Part 10 (2/2)

Taylor and I already decided that we don't really care about finding a mathematician who discovered some amazing concept, we just want to find one who had an interesting life. I look down at the millimeter of s.p.a.ce between Taylor's knee and mine, and start to read.

These books are full of boring information, like where certain mathematicians were born, and who they married, and what concepts they thought of and named after themselves. Then a word captures my attention: pirate pirate.

”Hey, look at this,” I say, and Taylor pushes his knee back against mine, leans closer until we're touching in so many places, puts his face so close to my face that I can feel him breathing, and starts to read where I point. I can tell that he's concentrating, but there's no way I I can with him so close to me, so I glance up from the book for a second. Dylan is walking toward the parking lot with Marjorie Klein. can with him so close to me, so I glance up from the book for a second. Dylan is walking toward the parking lot with Marjorie Klein.

There are three kinds of outsiders at my school: the outsiders who everyone thinks are lame and nerdy, the outsiders who everyone looks at and thinks, That kid looks That kid looks vaguely vaguely familiar, familiar, and the outsiders who are only outsiders because no one else is quite like them. Marjorie is the third kind, the best kind. Last year she tied with Ingrid for ”most artistic.” and the outsiders who are only outsiders because no one else is quite like them. Marjorie is the third kind, the best kind. Last year she tied with Ingrid for ”most artistic.”

Dylan and I haven't talked for over two weeks now. She's started sitting across the room from me in English, and ignores me whenever we're at our lockers together. Now she and Marjorie are gesturing like they're having this really great conversation, and I feel my body sink into the ground. Dylan says something and Marjorie laughs, and I wonder what great joke she made, and suddenly everything that was good about sitting here with Taylor is ruined. All I can think of is Dylan's boot kicking her desk, and the way she left cla.s.s that day without looking at me.

”This guy looks awesome,” Taylor's saying. ”We should definitely choose this guy.”

I look back down at the page. Jacques DeSoir Jacques DeSoir.

”How cool is this,” Taylor says. ”A French renegade pirate mathematician.”

Dylan and Marjorie are getting farther and farther away.

”I have to go,” I say.

”Already?”

”My parents will want me home,” I tell him, but really, I just need to get this image of Dylan and Marjorie out of my head.

”Want a ride?” Taylor asks.

”Okay,” I say. ”Thanks.”

We head toward the parking lot, following far behind Dylan and Marjorie. Once we get there, I lose sight of them in the rows of cars.

”So we should have a map,” Taylor says, ”and, like, plot the course of Jacques DeSoir.”

I nod and try to spot Marjorie's van. I wonder where they're going. I think of them at the noodle place, Marjorie ordering the most exotic thing on the menu, and I feel so replaceable.

Taylor and I stop. We're standing in front of his ancient, yellow Datsun hatchback. I haven't been paying attention to where we've been walking, and I realize that I'm standing by the driver's door and he's standing by the pa.s.senger's.

”Here!” Taylor says, and tosses a set keys over the car.

I catch them.

”You don't mind driving, do you?” he asks.

”Why?”

He grins and shrugs. ”Unlock us?”

I do. I climb into the well-worn driver's seat, lean over to the pa.s.senger side, and pull the lock up. Taylor gets in. The inside of the car is warm and it smells like chocolate. We sit, looking at each other for a minute.

”I don't have my license.”

”But you know how to drive, right?”

”Yeah.”

”And you live nearby?”

”Right off of Oak.”

”So that's not far.”

”True,” I say. ”Not far at all.”

”So I don't mind.”

”Well, if you don't mind . . .” I say. I put the key in the ignition and the car spits and shakes to life. Taylor leans forward and rests his cheek against the dashboard. ”Good, Datsun,” he says. ”Good little car.”

I laugh at him and release the emergency brake. I wonder what the f.u.c.k I'm doing. If we got pulled over I could get arrested, I could lose the right to ever drive, I could get grounded for the rest of my high school life. But I can't stop myself. This is just happening. I'm just doing what I want to do and it feels good. I adjust the rearview mirror and see Marjorie's Volkswagen van pulling away from the sea of s.h.i.+ny, adult cars that kids around here get for their sixteenth birthdays: brand-new Accords and Pa.s.sats and Maximas. I put Taylor's car in reverse.

”Careful when you switch to drive,” Taylor says. ”It gets kinda stuck sometimes.”

I drive carefully out of the parking lot and down the street to the main road. It's a red light; I look for oncoming cars and then turn right. I expect Taylor to be all nervous that I'm behind the wheel, but he's leaning back in his seat, just smiling at me.

”You look good driving my car,” he says.

We pa.s.s the hills and the strip mall and so many other cars. I glance at Taylor and find his eyes still on me. I've been so used to sitting still in the backseat that I've forgotten how much I liked the feeling of making a car move, take me somewhere. I'd forgotten how I called Ingrid one night after practicing for the test with my dad and told her, This summer I'll drive us anywhere. Where do you want to go? Name a place and I'll drive us. This summer I'll drive us anywhere. Where do you want to go? Name a place and I'll drive us.

At a stoplight, a car blaring hip-hop pulls up next to us.

A girl shouts, ”Taylor!”

Alicia McIntosh is leaning out of her convertible Mustang.

He turns to me and rolls his eyes. The light turns green and he whispers, ”Go!” I accelerate hard and Alicia's car gets smaller and smaller in the rearview mirror.

6.

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