The Categorical Universe of Candice Phee (17 page)

Jen looked like she'd swallowed a wasp. She opened her mouth (to protest, I imagine) but, probably because she also chose that moment to take a sharp intake of breath, her chewing gum lodged in the back of her throat, causing her complexion to change to an interesting shade of blue. She recovered quickly, but by that time the bell had rung and her chance to protest was gone.

I was looking forward to tomorrow. I thought Jen Marshall must have led an interesting life. I also felt our conversation would undoubtedly cement our friendship, making it solid and stable. Like cement.

Rich Uncle Brian slid into the bench opposite me and smiled. I couldn't help glancing at the purplish bruise on his temple, just above his right eye. The consequence of head-butting a large catamaran, I supposed. As with Dad, I decided against bringing the subject up. It crossed my mind, though, that they made a perfect matching pair.

“Hello, Rich Uncle Brian,” I said. A safe opening gambit, without doubt. Mind you, I'd said the exact same thing when he'd picked me up at school, so I'd dropped points for originality.

“Hi, Pumpkin,” he said, clearly not taking offense. His hand moved to his pants pocket, so I harrumphed a little and he thought better of jingling any coins. “You intrigue me,” he continued. “Financial advice, eh? What's this about?”

I looked at my hamburger, which bore no resemblance to the picture over the counter.
That
burger was gorgeous. It was a pin-up burger. It gleamed. The lettuce had sparkles of fresh, pure water. The meat was succulent. What sat on my plate was thin, pale, and resembled something you might stand on when crossing a farmer's field. I took a fry and thought about life's unfairness. They promise you the world (or in this case a pin-up burger), and you end up with poop. This was profound, even if I had no idea who “they” were. I wondered if profound thoughts happened often when you hit thirteen.

“You once told me you had established a trust fund for me, Rich Uncle Brian,” I said.

“Indeed I did, Pumpkin,” he replied. “When you are twenty-one it will mature.”

“Like cheese?” I asked.

“Errr . . . not exactly.”

I thought about the word
mature
. Could a trust fund behave childishly? Could it blow raspberries, chant silly rhymes, and throw tantrums? Did it then find a job, get married, and take out a mortgage? I shook my head. I get these kinds of thoughts a lot.

“Why?” I said.

“Why what?” said RUB. He's easily thrown by my diversions.

“Why does it mature?”

“It's a term meaning that the money is released. I want you to be able to pay off your student loans and still have enough for a house deposit. I put money in every month.”

“Why do I have to wait until I'm twenty-one?”

Rich Uncle Brian took a bite of his burger, grimaced, and wiped his chin with a napkin. Then he examined what he'd mopped up. Maybe he was thinking it would be tastier to eat the napkin.

“Well,” he replied. “You're thirteen, Pumpkin. That's too young for important financial decisions. You could waste the cash on smartphones or computers or video games or . . .” He searched his imagination for other examples of wasteful purchases. “. . . things,” he finished lamely.

“Hello, Rich Uncle Brian!” I said. “It's me we're talking about. Gel pens are the extent of my impulse buying.”

“True,” he said. “But, even so. There's significant money already invested. And if you only want to spend money on gel pens, why should there be a problem with waiting until you're twenty-one?” He said this with the air of a chess player trapping the opponent's lone king with a queen, two rooks, and (possibly) a bishop.

“I want to withdraw some of it.”

“I'll buy you gel pens.”

“I want fifteen thousand dollars.”

His mouth dropped open. “Just how many gel pens do you need?” he said.

“It's not for gel pens,” I replied.

“Then what?”

So I told him.

When I finished he sat in silence. He even took a bite of his burger without thinking. He scratched his head. He screwed up his eyes. He stroked his mustache. His hand snuck into his pants pocket, but I didn't say anything because I didn't want to disturb his train of thought. Coins jingled. Finally, he looked straight into my eyes. His expression was strange.

“What?” I said.

“Do you know what's the best thing about you, Pumpkin?” said Rich Uncle Brian finally.

“Is it that I sing my own song and dance my own dance?”

“How did you know?”

“It's something you have remarked on before,” I replied. “The point is, will you help?”

“Of course I will, Pumpkin,” said Rich Uncle Brian. “How could you ever doubt it?”

I finished some more fries. They were excellent and probably better-tasting than a burger because they didn't have an impossible ideal to live up to.

Rich Uncle Brian dropped me outside the gate and I made my way to the shed. Dad sat at his computer, headphones on, lights flashing in their strange and beautiful sequence. When I tapped him on the shoulder he jumped and took off his headphones. Properly off, rather than leaving them dangling round his neck. He turned in his chair and smiled.

“Hi, Candice,” he said. “How's it going?”

“Good,” I said. “What are you doing?”

He glanced at his computer. “You mean with this?”

“Nothing else I could mean.”

“I'm working on a program.”

“Pursuing a dream?”

He smiled. “Maybe.”

“Tell me about it.”

“You don't want to know.”

“Probably not, but tell me anyway.”

He did. At length. I sat on a cardboard box while he talked. Don't ask me what it was about, okay? I know I have read the dictionary at least ten times, cover to cover, but most of the words he used were unfamiliar to me. The more he talked, the more animated he became. Excited. Involved. It was strange. I didn't understand how love for something so abstract could exist, but I knew I was witnessing it. I felt privileged. It was like sharing a glimpse into an alien yet joyous world.

“Wow,” I said when he finished. And I meant it.

Dad smiled a dreamy smile. It made him softer somehow, less angular and forbidding.

“You have no idea what I'm talking about, do you?” he said.

“Not the slightest,” I replied. “But I meant that ‘Wow.' ”

And then, suddenly, I think I
did
get it. And it wasn't
what
Dad had said. It was the
way
he said it, his shining eyes, how he flicked his tongue in excitement as he explained.

There is a brilliant word in the dictionary for what I experienced.
Epiphany
. Look it up. This wasn't about love for a machine. What had Dad always said? “Anyone who can use Legos can build a computer.”

The computer was a means to an end. What Dad was talking about was pure imagination. An idea. A dream he could bring to life, not with words found in a dictionary, but with source codes and algorithms (see, I have picked
up
some
knowledge). He was weaving magic and building dreams and I loved him for it.

I felt like crying, so I did.

“Candice,” said Dad. “Why are you crying?”

“I am happy,” I said. “What you are doing is beautiful.”

“I've never heard it described like that before,” he said. “But thank you, Candice. That means a lot to me.”

I gurgled and blubbed. I am a messy crier.

“What about you?” he continued after my blubbing had subsided. “What's going on in your life?”

“Douglas Benson from Another Dimension is in love with me,” I said. “But he has solved the Earth-Pig Fish problem, so it's a fair exchange.”

“Love?” said Dad. “Really?”

“Probably not, really,” I said. “But there's lots of wetness involved.” Dad seemed rather disturbed by that last statement, but recovered well.

“I don't think I've ever asked,” he said. “But what makes you think he's from another dimension?”

“It's not what I think. It's what he believes,” I replied.

I gave Dad the whole story. I have an excellent memory, so I even threw in
p
-branes and M-theory and multiverses. And as I talked the most miraculous thing happened. I'd assumed Dad would be as baffled by my words as I was by his. But something passed over his expression. It was . . . well, it wasn't understanding. I don't think so. It was as if a switch had been flicked, a connection made, a live wire brushing and sparking against another wire. Hope lit his
eyes. He grabbed a pad from his desk and made notes as I spoke. Someone writing down what you are saying is very distracting, so I dribbled to a stop. Dad didn't stop writing, however. His pen raced across the page. Finally, he slumped back in his chair, a grin plastered on his face.

“Candice,” he breathed. “You are a genius.”

“Only a bit,” I said. “Why?”

“Because . . . because you are.”

I didn't find his words convincing, but decided not to point this out. Anyway, Dad's face suddenly creased. It looked like he was on the verge of crying.

Then he slipped off the verge and did.

Mum made breakfast. Bacon and eggs and grilled mushrooms. She moved around the kitchen with purpose, a defiant smile on her face. I watched from the corner of my eyes, and every time she passed through a beam of sunlight arrowing through the kitchen window her face twitched in pain. But the smile stayed stuck. She had it pinned and nothing was going to shift it.

Dad set the table and we ate together, though Mum didn't eat much. She nibbled on a piece of toast and narrowed her eyes. Dad was also somewhere else. I could tell by his face. He asked about school, but as I replied, his face glazed over. He'd nod occasionally, but he wasn't listening. He was lost in a place where no one could follow. Chasing a dream.

“I'm doing biography research in English today,” I said. “I've been paired with Jen Marshall. We have to interview each other.”

Dad nodded, but Mum put down her toast.

“Isn't she the little . . .” She was searching for the right word. Or maybe an acceptable word for breakfast
conversation. “. . . 
madam
you told us about? The one with tattoos and body piercings?”

“That's her.”

Mum picked up the toast, looked at it, and put it back on the plate.

“She doesn't sound like someone you'd have much in common with, Pumpkin.”

“
Au contraire
,” I replied. “Jen Marshall has many wonderful qualities. I am confident we will become bosom buddies, or as Jen would say, BFFs—Best Friends Forever.”

Mum seemed dubious, but that might have been the toast, which obviously didn't inspire her with confidence.

Dad nodded a couple of times. Then he broke from his trance.

“Could you ask Douglas Benson to come round for dinner tonight?” he said. “I want to have a chat with him. I'll cook,” he added hastily, in response to a frown from Mum, who had obviously not been consulted about this plan.

“He has an appointment with destiny at six-thirty every night,” I said. “But he might be able to come round after that. I will ask.”

Dad gave another dreamy smile, which I took as a cue to head to school.