Toby tugs an exercise book towards him, and I think this is my cue to leave. Thing is though, I’ve never been able to resist a puzzle. And despite my efforts, the conundrum of my brother remains frustratingly unsolved.
‘So you staying in? Whatcha working on?’
I glance at his upside-down notebook. I’m not sure what ‘competitive equilibrium’ is, but, upside-down, it’s obvious that his last answer is totally wrong.
Toby does this double-take when he catches me peeking. I’m useless at deciphering body language, and when it comes to my brother’s, I have only the vaguest of theories. Elsie is convinced that one day we’re going to arrive home to catch Toby decked out in leather and Viljami trussed up like a Christmas ham, but – ignoring the disgustingness of imagining my brother engaged in any sort of sex antics – I think the only thing we’re in danger of interrupting is one of Toby and Viljami’s marathon debates about tax law.
‘Gonna tell me where I’ve messed up?’ he asks without looking at me.
The correct answer is on the tip of my tongue, before I run another set of calculations in my head. Factoring in Toby’s tone of voice and the scowl he is aiming at his papers, I conclude that his question is probably rhetorical.
‘No,’ I answer. ‘Your last three steps are wrong. I’m sure you’ll figure it out.’
I congratulate myself on my diplomacy as I grab a pear and drag my feet to my bedroom.
I love my room. It’s my only real haven, my very own isolation chamber that hasn’t changed much since I was five – a yellowing prime-numbers poster stuck to the wall beside my bed; glow-in-the-dark stars in constellations of the southern sky that Toby helped me stick to my ceiling a lifetime ago; a brilliant picture that reads: Time Travel Club Begins Yesterday. And my favourite find of all – a faded canvas of Van Gogh’s Starry Night with a cobalt TARDIS swirling among the stars, even though both Mum and Elsie claimed it was ‘tacky’.
My bedroom is mine, unlike the rest of my life, which feels like it was built for a person whose existence is, at best, theoretical.
I haul my bag onto my desk and collapse into my chair. The movement jolts the mouse, kicking my computer to life. I notice, with a little heart-jump, that there is a solitary email sitting in my inbox.
With a deep breath I click on the message from the St Petersburg Steklov Institute of Mathematics. The subject line is in choppy Cyrillic: Grigori Perelman.
I glance at the printout on the pin board above my desk, the most recent photo anyone has managed to capture of Perelman. It’s grainy, and slightly out of focus. Dark eyes under bushy eyebrows peer hopelessly into the distance of a gloomy Russian street. He looks like a lost, bearded yeti.
Like so many of my kind, the prevailing opinion is that he is both brilliant and batshit crazy.
I need to talk to this guy.
Although I’ve been studying it for a whole three months, my Russian is still a bit sketchy. I open my Russian dictionary in a separate window on my screen, switch to the Cyrillic function, then read through the email.
Dear Ms Reyhart,
Thank you for your continuing interest. Unfortunately, I’m afraid that we still cannot help.
Perelman has not worked with us for years. He does not talk to academics. He does not talk to other mathematicians. He most definitely does not talk to journalists. I think we can surmise that he will not talk to high-school girls.
It is his choice to remain incommunicado, and we must ask that you, like us, respect this decision.
Best of luck with your future endeavours.
Balls. I don’t know what else I was expecting.
I push my chair back with a sigh.
Music from Toby’s easy listening playlist drifts down the corridor, muffled by the rain on my window. I examine my room and consider my options: do the last bit of calculus homework from the first-year uni course I’ve been allowed to take online, or battle my way through the end of a romance movie Elsie lent me, even though the little I’d watched made my brain hurt. I know that the theoretical underpinnings of time travel are beyond most Hollywood movies, but even so, a time-travelling letterbox at a random lake house is just stupid.
Stacked on my desk are my last two issues of Pi in the Sky magazine, still in their shrink-wrap. And on top of the pile, my nemesis: the Drama Solo Performance Examination Guide. I pick it up. My chest heaves. I put it down again.
I change into my old flannel shirt, then stretch out on my bed and take a nap.
I’m not sure how much time passes. But when my eyes jolt open, the last of the daylight has disappeared, and elephantine feet are thundering down the corridor. Elsie bursts into my bedroom, arms loaded with books. She’s swapped her school uniform for a black coat over her favourite Starfig Soles T-shirt, and a tiny red skirt that could, conceivably, pass as a belt. She dumps her things on my desk and collapses onto my bed.
‘I see Tobias is having another spectacular Friday night,’ she says breathlessly. ‘Rey, does your brother even have working parts down there? Cos the evidence would seem to suggest he’s smooth, like a Ken doll.’
I shake myself awake. ‘Elsie, can you please stop making me imagine my brother’s stuff? My counsellor already has plenty to work with.’ I glance sideways at the goose pimples on the dark skin of her legs. ‘What are you wearing?’
Elsie struggles out of her coat. She hands me a box of apple juice. ‘New skirt. You like?’
‘Sure. Did you lose the other half?’
Elsie rolls her eyes. ‘Yeah, thanks Auntie Lakshmi. Should I expect a lecture about cows and free milk next?’ She reaches over and tugs off the school tie that I didn’t realise was still knotted around my neck. ‘Besides, where else can I wear it? It’s either your place or Sunday lunch at my nana’s.’ She yanks her hair out of its ponytail, waves cascading over my bedspread as she flops onto her back again. ‘Though, now that I think about it, I did hear that Trevor Pine is having a party tonight. Feel like getting wasted and Snapchatting pics of your duck lips?’
I shudder. ‘Can you imagine?’
Elsie giggles. ‘Yeah. You and I would walk through the doors and it’d be like a bad western movie. The piano would stop. Guys would leap out of their chairs, hands grabbing their guns. Ugh – did that sound like a willy metaphor?’
I groan. ‘And now I’m imagining Trevor Pine’s willy. Thanks, Elsie.’