Chapter 12 - I'll Be a Home for You

for the second time in his bleak life, aang tries to kick me off mathletes

(he’s running a strict program out here)

JJ

On Monday, I head to Coach’s office for the check-in she requested. She’s probably made her decision about Addy and me. It’s going to be okay. So what if I fell at the game on Friday? I have better stretches, better motions, better timings. And I need it more.

I poke my head through the open door. “Hi, Coach!”

“Hey, JJ! Thanks for coming.” She waves me in. The wall behind her is a mountain of gold and silver trophies. “Take a seat.”

“I can’t stay long.” I hover by the chair. “The bus for Mathletes Invitationals leaves in ten minutes.”

“I didn’t know that was today. In that case …” She shuffles papers on her desk. “Maybe we should have this chat another day.”

I frown. “No, it’s okay, we can have it now. You said it wouldn’t take long?”

“I did say that.”

“Then can we just do it now?” I sit down, a bad feeling stirring in my stomach.

“Okay.” Coach takes a deep breath. “You’ve impressed me over the recent weeks. You look great in the air—clean lines, sharp motions, impressive stretches—and you work very hard. However …”

No. No however.

“I think Addy should fly during Regionals. She’s a better flyer for Aang right now.”

I’m in hell. And not a nondenominational hell. Polish Roman Catholic Hell. My skin’s melting off in the flames.

“But why?” I blink to stop the tears forming.

“I cannot have a flyer and a backspot out of sync. It’s too dangerous. And might affect the rest of the team.”

I blink more aggressively, the flames raging around me.

Coach stands up and puts a hand on my shoulder. I fight not to recoil from her. “This is a done decision for now. But who knows, maybe you’ll be able to convince me to let you fly during State. You just need to be teammates with everyone.” She smiles. “Now go win the Invitationals. You’ve got this.”

I don’t remember getting on the bus. But I guess I did because I sit down and lean my face against the dirty window. I scream internally, the noise ping-ponging around in my head. Tears run down my cheeks, cooling my flaming skin. I fought for this. I convinced my parents to let me go to cheer camp instead of spending the summer with Babcia in Poland.

I dig my nails into my skin. This isn’t the plan.

When the bus stops, I follow everyone into Highbury High. I’m drying my cheeks with the sleeve of my hoodie when I bump into someone.

Aang’s eyes lock with mine, his brows creasing. “Why are you crying?”

I hide my face behind my braids. “I’m not crying.”

He sighs like I’m greatly inconveniencing him with my tears. He takes off his backpack and rummages through it until he finds dry tissues and wet wipes. He holds them out to me.

“I don’t want anything from you.”

“You have snot coming out of your nose, and it’s unhygienic.” He forces the packets into my hand. “I need my team to look at least slightly presentable.”

“To, jak ty mi podnosisz ciśnienie, to jest szok.”10 I blow my nose with a dry tissue, then use a wet wipe to clean my face. Is that vanilla? I bury my face in the wet wipe, inhaling my favorite smell. So basic, it can never be disappointing. It’s like someone put aloe vera on my imaginary third-degree burns.

I hand him back the packets. Instead of putting them in his backpack, he stores them inside his navy blazer. I study his ironed white shirt and burgundy tie. It’s good to know he hasn’t changed his self-imposed dress code for math events.

I scan the corridor for a trash can and walk to the nearest one. He follows me without a word. The muffled voices from the competition registration table aren’t enough to fill the silence.

“Congratulations, by the way. Addy’s going to be your flyer for Regionals.” I throw the tissues in the garbage with more force than necessary.

“Addy’s flying during Regionals? How do you know?”

“Coach told me just before I got on the bus.” My foot twitches next to the bin.

“No one’s looking. Just kick the trash.”

I start kicking the bin, the garbage inside rattling.

“You know … you don’t have to compete today if you don’t want to,” he whispers. “It’s just Invitationals.”

My foot stops dead. I’ve never heard him use the word just in relation to a Mathletes event. I stare at him, my mouth slightly parted.

He looks down, playing with his sleeves. “I mean, if you’re not in the right headspace, you might make stupid mistakes, and that wouldn’t be good for the team or our score, which is what I’m most concerned about right now.”

“But without me, you’ll get so many answers wrong. You don’t exactly excel at logic questions.”

“There she is,” he grumbles. “The bane of my existence.”

I give him a smile so light, I hope he can’t see it. There’s a twinge at the back of my head, trying to remind me I was upset, but it’s fading.

Georgie, the A-team freshman, runs up to us, her short black locs bouncing up and down. “Hurry up! The round is starting soon!” She motions for us to join her.

We start walking toward the group, with Georgie skipping next to us. “I’m so excited! There will be so many people watching us!”

Aang and I exchange a look. The only people watching us will be teachers and unlucky students whose teachers are in charge of the event.

He shrugs. Let her be excited.

I give him a small nod. It’s a rite of passage.

Georgie’s gaze darts between us. “Did you use to date?”

“What?” I shriek, missing a step. I barrel toward the ground.

Aang grabs my arm and yanks me up. He lets go as soon as I’m upright. Then he shakes his head at Georgie so hard his neck cracks. “No, no, no. No, we didn’t. No. No.”

“Wow, six nos.” I massage the place where his fingers gripped my arm. “All that after I allow you to grab my ass three times a week?”

Georgie’s mouth falls open.

Aang stands between her and me. “Do not listen to JJ. She’s mentally unstable.”

I cackle. “Mentally unstable sounds like your typ—”

“Okay!” He pushes Georgie away lightly. “Make sure to sharpen your pencils before the round, kid! I just need to have a quick chat with our teammate JJ.”

Georgie speedwalks away from us, but not to tend to her stationery. She runs up to her friend from the B-team, pointing at us. My chest tightens. She reminds me of Remy coming back from Art Club with seniors’ gossip.

“I’m kicking you off the team,” Aang says. “You cannot appeal the decision.”

I roll my eyes. “As always, overreacting.”

“You told her I was grabbing your ass!”

“And I made sure to say that it was with consent. You’re welcome.”

He buries his head in his hands, groaning. “What am I being punished for?”

Ten meters away from us, Georgie is gesticulating wildly at her friend.

I chuckle. “She’s definitely more energetic than your freshman last year. He looked like he was going to throw up the whole team round.”

He stiffens.

What? What did I say?

He slowly moves his hands away from his face. “How do you know what the freshman last year looked like?”

My cheeks flush. “I-I just saw some photos on the school’s website.”

“No one was taking any photos. This is a math competition.” He’s studying my face like he’s trying to solve an equation.

I squirm.

“What the …” His eyes widen. “You were here last year?”

I scoff, but it sounds more like I’m being strangled. “Why on Earth would I have shown up to an invite-only math competition?”

“You tell me. Did … did you actually come last year?”

Thankfully, I don’t have to brainstorm a response because a voice booms, “Let’s begin the individual round!”

The scribbling of pens and the ticking of the clock are the perfect white-noise machine as I read out question number ten.

Which of the following is irrational? A. π/6 B. 8.1 C. 11.999… D. √36

A. I circle the correct answer.

The speed of sound is approximately 3 x 10² meters per second. The speed of light is approximately 3 x 108 …

C.

I have twenty more minutes and only three questions left. I allow myself a smile before moving on. At least Mathletes is going well for me today.

At Highbury High, there are fifty lockers in a hallway, numbered one through fifty. All lockers start closed. A group of fifty students walks past the lockers. The first student opens every locker. The second student toggles every second locker. The third student toggles every third locker. This continues until the fiftieth student toggles only the fiftieth locker. Once they’re done, which lockers are open?

At Highbury High, there are fifty lockers …

At Highbury High, there are fifty lockers …

A memory wrestles its way to my prefrontal cortex. The after-school math club in Poland. Pan Wełnicki is standing in front of the blackboard, chalk in his hand. If I focus more, I’ll see the board and the technique to use. I’ll get the answer and move on to the next question. But the memory shifts to the whispers, the looks, the laughs …

My fingers dig into the pen. I’ll do it a different way. I grab a pencil and draw the lockers out. I have ten minutes left, and I don’t need his help. I don’t need to go back there even in my mind.

If this one is opened, that one closes …

I push the pencil against the paper. It breaks. I take the next one. The answer is right there. Just five more minutes. I glance at the person next to me. They’re finishing up the last question.

I look back at the badly drawn lockers.

Time runs out.

10 It is shocking the way you raise my blood pressure.