again?”
Mr. Pinneo glanced at my test scores. “Maybe you just sign up for Math 81. Basic Arithmetic. That’s for people who haven’t—”
“—done long division since the Reagan administration. I know. But I can’t afford to stay here taking math, one class at a time, for the rest of my natural life. I’m hoping to transfer to UCLA.” UCLA had a beautiful campus. Equally important, it offered the graphic arts degree I was seeking. It would not admit me, though, until Santa Monica College had certified me, according to the terms of the Intersegmental General Education Transfer Curriculum.
“Okay,” he said. “Take the assessment test anytime before your registration date, which is”—he typed into his computer—“two weeks. You get one more shot, then you have to wait three months to retest. Meanwhile, might as well do the math. Without math, you won’t do squat in science. Good luck, Wollie.”
I walked out into the sunshine, squinting. The campus no longer seemed the symbol of possibility it had been a half hour earlier. I felt old, stupid, and poor. But I had to make this work, because my other dreams weren’t panning out. Marriage and children were remote possibilities, people were fleeing my life with alarming frequency—college was the one thing under my conscious control. It wasn’t cheap, but instead of three or four classes at a time, I’d take one. One per semester. But not if it was math. Not for the next seventy years. I’d had a better attitude when it looked like Doc would be around to help with homework. Maths 21 through 82 wouldn’t have fazed him; he’d gone to MIT.
They hadn’t fazed Annika either. “You are missing out on this fun!” she’d said, hearing of my math phobia. “Did you play with puzzles when you were small? This is geometry. In school, did you have code words with your girlfriends? This is algebra. Music, language, baking cookies, stars in the sky, everything is mathematics. It is just that no one has shown this to you, but I will show it to you and then everything will connect to everything else and you will be so happy.”
She’d done this. Annika had opened a window onto a world, just a crack. Enough to peek through. But now she was gone.
I missed her.
An hour later I was at Westside Pavilion, replaying my conversation with the blue-eyed guy. “The more I think about it,” I said to Fredreeq, “the more I’m sure he was talking about Annika.”
“No,” she said, leading me past the food court. “I’ve been thinking too, and I’m thinking industrial sabotage.”
“Industrial—? What industry?”
“How many industries are you involved in?” She took a left, heading to a boutique called Plastique, which was having a going-out-of-business sale. “Television, you nut. This isn’t just a show we’re doing, it’s a contest. People bet money on contests, which means other people are making money on the people betting money on this contest. Vegas people.”
“What people? Fredreeq, I’m not going to find anything in here.” I stopped in front of a Plastique Boutique mannequin. She looked like a heroin addict, her face featureless except for deep pink eye sockets, her emaciated torso wearing a shirt made of shoelaces.
“Never mind that. It’s a big bad world out there, with scams going down you’ve never even— Hello,” she said to a girl at a sale table, stacking sweaters in a desultory manner. “Can you tell me if Kim Karmer’s working?”
The girl didn’t look up from her sweaters. “No.”
“No, you can’t tell me, or no, she’s not working?” Fredreeq asked. A salesclerk at the register, I noticed, stared at us as she picked up a phone.
“I don’t know her schedule,” the sweater stacker said.
“Well, who might know her schedule?” Fredreeq asked. When the girl gave a world-weary sigh, Fredreeq grew frighteningly polite. “I’m sorry, am I bothering you? I’m not asking you to go out on a limb here and make
Mr. Pinneo glanced at my test scores. “Maybe you just sign up for Math 81. Basic Arithmetic. That’s for people who haven’t—”
“—done long division since the Reagan administration. I know. But I can’t afford to stay here taking math, one class at a time, for the rest of my natural life. I’m hoping to transfer to UCLA.” UCLA had a beautiful campus. Equally important, it offered the graphic arts degree I was seeking. It would not admit me, though, until Santa Monica College had certified me, according to the terms of the Intersegmental General Education Transfer Curriculum.
“Okay,” he said. “Take the assessment test anytime before your registration date, which is”—he typed into his computer—“two weeks. You get one more shot, then you have to wait three months to retest. Meanwhile, might as well do the math. Without math, you won’t do squat in science. Good luck, Wollie.”
I walked out into the sunshine, squinting. The campus no longer seemed the symbol of possibility it had been a half hour earlier. I felt old, stupid, and poor. But I had to make this work, because my other dreams weren’t panning out. Marriage and children were remote possibilities, people were fleeing my life with alarming frequency—college was the one thing under my conscious control. It wasn’t cheap, but instead of three or four classes at a time, I’d take one. One per semester. But not if it was math. Not for the next seventy years. I’d had a better attitude when it looked like Doc would be around to help with homework. Maths 21 through 82 wouldn’t have fazed him; he’d gone to MIT.
They hadn’t fazed Annika either. “You are missing out on this fun!” she’d said, hearing of my math phobia. “Did you play with puzzles when you were small? This is geometry. In school, did you have code words with your girlfriends? This is algebra. Music, language, baking cookies, stars in the sky, everything is mathematics. It is just that no one has shown this to you, but I will show it to you and then everything will connect to everything else and you will be so happy.”
She’d done this. Annika had opened a window onto a world, just a crack. Enough to peek through. But now she was gone.
I missed her.
An hour later I was at Westside Pavilion, replaying my conversation with the blue-eyed guy. “The more I think about it,” I said to Fredreeq, “the more I’m sure he was talking about Annika.”
“No,” she said, leading me past the food court. “I’ve been thinking too, and I’m thinking industrial sabotage.”
“Industrial—? What industry?”
“How many industries are you involved in?” She took a left, heading to a boutique called Plastique, which was having a going-out-of-business sale. “Television, you nut. This isn’t just a show we’re doing, it’s a contest. People bet money on contests, which means other people are making money on the people betting money on this contest. Vegas people.”
“What people? Fredreeq, I’m not going to find anything in here.” I stopped in front of a Plastique Boutique mannequin. She looked like a heroin addict, her face featureless except for deep pink eye sockets, her emaciated torso wearing a shirt made of shoelaces.
“Never mind that. It’s a big bad world out there, with scams going down you’ve never even— Hello,” she said to a girl at a sale table, stacking sweaters in a desultory manner. “Can you tell me if Kim Karmer’s working?”
The girl didn’t look up from her sweaters. “No.”
“No, you can’t tell me, or no, she’s not working?” Fredreeq asked. A salesclerk at the register, I noticed, stared at us as she picked up a phone.
“I don’t know her schedule,” the sweater stacker said.
“Well, who might know her schedule?” Fredreeq asked. When the girl gave a world-weary sigh, Fredreeq grew frighteningly polite. “I’m sorry, am I bothering you? I’m not asking you to go out on a limb here and make
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