The Categorical Universe of Candice Phee (18 page)

Miss Cowie took us to the library because the English classroom was not suitable for thirteen pairs of students talking intimately. She suggested we sit on the floor or down one of the library aisles, so we could have privacy. I found this exciting and proof that Miss Cowie was an inspirational teacher, prepared to think outside of the box (I've never been convinced there is a box that most people think inside, but so many people talk about it, it must be true. Why not a circle?).

Jen Marshall gazed around the library as if seeing it for the first time, which, it turned out, was true. Miss C organized us into our pairs. Jen looked me up and down, chewed her gum, and rolled her eyes. For one horrible moment I thought she might have choked on her gum again, but it was okay. She just wasn't impressed with me.

She looked over at her friends longingly, glanced at me, and rolled her eyes again. She is a
terrific
eye-roller. Her friends giggled, pointed to their own heads, and made little circles in the air. Jen rolled her eyes again. It was like a mime show and I was enjoying it, but time was marching on.

“We should start, Jen,” I said. “Where would you like to sit?”

“Anywhere away from you, Essen,” she replied.

“Not possible, I'm afraid,” I said. “What about down this aisle? You could talk to me and your friends won't see.”

She chewed her gum and shifted her weight onto one hip. She looked elegant, apart from the gum-chewing
that caused her mouth to open and close like Earth-Pig Fish's. It wasn't very becoming. If our interview went well, I thought I might mention it. Jen is concerned about making good impressions.

“Whaddayaonabout?” she asked.

“Well,” I said. “It is obvious that being seen with me is embarrassing for you. Talking to me must be even more embarrassing. If we go down this aisle, we could chat, get the assignment done, and your friends would never know you'd said anything to me at all.”

Jen shifted her weight onto her other hip and chewed faster. Then she glanced at her friends, rolled her eyes, and took off down aisle B. I followed.

Jen sat on the carpet and curled her legs beneath her. She has nice legs. Hers are shapely, whereas mine are thin and sticklike (though I suppose that's a shape in itself). They are practical, just not pleasing to the eyes.

“Tell me about yourself, Jen,” I said.

She shrugged and glanced up and down the aisle. We were alone.

“What's to say?” she said.

“Tell me about your family.”

“Mother, drunk a lotta the time. Dad, God knows where. Brother who's a retard. No offense. What's to say?”

“Doesn't sound like a happy family life,” I ventured.

She looked at me, properly this time, and didn't roll her eyes. This was progress.

“Yeah. So what? I bet you have one of those families that you see on TV. Everyone like all loving and drooling over report cards and going on vacations and all that crap. Well, I live in the real world, Essen. It's not as pretty as the pictures.”

I had a sudden image of a photograph that Mum kept on her bedside cabinet. Mum, Dad, me, and Sky, and three of us smiling. I shook my head. This was about Jen.

“What do you want to be when you leave school?” I asked.

“Are you for real? I can't think that far ahead. I just want to get out of this crappy place, okay? It's crap, all of it. The school's crap, the teachers are crap, the lessons are crap. It's all crap.”

I felt she had communicated her attitude toward education very clearly. She thought it was crap (I must be honest here. Jen didn't use the word
crap
but another word that I gloss over when I get to
S
in the dictionary).

“But you're not, Jen, are you?”

“What?”

“Crap.”

“Yeah, I am.” She seemed angry at my suggestion that she wasn't. “I'm crap, too. In fact, I'm more crap than anything else. I'm crap at schoolwork, even though that's crap. You name the subject, I'm crap at it. English, totally crap. Science? Complete crap.”

“I could help you.”

“What?” She stopped chewing. “Whaddaya mean?”

“I could help with your homework. Don't worry, none of your friends need to know. But you could come to my house, if you like. Or we could go to the library after school. I'm good at most subjects and I'm certain I could help.”

“The library?” she said. “Yeah, right!”

Why do people say “Yeah, right!” when they actually mean “No, wrong!”? It's something I've thought about and I cannot work it out. Then again, I have difficulty working most things out.

“Why would you do that?” she added. Suspicion oozed from every word.

“Because I like you.”

“You're so weird, Essen,” she said. “You
like
me? Well, I hate you. I think you are, like, the biggest . . . penis head in the entire crappy school. Why would you like me, huh? I treat you like crap. Because you are crap. So what is it with you? Is it, like, the worse you get treated the nicer you try to be? Mum's like that with the men she brings home. She's a loser and so are you.”

“Possibly, but I'd still like to help you with your schoolwork.”

Jen shifted uncomfortably and looked down the aisle again. We were still alone. Even so, she lowered her voice.

“Maybe,” she said. “But only if no one ever knows. You promise, Essen? Swear that no one will ever find out. 'Cause I've got my reputation to think about.”

“I understand,” I said. “And I promise.”

“I'm not saying I'll do it, okay?” said Jen. “But I'll think about it. That's all I'm saying.”

“I understand.”

“Doesn't mean I don't think you're crap,” she added. “ 'Cause I do.”

“I understand.”

“How about tomorrow night? You give me your address, I'll come to your place. About eight-thirty. Okay?”

“Okay.”

I wrote my address on a piece of notepaper and handed it to her. I got the feeling she wanted to read it and then burn it, but she tucked it into her jeans pocket instead.

She left aisle B ahead of me. Out of the corners of my eyes, I saw her approach her friends. There was much eye-rolling and giggling and tracing circles in the air next to heads.

It was obvious Jen Marshall and I were bonding.

Douglas Benson from Another Dimension was keen to come for dinner. He said his facsimile dad would drop him at our place right after he'd jumped out of his tree (unless it worked this time and Douglas was spending quality time with his theoretical physicist mother and experimental musician father. I felt the odds were good he'd show up).

When I got home, Mum was up and watching television. As soon as I opened the door she clicked off the set and gave me a hug.

“How was your interview with Jen Marshall?” she asked.

I was impressed on all sorts of levels. She was up. She gave me a hug. She remembered what I'd been doing in school.

“All good,” I said. “She's coming round tomorrow night, but you can't tell anyone.”

Mum seemed puzzled, but nodded.

“It's only a matter of time before we are talking sleepovers,” I added.

Mum gave the puzzled nod another airing.

“What are we doing for your birthday?” I asked. Mum's birthday was a couple of days away. I asked with little hope of getting a sensible reply, since I couldn't remember the last time we had done anything to celebrate the occasion. Most of my memories are of sneaking into her bedroom, bumping my knee on her side of the bed, and handing over a wrapped present in the total darkness that I knew would be unopened in the morning. The present, I mean. Not the darkness. But this time Mum was full of life.

“I thought we'd go to a restaurant for dinner,” she replied. “What the hell, heh? Push the boat out. You're only forty-two once.”

“Excellent,” I said, though it occurred to me that there really
is
no way to avoid chicken parmigiana and
a rendition of “Happy Birthday to You.” Not even near-death-by-drowning can stop it.

Dinner was rushed because Dad was desperate to get Douglas Benson from Another Dimension into his shed for a chat.

“I hope you'll like the food, Douglas,” he said. “It's . . .”

“Sausage, egg, and fries,” I said.

“How did you know?” said Dad.

“Because it's the only thing you know how to cook, Dad,” I replied. This was true. Dad had cooked probably half a dozen times since I was old enough to pay attention, and each time it had been sausage, egg, and fries. Nutritionally, it was excellent that he spent so much time in his shed and so little in the kitchen, otherwise you'd be able to squeeze the fat out of me and use it to supply a small third-world country with lamp oil.

“You think I can't cook anything else?” said Dad, looking hurt.

“I do,” I said.

“That's unkind, Candice.”

“It's honest.”

“Sausage, egg, and fries is great, Mr. Phee,” said Douglas Benson from Another Dimension, with the air of someone trying to get on the right side of a future father-in-law. Actually, it's funny that thought occurred to me because fifteen minutes later, as I was finishing my egg (I like to finish the egg before I start on the sausage), Douglas dropped the following into the conversation:

“I would like to marry your daughter, Mr Phee. With your blessing, of course.”

Dad was halfway through chewing a piece of sausage. He spluttered, choked, and spat the sausage at speed over the table, where it landed in Mum's water glass and bobbed about unpleasantly. To be fair to Mum, she fished it out with a napkin and a minimum of fuss.

“Excuse me?” said Dad.

“I love Candice.”

“Er, she's thirteen, Douglas.
Just
thirteen. Do you not think that's a little on the young side?”

“I don't mean right now, Mr. Phee.”

“Oh, good.”

“Maybe in three or four years' time.”

“And what do you bring to the table, Douglas?” said Dad, after a long silence (though I
might
have heard a stifled giggle from Mum).

“I beg your pardon, Mr. Phee?”

“A herd of goats? A flock of sheep, maybe? I'm not sure I could let her go for less than two buffalo and a couple of suckling pigs.”

Douglas Benson from Another Dimension scratched the knobbly bits on his head.

“Wow, Dad,” I said. “I didn't know you were funny.”

Mum washed up while Douglas and I followed Dad to the shed. Dad spent forty-five minutes grilling Douglas on every aspect of other dimensions. It was a subject that Douglas was much more comfortable with than marriage
proposals and he answered with enthusiasm. I didn't understand why Dad was asking. I also didn't understand why he was getting more and more excited.

I got the answer after Douglas's facsimile father picked him up and Dad and I were alone. He told me about his new project. Though I didn't understand most of the technical details, I knew it was brilliant. Some things you can just
feel
. Unfortunately, he made me promise not to speak to anyone about it.

And I never break my promises.

Dear Denille
,

I am excited and I will explain. To start with, here is a line:

Forget about the line. That's not what I'm excited about. Just answer this: What is it that everyone in the world is obsessed with? While you are thinking that one through, here is another diagram: