I don't realize how early I am until I open the door. The rows of desks and chairs are empty, the room is silent, and Mr. Trout peers at me from behind the podium.
"It's been a few years," he says. "I got a note that you're auditing this class?"
"Yeah. I want to brush up."
"For what?"
"I don't know. My future?"
He laughs. "I'm not supposed to say this, but you don't really need this stuff for your future. You need it for high school. It's a box to check, and you've already checked it. Perfectly, if I'm remembering correctly."
"Maybe I just want to feel really good at something." I cross the room and claim a front-row desk. "Maybe I just happen to love geometry."
"All right. Whatever floats your boat, Flora. But I have never in my career had a student repeat a class for fun. And during summer."
He turns to the window, the bright morning light streaming in as if to prove my foolishness. But I look instead to the stacks of geometry textbooks on his desk, and I swear, the sight of them sends beams of light straight to my heart.
"I can pass these out," I offer.
"Sure," he says.
As I'm centering them at each desk, placing the bright yellow textbook checkout slips inside each cover, I send silent thank yous to Jessica for letting me do this. It was the last week of school, and the impending summer at home with my parents—with both of my best friends away the whole time (Rachel working at a summer camp in Tahoe, Tara in Barcelona with her cousins)—was closing in on me. It was like a creeping fog. So much heaviness. "What do you need?" Jessica asked me. Even she wouldn't be here for me over the summer break, and my weekly visits to her office had become the best part of school. I was going to miss the way she touched her fingertips together when she asked me questions, and her plants by her window, and even her tissue box, perched next to me like a suggestion to cry. I told her I didn't know what I needed.
And then I said, "Actually, maybe I need summer school. A reason to get out of the house every day. Homework, so I can stay in my room whenever I'm home."
"I don't know what we're offering this summer…" she said, opening her laptop and pulling up the schedule. "Too bad there isn't art or theater."
"What about geometry?" I asked.
She cocked her head. "Aren't you in trig?"
"Maybe I could audit."
Her fingers tapped the keyboard. "Tim—Mr. Trout—he's teaching it on the Potrero campus."
I smiled. Even better. He was my teacher the first time I took it, my freshman year. He's the one who first talked about axes and symmetry.
"Perfect," I said, and she enrolled me right then. She made it so easy, even though it wouldn't have made sense to any other adult.
I finish passing out the books, and Mr. Trout and I make small talk for a few minutes, until he tells me, "Okay, go take a lap. I need a few minutes to plan the first lesson."
I leave my backpack on a front row desk and head to the corridor. For a week or two, when I was a freshman, I rode the bus here after school to hang out in the front quad with Blake. He liked to stand with his arm around me. I liked being mysterious, the girl from Baker High. All these random kids would come up to me and ask if I knew their cousins or exes or friends, and I would say yes and yes and yes, and Blake's arm would be there around my waist the whole time, and I usually liked having it there.
I never got past the front quad then, so I give myself a tour now. The main buildings are squat, a faded blue, and behind them are rolling hills, golden with summer. I trace the campus's edges, along the basketball court and the pool and the administration wing, and the morning is so bright, and I'm glad to be here, about to learn something I already know. I reach the parking lot. Heading toward the stairs to the campus entrance is a group of three kids, and my breath catches.
They're taller now. A little wilder. Louder.
Travis stops walking and squints at me.
"Hey," Mimi says. Her hair is the same length as it was then, but now part of one side is buzzed short. Her cutoff overalls are only clasped on the right, the left buckle dangling. I feel my face get hot at the sight of her. "It's you. Blake's ex-girlfriend."
I force a laugh. "I didn't realize that month of my life would define me forever."
Hope, still kind, says, "Our long lost Flora!"
"Hi, you guys," I say.
"Please tell us you're here for geometry," Travis says.
I nod because I can't speak. Sharing a class with them was the furthest thing from what I imagined when I thought about what summer school would offer me. When I chose this class, I was choosing shapes and logic, angles and numbers, strangers and anonymity. Not this gang of three who I never thought I'd see again. Not this girl whose presence makes my head tingle and my hands shake. Even though I'm trying to look anywhere else, I can't help but stare at the bare skin of Mimi's hip, between where her overalls end and her tank top begins, as I follow the three of them up the stairs.
When I was a freshman and stood in this same quad with Blake, I knew that it would never last between us. Even when I was enjoying the feeling of his arm around me. Even when I liked the way he looked at me, liked being his girlfriend. Because, even then, certain truths about myself were floating up from the depths of my heart. Standing right here, now, in the corridor outside of a class I don't need to take, those truths flare up again. Because Mimi Park was what dislodged them in the first place.
Back then she always had at least one earbud in, and often she'd be looking into the distance, and her head would bob so slightly it would have been imperceptible to anyone who wasn't riveted by her. Once she asked me if I'd heard a certain song, and I said no, and she took the right side out and fit it, gently, in my ear. It was Nirvana, "Come as You Are." Kurt Cobain had been dead for almost twenty years, and I'd heard of him but never heard him, and now he was singing to both of us at the same time. Only us. His voice in her left ear, my right one. We listened through the whole song, right there in the quad, and I smiled and nodded early on so that she wouldn't take it away, but after that I couldn't look at her face anymore. Too much happened when our eyes met. I looked at my Converse and a gum wrapper. I looked at her Vans and a yellow flower growing through the concrete. The guitar sounded like it was being played underwater. The lyrics were confusing and contradictory, a lot like standing with your boyfriend's arm around you while sharing earbuds with a girl you wished you were kissing.
When the song was over, she reached to my ear and took it out.
"What do you think?" she asked.
"It was good," I said.
And now it's the summer after junior year, and I'm remembering what it was like to be chosen out of a quad swarming with people to listen to a song. I'm remembering asking her if she'd be at homecoming, and how she'd said something about going camping. I'm remembering how hard I cried when I broke up with Blake, and how so much of the sadness was about losing those afternoons on the Potrero High campus and the riot of light that filled me each time I saw Mimi in the distance.
We've reached the classroom door. They cross the threshold ahead of me and head toward the back. If I had my bag still slung over my shoulder, I would stay in their group and sit back there, too, but my stuff is at the desk in the front, where I left it. I would have to cross the room, gather my things, and then go back to see if a desk next to them was still empty. I don't know if they want me there, adding a fourth member to their group, so I sit where my stuff is. Maybe tomorrow can be different.
Mr. Trout stands at the whiteboard. I thought he needed to prepare for his lesson, but instead he used the time to draw a giant fish on the board, covered in scales. When he has everyone's attention, he writes a "Mr." right before the tip of the fish's nose.
"Welcome to summer school," he says, but the rush of calm I imagined from being here doesn't come, because Mimi is also here, sitting five rows behind me.
* * *
No one is home when I walk inside. I go to hang my bag on the coatrack but stop when I see a Post-it stuck to it that says Leave. The coatrack is brass, each hook in the shape of an animal. I touch the rhino's horn, the elephant's trunk. I put my bag back on my shoulder and head into the living room, but everywhere I look are more Post-its. The clock on the mantle says Craigslist. The portrait of Granny has a question mark. The side table, its surface covered in faded rings from mugs of coffee and tea, says Goodwill.
I turn my face to the floor, step around more Post-its safety pinned to the rugs, and walk through the house and up the stairs to my room. I drop my bag. I step out of my sandals. I pull back my sheets and climb into my bed. I make myself small. I make myself sleep.
* * *
It's Monday again. Mimi and Hope and Travis are standing by the open classroom door as I approach it, and I try to work up the courage to talk to them. I think I messed it up. I should have joined them on the first day, or at least on the second. Now too much time has passed, and they haven't asked me to sit with them, and our conversations have consisted solely of heys and good-byes.
But I don't need to find the courage, because Hope spots me and says, "Flora, come see Mimi's tattoo!"
So I join them. It's a life-size California poppy on the inside of her right forearm.
"I can't believe your mom let you get it," Travis says.
"What can I say? I'm the daughter of a rebel."
"It's gorgeous," I say. "The petals—they're so perfect."
And I feel myself flush while I say it, because it's so close to saying that she's gorgeous. The truth is that the tattoo is beautiful, but even that vivid orange and green are no match for her face or her knees or the way she's posed now, with her arm extended toward us, no hint of self-consciousness.
"I want to get a tattoo," I say. "I have it planned out."
I show them where, up the inside of my bicep.
"What of?" Travis asks.
"Words. A phrase. 'The end of love.'"
Mimi squints. "What's it from?"
"It's just something in my head."
It's something that hurts, that I can't seem to get out, that keeps me up in the early morning. I think that maybe if I could do something with it, write it on my body forever, I could get it out of my heart.
"It sounds like a song," Hope says. "Or a book, maybe. I can't really picture it as a tattoo."
"It'd be like a warning sign to chicks, though," Travis says. "All the girls would know to stay far, far away."
My blush returns. I didn't think I was significant enough to be gossiped about at Potrero High, but turns out that I am. I glance up, see Mimi watching me.
"You guys," Mr. Trout calls from the classroom. "This may blow your precocious young minds, but class is held inside the classroom."
I almost follow them to the last row, but before I do, I see that there are only three open desks back there, so I take my usual spot at the front.
Today Mr. Trout is introducing polygons, though he hasn't announced that yet. I can see it from the shapes he's drawn on the board. I know all of their names. Triangle, quadrilateral, pentagon, hexagon, heptagon, octagon, nonagon, decagon …
"What do all of these have in common?" he asks us.
"They're all shapes?" people murmur. "They have straight lines?"
"Yes," Mr. Trout says. "What else?"
I write down everything I know about polygons in my notebook. How they are bound by a finite chain of line segments. About all of their edges, and the points where two edges meet. How the space inside is called the body.
I write about convexity and nonconvexity, about simple polygons and star polygons. I write about equality and symmetry, and each word steadies my heart. Mr. Trout is talking about all of these things I know already. Most of the time he sounds a little bored, but it doesn't matter. His words leave his mouth, carry across this room, and I'm filled with wonder because she's listening to them, too.
* * *
My parents are in the dining room when I get home, stationed in front of the china hutch with their Post-its.
"Look at this," Mom scoffs, holding up the serving platter. "What were we thinking?"
It's the platter they've used my whole life. I don't see anything wrong with it, but Dad scoffs along with her and throws up his hands.
"What can I say?" he says. "It was the nineties."
"Goodwill pile? Unless you want it."
"Oh, Goodwill for sure," he says.
He carries it to the dining table, where there are three Post-its labeling the piles. Hers, His, and Goodwill. The Goodwill pile has expanded, taking up the entire table.
"You guys aren't keeping anything?" I ask.
"Oh," Dad says. "Hi, Flora."
Mom waves from across the room. "I didn't even know you were here!" she says.
In my room, I open the textbook and begin the homework that, as an auditor, I don't technically need to do. Mr. Trout assigned only the odd-numbered problems, but I decide to do them all. Halfway through, just as I'm drawing a perfect cyclic with my protractor, a knock comes at my door.
It creaks open, even though I haven't said to come in.
"How's it going?" Mom asks.
"Fine. Just doing homework."
"Is the class challenging?"
I shrug.
"What is it again?"
"Geometry."
She nods, cocks her head. "For some reason I thought you already took geometry."
I don't respond, but it doesn't seem to matter. She's already scanning my room. My chest constricts, and my stomach clenches, and I can practically hear Jessica telling me to give these feelings a voice.
"Any thoughts yet on what you want to keep?"
"Everything," I say.
"We could get you a nicer desk. Something more modern."
"I only have a year left at home anyway."
"Well. Let's see how it looks in your new room, and we can decide then."
"I was just getting into this," I say, pointing at my textbook.
"Oops! I'll leave you alone. I'm looking forward to Saturday. A friend told me about a new shop in Berkeley that I thought we could check out."
"Are you sure you want to go curtain shopping before you know where we're living?"
"I already know the style I want. Turkish-inspired. We can see what's out there."
"Okay," I say.
"Fantastic. Back to work for you. Dad and I are tackling the hall closet next. You know, we're having a really good time through all of this." She flashes me a smile as though to prove it. "Closure is so important, and we keep reminiscing and laughing. We're getting rid of so much stuff, and it just feels great."
My vision tilts and then rights itself. There's a beehive in my body, swarming and dangerous, but I tamp it down and say, "That's great for you. I really need to get back to this."
I turn back to the book, but I can't even see what I'm looking at anymore. I sit very still until I hear the door close. Mom's footsteps fade down the hallway. I turn to a new page in my notebook and pick up the protractor, but I press too hard on the curve and the lead breaks.
I set my homework aside and open my laptop. I search for Turkish textiles and start a new Pinterest board. I collect patterns and colors, pictures of Turkish tiles for inspiration. I learn about the different traditional motifs—animals and flowers and trees—until I get very tired and give in to the comfort of my bed.
* * *
In the midst of a lecture on the Pythagorean theorem, Mr. Trout sees something out the window. His whole face transforms; a smile takes over. I turn to find out what he's seeing. It's a woman, carrying a picnic basket.
"Flora," he says. "Do me a favor and finish this proof, will you? And then move on to the next one." On his way out the door, he turns. "And then the one after that."
So I go up to the whiteboard and take the marker. I turn back around to see Mr. Trout embracing the woman. When they let go, she takes a picnic blanket from where it was tucked under her arm and spreads it out, right there on the grass outside the classroom.
I finish Mr. Trout's drawing and explain what I'm doing, and then I turn back. Everyone is watching as the woman removes two sandwiches from the picnic basket, both wrapped in parchment paper and tied up in bows. Next comes a dish of strawberries and two champagne flutes. She reveals a bottle of sparkling water with a flourish, says something, and they both laugh, their heads thrown back.
I feel awkward standing here, not doing anything, so I check his notes for what I'm supposed to be working on next, erase the drawing I just did, and start the next one.
"Okay, so this is the algebraic proof," I say. "A squared plus b squared equals c squared."
I draw the big square with a smaller square tilted inside of it and label all the parts. I don't even turn around, because I know no one is paying any attention. When I'm finished, I set down the marker and look out the window. Mr. Trout and the woman are relaxed on the blanket, eating and talking as though they are in the middle of a park on a Saturday afternoon. Everyone in the room is turned toward the window, taking in the sight.
Everyone except Mimi, who is looking at me.
All at once, it comes back: the first time I saw her, when I was waiting for Blake by the oak tree, and she was passing out flyers for the Gay-Straight Alliance. "Do you go here?" she asked. I shook my head no. "I didn't think so," she said. "Too bad." And then she handed me a flyer anyway.
A couple weeks later, under that same tree, my heart beating hard at the sight of her. "How's the club going?" I asked.
She shrugged. "It isn't, really. Too much Straight, too little Gay, which kind of defeats the purpose."
Travis and Hope were there, beside her.
"Don't blame us," Travis said. "We're just being supportive."
"I don't think I'm really a club person anyway," Mimi said.
Now, almost three years later, with our teacher picnicking outside and the rest of the class engrossed in it, she raises her hand.
"Yes?" I say.
"Why are you taking this class?"
And maybe it's because of the bizarreness of the moment. Or because, in the midst of the twenty other students facing away from us, it feels like Mimi and I are alone in this classroom. Whatever the reason, I decide to answer honestly.
"I needed to get out of the house."
* * *
"We're going camping," Mimi says, two hours later. "Want to come?"
We're in the spot where Mr. Trout and his lady friend had their picnic, but the evidence has been cleared away. He came back into the room as though nothing had happened and told us all to head to lunch.
"When?" I ask her.
"Tomorrow morning, just up to Muir Beach for a couple of nights."
"I don't think I can," I say. "I want to, but I have plans."
"Fourth of July party?"
"Not quite. It's, like, a decorating thing. With my mom."
"That's too bad, because we could all use some help with geometry."
"Oh," I say. "You're just in the market for some free tutoring?"
"Not just," Mimi says.
"Break's over!" Mr. Trout calls from the classroom. "I shouldn't have to be telling you this! You all have cell phones with the time!"
"Pretty bold for someone who just had a picnic during their workday," Travis calls back.
"That's fair," Mr. Trout says. "But I'm still in charge."
I pivot and head back to the classroom.
At the end of the day, on her way out of class, Mimi hands me a note. Across the span of our history, it's the second piece of paper she's given me. This one is bigger than the GSA flyer, on graph paper, folded into a little square. In case your plans fall through, it says. Then, under it, a drawing of a tent, a couple trees, the moon and stars, and a fire. Beneath, she's written, Muir Beach, site 12.
* * *
"Lattes first," Mom says. "Then the curtain shop!"
She wants to drive separately because she has more errands to run afterward. While she's ordering at our usual café, I choose a table and open up my laptop to show her the board I've created.
"This is so fun," she says when she sits. "Look at this one! I love that color."
"I do, too," I say, and scroll down so she can see more like it. "I was thinking maybe it isn't crazy to get the curtains first, before we know what the space is like. It could help us commit to the decorating scheme."
"You're so smart. I think the barista just called our names," Mom says. "Let's go."
We drive to the textile store and finish our lattes outside. I can see from the front window that there will be lots of choices, and I tell myself that the excited feeling is good, not a betrayal of myself. Feelings can be complicated, Jessica always tells me. They can contradict each other. They don't need to make sense.
I peer into the window and catch sight of a pattern featured on a wall.
"I think I see one," I tell her.
"Where?" she asks.
"Next to that window, the third one in."
Mom's face, next to mine at the window, the feeling of showing her something … It sparks something forgotten in me, from before the end of love appeared and began repeating itself, even in my sleep. We throw our cups away and step into the shop.
"Hi there!" the woman behind the counter says. "I have your order in the back."
"What order?" I say.
Mom shrugs like it's cute. "You caught me! I couldn't resist taking a quick look. I popped in a couple days ago and fell head over heels for a print."
"Why am I here then?"
"We'll need more than one set of drapes. Now, show me the ones you were looking at."
I lead her to the wall I spotted through the window, but up close they aren't what I thought they would be.
"Great colors," she says. "Come see what I chose—you're going to love them."
The saleswoman lays a panel on the counter for my mom to inspect. They're blue and white Ikat, not Turkish at all, not the warm colors we've been looking at.
"Isn't it beautiful? Maybe with a rustic coffee table and leather sofas…" Her eyebrows are raised, she's smiling in expectancy.
"Sounds nice," I muster.
"Okay," she says. "I have a surprise for you. One more stop. Follow me!"
* * *
I follow her onto the freeway and through the tunnel, into our cluster of tiny suburban towns. She turns onto a residential street and I turn after her. We park in front of a new condo complex. She's holding a key in one hand and the bag with the curtains over her arm.
"What's happening?" I say.
"Come and see," she singsongs. And then she leads me up some concrete steps to a red door. She turns the key, and there's an empty living room. "Surprise! Welcome home, Flora."
The beehive is back, all buzzing and beating wings inside me. My vision blurs with it. "Are you fucking kidding me?"
Confusion flashes across her face.
"You don't like it?"
"Surprise, welcome home? Help me choose curtains?"
"Flora…"
But I've already turned away. I'm already back down the stairs, and inside my car, and I don't even look at her as I drive away. I don't know where I'm going, and soon I have to pull over because I'm crying too hard.
I thought when you got divorced you were supposed to fight over all the stuff. The house and the cars and the furniture. The wedding gifts that are still around. The art collection, if you're the type of people who collect art, which my parents happen to be. I thought you were supposed to want to hold on to the pieces of your life. I thought the years that came before were still supposed to matter.
I want the love seat. I want the daisy mugs. I want the eggcups. I want the welcome mat, and the portrait of Granny, and the rocking horse, and the wallpaper off the walls. I want the piano and the Navajo rug. I want my room and I want my dad and I want, I want, I want.
* * *
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