Marisha Pessl - Special Topics in Calamity Physics

I didn’t have a clue what the Scratch was and didn’t have time to care. I was, after all, weighed down with six AP courses (“Enough to sink a fleet of USS Anythings,” Dad said) and only a single free period. My professors had shown themselves to be sharp, methodical, altogether on the ball (not “entirely in the outhouse,” as Dad described Mrs. Roper of Meadowbrook Middle, who boldly brought a grand finale to her every sentence with a preposition: “Where’s your copy of The Aeneid at?”). Most of them had perfectly respectable vocabularies (Ms. Simpson of AP Physics used ersatz within fifteen minutes of the bell) and one, namely Ms. Martine Filobeque of AP French, had Permanently Pursed Lips, which could present a serious threat as the year unfolded. “The enduring pursed lip, a trait associated exclusively with the female educator, is a sign of erratic academic anger,” Dad said. “I’d think seriously about flowers, candy — anything to get yourself associated in her mind with all that’s right in the world, rather than all that’s wrong.”

My peers too — they were not exactly airheads or fools ( pasta, as Dad called every kid at Sage Day). When I’d raised my hand in AP English to answer Ms. Simpson’s question regarding Primary Themes in Invisible Man (Ellison, 1952) (which turned up on Summer Reading Lists with the regularity of corruption in Cameroon), incredibly, I wasn’t quite fast enough; another kid, Radley Clifton, pudgy, with an eroded chin, already had his fat hand in the air. While his answer wasn’t brilliant or inspired, it also wasn’t crude or Calibanesque, and it dawned on me, as Ms. Simpson handed out a nineteen-page syllabus solely covering Fall Term, perhaps St. Gallway wouldn’t be such Child’s Play, such Easy Victory. Perhaps if I actually wanted to be Valedictorian (and I think I did, though sometimes What Dad Wanted blatantly made its way into What I Wanted without having to go through Customs), I’d have to launch an aggressive campaign with all the ferocity of Attila the Hun. “One is only eligible for Valedictorian once in one’s life,” Dad noted, “just as one only gets one body, one existence, and thus one shot at immortality.”

I also didn’t respond to the letter I received the next day, though I read it twenty times, even in the middle of Ms. Gershon’s introductory AP Physics lecture, “From Cannonballs to Light Waves: The History of Physics.” Paleo-anthropologist Donald Johanson, when stumbling upon early hominid “Lucy” in 1974, probably felt the way I did when I opened my locker door and that cream envelope fell at my feet.

I had no idea what I’d found: a wonder (that would forever change history) or a hoax.

Blue,

What the heck happened?? You missed out on a nice broccoli cheddar baked potato at Wendy’s. Guess you’re playing hard to get. I’ll play. Shall we try this again? You’re filling me with longing. (Kidding.)

Same place. Same time.

Charles

I also ignored the two letters discovered in my locker the next day, Wednesday: the first in the cream envelope, the second written in pointy cursive on celery green paper emblazoned at the top with an elaborate tangle of initials: JCW.

Blue,

I’m hurt. Well, I’ll be there again today. Every day. Until the end of time. So give a guy a break already.

Charles

Dear Blue,

Charles has obviously made a mess of this situation, so I’m staging a family intervention. I’m assuming you think he’s stalkerish. I don’t blame you. The truth is, our friend Hannah told us about you and suggested we introduce ourselves. None of us have you in a class so we’ll have to meet after school. This Friday at 3:45 go to the second floor of Barrow House, room 208, and wait for us there! Don’t be late. We’re DYING to meet you and hear all about Ohio!!!

Kisses,

Jade Churchill Whitestone

These letters would have charmed the average New Student. After a day or two of wordy resistance, like some silly eighteenth-century virgin, she’d tiptoe into the dark shadows of the Scratch, excitedly biting her cherry-plump bottom lip, and await Charles, the wigged aristocrat who’d carry her away ( culottes flying) to ruin.

I, on the other hand, was the implacable nun. I remained unmoved.

Well, I’m exaggerating. I’d never received a letter from someone I didn’t know (rather, never received a letter from someone who wasn’t Dad) and there is an undeniable thrill when faced with a mysterious envelope. Dad once observed that personal letters (now alongside the Great Crested Newt on the Endangered Species list) were one of the few physical objects in this world that held magic within them: “Even the Dull and the Dim, those whose presences can barely be stomached in person, can be tolerated in a letter, even come off as mildly amusing.”

To me, there was something strange and insincere about their letters, something a little too “Madame de Merteuil to the Vicomte de Valmont at the Chateau de—”, a little too “Paris. 4 August 17—”.

Not that I thought I was the latest pawn in their game of seduction. I wouldn’t go that far. But I knew all about knowing people and not knowing people. There was drudgery and danger in introducing a newcomer into that exclusive circle of belonging, le petit salon. Seating was limited, and thus it was inevitable someone old would have to move (a horrifying sign of losing one’s foothold in the court, of turning into une grande dame manqué ).

To be safe, the newcomer was best ignored, if her background was obscure enough, shunned (coupled with insinuations of illegitimate birth), unless there was someone, a mother with a title, an influential aunt (affectionately called Madame Titi by all) who had the time and power to present the newcomer, to squeeze her in (never mind that everyone’s birdcage wig knocked together), rearranging the others to positions which were comfortable, or at least bearable until the next revolution.

Even more bizarre were the references to Hannah Schneider. She had no grounds to be my Madame Titi.

I wondered if I’d come off at Surely Shoos as a particularly sad and despondent person. I thought I’d exuded “watchful intelligence,” which was how Dad’s colleague, hearing-impaired Dr. Ordinote, described me when he came over for lamb chops one evening in Archer, Missouri. He complimented Dad on raising a young woman of “startling power and acumen.”

“If only everyone could have one of her, Gareth,” he said, raising his eyebrows as he twisted the knob in his hearing aid. “The world would spin a little faster.”

There was the possibility that during her ten-minute exchange with Dad, Hannah Schneider had set her romantic sights on him and resolved that I, the quiet daughter, was the small, portable stepladder she’d use to reach him.

Such had been the machinations of Sheila Crane of Pritchardsville, Georgia, who’d encountered Dad for only twenty seconds at the Court Elementary Art Show (she tore his ticket in half) before she decided he was Her Guy. After the Art Show, Miss Crane, who worked part-time at the Court Elementary Infirmary, had a habit of materializing during Break near the see-saws, calling out my name, holding up a box of Thin Mints. When I was in close proximity, she held out a cookie as if trying to tempt a stray dog.

“Can you tell me a little more about your daddy? I mean,” she said nonchalantly, though her eyes bored into me like an electrician’s drill, “what kinda things duzzie like?”

Usually I stared blankly at her, grabbed the Thin Mint and spirited away, but once I said, “Karl Marx.” Her eyes widened in fear.

“He’s homosexshull?”

Revolution is slow burning, occurring only after decades of oppression and poverty, but the exact hour of its unleashing is often a moment of fateful mishap.