The Love Hypothesis. Laura Steven
few days later, I have AP Physics first thing. I walk in early, because punctuality is the finest quality a human being can possess in the eyes of . . . well, both dads. I distinctly remember playing model trains as a kid, and they made me write out an actual departure schedule – and stick to it. The worst part is that I don’t recall ever feeling stifled by this. I enjoyed the rules and the sense of purpose. I guess I was always destined to be a science fanatic. Or a serial killer. But there’s time yet.
(FWIW, if I were to become a serial killer, my weapon of choice would be a frozen pork chop carved into a point. I would stab my victims to death, then cook and eat the pork chop to destroy the evidence. Anyway.)
The classroom is swelteringly hot, and I’m surprised to find Haruki is already there, sitting at the back of the class. He wears a plain white T-shirt with rolled sleeves, and faded black jeans despite the fierce sun. His pale ochre-brown skin is smattered with light freckles, and his black hair is messy on top, short around the sides. Serving up your basic Hot Guy Lewk.
On his desk is a crisp printout of the same college-level paper I’m attempting this session. Torres must’ve caved and let him study modern physics too. I kind of don’t blame her, because Haruki’s parents are library donors and school-board members, but part of me is disappointed. This was . . . my thing. It made me feel special, and I earned that feeling. And now I have to share, even if it is with the most beautiful guy in school/the world.
As I unpack my stuff on the table next to him, Haruki looks over at me. My stomach flip-flops. On second thought, maybe this new common ground will be the thing that finally makes him pay attention to me – in the right way, this time. Maybe we’ll bond over particularly tricky problems, and share theories over milkshakes at Martha’s Diner. Maybe he’ll come to MIT too, and we’ll be the power couple of the Theoretical Physics Society. We’ll name our kids Volta and Galilei, and we’ll have a cat named Schrödinger just for the laughs. It’s written in the stars, right?
Nope. All that happens as we lock eyes is a smug, self-satisfied smirk, then Haruki turns the first page and starts scribbling in the margins in mechanical pencil.
Any normal person would feel annoyed right now. He’s being an immature jerk. But part of me is kind of . . . proud? Haruki is smug to have reached the same level as me. It’s a backhanded compliment, in a way. A very, very tenuous way, but still. Let me have this.
The lesson gets underway, and at first I struggle to tune out the scritching of Haruki’s mechanical pencil next to me. I’m hyper-aware of the scent of warm skin and fresh laundry, the bouncing of his knee against the table, the periodic sniffing that suggests his allergies are playing up. It’s intoxicating being this close to him, working on the same thing, breathing the same air. (Yep. Definite serial-killer vibes. Please keep me away from the frozen-pork aisle.)
But then my competitive streak takes hold, and I find myself flying through the paper at a rate of knots. If Haruki thinks I’m someone worth emulating, then I have to live up to that. I have to exceed it, even. Almost breathless, I mentally sort through complex equations and mind-bending problems. I’m both invigorated and relaxed. This is how normal people probably feel after sex. Or hot yoga.
As I stop to take a sip of water, though, I notice that Haruki’s knee has stopped bouncing, and the pencil has stopped scritching. I glance over from the corner of my eye, and notice that he’s peering at my paper, trying to copy the answers.
Resisting the urge to grin victoriously, I realize he’s not as smart as he thought he was. But he’s too proud to admit he’s struggling with the paper, so he’s cheating his way through it instead.
I weigh my options. I could cover the page with my arm or pencil-case, and leave him to flounder on his own. Or tell Torres at the end of class, and have her bring his smug ass back down to high-school level. Or use this to my advantage in the whole getting-Haruki-Ito-to-fall-in-love-with-me-and-buy-me-a-kitten-called-Schrödinger mission.
No prizes for guessing which option I choose.
I lift my gaze and quirk the corner of my mouth up in a half-smile, then angle the paper towards him so he can see better. The second he realizes I’m on to him, he quickly looks away, a faint tinge of pink prickling at his cheeks. But then he seems to swallow his pride, and turns back to face me, smiling in the most disgustingly cute and grateful way. He’s apologetic and bashful as he rubs the back of his neck. Then he bites his lip, jots down the answer, gives me a slight nod, then turns the page once more.
This may sound like a very minor chain of events, like a millipede waving to pond algae, but as the bell rings and class is dismissed, my blood is roaring in my ears. Haruki wordlessly offers to take my paper up to Torres, and I numbly hand it to him. I feel hot and cold at the same time as the adrenaline pumps through my veins, and I flee the classroom before I can screw up this perfect sequence of affairs.
Next period we have gym, and it’s cross-country season despite the lingering summer heatwave. Thanks to my height and gangly limbs, I’m actually a pretty decent runner, but I usually hang back with Keiko and Gabriela so we can chat. I spend the first mile filling them in on this morning’s veritable sex fest with Haruki.
‘How awesome is that?’ I finish, breathless from excitement if not from cardiovascular exertion. I’m basically just power-walking alongside Keiko.
Gabriela grins and yanks up her tiny spandex shorts with a satisfying snap of elastic. ‘Very awesome.’
Keiko huffs and puffs, staring angrily at the patchy grass like she wants to murder it one blade at a time. ‘Yep. You’ve basically been to third base.’ She pulls her polo shirt up to her head and blots the sweat from her face, taking half her eyebrow powder with it. ‘For the love of actual fuck. Cross-country should be illegal. How is this not a war crime?’
I try to make it look like I’m just as exhausted as she is, rearranging my features into a grimace. In reality, my muscles feel loose and strong, like they could sprint forever. Part of me wants to, just to see how it’d feel, but I don’t want to leave my friends behind. ‘So what should I do now? Should I ask him out? God, what am I saying? Of course I can’t. I can barely speak actual words in front of him.’
Keiko hacks up a lung, then says, ‘Maybe we could get you one of those robot voices like Stephen Hawking has.’
‘Had,’ I correct. ‘He’s dead. And that’s highly offensive.’
‘To who? Robots? Dead people?’
I pause. ‘Unsure. I just know it’s not a great voxpop.’
The guys appear over the hill in front of us – they set off before we do, so start looping back on us before we even reach the halfway point. Leading the pack is none other than Haruki, barely breaking a sweat as his legs pump against the turf.
‘Oh god, oh shit, what do I do?’ I mutter. Haruki is rapidly approaching, his red shorts a blur as he gains ground fast. Close behind him is Ryan Woods, Gabriela’s boyfriend. ‘Oh god. Shit. I can’t breathe.’
‘I know the feeling,’ Keiko grumbles, dabbing at her freshly buzzed undercut.
‘This might sound radical,’ Gabriela says, voice uneven from the effort of jogging. ‘But maybe you could consider not losing your giant genius mind at the mere sight of him?’
And then he’s almost on top of us, and Ryan looks over and nods in a very cute way at Gabriela, and I don’t know what comes over me but I make actual literal eye contact with Haruki, and, like some sort of sex pest, I say, ‘Hey.’
Haruki flinches – seriously, an honest-to-god recoil – and speeds up to get past us, without so much as a backward glance. Ryan winks at Gabriela, who giggles unabashedly, and takes off after Haruki.
The snub-induced humiliation must be written all over my face, because Keiko takes a deep, raspy breath and manages to puff out, ‘You know what? Screw him. You said it yourself, you’re way smarter than him. Hell, than most people.’
A