Physix

quinn de vecchi

In the light of my computer screen, she kissed me.

I wanted to say it was some sort of awakening, wherein I would find myself entrapped by scribing love stories for the next two months—or even for the rest of my life. I would finally find my missing link and be able to graduate guilt-free.

But I put my hands on her shoulders. I didn’t know if pulling away was some secret ritual thing for saying “go fuck yourself,” so I didn’t. She did.

“So?” she asked. She had this sort of gleam in her eyes, I don’t know. We were in the same ethics class. We were studying for our finals. I didn’t even know her name.

“I have to go,” I said. For a pause, there wasn’t anything else, and I mulled over what else to say. “I have community service. Right now.”

“Right now?” she asked. She glanced at her clock on her bedstand. “It’s, like, ten p.m.”

I nodded stiffly like I had just signed some NDA and couldn’t reveal anything. “Yes, it’s super important.” I slid her hands away from me. “It’s night watch duty. At the cafeteria. Right now. I’m late.”

When I tried to slide off the bed, I tripped on her duvet cover and stumbled off. She blinked at me, still shocked, I guessed. “What could you have done to have night watch duty?”

“I stole”—I haphazardly tried putting on my sneakers—“a motorcycle. From a cop. Big deal.” I wanted to sell my story more, so I thought about some of my prompt one-liners. “My mom had to sleep with the sheriff so he wouldn’t deport me.”

“You’re not a citizen?” She scratched the side of her elbow.

I paused. Then I bent down to search for my jacket. “My mom’s on visa,” I said. I was thinking of my old character, Sandy, who had walked through the Mexico Valley in search of her long-lost brother. Autofiction, autofiction. “Hey, do you know where my laptop is?” I asked before turning around.

It was right beside her on the bed, still opened. I reached over her to grab it.

“Sorry,” I said.

“Sorry you’re a criminal,” she said back. I shrugged.

“It’s in my blood. My dad got the chair.” I stuffed my laptop in my bag, and looked around again. I couldn’t find my scarf. It was somewhere but I was losing where. “He killed, like, eight people in Jersey.” I was from Denver.

I found my scarf on the radiator and swung it on. I turned back to her. “Do you have a meal card I could borrow?”

“What?” she said. Her phone was right next to her on the bed, and kept buzzing. Popular, dunno.

I slipped my bag strap onto my shoulder. “I lost mine, like, yesterday.” The neon yellow card was peeking out from underneath a thrown dress. I pulled it out. “I’ll just give this back to you tomorrow. Or something.” I stuffed it in my pocket.

The girl said nothing. I blew out a breath. “Well, uh, I guess I’ll see you.”

I left her dorm and took the elevator down to the lobby. My place was a few minutes walk from here. It was cold outside. While I was walking, I took out a sticky-note and a pen and started writing a haiku. Something about the sun, something about the snow, etcetera, etcetera.

I got to my apartment and gave Steve, the doorman, the sticky-note. We had a mutual pact of haiku exchanging. He passed me his:

The morning dove leaves

the solemn nest, into the

snow, she disappears.

“Oh,” I started, turning it over. He always signed his with S. “What inspired this one?”

Steve shrugged. Then he pointed to my mouth. “You’ve got some lipstick smudges,” he said.

I swallowed. Wiped my face quickly. He nodded afterward, so I got most of it. I stuffed the sticky-note into my pocket. “Thanks,” I said, slowly. “I’ll see you later.”

I went up to my apartment. I toed my shoes off and put everything on my couch to deal with later. I dropped the meal card onto the stack of other ones I had.

I grabbed a Stephen King that I’d borrowed from the library back in September. When I found a blank page, I wrote with a Sharpie pen: Met girl, had first kiss, super gross, got meal card. I had found a habit of writing my diary entries as single sentences. It saved me time from thinking about my day for too long.

In the morning, I glanced at Steve’s haiku again before sticking it to my bedroom wall. I took a very cold shower and stared at my reflection through the glass the entire time. It was snowing outside so I layered. I walked to Starbucks and bought a Trenta Caramel Ribbon Crunch Frappuccino. I walked to my first class and got there ten minutes late.

Halfway through my class, I threw out the Frappuccino without finishing it. When my professor called on me about how fast photons traveled, I said, “Faster than me leaving this class.” And then, “Which is saying a lot.” He threw me out. I spent the rest of the morning in the library, jotting down notes for quantum equations. Next to the units, I’d write a character’s name. Then their backstory. Sherry and her zombie father.

During lunch, I snuck in using my new meal card. I felt safe eating with other gangly-fitted kids with bad fashion sense. I was wedged between a girl and her boyfriend during a line for wontons. And when it was my turn to fill my drink, a guy with an American-flag-painted mohawk skipped me in the line.

Later, right before my next class, my father called me and asked me how college was going. I told him I hated it and was going to quit and become a porn star. He asked me if I’d even had sex yet.

“Yes,” I said. “With six guys and a girl. They all had the same name.”

When he asked me if I was a lesbian, I told him I had suddenly become a misogynist and thought we should take off all the women from the Senate. When he rebuffed me by saying I was a woman, I said, “That’s what you think.”

After that, I wrote down our conversation in my pocketbook of quantum mechanics. I underlined my parts several times and ran out of ink. I had an idea for a character but wasn’t sure how to write the sex scenes. I put the idea in my “to do” entry of my notes app.

I had a meeting with my counselor an hour later, and when I went into her office, I left the door open.

“You need a new elective,” she told me. “Your Thursdays are free. I was thinking maybe a sport.”

I had been kicked out of my Thursday sketch class that my father had chosen for me on a whim. I had never even attended a class. “I used to be on my school’s football team. I was valedictorian.” She nodded to this and scribbled down something in her notebook. “I play basketball every Monday.”

“How about a creative class?” she asked.

I looked away. “Like another art one?”

She assigned me to a fiction class three blocks away from my apartment. When I looked into the class on the enrollment page, there were only three other students in it. The first assignment, before I had even gone in, was to write about a character you somehow related to. I wrote about a whale-eating man who cheated on his wife on the weekdays.

When I showed up to the class, the few other students were huddled around a plant-infested table. I sat down.

The professor started talking about interpretations and tonal writing. He asked me to share my piece with the class. When it was my time to workshop the week later, I had him print out my story for me. The other students sat around and stared at me like I was some alien.

“I’m not sure what the father is serving in this piece,” said one. I nodded vigorously and drew a boob in my new notebook.

Another one looked like he had just smoked a batch of pot beforehand. He waved his hand around like Dumbledore. “The father seems to be placed there as a metaphorical character rather than a real one.” Murmurs broke out between the three of them. “Perhaps it’s the mother we should be focusing on, since the whale eats her in the beginning.”

The third one rapped his knuckles on the table quickly. “I agree. The mom dies early on to signify the change in the narrator’s relationship with his wife,” he said. I paused my drawing. “Does the narrator feel guilt over the death of his mom? Do we think this is why he lies to his wife?”

I scratched out the topless mermaid I had started sketching.

“No,” the first one started. “The wife is an amalgamation of the daughter and the mother. She’s everything the narrator wants her to be, which is why we see him switching between being a father, son, and husband.”

The professor hummed. Everyone looked high. I felt high. “Yes, yes. The whale can be seen as the over-consuming guilt he has.” Then he hesitated, mulled over. Rocked his hand side to side. “Is he guilty over what he’s done to his daughter, or to his mother?”

“Or is the mother the daughter’s mother, who is his real wife?” asked another. He leaned forward very intently. “Before the mother dies, the daughter is seen as a stagnant character. She’s his daughter. After the mother dies, we stop seeing her as that character. She becomes his wife.”

At the end of the workshop, the professor looked right at me and asked if I had any questions. I said no, no thanks, and grabbed all their notes and left. Once I was out of the building I stuffed them all in the trash can and went straight to my counselor. I told her to take me out. She asked if it was the teacher. I told her that he had molested me.

The next day, I had been taken out of the class. She sent me a multitude of emails with links to abuse hotlines and I deleted each one. I focused on throwing out the notebook I had gotten for the class and starting a new entry in my Stephen King book.

I hate this school, I wrote. Dumb teacher, dumb class, dumb writing. I hate writing.

I ripped out the last page of the book and put it in my toilet bowl. I hated Stephen King. My father always got me Stephen King books for my birthday, they filled up my closet bookshelf. My counselor emailed me again and asked if I wanted to do anything about the writing professor. I replied back and told her I was fine, I didn’t need anything. I just wanted out of that class, but I couldn’t tell her that. I just deleted the email.

When it was time for my class, I grabbed my book and nothing else. Steve was on his shift again outside, and I handed him another sticky-note. This one was about duck season. He handed me his:

The morning dove loves

the wind, in the night she is

blown away like snow.

“Wow,” I said. “You’ve got a thing for this dove, huh?” I put the haiku into my pocket.

Steve shrugged again. It was his way of communicating. “I write what I see,” was all he said.

I walked to my next class after that. A girl next to me during the lecture asked for my number. She said: “I think you’re cute.” And, “Call me whenever.” I wanted to take the paper she gave me and put it in my mouth, just to show her. I didn’t.

Later, I skipped my last physics class to make it to dinner before the line. I filled my plate with quesadillas and sour cream. One of the writing students was in the dessert line and I tried to skirt away. He caught me when I was trying to swipe out.

“Did you hear about Dr. Keene?” he asked. I couldn’t remember his name, though I don’t even think any of them told me theirs.

I shrugged. “Who?”

The person in front of me got to the register. “Our writing teacher. For fiction?”

“I’m in physics,” I said. I swiped my meal card. “I don’t write.”

“He’s getting investigated,” he continued. I went past the register. I tried to drown him out with the cafeteria noise. “For, like, sexual harassment or something.”

I walked toward the girl’s bathroom. “Super cool,” I called back. He stood near the register like he was waiting for me to turn back. “See you later.”

While I was sitting on the toilet lid and dropping excess sour scream into the pad trash, I got a text.

When I checked the text, it was from an unknown number. It read: Hey, this is Eliza from your phys B class. Wanna get some coffee later?

At first, I typed out: Stupid bitch! I hate you! KYS! But then deleted the entire thing to rewrite: Hey. And: Sure. I sent it and leaned back. Eliza, the girl from my physics b class. Asking to get coffee.

Her: Great. How abt Jenn’s at 10 tmrw?

Me: I fucking hate Jenn’s I would die if I ever went there again. Delete. Sure. And: See you there.

I then dumped all my food into the bin outside and walked back to my apartment. Steve was gone. When my professor emailed me an hour later asking why I had missed two days of class, I blocked him. I reported him under the tab Harassment and said he wouldn’t stop messaging me after school hours.

In the morning, I didn’t go to my Ethics in Physics class and stayed in bed. When I got a calendar notification about my particles class, I threw my phone and it landed in my laundry bag. Right at the fifty mark, I climbed out of bed and put on clothes I found underneath my mattress. I tried to brush my teeth but couldn’t find my toothbrush, and when I did I found out I had run out of toothpaste.

Eliza texted me at ten. Running late, be there in 5. I was still in my apartment and had just brushed my hair. No worries, I texted back. I waited for the elevator and walked to the cafe. When I got there, Eliza had already sat down, waiting for me.

She smiled when she saw me, and I bit the edge of my tongue.

I sat down. “So,” she started. “How’ve you been?”

“Pretty good.” I tapped my nail against the table. “Getting great grades. Haven’t even missed a class yet.”

“Oh, really?” Eliza looked up just as the server came to us. He asked what we wanted and I hadn’t even looked at the menu yet. Eliza asked for a latte. Then a chocolate muffin. When asked, I told the server I wanted the biggest slice of garlic bread they had.

When the server walked away, I answered, “Yeah.” Then I shrugged. “Sort of. Maybe I skipped a few today.” I swallowed a gulp of water. My throat was suddenly dry.

Eliza tittered. “Is that why I didn’t see you at particles today?”

“You knew I wasn’t there and you still asked?” I put a hand under my chin and leaned forward. “That’s kind of manipulative. What type of date is this?” I sucked in my teeth at the word date.

She hummed. “Maybe the type of date where we have a second one?” The server slid our trays of food toward us, and I blinked.

This was the time when I would say something like “go jump off the science roof” or “I did this as a joke.” I wanted to, but when I tested the words out they swished around with my tongue oddly. They had a bad taste.

I shrugged. “We could,” I said. I pushed the garlic bread away. I was allergic to garlic. “If you want to.”

I tried to think about any flash piece I’d written about romance. In one, I had the narrator fall in love with a bird that got shot by hunters. She spent the rest of her life murdering anyone who wore camo with a hunting rifle. I couldn’t think of anything to take away from that. Another one I’d written was about two vampires who bit each other so hard they faded into ashes.

Not helping, I knew I would write in my book later. Stories are not helping. Need to quit.

Eliza went to say something. I tapped my finger on the table and interrupted her. “Do you write?” I asked.

She slumped her shoulders. “Not really,” she said. Red flag. Shrugged, then, “Well, sort of. I used to do nonfiction when I was in high school. I had this really crazy English teacher and…” she trailed off. Eliza looked up like she had forgotten something. “Sorry, why were you asking?”

I wanted to smile. “I was just thinking about it. As a whole,” I said. “Do you think writing’s an addiction?”

“That would mean it’s bad,” she answered.

“Something can be addictive and good,” I said, looking away.

Eliza leaned back in her chair. “Do you think it’s bad?” She tilted her head. “Writing, I mean.”

I hadn’t asked for a refill on my water and was stuck. I shrugged. “I think.” I paused. “Anything can be bad in large quantities,” I said slowly. I tapped my index against the wood. “Writing requires a lot. You have to be willing to give up a lot.”

“Is this still about writing?” she asked.

“Everything’s about writing.” I felt like a hippie, but I couldn’t stop. When you got me talking about writing it was like a dam had opened. “Life surrounds it. We’re all, like, characters in some book.”

Eliza leaned forward. She had her shoulders to her ears and her arms crossed like she was some sneaky detective. “Why don’t you major in creative writing, then?” she asked.

“I do physics,” I said. “And writing is dumb.”

She then said, “Why’d you choose physics?”

And I said, “Well, physics is life.” And then, “You?”

“Physics surrounds writing,” she said. “That’s what you mean. If physics is life and life surrounds writing.”

“Physics is about math. Why’d you choose it?” I pressed again.

Eliza took her first sip from her latte. “I like it.”

Later, we would talk further about where we were from and who we enjoyed reading journals from. I responded each time with a curt nod and a mumble of, “Suppose so,” and then I would ask her where she was from or if she had any siblings. When Eliza asked me anything about me, I’d loll my head side to side, shrug, and say: “Well, what about you?”

I drank six glasses of water and spilled one on my unused paper napkins. I told Eliza I wrote diary entries, and she laughed and asked me what I wrote them in. “A book,” I said. “Any type. Usually a Stephen King book.” She asked me why I hated him so much to write in his books, and I said, “He’s a bad writer.” Then, “My writing on it ups the sales price.”

She asked me, “Why don’t you just get a normal diary?”

I said, “Why contain writing in one place?”

She said, “You have a very idolized idea of writing.”

I said, “Don’t you?”

She went silent, and I took this as leeway to call for the check. I had gotten hungry while we were talking but hadn’t ordered anything new. I felt like if I did, I would have gotten another slice of garlic bread. She left her latte. We walked back to my apartment complex and got whistled at.

When we reached my building, she turned me around. “This is where you live?” she asked.

I shrugged. “Yeah, I’m a total nepo baby.”

Eliza laughed. She tucked a strand behind her ear and had her hand touch my forearm. She looked like she’d had the most amazing morning. I grabbed her hand, trying to pull it away. She leaned forward and kissed me.

There was nothing to say about it. It felt like she was just putting her lips on mine, and there was something strangely nauseating about it. My second kiss in just a few weeks. I was popular. I didn’t like it.

I pushed her away. “Look…” I started, but nothing came out of it.

“I really like you,” she told me. She had her hands on my shoulders. “I know it’s early but I’d love to go out again.”

I stared at her. It felt like I was frozen. I couldn’t say anything.

Eliza laughed. She slipped her hands away. “Call me,” she said. “I’ll see you in class.” She waved and walked away.

I stood there. When I turned around, Steve was leaning against the front door. I slowly walked up to him. I didn’t have a haiku to give him, but he still gave me his.

The morning dove fears

the green outside. Every flight

ends in her falling.

I swallowed roughly. My lips felt warm. I walked into the apartment without saying anything to him. The elevator ride up was silent. Bumpy.

I walked back into my apartment and locked the door. I wanted to brush my teeth but I had no toothpaste left. I leaned on my bathroom counter staring at myself in the mirror. I couldn’t stop looking at the lipstick smudge on the corner of my mouth. I got a pool of water in my hands and splashed my face. I felt cold.

My father texted me. I looked at it and hesitated. Really hesitated. The whale came to mind, the workshop. When I looked up, there, on the edge of my mirror, was another haiku.

I blocked his contact. I went into my closet where my bookcase was. Where all my Stephen King books were. I had all his special editions. I started grabbing them and dumping them on the floor of my balcony. It started snowing, and a light dust went over them. I was freezing. I kept dumping the books until there was nothing left in my library.

I went into my kitchen and grabbed a box of matches. I went to the balcony. I lit the match, let it burn my fingers, and dropped it onto the pile of Stephen King books. The haiku came to my mind now:

The morning dove flees

the sun, and flies to where the

moon forever rests.

Quinn De Vecchi is a creative writing major at Interlochen Arts Academy. They have been or are forthcoming in Grub Street, Chiron Review, and The Red Wheelbarrow.