Then came Wednesday and Thursday. The good news is that I'm able to take the make-up test on Tuesday, much more time to prepare! Honestly, I needed that breather because I've been dyiiiiiing over all the extra stuff Havana has given me to do, but Ms. Carmone is quite impressed with the arrangement so far. The great news, above all, is that Mallory has been nonstop catering to me. Every time we see each other, even in passing during transition time, she'll put her hand on my arm, maybe even rub her thumb up and down, and look at me softly to see if I'm doing okay. Don't get me wrong, again she's always been this way, but the tone in her voice and the words in her eyes are more than checking up on a dear friend; as I said, we're intertwined. Soul-tied. This is going to sound so anti-feminist of me but I almost feel like a damsel-in-distress and my knight in shining overalls has rescued me for our happily-ever-after -- and damn it, it feels good. The yearnful tingling throughout my body has been on 10x, a feeling so euphoric I kept checking my temperature to make sure I wasn't still feverish.

All that said, it's Friday. The whole day the conversation with Havana on the phone rings (no pun intended) in my head. I haven't seen her all week, well except during transition, but every time I do I replay it...

I have my first math decathlon meeting on Friday, and I want to study up a lot so ...

You should come!

                        You should come!

                                               You should come!

You. Should. Come. If I'm not mistaken, there seemed to be this ... desperateness in her voice. At first, I thought it was an invitation to one of her competitions, which I already wouldn't have expected or ever thought about. I guess in the grand scheme of things, she figured a math competition fared better than seeing a football game. She had to have invited everyone, right? Since everyone in the school knows of her genius, maybe the extra motivation of so many people would help them perform better. Come to find out, it wasn't even a real meet, but a practice meet. Like, an actual down-to-business meeting. And surely the whole school wouldn't be interested in that, otherwise, the math decathlon team would be over-capacity of eager math heads.

So why me?

Was it the convenience of asking because we were on the phone (still feels incredibly odd to reflect on)? Havana is my tutor, and I'm her student -- perhaps since we didn't have an actual session this week, this is a make-up? I suppose watching one of these will, I don't know, drive me or something in my quest for proficiency. I almost didn't realize it was real until Mallory brought it up yesterday during lunch.

"Oh, are you going to Havana's math thingy?"

"How do you know about that?"

"Because she invited me, too."

It's weird. Of course, Havana would've invited other people, especially the Setiawans given she was at their house that night calling from their house phone. Still, it was jarring to hear Mal was also invited. Not complaining at all, let me emphasize! However, I surely thought I was the sole recipient of this venture. Now it's weird that I care so much. I mean, not so much, but enough to make me itch at it... ugh, these 2,681 seconds can't seem to go any faster. Come on clock, come on.

2,696. 2,697. 2,698. 2,699 --

BRIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIINGGG!!!

My last period is Art class, which I love, but I couldn't have bolted faster if I tried. With school letting out, the hallways get congested with packs of lackadaisical students who shed off the snakeskin and become who they truly are: unbearably sociable, hormonal weeds. I have no time to get caught in the fields because instead of heading for the lockers, I'm heading to the other side of the school to meet with Mallory, and then we're off to the inaugural Fireside High Math Decathlon team meeting for Havana. It seems like eons ago that Fridays after school were for museum sightings with Mal, even though we just did one not long ago. Does time going at a snail's pace happen to coincide with Y2K amongst us?

When I reach Mal's classroom (her last class is trig, coincidentally), everyone's already gone. It's the first time I haven't met Mal over here so we can go to our lockers together. Looks like she got ahead of the curve ... but of course she did; we're dealing with Havana after all. I roll my eyes in discontent but mainly from being out of breath, and then another extra-long one realizing I have to go allllllll the way back to the other end of the school. Havana told me that the meetings are held in H109, the computer room because the actual math classrooms are used for tutoring ... well, isn't that ironic? 

No time to dwell as I scurry through hoards of my peers like a mouse to cheese. Every bump and bruise and stepping on my shoe is akin to setting off a mouse trap, and I feel my anxiety levels rising. Lucky for me, the crowds disperse evenly at H-hall to make room for us freaks and geeks. One more bump makes me accidentally break up some PDA, and then I lean against the nearest wall and catch my breath. Good God I need to take P.E. again. 

I make my way to H109, just waiting to slip my head on Mallory's shoulder. When I get to the door, greeted by a sign that reads "MATH DECATHLON", I peer inside the big glass window to look around for her. I see a scrawny dude with bright ginger hair, a goth girl, and our youth paralympic legend K.D. No Mallory. And come to think of it, no --

"Hey, you made it!" 

I slam my body against the door, eyes bugling out of my head when I turn sharply. If I had a quarter for every time Havana scared the piss out of me, I'd probably be able to buy an entire class' worth of gumballs. 

"Sorry, didn't mean to scare ya!" Havana cheekily smiles. 

"Yeah, no p-problem," I stammer, because of course I do. "And yeah, I guess I did make it. I'm just not sure what for."

"Well, come on in!" Havana moves past me, opening the door and extending her arm curtsy style. "After you, madam." On a long list of things I never want to be called, "madam" has climbed its way up the ranks, but I suppose chivalry isn't dead. That said, I'm stuck on the fact that Mal isn't here. Pee break, maybe?

"Everyone!" Havana whistles, catching the other's attention.

"There you are," Redhead scoffs. "We were thinking you died or something."

"Okay, a little extreme there," Havana pulls at the collar of her shirt. Huh. It's just dawned on me that she owns a lot of polo shirts. "We have a guest, have some decorum."

"Hi hi!" the goth girl waves. She's got butterfly stickers on her face and clip-on pink and purple extensions. Do all goth people do that and I hadn't noticed before? 

"Friends, this is Zo," Havana looks at me, her lips folding inward after my name. 

"Oh, you're Zo!" Goth Girl squeals. "We've all been so curious to meet you!" Okay, so Havana talks of me, it seems. Is that why she folded her lips in, all fidgety? What, is she nervous to present me or something? A-am I not presentable?

"So the smartest girl in 11th grade, huh?" Redhead coos. 

"Uh, I guess so..." I shrug. Math aside, it's not like he's wrong, but if I said I preferred the term 'person' then it might come off as cocky. 

"Ahem, so --" Havana clears her throat. "Zo, this is Stewart --" (Redhead) "Marnie --" (Goth Girl) "-- and K.D." (previously established but I nod aloof) "-- and I'm Havana!" She holds her hand out to me enthusiastically, pretending it's our first time meeting. That gets a little humored huff from me, so I play along and shake her hand. It's smaller than I thought it would be, and ... softer? I think there's a faint hint of cherry lotion on it. Her knuckles are roughed up.  Huh.

"So!" Havana claps her hands together. "We're the team. We usually just run through a bunch of questions together. Here." Havana pulls up a chair for me, which I happily plop right into as I feel my legs giving out any minute now. "Feel free to tag in if you want to; the questions range from 8th grade to post-secondary."

Hm. Little odd to hear the words "post-secondary" come from her. 

"Trying to recruit her or something?" Stewart smiles slyly, his unnervingly straight teeth making it a tad more evil-looking.

"Sure, then after that I'll recruit you for choir class!" Havana shoots back. Hey, wait a minute --

"What's that supposed to mean?" I look at her, a bit insulted.

"Oh nothing, we just like to push each other's buttons," Havana says, patting the back of my chair. "Right, let's do it!'

The team huddles up together to discuss what they'll quiz each other, and I think I hear talk of reflexes (of course led by Havana). I pull out my notebook to give off the impression I'm playing with them, even showing Havana my homework sheet to indicate I'll work hard. She smiles and gives me a geeky thumbs up. Really, though, I have a smaller notepad in the middle of the notebook so I can doodle. I'm already spending my Friday afternoon at a math meeting, why put myself through more torture? As the meeting officially goes on its way, I start to do some caviar doodling to warm myself up. Occasionally, I'll look up as they rapid-fire questions to each other, maybe tease each other a bit if they trip up on an answer. Havana looks very much in her element. Not sure why, but it's refreshing for once not to see her as my tutor or as this huge, popular star. Just another nerd. 

There's this pang of guilt that sets in my chest. What if I'm not the only one who's seen her the way I used to? What if people do, but on the opposite end where they go after her smarts instead? The notes on my seat start to flood my mind with all the hurtful things people wrote about me. They never knew what narrative they wanted with me; I'm either a four-eyed, veins-out-my-head super freak or I'm so incompetent I'm unable to even count to one. It's easy for me to not let on how much I care because I'm quite unmemorable until the next time. Havana? All eyes are on her. She's probably heard everything under the Sun, from praise to ridicule. I wonder how she filters it out. Or if she filters it out at all. When I see what's on my notepad instead of zoning out, I notice I've doodled the "FS" patch on Havana's letterman. 

I whip out my homework sheet. I'm done doodling for the day.