I did it! I finally finished this chapter and you'd better read it. Consider it a late Christmas present whether or not you celebrate Christmas.

By the way, the thing that Talise said last chapter about intergalactic warriors cleaning up the universe was from a Mr. Clean commercial. Phalourie and badger were the only ones to get it right. A lot of people seemed to think it was from Toy Story.

11. Of Pythagoras and Poetry

I stab my chicken until my fork hits the plate underneath with a rather noticeable ding. Talise's eyes flick towards me before returning to the conversation that is engulfing the table. It's all: blah, blah, transportation, blah, responsibility, blah, blah, blippety, blah Aiden putting his arm around Spencer. Couldn't they have done this over the phone? But no, how could my mother ever pass up an opportunity to play hostess?

Today, her veneer of kind warmth seems thinner than usual, probably because she only recently escaped from a lovers' spat. Every once in a while, her smile droops and her exhaustion shows.

As he gets up to get a glass of water, Aiden presses a kiss to Spencer's temple before whispering something in her ear. She smiles briefly, and he grins back. The moment he's gone, Ben begins plying Spencer with food.

"How about some rolls, Spencer?" Ben gives what her he thinks is a charming smile. I think he looks like a stunted monkey who's been trained to bare his teeth for a slightly unnerved human audience.

Not being incredibly thick-skulled, Spencer can obviously tell this is another of his attempts to woo her. "Oh, I already have one," she informs him politely and turns to the left, towards her mother. Reaching over Aiden's empty seat, Ben grabs her arm to keep her from turning completely away.

"Well, have another," he insists.

"I don't want one," she tells him, pulling her arm out of his grasp.

"Do you have plans this Saturday," he asks hopefully.

"She obviously does, Benjamin, so leave her alone!" Kyla snaps. Standing up, she grabs the salad bowl before falling into another sullen silence. Mrs. Carlin watches the exchange avidly. It's like she's trying to read a meaning in every action, studying the behavior of caged animals. Mr. Carlin merely gives his daughter a sympathetic quirk of the lips.

There's a sort of distance between all the Carlins. Glen, who's been leaving me alone at school, seems to have barred himself from the rest of his family. The older Carlins manage to avoid from each other whenever they're together. I don't think I've ever really seen them even touch. They barely seem to notice the trouble their son gets into or the way their daughter glances at them anxiously, as if she's afraid they'll shatter.

"My main concern about this entire trip is the supervision—or lack thereof," Mrs. Carlin states matter-of-factly. Everything about her seems restrained tonight. Not screaming at my mother for her wayward daughter must be taking it's toll on her.

Leaning forward on her elbows, my mother assures her that Talise is the most responsible, trustworthy, righteous person on the planet. It sounds like she's introducing a superhero (or super-heroine, I guess).

"I'm tremendously responsible," Talise deadpans, her face so humorless and severe that I swear everyone's serotonin levels just plummeted. Even Mrs. Carlin seems a little put-out by the sheer gravity of her gaze.

I nearly choke trying not to laugh.

Having become thoroughly transformed into a mindless chunk of clay by the tedious planning of Las Vegas trips, I retreat up to the attic.

Aiden's existence was beginning to nauseate me.

I sit on my bed, boiling with frustration. Everything is rough and scratchy. I want to tear off my own skin. Wouldn't it be chilly with no skin on? a voice that sounds suspiciously like my third grade music teacher titters. Well, it's better than feeling like the air is sandpaper.

"Ash."

Blinking, I wrench my head up to see Spencer standing near the entrance to the bedroom.

"Hi?" I choke, confused.

"I thought I'd come looking for you." She stands there awkwardly.

I don't know what to do...

I still don't know what to do. Deep breaths counting to ten.

Okay, now I feel like a hyperventilating walrus. Thanks a lot, Life Skills.

"Are you all right?" Spencer asks, her eyes softening with concern.

"Uh, yeah." Like oddly-placed statues, we stand frozen. What am I supposed to say now? "Uh, so... how's it going?"

"Alright."

God, it feels so uncomfortable with her standing there like that. Why doesn't she sit down? Should I tell her to? What am I supposed to say? Sit down? That sounds too much like an order. "Please have a seat," I articulate carefully, then wince, at the formality of my voice.

Not seeming to care or notice, Spencer steps over and sits on the mattress of my bed next to me. Her posture is perfect, but painfully proper. "I've never really gotten a good look at your bedroom before," she remarks. Her head swivels. I panic, seeing the clothes strewn everywhere. The poems taped up all over the walls and ceiling look tacky. Talise has always insisted on posting them everywhere, and I've never cared enough about interior decoration to object.

"About the poems—" I begin.

"Which one is your favorite?" she asks quietly.

"Um." There's a few I like, but I've never been able to pinpoint a favorite. "I don't really have a favorite poem." Sometimes, in the dark, it fells like they're creeping up on me. They're going to smother me in my sleep one of these days. Seriously, I had a nightmare where I woke up with balls of paper in my mouth.

"Well, think about it." She pushes me lightly down onto the bed, and falls with a thump next to me. The silence becomes stiff. It shouldn't be stiff. Silence is a good thing. Silence keeps me from making a bigger idiot out of myself. Around Spencer though, I just have to say something—anything to know what's on her mind. I can't stand not knowing what she's thinking.

Because what if she's thinking that she doesn't want to be near me?

Feverishly, my fly over the walls and ceiling. I need something to say—something to keep her from coming to the logical conclusion. She has no reason to be here with me. "My favorite poem is that one," I sputter finally, eyes latching onto a poem Talise printed out years ago. She took a stepladder and taped it to the ceiling. Halfway through the night, I walked into said stepladder on my way trough the bathroom.

"Which?" There's no sign that she detected my unease.

"The one over there. 'Like This.'"

(1) Like This

(Young man in an Asylum)

It must be some lonely disease I have
To feel so lonely like this,
And not for company I see
The others like this, like this,
It only makes more isolate
To see another like this,
Oh nobody like this likes this,
Or likes another like this.

(2) Like This

(Young girl in an Asylum)

The greatest love?
The greatest love?
There is no love at all,
What love means is, To speak to me,
Not leave me in the cold.

How very cold it is out here,
How bitterly the wind blows,
O Love, why did you dedicate me
To the snows?

-Stevie Smith

"That's...clever," coughing to clear her throat, Spencer continues, "and sad." Her arm brushes against mine, and I try not to make a noise. When she speaks again, it's with an unexpected intensity. "Do you sometimes feel like everything around you is about to collapse if you don't pull the secret lever, but in trying to reach the lever your steps will send everything tumbling to—to somewhere?"

"Not really," I say, wondering where she's going with this. I know I'm meant to take it seriously, but it all sounds a little overdramatic to me. "But if the world's going to collapse anyways, then why not try for the lever."

"What if you're not sure where the lever is or if it even exists?"

"Isn't that the same principle? It's going to collapse so you might as well try."

"What if you're not sure whether the world is going to collapse? What if by reaching for that lever, you'll send everything crashing?"

"Then, I guess you do whatever feels right." Her gaze presses on me, as if she expects me to know the answer. Suddenly, I become defensive. "Am I supposed to know the answer to this? You keep changing the question! What should I do? Read the future?" Feeling cornered, I recoil and glare at her.

Limbs rippling, she springs back to her feet. "I don't know what's real or not!" she shouts. The skin on her face is tight, lined with angst. "I'm not sure if I'm doing the right thing or being selfish or ungrateful or cowardly. There just isn't a right thing to do." For a moment, her eyes demand a response from me. We stare at each other, both slightly shocked by her outburst, listening to the sound of her angry breathing. When she sighs and sits down, I twist my fingers through my hair. I'm starting to feel sick. I just want life to be perfect—effortless— to fall into place like a lucky solitaire spread, but life is just like solitaire in that way. How do you know you'll get a good spread?

Why can't there be a solution to life? Why isn't life a math problem where, if you do the right things, then you'll get your happily ever after? It might be a pain to learn, but at least you know the answer is real. You won't fall into a black hole, and someone out there will teach you how to get to the solution. All you have to do is add a2 and b2 . Math is annoying, confusing and impossible, but it always makes sense at the end.

"I'm sorry, Ash," she relents.

But what about Pythagoro—Pythagrates (was that his name?) Whatever his name was, he had to understand a2+b2=c2 on his own. No one could have told him, Yes that's right. That's what you're supposed to do. Nobody could have told him that he had gotten it right even when he was done. Even though he was some Ancient Greek math nerd, at least he was a gutsy Ancient Greek math nerd. Unlike Aristotle or Ptolemy, teachers don't just mention him as a "this is how far we've advanced since this guy" topic. He got it right. The worst thing is though, Pythagoras (that's his name) could still be proven wrong. In a hundred years, maybe people will laugh at us for thinking gravity exists when it's obviously magnetism that holds the world together. Certainty is useless.

"I'm sorry." It was my fault, right? I'm the one that snapped at her first. "I don't know what you should do," I concede. Pythagoras might have been able to declare with unwavering conviction that a2+b2=c2, but I can't. I live with the fact that I don't know anything every single day. It's starting to eat me alive.

"That's okay." Briefly, I speculate if Spencer is psychic. That would be ridiculous. But maybe everyone in the world is psychic but you, and they're all playing a giant practical joke on you. Oh god, I think I need to go to the asylum. I'd rather be lonely than keep thinking like this. This is Descartes' job. On the other hand, I just had a revelation.

"Well, maybe, you could build scaffolding or something around the world so it won't fall down."

"What?" Spencer looks bewildered.

"You know, so that you can pull the lever," I explain weakly. Silence is officially amazing.

"Right..."

She gets up and starts wandering around the room, staring at the walls. "'I'm Nobody!'", she murmurs softly. Stopping next to my bed, she reads the poem silently for a moment. "I've always hated this poem. I don't really like Emily Dickinson much." Shrugging, I fight the urge to rip the poem from the wall and tear it into pieces. I stand next to her, fingers twitching, skimming over the short poem. It feels like forever before she looks my way again. "It's almost like two people who are thrilled to have finally found someone who understands them, and they're both so excited that they keep interrupting each other and finishing each other's sentences," she tells me abruptly. "I don't know. This may be the first time I haven't thrown up after looking at this poem."

"I don't see how there are two people," I admit, feeling stupid.

"At the dashes, it's like the speaker is changing. Try it."

"Huh?"

Suddenly, Spencer starts reading the poem out loud, her voice higher than usual, verging on giddy. "I'm Nobody! Who are you? Are you—" Okay, now she's looking at me weird. "Read until the next dash, Ashley," she prompts.

"Oh, um," I stutter. I haven't been following along. "Uh, —Nobody—. Uh, wait. Is that right? It is right, right?" Fantastic, I've managed to confuse myself.

Spencer's white teeth flash in her pink mouth as she laughs. My breath catches in the back of my throat when I realize how close I'm standing to her. When it unhooks itself, I drag the air in, immersed in the smell of her shampoo or perfume. Whatever it is, I can't stop myself from reaching out for her arm, tugging her just a little closer. Her eyes dart down to my hand before meeting my eyes.

Those eyes are such a bright, bright blue. They're a full blue too, not Joe's insipid, pale watercolor, Glen's piercing ice, or her parents' empty tropical seas. They're cerulean, they're azure, they're shining sapphire stones, they're impossible.

And they've got depth. And maybe Spencer's not the only one who's had a change of heart about a piece of literature tonight. Pulling away from the overwhelming color, I blink. What's wrong with me tonight? I keep going into these absurdly dramatic monologues like some half-assed novelist trying too hard to sound smart.

"Yeah, it was right," she answers breathlessly. Fingers wrap themselves around my hand, prying them off her arm. I watch our fingers lace together. "Let's try again. Are you—Nobody—too?" She pauses for a moment, and I smile at her, nodding. "Then there's a pair of us!" she exclaims eagerly. Without warning, Spencer's face is inches from mine. "Don't tell! they'd advertise—" she whispers conspiratorially. Giving me a pointed look, she gestures with her chin towards the poem.

"—you know," I finish. She nudges me, mouthing for me to keep going. All I can think about is how close she is. "How dreary—"

"—to be—"

"—Somebody! How public—"

"—Like a Frog—"

"—To tell one's name—"

"—the livelong June—"

"—To an admiring Bog!" By the time we're done, both of us are snickering uncontrollably.

Spencer collapses on my bed, gasping for breath. I flop next to her. "I feel like an idiot," she admits.

"Well, I feel like Nobody." And, that, for some reason starts us laughing again. Vaguely, I wonder if this is what it's like to be on laughing gas. Everything is just a rush of sound and joy. When we finally manage to collect ourselves, I look over at Spencer, seeing the last vestige of her laughter in her gasping smile.

"Hey, Ash," she says softly. I look over at her. "There's stars out tonight." Glancing at the window, I discover she's right. Faintly, a few dots of white make themselves known in the darkening sky. Really, I muse, they were there the first time we met, we just couldn't see them. Who knows when we'll see them again?

Then, my mouth is on hers.

I think Pythagoras would be proud.

Hmm... in what poem did Edgar Allan Poe spend three pages insulting a guy named Pitts?