party—and she offered her a glass of something that she’d poured from a large glass pitcher that had floating bits of fruit in it. But my mother stood there, her face white with fury, her lips pressed together into a thin line. She saw me, marched over and yanked me away. And that was it. I was grounded for the rest of the year.”
June jerks back in shock. “The year?”
I nod. “She found a project for me. A mathematics project.”
“What?”
“The Pentti-Stone conjecture.” I take a swig of my drink.
“I don’t really know what that means, Anna.”
“It was to punish me for disobeying her. Although I’m sure she’d argue it was for my own education. But after that party, my mother declared that I was too possessive in my friendships and it was unhealthy. I wasn’t, by the way, June. I really believe I was just a normal child, but she insisted I needed a distraction from my distractions. Next thing I know, she announced that we would solve the Pentti-Stone conjecture. I say ‘we’ because she was going to do it with me. She thought it would be… I don’t know. Fun, I guess. Her idea of mother–daughter bonding. Except that I did all the work. Her only contribution was to check on my progress. She’d come into my bedroom and pick up my work, go over it, maybe ask me a question or two. Sometimes I thought I was on the right track and I’d say to her, ‘Is it right? Would that work?’ But she’d just shake her head. ‘No. That’s not going to work,’ she’d say. Then she’d take my pen from me, put a diagonal line through the page and give me the notebook back. ‘Try again,’ she’d say, and I would cry myself to sleep. It felt so hopeless. I was never going to get it. I was locked up all summer. Every day. I missed Hope so much, I used to dream about her. I fantasized that she was trying to find ways to get me out, that we’d run away! Even after we went back to school the following term, I was locked up every weekend—metaphorically speaking of course, but still—in my room poring over it, trying to come up with a proof just so I could get out and play. Until then, no movies for me, no dances, no hanging out after school playing by the lake with my friends. Not that I had many of those to begin with.” I poke at an anchovy with my fork. “I was thirteen years old. Grown men and women had spent years trying to solve that thing. My dad just pretended it wasn’t happening. He deferred to my mother in every way anyway, a life-long habit he was not going to break, not even for his daughter’s welfare.” I feel a prickle of tears. I grab a napkin and press it against my eyes. “I don’t know why I’m getting upset,” I say. “It’s a long time ago.” The restaurant suddenly feels uncomfortably hot. I scrunch up the napkin into a ball. “It should go without saying I grew to loathe the Pentti-Stone conjecture. I still do. So you can imagine when Alex came to me with—”
I stop, leave the words hanging in the air. I want them to float away but they’re still there, between us. I can’t think of anything to say, and I look at June pleadingly, my mouth opening and closing like a fish.
“When Alex what?” June prompts. But she doesn’t frown or narrow her eyes and there’s no suspicion or shock in her tone, or anything to indicate I said the wrong thing. I feel my insides loosen and I shake my head. “Nothing,” I finally reply. “Ignore me. I don’t know what I’m saying anymore. Hey, shall we get another margarita?”
“Sure, why not?” She flags the waitress while I stare at my hands and will my heart to slow down. I can’t believe I almost blurted it: When Alex came to me with the proof.
June pats my arm. “And you did it, you did solve it.”
I smile. We sit there in silence for a while, staring into our glasses. “So what happened to Hope?” she asks.
I shrug. “The party was just before the end of term and I only saw her once after that, in class, and then her family moved away, so that was that. We drifted apart. I don’t where she is now. I don’t really