(no subject)
Oh, *Gawd*. More of this crazy crackfic. Please, let it end eventually!
Rodney was rooming on Maple Avenue, three blocks from the boardwalk, in a boardinghouse that had been built in the late nineteen-twenties and still retained most of its architectural oddities.
John learned more than he ever expected to know about Depression closets, claw-foot bathtubs, and crystal doorknobs. The tiny air conditioner looked strange in one of the old-fashioned windows with their wooden sashes and chains, and the sink in the corner was shaped from real marble, with separate faucets for hot and cold water, right next to the surprisingly decent-sized refrigerator.
Over the next few weeks, John spent more and more of his time there. When Rodney had time off, he liked to sprawl on the double bed, papers and books spread around him, and verbally bludgeon John into designing elaborate mathematical proofs for his outrageous metaphysical ideas.
“Wormholes?” John scoffed, more than once. “Honestly, Rodney, there’s no such thing.”
Rodney didn’t even look up from his scribbles. “There was ‘no such thing’ as Pluto until 1930,” he said loftily. “Now shut up and write. Besides, you shouldn’t let your brain totally atrophy over summer break, not with college boards coming up.”
“You mean the SATs,” John corrected absently. Every once in a while, Rodney came out with a bit of slang that threw John for a loop. He was making it his personal mission to force Rodney to talk like an *American* teenager before summer’s end. “And anyway, I signed up already. I have until the end of October.”
He eyed his calculations, cursed, and crossed out half a page. “Not that it matters, anyway.”
Rodney glanced up. “Doesn’t matter? What are you talking about? No decent university will accept you unless you at least *take* the test, and preferably score better than eight hundred.”
John put down his pencil and rolled over onto his back, stretching out crosswise on the bed and folding his arms behind his head. “Why bother going to college? My grades suck, so I’ll never get accepted anywhere other than county, and who needs a college degree to dig ditches, anyway?”
He frowned. “I should’ve just gone vo-tech. Learned to fix cars or something useful.”
Rodney leaned up on his elbows and glared fiercely. “Are you just fishing for compliments, or what?”
John tilted his head and treated Rodney to a puzzled look. “What are you talking about? There’s nothing special about me -- I’m just some military brat with, like you keep saying, not even enough common sense to keep a seagull alive.”
Rodney sat up, kneeling carelessly on the scattered papers so that he could poke John in the chest. “You are *wasting* your brain,” he said emphatically. “Your IQ is one hundred and sixty-four, did you just not *hear* me when I told you?”
“Ow,” John said feelingly. “Quit poking me.”
Abruptly, Rodney rolled into a sitting position, legs folded tailor-style. He propped his elbows on his knees and balanced his chin on his fists, studying John closely. “If you could do anything in the world, *anything* that you wanted to do, what would it be?”
“I’d fly,” John said instantly. He didn’t even need to think about it.
Rodney nodded. “Looked into any flight schools?”
John stared up at the water stains on the ceiling. “I’d never get in,” he said mulishly. “I need a B-average or better, plus SAT scores of over eleven hundred.”
“Hm,” Rodney mused. “Okay. I can get your scores up just working with you this summer. Your best subject is math, right?”
John just *looked* at him.
Rodney had the grace to flush. “Right, right. Stupid question. So, are you taking any advanced math courses?”
“What for?” John asked. “Senior year is for taking it easy.”
Rodney sighed. “Look, just go with me here. Colleges look at a lot more than just grades these days. If you can talk your guidance counselor into letting you add some heavy math courses, get a tutor in the classes you hate, and maybe join a club that doesn’t have *anything* to do with sports, it could be enough to get you into a decent college. You’re incredibly smart, you’re just unbelievably lazy.”
John opened his mouth to object, realized that Rodney was right, and closed it again.
He thought for a moment, while Rodney was uncharacteristically silent. “Okay,” John said finally. “But how can I convince Mr. Mitcho to let me take Advanced Placement Calculus? I stopped with Algebra II, last year.”
“Math camp,” Rodney answered promptly.
“’Math camp’?” John parroted.
Rodney began gesturing as he talked, a sure sign that he was excited about whatever he was discussing. “Like the one I’m going to, only for math. They call it a camp, but really, ‘seminar’ would be a more appropriate term, because it only lasts for about two weeks. All you have to do is contact a university, and they can tell you whether or not they’re going to have one, and then you send the check and off you go.”
John leaned up on one elbow, interested despite himself. “Aren’t they going to ask for my grades and stuff?”
“That’s the beauty of it,” Rodney exclaimed. “Only the big-name schools make you actually apply. Just pick the college nearest to you and call them up, and send the check.”
“Math camp,” John repeated. “You really think I can get in?”
“Oh, my God,” Rodney said, rolling his eyes. “Yes, yes, yes. You’re brilliant, just untrained, and any mathematics department worth its salt, to say nothing of delusions of grandeur, would fall all over themselves trying to suck you into their greedy clutches. Now shut up and pick a school so that we can go to the payphone down the street and start making arrangements.”
John sat up and said doubtfully, “Um. Okay.”
Rodney leaped to his feet and waved his hands in the air as if he were dismissing any concerns that John might have, grabbing him by the upper arm and dragging him out the door. He chattered away at top speed and equal volume, making John feel overwhelmed again, but still, somehow, protected and cared for, in a way that nobody had ever bothered with before.
“Math camp?” John asked again.
“Math camp,” Rodney said firmly.
************************
Rodney was rooming on Maple Avenue, three blocks from the boardwalk, in a boardinghouse that had been built in the late nineteen-twenties and still retained most of its architectural oddities.
John learned more than he ever expected to know about Depression closets, claw-foot bathtubs, and crystal doorknobs. The tiny air conditioner looked strange in one of the old-fashioned windows with their wooden sashes and chains, and the sink in the corner was shaped from real marble, with separate faucets for hot and cold water, right next to the surprisingly decent-sized refrigerator.
Over the next few weeks, John spent more and more of his time there. When Rodney had time off, he liked to sprawl on the double bed, papers and books spread around him, and verbally bludgeon John into designing elaborate mathematical proofs for his outrageous metaphysical ideas.
“Wormholes?” John scoffed, more than once. “Honestly, Rodney, there’s no such thing.”
Rodney didn’t even look up from his scribbles. “There was ‘no such thing’ as Pluto until 1930,” he said loftily. “Now shut up and write. Besides, you shouldn’t let your brain totally atrophy over summer break, not with college boards coming up.”
“You mean the SATs,” John corrected absently. Every once in a while, Rodney came out with a bit of slang that threw John for a loop. He was making it his personal mission to force Rodney to talk like an *American* teenager before summer’s end. “And anyway, I signed up already. I have until the end of October.”
He eyed his calculations, cursed, and crossed out half a page. “Not that it matters, anyway.”
Rodney glanced up. “Doesn’t matter? What are you talking about? No decent university will accept you unless you at least *take* the test, and preferably score better than eight hundred.”
John put down his pencil and rolled over onto his back, stretching out crosswise on the bed and folding his arms behind his head. “Why bother going to college? My grades suck, so I’ll never get accepted anywhere other than county, and who needs a college degree to dig ditches, anyway?”
He frowned. “I should’ve just gone vo-tech. Learned to fix cars or something useful.”
Rodney leaned up on his elbows and glared fiercely. “Are you just fishing for compliments, or what?”
John tilted his head and treated Rodney to a puzzled look. “What are you talking about? There’s nothing special about me -- I’m just some military brat with, like you keep saying, not even enough common sense to keep a seagull alive.”
Rodney sat up, kneeling carelessly on the scattered papers so that he could poke John in the chest. “You are *wasting* your brain,” he said emphatically. “Your IQ is one hundred and sixty-four, did you just not *hear* me when I told you?”
“Ow,” John said feelingly. “Quit poking me.”
Abruptly, Rodney rolled into a sitting position, legs folded tailor-style. He propped his elbows on his knees and balanced his chin on his fists, studying John closely. “If you could do anything in the world, *anything* that you wanted to do, what would it be?”
“I’d fly,” John said instantly. He didn’t even need to think about it.
Rodney nodded. “Looked into any flight schools?”
John stared up at the water stains on the ceiling. “I’d never get in,” he said mulishly. “I need a B-average or better, plus SAT scores of over eleven hundred.”
“Hm,” Rodney mused. “Okay. I can get your scores up just working with you this summer. Your best subject is math, right?”
John just *looked* at him.
Rodney had the grace to flush. “Right, right. Stupid question. So, are you taking any advanced math courses?”
“What for?” John asked. “Senior year is for taking it easy.”
Rodney sighed. “Look, just go with me here. Colleges look at a lot more than just grades these days. If you can talk your guidance counselor into letting you add some heavy math courses, get a tutor in the classes you hate, and maybe join a club that doesn’t have *anything* to do with sports, it could be enough to get you into a decent college. You’re incredibly smart, you’re just unbelievably lazy.”
John opened his mouth to object, realized that Rodney was right, and closed it again.
He thought for a moment, while Rodney was uncharacteristically silent. “Okay,” John said finally. “But how can I convince Mr. Mitcho to let me take Advanced Placement Calculus? I stopped with Algebra II, last year.”
“Math camp,” Rodney answered promptly.
“’Math camp’?” John parroted.
Rodney began gesturing as he talked, a sure sign that he was excited about whatever he was discussing. “Like the one I’m going to, only for math. They call it a camp, but really, ‘seminar’ would be a more appropriate term, because it only lasts for about two weeks. All you have to do is contact a university, and they can tell you whether or not they’re going to have one, and then you send the check and off you go.”
John leaned up on one elbow, interested despite himself. “Aren’t they going to ask for my grades and stuff?”
“That’s the beauty of it,” Rodney exclaimed. “Only the big-name schools make you actually apply. Just pick the college nearest to you and call them up, and send the check.”
“Math camp,” John repeated. “You really think I can get in?”
“Oh, my God,” Rodney said, rolling his eyes. “Yes, yes, yes. You’re brilliant, just untrained, and any mathematics department worth its salt, to say nothing of delusions of grandeur, would fall all over themselves trying to suck you into their greedy clutches. Now shut up and pick a school so that we can go to the payphone down the street and start making arrangements.”
John sat up and said doubtfully, “Um. Okay.”
Rodney leaped to his feet and waved his hands in the air as if he were dismissing any concerns that John might have, grabbing him by the upper arm and dragging him out the door. He chattered away at top speed and equal volume, making John feel overwhelmed again, but still, somehow, protected and cared for, in a way that nobody had ever bothered with before.
“Math camp?” John asked again.
“Math camp,” Rodney said firmly.
************************