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“I can’t.” She shrugged like she was too bored to even bother with me. She looked at my hand and then my eyes then at the door.
“Let me take you out, dinner or coffee or something. Tell me why I’m wrong. I’ll challenge you to why math and its absolute nature makes it beautiful.” I loved this conversation, this banter, this challenge.
“I meant what I said. I can’t figure that out for you. I can’t explain what it means to make a reader feel something, to make them hurt, laugh, cry, or anything. That’s power and you won’t ever get to experience it. Bummer. And I’m not interested in your reason why numbers and junk are pretty, I already have a headache.”
“Then go out with me anyway.” Damn, was that desperate?
She crossed her arms over her chest. “A wager. Write me a story that makes me feel something. Then you can talk my ear off about the beauty of numbers, although I don’t think I can be convinced that math is anything more than a complex torture device.”
“Deal,” I said. “Be thinking of a place to eat, because you’re going to feel something with the story I come up with and I personally cannot wait to talk your ear off about the beauty of math.”
“Good luck.” And she walked out the front door. She paused and looked back. “Thanks again for your help. Even when you fail with the story, I’ll still probably need to come back for next week’s homework.”
“Come back Monday, I’ll have a story that will make you ‘feel things’ and I’ll help you start the homework.” She smiled and went on her way and I couldn’t help but stand there, grinning like a fool for a few moments before packing my own stuff away.
I found myself growing more and more curious about her. How was I supposed to write something, create anything, without knowing more about this woman? Where did she live? Was she a person who loved solitude? She had friends, that crazy Rosalie girl. Even Karina said they knew each other at one point. The image of Karina and Eliza hanging out made me laugh.
I walked to the parking garage and unlocked my truck just in time to see Eliza pull out onto the road. The car was in a similar state to her computer, barely holding together yet functional.
I couldn’t help but pull out my phone and text her.
ME: How old is your car?
I found myself wanting to know everything about her. It had been refreshing, helping her through her math questions. She didn’t have a single moment where she got distracted. Sometimes students I helped just needed a babysitter to keep them focused. Not her. Not once did she pull out her phone, and not once did she open a tab to check her email. And it felt good to help her. I wanted to do it again, and I knew she needed it, more than just math, and I needed to know how to help.
On my drive home I couldn’t help but think of a million questions for Eliza. I was determined to find the answers. When I got to my apartment and berated my roommate for drinking the last of my milk, I searched for her, and looked all over the internet for stories by Eliza Walsh. Even tried some random middle initials (fine, all of them) and still found nothing.
I pulled out my phone and was annoyed that I hadn’t heard back from her, in fact, she hadn’t responded to me once. I was beginning to wonder if she gave me the wrong number. I looked at my past texts, four in a row, but no response. I was in too deep, so I sent another.
ME: Tried looking for some of your stories, but didn’t find any, how do I know you’re not pulling my leg?
No response.
I opened my laptop, determined to write something. But what? What would move this woman when I knew really nothing about her? I could write about dead puppies or kittens, that would make anyone feel something. Sadness or rage for sure. That would count, right?
ME: What is the last movie that made you cry?
No response.
ME: Are you a dog or a cat person?
Nothing. I needed something, anything to give me more about this woman. I searched social media, Instagram, Twitter, but nothing. I looked through the oldest of Karina’s photos on Instagram, searching for any that might include Eliza and getting her handle. Nothing.
ME: Who is your favorite author? Please don’t tell me it’s Shakespeare, although I must say I am rather fond of a well-timed dick joke.
Nothing.
ME: I swear my humor is more mature than that.
I thought maybe it would get a rise out of her, or at least tickle a subject she’d be interested in. Nothing.
I messed around, trying to write a story about a sad little puppy but it was shit. Then I opted for something different. Grandparents. Everyone had them, and whether you knew them well or not, they impacted you to some degree. Everyone had certain expectations for grandparents, innate respect, and love by proxy because your own parents loved them. Right?
But I couldn’t focus. All I saw were her cute little lips and her scrunched eyebrows when she stared at a particularly difficult math problem, like she was staring down an enemy. Her hair wasn’t quite curly, but it wasn’t quite straight either. It was wavy and changed throughout the day. When she twisted those long brown locks into a bun it looked so right, and when she finally pulled her hair free after the last of the math questions were complete, it looked perfect. She was effortless and yet I considered myself privileged that I got to witness her true effort when it came to academics.
I texted her again.
ME: Do you have a scholarship you need to keep up? Is that why you wanted help with math?
