Chapter 7: A Most Uncommon Pair

Monday morning rolled around without much ado, and breakfast around the table was much like any other. After a third helping of Count Chocula cereal (I don't think I'm ever going to outgrow it), I got my books together, stuffed them in my bag, and got going. My legs still burned a little from this morning's run, but I knew the feeling would ease by the time I arrived at school.

On the way out, Dad stopped me and asked, "Are you going to continue your experiment?"

I sighed. I hadn't made up my mind yet, although I knew I really should. Disinterest isn't typically a character trait of mine, but that didn't mean I didn't have to work hard to overcome its pitfalls.

"Trust me on this, son... if you don't follow through on this experiment of yours, you may be missing out on something fantastic. Remember -- this is how I met your mom."

He was right, and I nodded. I'd have to start over from scratch, though; I had scrubbed the results I accumulated last week. At least I knew a few more names, which would hopefully make things easier.

And so the painstaking process began. Or, rather I should say, it began again. In calculus, I wrote down the girls' names and a description of those whose names I didn't know. Then, in a separate table beneath the list, I recorded the times and the intensity of those feelings, gathering a bit of a running tally. Hell, I thought, if I'm going to be running this experiment, I might as well get as much data as I can, right?

"Now, if you'll pay close attention to the example posted on the board, you'll see that mathematically speaking, it's fairly simple to determine the limits of an equation's horizontal asymptote. By simply analysing the variable's degrees..."

I zoned out. Mrs. Martinez was in the process of attacking the whiteboard with a dry erase marker, but she was addressing material she had already covered the week prior. Our exam was at the end of this week, and I was fairly certain she wanted to ensure everyone had the best possible chance at passing. Not a bad strategy for a teacher, but dreadfully boring for someone who had paid attention in class and understood the material.

"Hey," Drew whispered to me as Mrs. Martinez continued her explanation, "do you understand anything that's going on?"

"Some," I answered back in a hushed tone. Actually, I knew precisely what was going on. It wasn't like me to pretend stupidity, but nor was it to proclaim my intelligence when others were having difficulty. Those not understanding the material tended to feel like I was making statements declaring them to be less than I was, and that certainly was never my intent.

Drew snorted. "You probably know exactly what's going on." I shrugged in response. "Do you think you can help me out at lunchtime?"

"Sure -- do you know where I sit?"

"Come to think of it, no... I only know where you don't sit, and that's at the centre of the cafeteria."

"Follow the outer rings," I said, "and you'll find me easily enough."

English class went much like calculus, at least from the perspective of my experiment. I got my female classmates' names or characteristics written down, and then I ensconced myself in the assigned work on Beowulf. We were nearing the end of the medieval epic's tale, with the King of the Geats attacking the dragon which had hoarded treasure and plagued his land. Unable to destroy the dragon alone, Beowulf had to depend on the assistance of his most loyal man, Wiglaf. Only by working together were they able to kill the dragon, although not before Beowulf himself was mortally wounded, the beast having bitten his neck.

"Now, we already know that Beowulf is going to die," Mrs. Eishorn said. "There's no sense in sugar-coating it or pretending that there will be some magical Hollywood ending to this Old English tale. Beowulf will die. What I want you to do this period is consider the nature of martyrdom in literature. Write down as many references to it as you can think of, and we'll begin a discussion in... say, fifteen minutes." She then went to her clock timer and set it; the task was on.

The pencil I was holding began flying across a piece of looseleaf paper, just scribbling the names of characters I considered, the books they were in, and the authors who wrote them. After two - Jesus, and Rand al'Thor from Robert Jordan's Wheel of Time series, I came up short. I did quite a bit of reading, and these were the only two I could think of. I found this odd, because I read a fair amount of fantasy and science fiction, and fantasy writers tended to include martyrs in their stories much as chefs uses spice when cooking. So, I turned to movies, and I was able to add many more to the list. Rationally speaking, movies were simply the end product of a written script; this was the excuse I used to justify the inclusion of Neo from The Matrix, Captain John H. Miller from Saving Private Ryan, and the Nameless played by Jet Li in Hero.

Tapping my pencil against my lips, I paused in thought. Suddenly, the tickling at the back of my neck started. Casually and unobtrusively, I surveyed my classmates for an indicator as to who my observer was. No names "jumped off the pages" so to speak, and I sighed heavily. Across the horseshoe of desks, Erin smiled at me as if to say, "Yeah, this is boring, isn't it?" Giving her a small smile out of the left corner of my mouth, I then returned to my paper, but couldn't come up with anything new.

This is going to be a long period, I thought, as my mind began to wander once again from the class' task. Instead of trying to focus on material, which was rapidly losing my interest on account of my inability to contribute anything new, I turned to my project notebook. Drawing red stars next to the names in common between my first and second periods, I began to consider potential candidates for further empirical inquiry. At least something would keep me otherwise occupied until the end of the class.

By the time physics finally rolled around, I was extremely bored with the way the school day was progressing. All of my classmates seemed to be in the same state of mind, and Mr. Wolfgang continually had to remind us to pay attention to the Newtonian laws of physics he was discussing, otherwise we'd have trouble come exam time. I yawned, covering my mouth with the back of my hand.

"Is the material boring you, Mr. Gordon?" the teacher asked, his tone displaying more than its fair share of annoyance. It was an unfair question, as it put me in a no-win situation; if I answered truthfully, I would catch hell from him, and if I lied and said I wasn't bored, he would know it, and I would catch hell from him. So, I didn't voice a reply, and tried to look as repentant as possible.

It didn't work.

"I'm waiting on an answer, Mr. Gordon." I could almost imagine him gnashing his teeth, getting ready to throw his desk or something else rather heavy. Tact would be necessary in the carefully planned conversation which would follow, and I would have to choose my words carefully.

"No, sir... the material is not boring, but I feel that presently I am sufficiently prepared for this week's examination. As for my yawn, I'm just tired."

"Oh really," he sneered. "And I suppose if I asked you the difference between specular and diffuse reflection, you'd be able to tell me?"

"Respectfully, sir, the physics of light have nothing to do with the material you're presently covering. However," I continued, "specular reflection differs from diffuse reflection in that in the former, light is reflected off of a smooth surface, such as a mirror, in a singular direction, whereas in the latter the light is reflected off of a rough surface, such as a knitted sweater, in multiple directions."

His face darkened, and I was certain the fact that I had answered his question accurately wasn't to his satisfaction; instead, he seemed out to get me, to fire a barrage of questions until I got one of them wrong. "Name the segments of a wave," he barked.

"Crest, trough, and rest."

"Mathematical equation for power!"

"Power equals work divided by time," I responded. "Come on, Mr. Wolfgang..."

"Get out of my classroom!" he yelled. I sighed, gathered my materials, and left for the main office.

Sitting outside the Dean of Students' office, I silently fumed. In the five or so minutes since my physics teacher had thrown me out of his classroom, I had plenty of opportunity to reflect on the manner in which he had acted both irrationally and unprofessionally. Seeing as I was the recipient for his lack of classroom decorum, I was, to put it simply, extremely pissed off.

A Hispanic man who looked to be in his late twenties or early thirties was walking by my chair, and paused. "Can I help you?" he asked.

I felt my left eyelid twitching, testament to the degree to which I was angry. I had to fight hard to control myself, to keep from exploding. "I got thrown out of class," I said bitterly.

"Why don't you come inside," he said, and then walked into the dean's office. I guess he was the man I was looking for. Getting up from the chair outside the office, I walked the three feet to the inside of his office and stood behind one of the two chairs in front of his desk. He sat down behind the desk, and gestured for me to sit down.

"So, what happened?"

"I'm not sure talking about that is such a good idea right now," I replied.

"You think that another time might be more appropriate?" he asked.

I nodded. "Right now, I'm so unbelievably angry that if I tried to tell you what happened, I'd end up shouting, and little of what I'd say would make sense. I need a minute or two to cool off."

The dean chuckled. "You know, that's pretty mature of you. Typically, when I get a student in here, they rant and rave and scream at the top of their lungs about how unjustly they've been treated, expecting an immediate resolution to their satisfaction. I don't know about you, but when someone screams at me, I'm less inclined to help. How about I make us both a cup of coffee, and then we can chat?"

I thanked him and accepted. He turned on an electric kettle which was resting on a filing cabinet, and then pulled out a jar of instant Maxwell House coffee and some sugar packets. It's not Tim Horton's, I thought to myself, but it'll have to do. At least he was treating me like an adult, which I was legally in any case.

"I haven't seen you here before," the dean began, "which could mean one of two things: First, you're new, or second, this is your first time in trouble."

"Right on both counts," I answered. "I'm Jay Gordon; I just transferred from Boston a little over ten days ago."

"Well, I'm pleased to meet you, Jay. I'm Mr. Montez, Dean of Students." As the water boiled in the kettle, he dump a teaspoon of ground coffee each into a pair of styrofoam cups and then cracked open two sugars into one of them. "Sugar in your coffee?" I shook my head, and so he simply filled mine with water, stirred it, and handed it to me. I took a sip, closed my eyes, and luxuriated in the hot, bitter taste.

"Ahh," I breathed, "that's just what I needed." Already, I could feel some of the tension leaving my system and the jumble of thoughts in my head began to straighten out. The relaxation and mental clarity which that first sip of coffee brought did wonders to my present state. Whoever said coffee wasn't a drug clearly didn't know what the hell he was talking about.

"Alright then, from the top -- what happened?"

I prefaced my explanation with the statement that he was getting only one side of the story and would probably want to conference with Mr. Wolfgang and some of my classmates to get a clearer picture. Then, I gave him an as detailed report as I could recall. I would occasionally pause to take another sip of the coffee the dean had brewed me, particularly when I felt like I was starting to get agitated; once calmed again sufficiently, I would continue. Throughout my talk, he kept a neutral face, occasionally said "Hmm," or "Please continue," and took notes.

After I finished my explanation, he asked me, "Why do you think Mr. Wolfgang threw you out of his class?"

"Sir, I don't care to speculate - you'd have to ask Mr. Wolfgang for his reasons. All I know is that I answered his questions as accurately and precisely as possible, all while feeling like I needed to be on the defensive."

The dean sighed and looked at the clock, noting that the bell was about to ring. "Third period is just about done," he said, "so you might as well just put away your physics books and get ready for your next class. I'll look into the matter and get back to you."

Standing up from my chair, I shook his hand and thanked him. "Look, Mr. Montez... I don't expect miracles. If it comes down to an I-said-he-said situation, the school will probably end up siding with Mr. Wolfgang. Try to get an account from some of my classmates; at least you'll have a clearer picture."

"I'll see what I can do, but I can't make any promises," he said. The words rang hollow in my ears as I left; "I can't make any promises" typically translates into "You're fucked."

When I got to my economics class, it seemed that the word of my discharge from Mr. Wolfgang's physics class had circulated. A few people whom I didn't know all that well looked at me as if to say, "Well... what happened?" Bryce and Mike pointed at me and laughed outright, and naturally, I ignored them. Erin tried to look annoyed with Mike, smacking her boyfriend on the arm, after which he looked at her and said, "What?" as if to state he had no idea what he had done wrong. I rolled my eyes, broke out my notebooks, and began attacking today's assigned review problems with vigour.

Every now and then, the back of my neck would tickle, and I'd make some notations in my project notebook - time, duration, intensity, and the like. In between graph analyses and evaluations of the strength of societal dead weight loss caused by monopolies which couldn't perfectly price discriminate, I continued to compare my own experiment's empirical observations to the class rosters. The picture was neither perfect nor complete, but the more and more data I gathered, the more convinced I was that Ange and Sketchy were onto something... that there may in actuality be at least two candidates.

I sighed. Just what I need, I thought to myself, to be the subject of a high school girls' tug-of-war match. I had seen it happen before, at Quincy Upper School. Either a fresh face, with no visible girlfriend, transferred into the school, or an otherwise previously unavailable male suddenly became available, which could cause two or more girls would pursue the one guy. While in and of itself some might never consider this to be a bad thing, I had witnessed the war tactics the girls would use against each other to win the guy's attention. It was never pretty. Chris Rock seemed to hit the nail on the head comparing men and women in this regard; a guy will always say, "Jeez, I need to meet a woman just like her," and will move on to someone else, whereas a woman will say, "I need him... and I will kill any bitch who stands in my way!"

Vicious. I shuddered.

A handful of minutes before the period ended, Mr. Littlemount called on the class, saying, "Remember guys, our term examination is this Friday, and the exam will include everything we've covered this semester. Concentrate your studies particularly on the forces of supply and demand as they relate to perfectly competitive markets and monopolistic markets; you may be required to answer some free response questions on the matter." We all nodded our cognisance, and when the bell rang, we collected our books and left.

On the way to my locker to grab my lunch, I ran into Mike. Again. It just wasn't my day.

"Hey, dickhead, I thought I told you to watch where you're going in my halls," he snarled.

"Let it be, Mike," Erin said as she pulled on his arm, "it was just an accident." Mike's head snapped to her and I did a minor double-take; this wasn't the Erin to whom I was accustomed. I think both Moriellie and I were somewhat stunned - I was expecting her to tsk at me, and I suspect Moriellie was shocked that she had called him on something instead of simply agreeing with him. An extreme displeasure flashed in the jock's eyes as he scowled furiously, first at Erin and then at me.