“If anyone has any questions about the quiz, you can see me after class,” Mr. James says. “We’ll go over the homework in a few minutes, but first I want to introduce a new project. This will be a little different. I want you to find a partner and choose a mathematician from anywhere in the world—past or present—and prepare a presentation for the class that discusses the mathematician’s life, achievements, and historical and political setting.” He keeps talking about how math doesn’t only happen in classrooms, how it’s connected to everyday life. Taylor turns to face me again.
“Wanna work together?” he asks.
“Sure,” I whisper, and feel blood pump in my ears.
He turns back.
Mr. James says, “When you’ve broken into pairs, let me know.”
Taylor’s hand shoots into the air.
“Yes?”
“Me and Caitlin’ll work together,” he says, and then hunches over, suddenly fascinated by his quiz. I can feel the eyes of all the other students staring at us. My face feels hot.
But Mr. James, unaware that guys like Taylor are only supposed to want to work with the Alicia McIntoshes of the school, just mumbles, “Taylor and Caitlin,” and writes our names down, together, on a sheet of paper.
30
When I get to the library, Dylan is talking to the study-hall teacher, so I stay out of their way and look through a stack of art books.
I glance over at Dylan but she’s still talking. She sees me and mouths, Just a second.
I start picking books off a stack. There’s one about Brazilian music and one about bridges and one about decorating small spaces.
Then I find one with a photo of a treehouse on the cover. I open it up, expecting to see all these simple treehouses built for little kids, but that’s not what the book’s about at all. These are real houses. People actually live in them, and they’re built up on high branches and they look amazing. They are tiny and private and warm. A bunch of them have built-in bookshelves and desks. I had no idea that treehouses like these existed.
Suddenly Dylan’s behind me.
“Hey,” she says. “Sorry. Ready to go?”
I don’t even look at her. I can’t stop looking through the pages of the book. Not only are there photographs, but there are lists of supplies you need to build your own, illustrated step-by-step directions.
All I can think about are the stacks and stacks of wood planks just waiting for me to put them to use.
“Let’s go, come on,” Dylan says.
“Okay,” I say. “Yeah. I just have to check this out first.”
31
When we walk up the escalator from underground at the Sixteenth and Mission BART station, there are panhandlers everywhere, asking us for money, food, cigarettes, to buy the papers they’re selling, to give them change for a BART ticket so they can get home. I feel caught in a stampede, but Dylan just handles them.
“Sorry, man,” she says to a boy who looks just a few years older than us, holding an angry dog on a leash.
To the ruder men who get up in our way as we’re walking, she says simple, hard no’s.
Whenever Ingrid and I got out of the suburbs, into Berkeley or San Francisco, and saw how other people lived, Ingrid would cry at the smallest things—a little boy walking home by himself, a stray cat with loose skin and fur draped over bones, a discarded cardboard sign saying HUNGRY please help. She would snap a picture, and by the time she lowered her camera, the tears would already be falling. I always felt kind of guilty that I didn’t feel as sad as she did, but now, watching Dylan, I think that’s probably a good thing. I mean, you see a million terrible things every day, on the news and in the paper, and in real life. I’m not saying that it’s stupid to feel sad, just that it would be impossible to let everything get to you and still get some sleep at night.
I walk fast with Dylan up Eighteenth to Valencia and then across to Guererro, until we finally reach Dolores Street and I see the park.
“This is my old school.” Dylan points to an old, grand building across from the public tennis courts and a bus shelter. “And those,” she says, pointing to a group of kids sitting under a tree, “are my friends.”
We walk toward them, and as we get closer, they come into focus: a boy with delicate arms wearing dark jeans that actually fit him, a couple—a boy and a girl—their backs against a tree trunk, their fingers clasped together.
“Dylan!” they all call out, their voices rising over one another’s.
I smile nervously. I can just tell from the way they’re sitting, so comfortably, that they’re so much cooler than I’ll ever be. They look different from the people at my school. My mom would say they look worldly.
Dylan and I sit down on the grass with them and I listen to them all talk. I don’t say anything but it’s not because they aren’t including me. It’s just nice to sit back and listen. Half of the conversation is directed to me. They tell me all these stories about themselves and one another. There is one about an all-night diner on Church Street, and how the boy in the jeans had a crush on a waitress who worked the night shift. He snuck out of his house every night and stayed for hours while she refilled his coffee.
“Oh!” he says, his face all lit up with excitement. “And here’s the best part: her name was Vicky. She wore this little apron over her skirt. It was so retro.”
“So what happened?” I ask. “Did you ever talk to her?”