Special topics in calamity physics - By Marisha Pessl Page 0,30

no-neck monsters hit me with some ice cream. Their fat little heads sit on their fat little necks without a bit of connection . . ." Maggie the Cat wouldn't withstand such harassment. She'd cross her legs in her flimsy slip and say something passionate and shrill and everyone in the room, including Big Daddy, would choke on the ice they were chewing from their mint juleps.

"What's a guy gotta do to get a little attention around here?"

I had no choice but to turn around.

"What?"

He was smiling at me. I expected him to be a no-neck monster, but to my shock, he was a Goodnight Moon (Brown, 1947). Goodnight Moons had duvet eyes, shadowy eyelids, a smile like a hammock and a silvered, sleepy countenance that most people wore only during the few minutes prior to sleep, but which the Goodnight Moon sported all day and well into the evening. Goodnight Moons could be male or female and were universally adored. Even teachers worshiped them. They looked to Goodnight Moons whenever they asked a question and even though they answered with a drowsy, wholly incorrect answer, the teacher would say, "Oh, wonderful," and twist the words around like a thin piece of wire until they resembled something glorious.

"Sorry," he said. "Didn't mean to disturb you."

He had blond hair, but he wasn't the sort of washed-out Scandinavian blond person who desperately looked as if he needed to be dyed, tinted, hand dipped in something. He wore a crisp white shirt, a navy blazer. His red-andblue striped tie was loose and slightly askew.

"So what are you, a famous actress? Headed to Broadway?"

"Oh, no—"

"I'm Charles Loren," he said, as if revealing a secret.

Dad was a devotee of Sturdy Eye Contact, but what Dad never addressed was that staring directly into a person's eyes was nearly impossible at close range. You had to choose an eye, right or left, or veer back and forth between the two, or simply settle for the spot between the eyes. But I'd always thought that was a sad, vulnerable spot, unkempt of eyebrow and strange of tilt, where David had aimed his stone at Goliath and killed him.

"I know who you are," he said. "Blue something. Don't tell me — "

"What on earth is that hubbub in the back there?"

Charles jerked back in his seat. I turned.

A stocky woman with sour orange hair—the same person who'd glowered at Dad shouting Byron when he dropped me off—had replaced Havermeyer on the auditorium stage. Wearing a turnip-pink suit that strained like a weight lifter to remain buttoned, she stared up at me with her arms crossed and legs planted firmly apart resembling Diagram 11.23, "Classic Turkish Warrior during the Second Crusade" in one of Dad's favorite texts, For the Love of God: History of Religious War and Persecution (Murgg, 1981). And she wasn't the only one staring. All sound had been sucked out of Love Auditorium. Heads were turned toward me like a troop of Seljuk Turks noticing a lone, unwitting Christian taking a shortcut through their camp on his way to Jerusalem.

"You must be a new student," she said into the microphone. Her voice sounded like amplified heel scuffs along pavement. "Allow me to let you in on a little secret. What's your name?"

I hoped it was a figurative question, one I might not be expected to answer, but she was waiting.

"Blue," I said.

She made a face. "What? What did she say?"

"She said blue," someone said.

"Blue? Well, Blue, at this school, when people take the stage, we give them the respect they deserve. We pay attention."

Perhaps I need not point out that I was not accustomed to being stared at, not by an entire school. The Jane Goodall was accustomed to doing all the staring, always in solitude and always from a location of dense foliage, which made her in her khaki shorts and linen blouse virtually indistinguishable from the bamboo canopy. My heart stuttered as I stared back at all the eyes. Slowly, they began to peel off me like eggs on a wall.

"As I was saying. There are critical changes in the Add-Drop Deadlines and I will not make exceptions for anyone. I don't care how many Godiva chocolates you bring me —I'm talking to you, Maxwell. I ask you be on time when you make decisions about coursework, and I mean it."

"Sorry about that," Charles whispered behind me. "I should've warned you. Eva Brewster, you want to lie low around her. Everyone calls her Evita. It's