A calculator can discern the square root of Pi, but only I can make a Baja taco. His sixth grade chapped lips asked me what the answer was, his beady eyes the future of computer software, and I say that’ll be three oh five. My hands smell like fake meat and cheese. They stain the underneaths of my fingernails.
She told me to be quiet, and I did, and she said get in the car, and I did because he might wake up soon and you can’t tame a wild animal, and I knew this as a metaphor, but I couldn’t see Dad as a grizzly or a panther, he was the one who made pork sandwiches and helped me with math equations.
The boy didn’t have the change, so a girl came up and said sorry for his attitude, he just found out he’s the genius in the family, lucky him. This girl talked with soft lips that sat on a face pure like burnt honey.
There are two types of people in this world — it’s like newspaper print — only one day you find out they lied to you and there’s life on other planets, they’re only separated by seven states of liquid, and all kinds of people have two separate identities, split down the middle like a slur or a caterpillar at the dissection table in Science class.
Her brother won a math competition. I told her I sucked at math, she gave me a five dollar bill, I gave her a dollar ninety five and asked what she liked to do. She said she didn’t know, her hair matted to her face in desperation to belong there, and I asked for her number.