ in their compliments. Is it so beyond the realms of reality that they couldn’t even bring themselves to lie about it?

Maybe those pills weren’t such a bad idea.