Two or Three Things I Forgot to Tell You (17 page)

“It has a single name—Earth?”

“Well—yes. . . . But entities are not names, you know, Nadia—you would be you, if you were not Nadia Stillfinger.”

This was sweetly funny; this was a gentle sort of teasing. Nadia guessed that she'd said something stupid—as usual—but Mr. Kessler was deflecting it, so that the class would not laugh at her.

Other hands had lifted around her, but Nadia plunged on, stubbornly: “Because it has a single—
atmosphere
? So things can
breathe
?”

A much smarter answer!

 

Because he respects me. And he looks at—ME.

Because he can see into my soul and he does not laugh then.

 

Soon it happened that Nadia was doing very well in Earth and Our Environment—her highest grade!

Where usually, in the past, science and math had been Nadia's weakest grades.

Where usually, when class discussion became abstract or intellectual, Nadia held back for fear of making a fool of herself, she now leapt in excitedly, competing with the really smart students when Mr. Kessler directed discussion to what he called “hypotheticals.”

For instance—global warming.

“The future can't be exactly predicted—of course—but certain characteristics of the future can be predicted, extrapolating from the present, and past history, and projecting into the future. There are parts of the world that are clearly drying up—and other parts, along coastlines, that are flooding—eroding away. Environmental scientists have studied masses of data and have, overall, come to disturbing conclusions. So, your generation will inhabit this future that is evolving—which scientists are hoping we can remedy, or slow down, through global legislation. Can you think of ways in which the environment is not local—or national—but global?”

Discussion was lively. The most informed student was Virgil Nagy. Virgil spoke in a rapid nasal voice, rattling off statistics about temperatures worldwide and “carbon footprints,” and for a while just he and Mr. Kessler were talking; then another student asked about the future—and Mr. Kessler said, frowning, “All we know about the future is that it doesn't exist—and never will. The future is the present time, perceived from the past.”

Urgently Nadia's hand waved in the air. Her fingernails gleamed a pale coral pink and, though slightly bitten, prettily caught the eye like fluttering butterflies.

“Isn't there a future,
somehow
? People talk about it all the time and make predictions.”

Mr. Kessler said, “What I mean is, there is no future—just as there is no past. These are abstract ways of speaking, not to be taken literally. There is only a continuous present. We exist only
now
.”

This was a blunt statement, meant to be provocative, maybe. It was like Mr. Kessler to provoke students into discussions, even upsetting them sometimes.

“Mr. Kessler, what about a time machine?”

“Well, Nadia, you tell us. What about a time machine?”

Nadia squirmed happily at her desk, which was in the third row, near the windows. There was a buzzing in her ears, but it was a benign, glowing sort of buzz—honeybees in the sun, not hornets.

“Like, in movies and things, there's these time machines—scientists do experiments—sending somebody into the future, and . . .”

Virgil Nagy, on the far side of the room, laughed scornfully. Without troubling to raise his hand, he said, “Sci-fi is not
science
. It's
made up
.”

“But—can't there be a time machine, Mr. Kessler?”

Nadia sounded anxious. As if the possibility of a
time machine
, or a
future
, had some personal meaning to her and wasn't just a discussion topic for science class.

“Nadia, I'm glad you brought up this just-slightly-digressive-but-relevant subject. I knew I could depend on you.”

This was a casual, harmless remark—(wasn't it?)—a teacher meaning to be kind, encouraging, cheery, and upbeat. It didn't signal a special, secret meaning—(did it?). But Nadia sat entranced at her desk, staring at Mr. Kessler as if memorizing not only the teacher's words but every molecule of his being.

I love him. He is the one. Not—

—anyone else.

In his affable, smiling way Mr. Kessler was explaining to the class that in science fiction—“science
fiction
—Virgil is quite right about the distinction between science and fiction”—individuals can travel into the past or the future through some sort of ingenious machinery. “But unfortunately, in the universe there is no place where there could be a past—and the future hasn't happened yet, so the possibility of going there is palpably absurd.”

Palpably absurd!
This was the sort of phrase Adrian Kessler often uttered, a repudiation of a commonly held belief, but in so genial a way, you didn't feel insulted if it was a belief of yours.

Which was why many of Adrian Kessler's students liked him, very much—and others, who resented the comparatively low grades he gave them, disliked him.

“Because ‘past' and ‘future' are notional concepts—they are ideas, not realities or entities. Of course we all plan for the future and remember the past—but our relationship to each is very subjective, and tenuous. ‘Past' isn't a place like Antarctica—you can't travel there.”

Virgil Nagy said, sneering, “There is no
there—
there.”

Gordy Squires said, objecting, “But there are
potentials
—like seeds, genes, fetuses. They exist in the present but come into being in the future.”

“That's true, Gordy. But still there is no future
in existence
. The future has to evolve out of what we have now—the present.”

“But if you shoot an arrow, it flies to its target—in the future. . . .”

“An arrow flying to its target is
always in the present
.”

Mr. Kessler went to the green board to make chalk figures, which Nadia copied in her notebook, hoping she might understand them afterward. Something about the way Mr. Kessler spoke about this subject—
arrow, target, flying, always in the present
—filled her with a nervous sort of anticipation, as if some profound truth were about to be revealed, which would illuminate
her
.

Instead the bell rang. No fifty minutes passed so swiftly as Nadia's fourth-period science class!

And there were too many people waiting to talk with Mr. Kessler—one of them, Nadia saw with dislike, was Sasha Coleman, who seemed always to be lingering after Mr. Kessler's class to ask him some transparently made-up question and to lean close to him, displaying her slender legs in lime-green tights beneath a chic, very short leather skirt.

So Nadia took up her backpack and left the room with the others, indifferent to which of her classes was next.

She was basking in the glow of Mr. Kessler's warm gaze. She was basking in the glow of Mr. Kessler's words, intimate as a caress, in front of the entire class—
I knew I could depend on you.

Soon then modified to
Nadia, I knew I could depend on you
.

Virgil Nagy fell into step with Nadia. Since she'd become one of the more serious students in Mr. Kessler's class, Virgil seemed to be noticing her for the first time, though they'd been in numerous classes together and had in fact each transferred to Quaker Heights at about the same time.

It was flattering, in a way, that a boy like Virgil would want to walk with Nadia—boys who were attracted to Nadia Stillinger were not usually what you'd call
brainy
.

Except it was hard to talk with Virgil, who loomed over Nadia like a giraffe. He had to be nearly six feet.

“You always seem so happy, Nadja. What's your secret?”

Happy!
This was a surprise.

It was like Virgil to speak in this awkward way, which seemed just slightly bullying. Unwittingly he repelled girls he hoped might like him, and repelled boys even more—the word for Virgil among even nice guys was
geek
.

Nadia supposed that Virgil was just shy and socially uneasy like she herself. But she had learned to be, she believed,
charmant
. Virgil, with his slightly grayish teeth, which were crooked in front if you looked closely, and his habit of staring into your face, hadn't a clue.

“Actually, my name is ‘Nad-ia'—not ‘Nadja.'”

“Oh—sure. Sorry.”

Virgil was crestfallen. A flush rose into his long, mournful, bloodhound face.

Virgil was said to be foreign-born—from Budapest. He spoke with an accent and seemed always about to stammer. His father was rumored to be separated from the family and taught at somewhere prestigious, like MIT or Harvard. His mother taught math at the local public high school. But no one really knew much about Virgil, except he was
super bright/a super geek
. He was respected without being liked, though everyone would have said he was a
nice guy
—except for being
a pain in the ass
if you were in classes with him, since he invariably got the highest grades and his long, lanky arm was always flailing in the air.

Virgil was almost stammering now. Wanting to intrigue Nadia by saying something further about the future—time machines—as if these were subjects Nadia really cared about, while really wanting, she sensed, to ask her something more personal.

“Of course I know your name is ‘Nad-i-a'—I'm sorry to mangle it.”

Nadia relented, laughing. It wasn't in her nature to feel superior to anyone.

“Actually, ‘Nadia' is a name I hate. ‘Nadia' just isn't
me
.”

Nadia had never admitted this to anyone before. The words had just come out.

“It isn't? Who is it, then?” Virgil spoke in his annoying riddlesome way, baring his gums in a geeky grin. “Well—what name would you prefer?”

“I—I don't know.”

“‘Virgil' is a weird name, too. Nobody is named ‘Virgil.'”

“Well—where you're from . . .”

“Not there, either. It's weird there, too.”

Virgil paused, frowning. You could sense that Nadia's casual remark had somehow offended him. “What makes you think I wasn't born
here
? In America?”

“Were you?”

“Legally speaking, yes.”

Virgil spoke sharply. Nadia hadn't the slightest idea what he meant, but she knew that no one who'd been born in the United States in any normal way would speak of being born in
America
.

“A name that's an anagram of my name is ‘Dani A.' I'd like ‘Dani'—or maybe ‘Adriana.' That's a beautiful name.”

A moment before Nadia wouldn't have thought of “Adriana.” Though she'd worked out “Dani A.” a few weeks ago, after Mr. Kessler discussed anagrams in class.

“Dani—Adriana—they're both nice names. But I like Nadia, too.”

It was at this point that Virgil drew a deep breath and asked Nadia if she'd like to study with him sometime—“If you need h-help with, like, algebra”—and Nadia said quickly, “Thanks, Virgil, but I—I don't think so. Or maybe just not right now . . .”

“Sure! Just let me know, Nadia. I mean, Adriana. Anytime.”

Virgil tried to speak lightly, but Nadia could see that he felt rebuffed.

How embarrassing this was! She knew that, as she hurried from him without a backward glance, he was gazing after her with reproachful dark bloodhound eyes.

Within seconds she'd forgotten Virgil. She'd intended to meet up with Chloe at their lockers, but soon she'd forgotten Chloe, too. Her heart was suffused with an almost suffocating warmth.

Knew I could depend on you, Nadia.

Only you.

 

Soon it happened that Nadia was talking about Mr. Kessler all the time.

Beginning to see her friends exchanging knowing glances—Chloe, Hannah, Merissa. And a sort of amused/jeering expression in Brooke Kramer's face: “Kessler? He's gay.”

“G-gay? Who says so?”

Brooke shrugged. Her smartphone was vibrating inside her pocket, and surreptitiously she drew it out to peer at the caller ID—of course you could smuggle a cell phone in if you were careful.

“Mr. Kessler is not gay—I'm sure. And if he is, it's his business, right? For all we know, he's married.”

“He isn't wearing a wedding ring.”

“So?”

“There's something, like, wrong with his eyes—isn't there? He looks at you with, like, his right eye—but the left eye isn't in the same place. . . .”