my leather pencil-case and sling my backpack over one shoulder, into the neat dent carved from years of textbook-hauling. Seriously, being a devoted lifelong nerd has permanently messed up my posture and overall anatomy. I am essentially Quasimodo, if Quasimodo were an expert in kinematics. Maybe he was. We just don’t know.
Painfully aware of the fact that I have to pass Haruki’s desk to reach the door, I tuck my head to my chest and practically tiptoe past him. Just as I’m crossing the front of his desk, he clears his throat. That annoying, crush-induced arrhythmia strikes up again, and I stop walking to look up at him. For a sweet millisecond, hope bubbles in my belly. Our eyes meet, and it’s . . .
Exactly as devoid of interest as I’d expected. It’s soon embarrassingly apparent that he wasn’t clearing his throat to get my attention. He was just clearing his throat. Because mucus. And, like an idiot, I stopped walking and gazed hopefully up at him.
He shoots me a look as if to say, ‘What on earth are you staring at, you insignificant gnat?’ and carts himself off to talk to Torres.
I shuffle meekly away, downbeat and dejected. By the time I’ve made it to my best friend’s locker, I’m pretty sure Eeyore has replaced the bald eagle as my official patronus.
‘Hey, girl. What’s up?’ Keiko asks. Her sunflower-print skater dress and blue ombre hair are an assault on the eyes but, like, in a good way. She’s plugged into purple headphones, some new indie band playing in her ears, so she barely hears my mumbled reply.
Haruki knows who I am. He just doesn’t care.
Keiko walks me to chess club. School’s basically deserted, but she knows I still don’t like to talk about anything personal while wandering the hallways – seriously, do you know how high the chances are of being heard? – so she just takes my mind off the situation by talking about a gig she’s playing at the weekend.
Her mom’s finally given her the green light to perform in drinking establishments with her rock band, which has opened up a whole new world of venues for her. She’s only seventeen, but she has the voice of an old soul. And she writes all of the band’s songs. What I’m trying to say is that my best friend is way too cool to be hanging out with me.
‘So I’m thinking we’ll open the set with Mess You Up, because that never fails to get the crowd going,’ she says, all wide eyes and animated hand gestures. Her new bangs keep dropping into her face, and she brushes them back impatiently. ‘And then a couple more uptempo bangers – The Power of Pretty, Upside Downside – before mellowing out into Reason To Be. What do you think? Or should we skip the slow tracks altogether? I know some crowds prefer . . .’
And just like that she’s off on another tangent. It’s how our friendship has operated for over a decade. She talks, I listen. Mostly. And I’m okay with it. Mostly.
We walk past Emily and Ethan, the Griffin twins, as they check the school play audition times on the noticeboard. They both look up adoringly at Keiko as she passes – then exchange daggers when they realize what the other is doing.
Keiko has this magnetic energy. It’s not the fact she’s a rock star, or the fact she’s done some plus-size modeling, or her quirky fashion sense and killer hair. It’s all of those things, and something else entirely. A spark you can’t put your finger on.
Basically everyone in school is in love with my best friend, but she never affords them the luxury of falling in love back. She’s a big fan of hookups and fuck buddies, but not so much actual dating. Between her and Gabriela, our beautiful Puerto Rican cheerleader pal with a long-term boyfriend who loves her, is it any wonder ya girl’s got self-esteem issues? (I know. I can’t really pull off saying ‘ya girl’. It’s a problem.)
Keiko leaves me at the door with a hug, all warmth and stale cigarettes and sweet perfume. ‘Go kill some kings, or whatever.’ She says this every single time I play chess.
She’s one of those people who proudly does not engage with nerd culture. I’ve tried telling her that superhero comics and board games are totally mainstream now, and that rejecting them ultimately means she’s the one who’s out of touch with the zeitgeist, but that put her off even more. She’s so edgy I can barely keep up with what does or does not constitute a Cool Thing.
I’m one of the last to arrive, and almost everyone is already set up in a pair by the time I abandon my backpack and scan the room for a partner. Lucy Cox and Everett Clark hold hands over their board, gazing lovingly into each other’s eyes, talking about new set pieces they’ve been learning. Madison Spencer and Guadalupe Martinez kiss over their warring queens, completely oblivious to the room around them.
God. When did chess club get so horny?
In fairness to the Matching Hypothesis, both couples are approximately the same level of objective hotness and social status. And I can’t fight the twinge of jealousy. In a completely pointless exercise in self-flagellation, I catch myself wondering what kind of couple Haruki and I would be. Over-the-top PDA? Fake-arguing while sparks fly? Nerding out over mutual interests?
Doesn’t matter. The Matching Hypothesis actively forbids us from ever dating.
I’m not sure why the Matching Hypothesis plays on my mind so much, to be honest. I stumbled upon that first article at a time in my life where I felt totally and utterly unlovable – when Gabriela and Ryan first started dating, and Keiko was at the height of her experimentation stage. Maybe that’s why I latched on to the theory like a barnacle to a speedboat. I liked having a reason – a concrete, scientific reason – to explain why I wasn’t in the same place they were, no matter how much I wanted to be. It gave me something to blame beyond myself.
Sighing deeply, I force myself back into the present. When I see the only person left unmatched with a chess partner, I nearly turn and walk straight back out.
Mateo grins as he watches me scan the room, waiting for the moment I realize my fate. When I try and fail to disguise my horror, he saunters over with a cocky grin.
‘Caro Kerber. Looks like it’s you and me.’ Seriously, what is it with people only knowing two-thirds of my name? He drags a chair back along the ground, its legs screeching against the linoleum. ‘Pull up a pew. I don’t bite.’
Mateo Gutierrez is one of the most opinionated homo sapiens on this earth. He’s president of the debate team, and he’s renowned for having no concrete stance on, well, anything. His actual genuine views are lucid, whether political, social or ethical, but what does not change is how passionately he’s prepared to argue on any given subject, from any given side of the debate. It’s quite impressive. You know, if you find contentious, belligerent jerks impressive. Which I do not. At all.
‘Alright,’ I grumble, resigned to spending at least the next fifteen minutes in his presence. He’s one of Gabriela’s childhood friends, so I attempt civility at all times. ‘Do your worst. And it’s Kerber-Murphy.’
We’ve clashed during chess club on many the occasion. He usually beats me, with his calculated precision and meticulously executed set moves, but there have been a few times he’s knocked over his own king in frustration. I’m a hideously defensive player, and fortify my pieces in such a way that they’re impossible to penetrate. It drives him up the wall. And to be honest, it drives me up the wall too. I wish I was confident enough to push for bold attacks and risky sacrifices, but I’m not. I play it safe, always.
