Special topics in calamity physics - By Marisha Pessl Page 0,31

a bit of a dictator situation. Technically, though, she's only a secretary."

The woman —Eva Brewster—dismissed the school to class.

"Now listen, I wanted to ask you something—hey, wait a sec — !"

I darted past Mozart, pushing my way to the end of the row and into the aisle. Charles managed to keep up with me.

"Hold on." He smiled. "Dang, you're really gung ho about classes— typical A personality, sheesh—but, uh, seeing how you're brand new, a few of my friends and I were hoping . . ." He was apparently talking to me, but his eyes were already floating up the stairs to the EXIT. Goodnight Moons all had heliumed eyes. They could never be tied to anyone for long. "We were hoping you'd have lunch with us. We snagged a pass to go off campus. So don't go to the cafeteria. Meet us at the Scratch. 12:15." He leaned in, his face inches from mine: "And don't be late, or there'll be serious consequences. Understand?" He winked and dashed away.

I stood for a moment in the aisle, unable to move until kids started pushing against my backpack and I was forced up the stairs. I had no idea how Charles knew my name. I did, however, know exactly why he'd rolled out the red carpet: he and his friends were hoping I'd join their Study Group. I'd toiled through a long history of Study Group invites extended by everyone from the Almond-Eyed Football Hero Who'd Have a Son by Senior Year to the Rita Hayworth Sunday Newspaper Coupon Model. I used to bethrilled when I was asked to join a Study Group, and when I arrived at the designated living room equipped with note cards, highlighters, red pens, and supplemental textbooks, I was euphoric as any Chorus Girl who'd been asked to understudy the Lead. Even Dad was excited. As he drove me to Brad's, or Jeb's or Sheena's, he'd start muttering about this being a wonderful opportunity, one that would allow me to spread my Dorothy Parker wings and singlehandedly spearhead a contemporary Algonquin Round Table.

Once he dropped me off, though, it didn't take long to realize I hadn't been invited for my scathing wit. If Carla's living room was the Vicious Circle, I was the waiter everyone ignored unless they wanted another scotch or there was something wrong with the food. Somehow, one of them had discovered I was a "geek" (a "cardigan" at Coventry Academy), and I'd be assigned to research one out of every two questions on the Study Sheet, sometimes the entire Study Sheet.

"Let her do that one, too. You don't mind do you, Blues?"

The turning point came at Leroy's. Right in the middle of his living room crowded with porcelain Dalmatian miniatures, I started to cry—though I didn't know why I decided to cry on that particular occasion; Leroy, Jessica and Schyler had only assigned me one out of every four questions on the Study Sheet. They began to chant in high-pitched, saccharine voices, "Oh, my God, what's wrong?" causing the three live Dalmatians to run into the living room, circling and barking, and Leroy's mother emerged from the kitchen wearing pink dishwashing gloves shouting, "Leroy, I told you not to egg them on!" I ran out of the house, all the way home, about six miles. Leroy never returned my supplemental textbooks.

"So how do you know Charles?" asked Sal Mineo next to me as we reached the glass doors.

"I don't know Charles," I said.

"Well, you're lucky because everyone wants to know him."

"Why?"

Sal looked troubled, then shrugged and said in a soft, regretful voice: "He's royalty." Before I could ask what that meant, he skipped down the cement steps and disappeared into the crowd. Sal Mineos were always talking in spongy voices and making comments that were as vague as the outline of an angora sweater. Their eyes weren't like everyone else's but had enlarged tear glands and extra optic nerves. I thought about hurrying after him, letting him know by the end of the movie he'd be acknowledged as a character of great sensitivity and pathos, an archetype of all that was lost and injured about his generation, but would be gunned down by trigger-happy police if he wasn't careful, if he didn't come to an understanding about himself and who he was.

Instead, I'd spotted the royal: Prince Charles, backpack slung over his shoulder, a playful grin, was striding quickly across the courtyard toward a tall, dark-haired girl wearing a long brown wool