“Tomorrow. Seven. We’ll talk bugs,” I say.

“And books.”

“And books.”

“Right now I have to go catch my bus, unfortunately.”

“Right. Bye. Have a good night.”

He stands a little straighter as he walks off.

32.

ON SATURDAY MORNING I get a phone call from a junior at MIT.

“My name is Amala Daval,” she tells me. “I’m a math major.”

“Great,” I stammer after an awkward pause. “How are you?”

“I’m studying theoretical mathematics at MIT,” she says, dead serious by the sound of it. “How do you think I am?”

“So . . . good, right?”

“For the right kind of people,” she says, like she hasn’t made up her mind yet that I am the right kind of person. “It is amazing.”

“Who’s that?” Mom asks me from across the breakfast table.

MIT, I mouth, and her eyes widen. She takes her coffee cup and disappears into the living room.

“So it looks like you haven’t RSVP’d to the campus visit next month,” Amala continues.

“Oh no, I am planning on coming to that,” I tell her. “I’ve just had a lot on my plate lately, so I haven’t gotten around to—”

“Are you considering another school?” she asks me, point-blank.

“No!” I blurt. “No. It’s MIT for me. It’s always been MIT.”

“Because I will just tell you, and not because it’s my job to tell you this at this point, but if you love math, you should come to MIT. It’d be stupid to go anywhere else.”

“I completely agree,” I say. “That’s why—”

“Not just because the professors are phenomenal and you’ll be challenged and you’ll be working on things you’ve never dreamed about, but because you’re allowed to be yourself here. You’re not expected to mold yourself into something else. You’re celebrated for your own particular intellect. And that’s something I don’t think you can find anywhere else. Okay?”

“Okay.”

“So sign up for the campus visit. I’ll show you around.”

“Okay.”

“And keep those grades up, all right? They were serious about that. Because yes, they will accept you for who you are here, but they will also expect nothing less than your very best work. Got it?”

“Yes,” I say, finding myself nodding even though she can’t see me. “I understand.”

“I’ll see you in a few weeks, then,” she says.

“Yeah. I’ll see you then.”

The minute I hang up the phone Mom comes charging back into the kitchen. I wonder if she was just outside the door listening, although I’m sure she couldn’t have gotten much from my series of okays.

“Everything all right?” she asks.

Excitement flutters in my stomach.

“I’m really going to MIT,” I say, and it finally feels true. I have to write that stupid essay for English class, if Mrs. Blackburn will accept it more than a month late. I have to go to Miss Mahoney and see if I can improve upon my tragic midterm score. I have to show them my best.

Mom smiles, too. “You’re really going to MIT.”

I’m still in a bit of a daze from the MIT call when I meet Damian in the café at the SouthPointe Barnes & Noble. He looks freshly showered and he’s wearing a black polo and clean jeans and not his standard gray hoodie.

I order a green tea latte.

“Are those good?” he asks when I pick it up from the end of the counter. “They’re so green. They look like blended grass.”

“They grow on you,” I answer.

He orders a salted caramel mocha. We sit at a table for a while and discuss Kafka. Damian gives me a few other titles to try: Dostoyevsky’s Crime and Punishment and James Joyce’s Dubliners and Herman Melville’s Moby-Dick. I’m going to be busy reading for a while.

Then the conversation stalls.

“So,” I say after a few minutes of awkward silence. “This is going to sound silly, but I’ve become interested in poetry lately.”

“What’s silly about poetry?” he asks, shifting in his chair.

“Nothing! There’s nothing silly about poetry, but I’ve been wanting to write some, and I’m finding out that I’m not any good at it. Do you read poetry?”

“Yeah. I read poetry,” he says lightly. “I write some, too.”

“Maybe you could give me some suggestions for poets I could read, and then I could imitate them or use them for inspiration or you could tutor me—”

“Lex,” he interrupts. “Stop.”

I stop my babbling. “What?”

“You don’t have to . . .” He smiles. “You don’t have to come up with ways to get my attention.”

He reaches across the table and puts his hand over mine.

“I get it,” he says. “I know what you’re doing.”

Heat rushes to my face. “You do?”

“When did you figure it out?” he asks.

I stare at him, then at his hand. “Figure it out,” I repeat.

He laughs. “I knew it. On Wednesday, when you came up to me and wanted to talk about Heart of Darkness, I thought, She knows.”

Naturally I have no idea what he’s talking about. There’s something off about the way he’s looking at me. A warmth in his gray eyes. An expectation.