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“That’s not what I read in one of your books,” I say, leaning against one wall of the elevator. “Apparently he did a lot of his research at topless bars, writing out equations on paper place mats and sketching some of the women. They probably don’t teach that in 101. But he was also a raging misogynist, so.”
“And here I was, thinking you were suffering through all those books.”
“Only most of them.”
He drags his gaze to the floor, fighting a smile. The devil works hard, but Miles’s jaw muscles work harder.
The elevator lets us out on the top floor, where we take the stairs to the roof. When Miles said he wanted us to talk to his mom today, I had to suppress a fist pump, since he brushed it off when I initially suggested it.
Lucie, of course, had no memory of bagels or balloons this morning. If what she meant yesterday was that she didn’t laugh along with her friends, it’s odd that she wasn’t more specific. Lucie loves to take credit, even when something isn’t her idea. Like when I pitched a piece about the history of our mascot, Salvatore the Salamander, for our senior back-to-school issue and she decided to write it herself, assigning me an article about a sophomore’s Pomeranian that won third place in a local dog show.
My plan was never going to work, though I’m grateful Miles isn’t lording it over me.
He pauses at the door, so abruptly that I run into his back, my face landing right between his shoulder blades and jostling my glasses. I get a whiff of that woodsy scent from the night I pepper-sprayed him, and something about it soothes a bit of the anxiety in my brain. It must contain some herbs or chemicals with calming properties.
“If I take you here, I have to swear you to secrecy,” he says.
I put another foot of space between us and readjust my glasses. “If I told anyone,” I say to his heather-gray T-shirt, “they’re not going to remember anyway. So really, you’d never know.”
He sigh-grunts at this but nonetheless opens the door.
This rooftop garden is exclusively for faculty and staff, though they’re allowed to bring a guest once per quarter, Miles told me. The first thing I notice is green. Leafy plants and vibrant flowers spiral out from the soil, in between hammocks and wicker chairs and wooden tables. There are plants with whole curtains of leaves and plants that look like they could devour a pocket gopher or three. And then there’s the view, Mount Rainier rising in the distance like it isn’t quite real.
“This is beautiful,” I say quietly, so as not to disturb the peacefulness. I can’t summon a single sarcastic thing to say. That’s how lovely it is.
There are a handful of professors up here, some eating lunch and others chatting with friends, one of them watering plants and collecting data on a clipboard. Dr. Okamoto is toward one end of the roof in a wicker chair, a sandwich in one hand and an iPad in the other. Earlier in class, Miles and I sat right in the front row. And when Dr. Okamoto asked a question, Miles typed something on his computer screen and tapped it with a pen to get my attention. Answer the question, he’d written, and I tried not to roll my eyes. Still, I raised my hand.
“Physics is the study of matter and energy and how they relate to each other,” I said, the words practically drilled into my memory at this point, and Dr. Okamoto said, “Yes. Exactly.”
At the sound of the heavy metal door shutting, she glances up, grinning when she spots Miles.
“Miles! I wasn’t expecting to see you here,” she says, waving him over with her sandwich. “Good first day so far?”
“I’m not sold on my physics professor yet, but overall, not bad. I think I might be able to squeak by with an A.”
“She’s a real piece of work, I hear,” Dr. Okamoto says.
Miles Kasher-Okamoto, joking with his mother. I have to bite back a smile—there’s something so unexpected and maybe even endearing about that. It strikes me that this must be difficult for him, seeing her nearly every day.
“This is Barrett,” he says, motioning to me. “I hope it’s okay that I brought her. She’s working on a story about the physics department for the Washingtonian.”
I hold up my hand in an awkward wave, still half unsure of myself. He didn’t tell me he was going to introduce me that way, and something about it feels like bad luck: saying I’m on the paper when I feel further from it than I did after my first botched interview.
One corner of Dr. Okamoto’s mouth kicks upward, and I wonder if she rations smiles the way Miles does. “Oh? I read the paper every day. Well—every Monday and Wednesday. It’s a shame it’s not daily anymore.”
Miles’s hand finds my lower back, giving me a nudge forward. It’s the gentlest push, the briefest moment of contact, and yet it gives me some of the confidence I need. As though that gesture is saying, I know you can do this.
“I remember you.” Dr. Okamoto places her iPad on the leather bag next to her chair. “You were in my 101 class this morning, weren’t you?”
“Guilty.”
“What’s the piece about?”
With a few lifts of my eyebrows, I try to communicate to Miles that I will punish him with a thousand irritating questions about time travel later for springing this on me. He pretends not to notice. When I’m a real journalist, I’ll have to think on my feet like this all the time. And not just on my feet, but on bare feet walking over shards of glass, depending on who I’m interviewing. “It’s, uh, for the back-to-school issue. We’re interviewing students’ favorite professors, giving them a glimpse into their lives both in and out of the classroom.”
“?‘The MO of Dr. O,’?” Miles puts in, as though trying to be helpful. “That’s what it’s called.”
“I’m not calling it that,” I hiss at him.
