Special topics in calamity physics - By Marisha Pessl Page 0,64

turns laughing and peeing in the handicapped stall.

Sometimes, if the lighting of Jade's cigarette was done with swift precision, she began to have a real conversation, though it was usually so loud, most of it consisted of Jade firing off more questions and the guy mooing, "Huh?" over and over as if trapped in a Beckett play.

Occasionally, the guy had a friend who rested his heavy load of a gaze on Leulah, and once, a man with apparent color blindness and more hair than an Old English Sheepdog fixed his gaze on me. Jade nodded excitedly and pulled her own earlobe (her sign for "This is the one"), but when the guy bent his bushy head down to inquire how I was "likin' Leisure City," for some reason I couldn't think of anything to say. (" 'Fine' is mind-numbing. Never ever say, 'fine,' Retch. And, another thing. Granted, he's hot as hell, but if you bring up your dad in conversation one more time, I'll cut out your tongue.") After too long a pause I said, "Not much."

Frankly, I was a little terrified of how he leaned over me, so confident of his beer breath and his chin, which, underneath the masses of hair, appeared to be modeled after a sugar cone, how his eyes looked down my front as if he'd like nothing better than to lift my hood and inspect my carburetor. "Not much" wasn't the answer he was looking for, because he forced a smile and set about trying to raise Leulah's hood.

There were times too, when I'd glance back to the spot by the door where Jade, minutes before, had been inspecting her Angus bull, trying to decide if he was worth buying to improve her herd—and she wasn't there. She wasn't anywhere, not by the jukebox, or by the girl showing another girl her gold necklace —"He got me this, innit sweet?" (it looked like a gilded thumbnail) —not in the breath-dampened hallway that lead to the back by the couches and pinball machines, not by the man fossilized at the bar mesmerized by closed captions ("A tragedy coming out of Burns County this evening with a robbery that left three dead. Cherry Jeffries is live at the scene."). The first time it happened, I was terrified (I'd read The Girl Done Gone [1982] by Eileen Crown when I was too young and thus it'd made a gruesome impression) and immediately, I alerted Leulah (who, though she looked prim and old-fashioned, could turn pretty vixeny with her nosegay smile, the way she coiled her thick braid around her hand and spoke in a little-girl voice so men tilted over her like big beach umbrellas trying to block the sun).

"Where's Jade?" I asked. "I don't see her."

"Around," she said airily, not looking away from a guy named Luke with a white T-shirt like cling film and arms like basement lead pipes. Using words with no more than two syllables, he was telling her the fascinating story of how he'd been kicked out of West Point for hazing.

"But I don't see her," I said nervously, my eyes wandering the room.

"She's in the bathroom."

"Is she all right?"

"Sure." Leulah's eyes were hooked to Luke's face; it was like the guy was Dickens, fucking Samuel Clemens. I pushed my way into the GIRLS bathroom. "Jade?" It was sticky, murky as unclean aquariums. Girls in tube tops and tight

pants swarmed the mirror, applying lipstick, running fingernails through hair stiff as soft-drink straws. Unrolled toilet paper wormed along the floor and the hand dryer shrieked, though no one dried their hands.

"Jade? Jade? Hello?"

I crouched down and spotted her green metallic sandals in the handicapped stall. "Jade? Are you okay?" "Oh, forfuck's sake, what is it? WHAT?.'" She unlatched the door. It bashed against the wall. She marched out.

Behind her, stuffed between the toilet and the toilet-paper dispenser, was a man, approximately forty-five years old with a thick brown beard that cut his face into crude shapes first graders tape to windows during Art Time. He wore a jean jacket too short in the sleeves and looked as if he'd respond to various shouted commands, including, "C'mere boy!" and "Sick 'em!" His belt was undone, hanging like a rattlesnake.

"Oh, I-I-" I stuttered. "I-"

"Are you dying?" Her face was pale green in the light, seal slick. Fine gold hairs stuck to her temples in question marks and exclamation points. "No," I said. "Are you planning to die anytime soon?" "No-" "Then what are you