The Calculus of Change Read online

  Tate’s Mom

  “I want you to meet my mom.”

  Tate says this out of nowhere. He wants me to meet his mom?

  “Why?”

  He laughs. “Because I talk about you all the time, and she’s curious. Plus you’d love her. She’s kind of awesome.”

  Tate talks about me all the time? What does he say?

  The word mom is stuck in my throat. Mom. Mom. Tate has a mom. Tate likes his mom.

  “You think? That’s a pretty cool thing to say about her—I mean, your mom.” I sound like a frog.

  “I wouldn’t say it if it wasn’t true.”

  “So when should I meet her?”

  “In a few minutes. She’s picking me up. I told her to come in.”

  “What?”

  This is not something you just throw at a person. The meeting of moms.

  “Don’t freak out, Ade. It’s not that big a deal.”

  Maybe it’s not a big deal to him—he has a mom. Tate wants me to meet his awesome mom. Or her to meet me. I feel important and embarrassed all at once. I’ve met moms before, but it suddenly occurs to me that Tate has this great one and I’m not sure I know how to be, what to say to her. I wonder if I would’ve called my mom awesome if she were still alive.

  He doesn’t have to tell me. I know it’s her as soon as she pushes the door open and walks through it. She wears a bright red scarf and large turquoise earrings. Even over the chatter of teenagers at Ike’s, I can hear the faint click of her leather boots as she makes her way to our table. She’s short, like me. We’re sitting at the high tables today, and when she comes over, she’s only a head or so taller than the table. A bold move, showing off his “awesome mom” here at Ike’s. But that’s Tate. He doesn’t care what anyone thinks.

  Her eyes are exact replicas of Tate’s. In shape and the unusual gray-blue color. In expression. It’s freaky.

  “Aden.” It’s the first thing she says. And instead of extending a hand, she puts a hand on my shoulder and squeezes, smiling at Tate. “I’ve heard so much about you.”

  I like her.

  “Well, I’m not sure what you’ve heard, but it isn’t true. It’s nice to meet you.”

  Tate smiles and folds his arms across his chest. He looks back and forth between his mom and me. Is he proud?

  “I hate to say this, but you two are going to love each other. Aden, I might lose you to my mom.”

  “Most definitely,” she says. “Now, Aden. Tell me everything. Has my son been treating you like the queen that you are?”

  Now I know where Tate gets his charm. “He’s been doing okay.”

  She nudges Tate’s elbow.

  “Ow!”

  “I taught you better than just okay, son.”

  “Are you kidding? Aden is royalty as far as I’m concerned.”

  “Good. Tate tells me you’re quite the academic? And a singer?”

  “I’m not sure if I’m either of those things,” I say. “But aspiring, yes. What do you do, Mrs. Newman?”

  “Ah,” she says. She pauses. “I do a lot.” They have different smiles, Tate and Mrs. Newman. Same smiling eyes, different smiling mouths. “But I get paid to teach college students.”

  “You’re a professor?”

  “So they tell me.”

  “What subject?”

  “Art history, mostly.”

  “Really? Cool.” That explains the scarf and earrings, the artful way she carries herself. “Are you helping Tate with Euro this year?” Tate’s in a different section of AP European history than me. It’s not art history, but we cover a lot about the art and how it reflects the political climate of the time.

  “Come on, Aden. My mom’s a professor,” he says. “She makes me do everything on my own.”

  “Darling,” she says, “you don’t need my help. You have your own thoughts and ideas. But if you ever did need me for anything, history or otherwise, I’d help you find your thoughts.” She winks at me like we’re a team, against Tate together.

  “See?” Tate says.

  “I do see.”

  Would my mom have offered to help me with history if I’d needed it? I know the answer, of course. It’s just that I’ll never really know. Not like Tate does.

  “So can I come to one of your shows sometime?” she says.

  “You mean open mic night?”

  “If that’s where you sing. I’ve heard it’s really something.”

  “Mom.” It’s the first hint of embarrassment I’ve heard from Tate. And I’m embarrassed, too, because Tate said my singing was something. To his mom. I look at Tate. He shrugs.

  “You are good.” The simple statement—the way it’s fact for him—makes the butterflies in my stomach soar.

  “Great,” she says. “And maybe you’ll come by the house sometime before your next show. Tate’s been keeping you from us.”

  In this moment, I want nothing more than to “come by” Tate’s house and be friends with his mom.

  I hope she wishes I were Tate’s girlfriend. I want her to walk away and say to Tate, You need to dump Maggie for Aden. How can you miss it? She’s perfect for you. And when his awesome mom says it just like that, it’ll strike him. He’ll stay up all night tossing and turning. How could I have missed it, he’ll think. Of course she’s the one. I’m such an idiot.

  But I know this isn’t a romantic comedy. And Tate’s not missing anything.

  Jon

  It’s the smell. A combination of BO, dirty socks, and sagebrush. I open the door to Jon’s room without knocking.

  “You’re smoking weed by yourself now?” I say.

  His bloodshot eyes are so predictable.

  I notice the laptop on his desk, a small box open with groups of letters, numbers, and symbols, and another box with the outline of what looks like a robot. He’s been programming.

  “So what?”

  “So it’s a little pathetic.”

  I’m wafting the smell away with my hands.

  He laughs. One roar too loud.

  “You should try it,” he says. “The bullshit in life, it feels so much more dull. But everything else, it makes it crisper. More beautiful.” I look at Jon, wondering what it must feel like to melt all the pressure away with a few inhales. He lies down and holds the pipe out like I’m going to take it and toke right then and there.

  “Hey, hey, hey,” I say, kicking aside a pile of clothes to grab the pipe. “You’ll spill it.” I don’t know why I care about him spilling the contents of his pipe onto his bed. I guess it’s the carefulness Dad’s drilled into me all these years.

  The pipe is blown glass, a purple flower looping around the bowl. It’s pretty, except for where the weed has burnt black crust on the inside of the bowl.

  Jon closes his eyes, and I open the top drawer to his desk, placing the pipe and its contents there. Then I close his laptop screen. I contemplate the pipe and the remaining marijuana in the bowl. Jon is too far gone, and I don’t like the idea of him getting high alone. I open a window and turn on his fan.

  “At least get some air in here,” I say. “Dad will be home in less than hour.”

  Jon’s already asleep. He looks less like a little boy to me.

  Dad

  My hoodie is barely enough to keep me warm as I stand underneath the overhang of our deck. The wind is cutting, a knife edge in an otherwise temperate night. I tuck my hands into the sleeves of my hoodie and then into the front pocket. I’m too cold to sit, so I hover next to my dad.

  His hands are bare, and I wonder how he can stand it.

  “When did Jon start smoking pot?”

  “What?” I say.

  “Aden, don’t play dumb. I live here, too. When did Jon start smoking weed?”

  “I’m not sure,” I say. “Maybe when you said he couldn’t go to RISD.”

  “I didn’t say he couldn’t go. But he’s a smart boy, Aden. He knows it’d be wasteful not to see where his lacrosse career goes.”

  “If you s
ay so.” I know I could say more, about Jon and what he wants, but I don’t trust my dad to hear it.

  “So?” I say instead. “Does he get grounded or something for the pot?”

  I’m looking for Dad-the-parent to make an appearance in this conversation.

  My dad exhales, long and slow. “No. He doesn’t.”

  “I’m confused,” I say.

  “It won’t do any good if I tell him not to do it. He’ll just find some other way, some other place.”

  “Are you serious?” I say. It’s not that I want Jon to get in trouble.

  He nods his response.

  “If it was me smoking pot, you’d be furious.” My dad refuses to admit he has a double standard. Like how even though I’m a year older, he wouldn’t let me ride a bicycle until Jon decided he was ready. He made me wait six months after I turned sixteen to get my driver’s license; Jon was allowed to get his the day after his birthday.

  “Don’t be ridiculous, Aden.”

  “I’m not being ridiculous. What is it? Is it that I’m female and he’s male?”

  “Stop, Aden. You’re two different people.”

  “Whatever.”

  When I huff inside, I think about leaving the door open a crack just to spite him, but I’m too afraid he’ll rage about it.

  Tate

  Tate and I are cutting eighth period, the last class of the day, because for me it’s health class, and for him it’s gym. We shouldn’t, but high school is strangling me today, and I’m always doing things I shouldn’t with Tate, like loving him.

  It’s a beautiful day. Everything looks and feels like gold. The sun warms the yellow grass.

  I love the sound of autumn wind rushing into perfect piles of raked leaves. I love feeling young. I love feeling this alive.

  Tate drives us to a playground and parks the car. Without making eye contact, he unbuckles his seat belt and runs to the swing set. His arms are flailing as he gains speed down the grassy hill. He looks so free. A little stupid maybe. But free in it.

  I have no choice but to follow.

  We sit on the swings side by side, swinging as high as we can. My stomach flips—I don’t remember that sensation from when I was a kid.

  “Bet I can jump farther than you.”

  I laugh. “Well, you’re a foot taller than me, so I’m sure you can.”

  “You’re gonna let me win that easily?”

  “Ever heard the expression choose your battles? I know which ones to choose.”

  He jumps, but I slow to a peaceful stop.

  “Wuss.”

  “I own it,” I say.

  We sit together quietly, lazily hanging on our swings. Tate kicks the gravel beneath his feet. I try to breathe. I want this day to last forever.

  “What’s your worst fear?”

  “I don’t know,” I say. “I think I’ve told you before.”

  “Tell me again,” he says.

  “I don’t know. Like, living but not really living. Growing up and growing cold, numb.” I pause. “That’s the kind of fear you’re talking about, right? Not spiders or snakes or something?”

  “Definitely,” he says. “And I get that. Sometimes even people in their twenties seem like they’re just going through the motions. They’re like robots.”

  “Yeah, I know.” I wish I could find the right words. “I just, half the time I feel like I want to explode, you know? If I’m not passionate, fiery, what’s the point?”

  “I know what you mean,” he says. “Do you think it’ll fade as we get older?”

  He reaches for my hand. His hand is almost twice the size of mine, and it’s twice as warm. I don’t answer him because I don’t know.

  Tate

  I don’t know how we ended up together at eleven thirty on a Saturday night other than that this is the second night in a row it’s happened. My dad might kill me when I get home. He might not notice. But I can’t care, because I’m consumed by all the space Tate takes up in me when we’re in the same room.

  “My parents are out of town,” he says.

  I almost choke on the Slurpee I’m sucking down, but instead I make a weird grunt noise.

  “Where are they?” I’m trying to recover after the caveman noise Tate just heard come out of me.

  “Some conference of the neurosurgeons in San Diego.” He hasn’t talked about his dad in a long time. I get the feeling his mom does all the real parenting and his dad is this looming, displeased authority.

  “And they left you alone?”

  “Yeah. It’s only two nights.”

  We’re quiet, and the atmosphere between us is a voltage so high I think I might spontaneously combust right here. That would be a welcome relief because my insides are wound so tight it’s all I can do to exist. Why is he telling me this?

  “So do you want to come over for a minute?”

  I just imploded.

  “Sure.”

  ***

  “Let’s go swimming,” he says. “I want to see you in your element.”

  “What? You have a pool? It’s midnight.”

  He smiles.

  “I wouldn’t exactly call it my element.” I add. “I just love being in the water. Doesn’t everyone?”

  His grin stops time. “Nope. Some do, some don’t. I’d say I’m neutral. Come on, Ade. Why’d you stop swimming?”

  “Because . . .” Why did I stop swimming? Because I stopped loving my body? Because I couldn’t be around my peers in a swimsuit? “I don’t know why I stopped. Life just changed. I got busy.”

  “I don’t buy it.”

  “Me neither.”

  He waits for me to elaborate, but I refuse to talk to Tate about being a girl and having a body. He chose Maggie—thin, cupcake Maggie—as a girlfriend. He couldn’t possibly understand this.

  “You can borrow one of my mom’s suits if you don’t think that’s weird.”

  I want to get in the pool with Tate so badly, but he just said I can borrow his mom’s suit. Which means if I do this, Tate will see everything. Every vein. Every dimple. Every roll. But I remind myself that it’s dark, and I remember to breathe (that’s a thing now because of Tate—breathing), and I say, hesitating, “Okay. I don’t mind.”

  Before undressing, I stand in front of the mirror in my underwear. I’m wearing my new bra. It’s sexy. My panties don’t exactly match the bra. They’re white cotton with multi-colored hearts all over. I think about coming out in the bra and panties anyway. They look okay. In the right light, I might look something close to desirable. I decide on the mom suit because I’m not sure which is worse—me in my underwear in front of Tate or me in his mom’s suit.

  The suit is of the old-lady variety, but it’s two pieces at least. I can’t imagine anything less sexy than Tate seeing me in his own mother’s bathing suit, but here I stand in Tate’s mother’s blue floral tankini. I think of Tate and how free he seems. And in turn he makes me free. Just be free, I tell myself as I silently curse my reflection once in the mirror and head outside.

  He’s already in the pool when I come out sporting the glory of his mom’s old-lady skirt tankini. All the lights in the house are on, and the aqua pool is lit from underneath. I can see every detail of Tate’s body under the water. Which doesn’t bode well for what he’ll see of me.

  He’s not wearing his yarmulke. It’s the first thing I notice about him.

  He sees me staring and touches the top of his head where the yarmulke has left a crease in his hair.

  “Naked?” I say.

  “What?”

  Oh. I just said naked out of nowhere to Tate. And he’s in the pool.

  “What? Oh. No. I mean. Without the yarmulke. Do you feel naked without it?”

  “Oh. Yeah. A little.”

  I sit down and let my feet dangle in the water.

  He dives under, and when he comes back up, he’s right there—our bodies are almost touching; my leg is just brushing against his arm. He’s always doing that. Coming into my space li
ke it’s no big deal.

  “There,” I say. I want to reach out and touch his hair, his face, and he’s so close I easily could. I notice he has a little stubble around his jawline. “You got rid of the crease from the yarmulke.”

  He runs a hand through his hair. It should be my hand in his hair.

  “Do you like me without it?”

  “Yes. Do you like you without it?”

  He smiles, and it’s so warm, and his eyes say they love me because I just said something he got.

  “I’m working on it,” he says.

  I guess I stumbled onto something with Tate and the yarmulke. All this time I’ve marveled at his bravery in wearing the yarmulke, but is it just a way to deflect? So people don’t really see him?

  “I’m surprised. I could’ve sworn you had more pride.”

  “We’re all working on it, right? Self-love and all that?”

  “So what’s the yarmulke really about?”

  Instead of answering me, he breaches all my personal boundaries, pushes his body into me, and I swear he’s going to kiss me. Until his hands reach around my back and pull me into and under the water.

  The water is ice crashing into my whole body. I stay under, letting the crash and the cold and the almost-kiss settle before coming up for air.

  As soon as I’m up, Tate is splashing me. I dive back under. I forgot how much I love the water. Moving in water. Being underwater. Controlling my breathing. The way everything feels slower, smoother. I almost forget that I’m wearing a bathing suit in front of Tate, that my thighs and stomach and arms are bare and under a freaking spotlight.

  I come back up and Tate leaps into me, grabbing me around the shoulders and waist, touching touching touching, and then he dunks me.

  When I come back up for air, he says, “Was that too rough? Are you okay?”

  “Yes, that was too rough!”