Free Love and Other Unknown Variables by Shannon Alexander Page A

What if MIT isn’t everything I’ve made it out to be?
    “For one thing,” Charlotte says, bringing me back from my thoughts, “you get wet when you sing in the rain. Very wet.”
    “You don’t say,” I deadpan.
    Charlotte kicks one foot out at me. It lands in the palm of my hand and, without thinking, I tickle it. She gasps and bites back a peal of laughter.
    “You’re a dead man, Hanson,” she cackles, yanking her foot away, and pursing her lips. God, I’d love to kiss those lips. Just once.
    She maneuvers so she’s kneeling on the cushion between us wiggling her fingers in my direction in a prepare-to-be-tickled sort of way. Her eyes roam over my body to find her target. Every inch of me pleads to be chosen.
    When Becca stirs in her sleep, Charlotte’s fingers freeze. Her eyes widen. I grit my teeth in a startled expression, which makes Charlotte snort, which makes me laugh. Actually, it may be fair to say I guffaw. I don’t know that I’ve ever guffawed before. It feels pretty good.
    The old recliner squeals in protest as Becca sits up. “What did I miss?” She’s looking toward the TV, so I’m guessing she means the movie, but I’m suddenly all too aware that I was just about to get into a tickle war with her best friend. Her only friend.
    Bad form, Chuck , the Greta in my head snipes.
    I stand and straighten out my rumpled shirt. “I’d better get back to work.”
    Charlotte sits back and pulls the blanket over her again. She runs her smudged fingers—the ones enticing me just moments ago—through her inky hair.
    My insides ache. “Thanks for the movie, Charlotte,” I call out as I turn to leave. I need to go. I need to do some wicked math to get this girl out of my system.
    “Anytime, Charlie.”
    ---
    S ettling in front of my computer again, I pull up the proof I’m working on for the Young Mathematicians online journal, the one I’m hoping will catch Dr. Bell’s eye. Working through the numbers usually calms me down. Instead, I keep imagining Charlotte, standing alone on an empty street, singing in the rain.
    When she tilts her head back to sing, I see the girl in the picture Charlotte drew. The girl lost somewhere between a song and a scream.
    Nope. I can’t work on this proof if I’m distracted like this. I’ll screw something up.
    I pull out my scrap paper, noticing the infinite line I’d drawn earlier. I mark off a section, assigning each point a value. Behind the line, I draw an X- and Y-axis and begin solving for the slope. It’s a simple problem. I’ve solved hundreds of them. It’s like breathing. Isolate the variable. Stick to the plan. Solve the equation.
    It’s as easy as 3.14159265.
    I scribble more problems, increasing the difficulty, until I’m finally staring down an equation worthy of my skills. But even working through this behemoth does nothing to erase the memory of Charlotte’s eyes on me in the dark.
    I jab my pencil at the paper, pressing the tip so hard it snaps. Closing my eyes, all I see is the nape of her neck, a black curl draped along the soft line of her spine, and her tattoo. There is a physical pulling in my gut, tugging at me in all sorts of places, aching to reach out and trace the lines of the indelible infinity symbol there.
    Math isn’t working. How can math not be working? Is this the beginning of another psychotic break? If it is, why do I suddenly feel so calm, like I’ve broken through the eye wall of a hurricane and into the tranquil heart of the storm?
    I open my eyes and focus on the first straight line I drew. When I stood up in class to be counted on Charlotte’s side, I changed the direction of my life. I deviated from my safe course. I could go back and erase the point at which I turned, but I don’t want to. I don’t want to erase Charlotte from my life.
    Looking at my page of solved problems, the inkling of a plan wheedles its way into my mind. It’s there on the sheet in front of me—over and over again. Have a problem to