Page 6 of Imaginary Numbers

One tissue, lightly streaked with blue.

I had two choices, and I couldn’t make them both. Go home and keep hiding and hoping that one day I’d be exactly the girl I’d been before I hurt myself or get on that plane and go to where people who loved me were waiting for some sign that I was truly going to recover. Go where Artie was waiting. I hadn’t seen him in five years. I hadn’t touched his hand in five years. Would the telepathic channel we’d opened between ourselves even work anymore? I’d never gone that long without reinforcing it. Maybe we’d be strangers again.

Go home or keep going. I couldn’t have it both ways.

I closed my eyes, taking a deep breath, before I crumpled the tissue and shoved it into my pocket. I had a plane to catch.

First class is nice. For one thing, there’s never any fighting over the overhead bins. For another, the seats are large enough that there’s no chance of accidental contact with the person next to you. I curled my legs underneath me, stockinged feet pressed against the hard side of the armrest—designed to maximize my personal space as much as possible, thank you, human veneration of the wealthy—and sipped my tomato juice as I stared out the window at the receding shape of Cleveland, Ohio.

Back in Dublin, my parents were probably watching the airport departures list, waiting for the last plane to Portland to take off. If I didn’t call them a half hour after that, they’d know I was on my way, finally taking my first real step toward rejoining the world. Mom wouldn’t sleep until I landed in Oregon and texted her to let her know I was all right. That was fine. She usually had some snarly accounting problem to keep her distracted. Or maybe she and Dad would take advantage of having the house to themselves for five minutes. Alex and Shelby were in Australia, Drew was in California, and I was on a plane. They could—

Ew. No. I didn’t want to think about that. We’re all adults, but there are some thoughts that send me hurtling right back into easily horrified childhood.

The man who was sitting next to me had been trying to get my attention since takeoff. The fact that I was wearing headphones and staring fixedly out the window didn’t appear to be doing anything to dissuade him. If anything, it was just making him try harder. I did my resolute best to ignore the increasing waves of irritation and impatience rolling off him, focusing instead on my recording of the latest lecture series from the American Mathematical Association. They were doing some fascinating things with intuitive primes, and I wanted to see how far they could take the theory before things either resolved or fell apart.

In math, something is either true or it’s not. Something either works or it doesn’t. If something works and it feels like that shouldn’t be possible, it’s not the math that’s wrong: it’s your model of the universe. Mathematics is the art of refining our understanding of reality itself, like a sculptor trimming down a brick of marble until it frees the beautiful image inside.

Math is also distracting for me, like it is for any cuckoo. Something about the calm march of numbers and theory and equations is utterly enthralling to us. We’re an entire species of mathematicians, and that fact is the only thing that keeps me believing we can’t be all bad. How can anyone who truly loves numbers be irredeemable?

I was so wrapped up in the equations that I didn’t realize the man was planning to move until he hooked a finger around the cord of my right headphone and popped it out of my ear. The drone of the plane’s engine came roaring back, drowning out the lecture still playing in my left ear, followed by the sound of his smug, faintly nasal voice.

“I said, will you let me buy you a drink? Pretty lady like you shouldn’t have to fly alone.” He laughed, amused by his own feeble attempt at humor. “Of course, this is first class, so the drinks are free . . . unless you want to go someplace nicer with me after we land. I could show you a good time.”

Of course. Of course. There are days when I wish whatever evolutionary path had decided I should pass for human could have settled on something a little less eye-catching. Not that being pretty by human standards doesn’t smooth a lot of rough edges out for me, but it can create a few, too.

I turned to face him, offering a thin, glossy smile. “No, thank you,” I said. “I’m sorry. I just want to listen to my book and get some rest.” I could have tried to shove “you’re not interested in me” at him, but at our current proximity, that was likely to result in him deciding I didn’t exist and trying to claim my armrest.

“Book?” He grabbed the headphone before I could protest, bringing it to his own ear. A wave of confusion and disgust rolled off him an instant later. “This isn’t a book. This is a lecture.”

“It’s a lecture taken from a book on mathematics.” I tweaked the cord nimbly out of his fingers, pulling it protectively closer to myself. “I don’t want any trouble.”

“I think you need a little trouble,” he said, and grabbed my wrist.

Big mistake.

Maybe once, I could have kept myself pulled back enough not to touch his mind even while he was touching my body. Maybe. But that was before my injury, and before I’d been forced to relearn the little tricks and techniques that made it safe for me to move through the human world. My agitation boiled over, and I saw the flash of white reflected in his eyes before he let go of me, withdrawing into his own seat.

“I’m so sorry,” he said. His tone had completely changed, becoming contrite, even guilty. “That was entirely inappropriate of me. I can’t believe . . . I’m so sorry. I’ll make this right.”

He hit his flight attendant call button. I put my headphone back in and returned my attention to the window, trying to radiate “I’m not involved with this” while I watched the clouds and he spoke in a low, urgent voice to the flight attendant who answered his call. I could feel his self-recrimination prickling against my skin like steel wool, but if I didn’t reach for details, I wouldn’t find them, and that suited me just fine. Not everything can be my problem. There isn’t room in my head.

There was a flurry of motion as the man got up and moved away. A few moments later, the flight attendant was waving her hand for my attention. I straightened, removing both headphones, and turned to face her.

There was a woman behind her in the aisle, no more than twenty-five years old, with a baby grasped against her chest and a massive diaper bag in her free hand. The woman was looking around, radiating awe. The baby was sleeping. All I got from it was a pure, unalloyed contentment. It was with its mother, it was fed and safe and content, and it wanted for nothing else in the world.

Lucky baby. “Yes?” I asked.

“The gentleman who was seated next to you has requested a transfer to coach class, and that we credit the value of his ticket to another passenger who looks as if they’d enjoy the opportunity to experience our first-class cabin.” Her eyes gleamed. I picked up a combination of genuine joy and malicious anticipation, aimed not at me in specific, but at the rest of the cabin.

Apparently, my former traveling companion wasn’t the only one who’d felt entitled to be a little too pushy about his own desires. I couldn’t get details without digging deeper, but I felt fairly confident that the woman behind the flight attendant had been chosen at least partially to annoy the rest of first class as much as possible.

Well, that was fine. I smiled broadly, and said, “That sounds great. One of my cousins is expecting a baby soon, so I should probably be spending more time around infants anyway. Getting in practice, right?”

The flight attendant’s smile was mostly relief, and only a sliver of disappointment, as she waved the woman to her seat and tucked the diaper bag into the overhead compartment. In only a few seconds, we were alone—or as alone as you can ever get on a plane—the woman radiating wonder, the baby still comfortably asleep.

I smiled at her, dazzlingly bright, an expression I learned from sliding myself into my cousin Verity’s head during her dance competitions. Verity learned to smile like she was being graded on it, because she was, and thanks to her, I share the skill. Not bad for someone who can’t always recognize a smile when she sees one.

“I’m Sarah,” I said. “First time in first class?”