Hard Facts by Penny Clarke

2

Grayson

Whoever said numbers are boring is, to put it bluntly, an idiot. Numbers are not boring. They’re anything but. Take a number, any number at all, and you can break it down into several contexts. Use it in a myriad of different ways. To measure outcomes. Form systems and arrange schedules. Weigh risks versus rewards. Influence the very decisions that make us human.

Numbers are absolutely, overwhelmingly, fascinating.

Take any number. Any one at all. And there’s a world of facts behind it.

For example, fifty.

“Gray.”

Mathematically, a fairly simple construct. The sum of three squares. Divisible by six factors. Equivalent to one-half. In binary, it’s written as 110010. L, in Roman numerals. But it’s also the atomic number of tin. It’s the speed for roads with unspecified limits in both Canada and Australia. Hawaii is the fiftieth state.

“Rowe.”

Now, twenty-five. That’s another interesting one. A perfect square integer. One-fourth of a whole. The average overlap of an individual’s DNA with someone in their extended family: a half-sibling, grandparents, aunt, nephew, etc. The eighty-ninth and ninetieth numbers in pi are both twenty-five. The largest butterfly in the world, the Queen Alexandria’s birdwing, weighs twenty-five grams. Americans spend an average of twenty-five dollars on coffee in a single week.

“I don’t think he’s listening, Spence.”

“No shit.”

And three. A prime number. Triangular number. Fibonacci number. Considered lucky in China. Tri means three. Blue, yellow, and red are the three primary colors. Hieroglyphic, demotic, and Greek are the three scripts on the Rosetta Stone. In baseball, a batter strikes out three times. The letters A, F, H, K, N, Y, Z are all made up of only three lines. When civilization first began, we had a word for one, a word for two, but three? Three meant all.

“Should I…?”

Fifty. Twenty-five. Three.

All incredibly different numbers. Each one with so many details hiding behind it.

“Do it.”

Beeee—beeeeep—be-be-be—beeeeeeeep!

I jump, dropping my phone. It lands on the ground with a crunch, and the plunging sensation that’s been terrorizing my insides attempts to surge from my stomach to my throat.

Don’t be cracked, is my entreaty as I kneel to pick it up. Don’t be cracked. Don’t be—

Aside from a thin dusting of dirt on the screen, it’s fine. Thank fuck.

I wipe it off, then glare at my roommates. Two giant blurs stare back at me. I push my glasses up my nose, and they sharpen into focus.

“Good news,” Levi says, hanging out of the car window. “The horn works perfectly.”

He blares it again with a devilish grin.

Unamused, I ignore him and check my phone again. The screen displays the latest email in my inbox, the one I’d been in the process of reading before Levi’s raucous interruption. I read over it again, just to be certain the words haven’t changed.

They haven’t.

At the beginning of each semester, the Lakewood engineering department sends out a newsletter. A summary of all the projects students in my cohort accomplished over the summer, events to look forward to in upcoming months, fun facts about professors, any big department news. Last semester, it had all been about the completion of Prescott Hall’s construction (though, it conveniently left out that some frat had vandalized the new engineering building with a giant mural of a dick). As though following the lead of the previous one, the very top of this semester’s newsletter promotes—

Get your applications in now for the Prescott Biotech Industries spring internship program!

I’ve done my own research on the Prescott program. It’s the real deal. The crowning glory of tech internships. Promising to sharpen skills through educational development, professional mentorship, and formal training. No menial clerical tasks like making copies or stapling reports. No running coffee orders. Just strictly hands-on, experiential learning. And best of all—

It’s paid.

Fuck, what would it be like, to have such a prestigious addendum to my résumé?

I read over the details, repeating them under my breath to commit each one to memory. But even as I do, my stomach sinks lower and lower with a solitary, gut-wrenching realization.

I won’t apply.

Candidate requirements? Easy. I meet every single one.

Professor referrals? No problem. Got ‘em in spades.

Technical examination? Don’t make me laugh.

Yet…

There’s no way I’ll get it.

This illustrious of an internship is highly coveted. Hell, I’m sure a number of my fellow engineering classmates are gearing up their materials right now after receiving this email. Take them and multiply by thousands. Scholars from across the state, the nation, the world. I’m intelligent, hard-working, and ambitious—but so is every other applicant.

Even I know my chances of landing a spot are statistically stunted.

Fifty. Twenty-five. Three.

Fuck. I’m going to miss out on the opportunity of a lifetime.

All because I don’t have a leg up on my competition.

Fifty. Twenty-five. Three.

I squeeze my eyes shut and pinch the bridge of my nose. When I open them again, the ground sways and my head feels light and—shit, I forgot to breathe.

With a deep breath, I scour my brain. Facts. I need more facts. About anything—from the hum of cicadas and the smell of a fresh-cut lawn and warm sunlight on the back of my neck. To the wispy cirrus clouds floating above, the solid asphalt driveway below, and everything else in between. Facts to remind me that even when it seems like the sky is falling around me, the rest of the world isn’t coming down with it.

“Did you know,” I ask. “There are about five thousand species of ladybugs in the world, and they can eat up to five thousand aphids during their life cycle?”

I don’t expect either to answer the question, though Levi does pipe up with, “The fuck are aphids—”

Before I can explain, Spencer slams the hood of the car shut and raps his knuckles on the metal. “Aside from the horn, everything works. Barely.”

Another deep breath. This one more deliberate. “Care to expand?”

Spencer’s shoulders slump, an infinitesimal amount. Almost imperceptible.

But I notice.

I notice everything.

I notice the way Spencer touches his back pocket at random intervals, usually right after the whir of a vibrating phone. I’ve noticed him slide it out when he thinks Levi and I can’t see, his normally stoic expression softening at whatever message he’s received. And I know, without a doubt, that it’s a text from his girlfriend, Kennedy.

He’s done it nineteen times. In the past thirty minutes.

I notice Levi fanning his brow. How he fiddles with the sun visor, only to have it snap down at an awkward angle. I notice him gingerly place it back the way it was, perfectly fine, so that the next person to touch it—that is, me—will have been the one to break it, not him. I notice him wrinkle his nose at the afternoon sun beating down on the car roof, wipe sweat from his face with the hem of his t-shirt, then glance down at it thoughtfully, and I know, I just know—

Yep. There goes his shirt.

It’s the two-hundred-thirty-ninth time he’s randomly removed it. This summer.

And I notice the way both of them glance at one another, then at the car, their expressions similar shades of pity. For me.

So I’m already preparing myself for another crippling blow when Spencer says, “It needs a shit ton of work, Rowe. Thing’s a damn lemon.”

I slant a look at the vehicle in question. Patches of chipping rust. Duct tape holding up the front bumper. Sticky locks that require jiggling the keys to open.

Sure, it’s seen better days. But it runs. Or, at least, it ran enough for me to wheel it into our driveway.

“Lemons,” I say. “Contain five percent of citric acid, which is a natural preservative.”

“Citric acid can’t preserve this car, genius,” Levi calls from his spot in the front seat, where Spencer had been directing him to turn the engine off and on for inspection.

“No, but did you know—” I pause when I notice him shuffle with something in his lap. Frown deepening, I come around and lean inside the passenger side window, just in time to see him slap the glove box shut. I reach to open it, but he shoves my arm out of the way, which only makes me more determined to find out what the hell he was doing in there. When he tries to smack me away again, we get into a short tussle until I twist his arm and he surrenders with a curse.

I open the glove box.

Immediately, my face bursts into flames when I spot the foil square.

“Look, Gray, this hunk of junk has only one thing going for it, and it’s that back seat.” Levi jerks a thumb over his shoulder, then winces. Massaging his wrist, he mutters, “Did you have to twist that hard?”

“Why?” is all I ask him.

“What do you mean, why? Wait—do you not like it? I thought you’d get a kick out of it,” he picks the foil up, displaying the recognizable red and blue diamond adorning its label. “You think Superman doesn’t need a little super protection now and then for his super dong? Way to be super irresponsible, Gray. But hey, if you don’t want it, I know Rylie wouldn’t mind some super lovin’—”

“Out. Get out,” I snap.

He shrugs, dropping the condom again. As he grabs the roof and pulls himself through the window (the passenger side door doesn’t budge an inch), I make to remove his car-warming gift.

But as soon as my fingers grip the packet’s edge, I pause, wrinkling my nose in quick debate. With a swift glance at my friends, I see Spencer checking another text (twenty times), and Levi pointing his own phone at himself, no doubt sending Rylie a picture of his abs.

I tuck the condom back where it was.

Technically, Levi’s not wrong. It’s simple good sense to be prepared. Studies have shown a staggering majority of hookups take place in cars. That number only increases when narrowed to the college age.

It’s simple figures.

And, well…

A guy can dream, can’t he?

With a grunt, I pull myself from the window, taking a moment to survey the car again.

One thing, though, that Levi is mistaken about: this hunk of junk does have something going for it, other than an apparently spacious back seat—

“This should go without saying, but I’ll say it anyway,” I glare at Levi. “You and your girlfriend are not having sex in my car.”

—and it’s that this hunk of junk is all mine.

“See, when you say things like that, it only makes me want to do it more,” Levi says. “Spence gets it.”

Spencer makes no comment as he grabs a rag from his back pocket and wipes grease from his fingers. The corner of his mouth, however, tilts in what can only be called a smirk.

“I don’t know how much clearer I can make this,” I jam my finger on the roof to drive home my point. “But no one is fucking in this vehicle.”

“Aw, Gray, don’t be so hard on yourself.”

Levi has a good chuckle, then holds up a palm to Spencer. After Spencer slaps his arm away, Levi high-fives himself instead. I ignore the both of them by pulling up the banking app on my phone.

“How much for the repairs?”

“Rowe—”

“How. Much. Spencer.”

With an irritated huff, Spencer tells me the estimation. It’s almost as much as I paid for the rust bucket.

Fuck.

My frown deepens as I look at the number on the screen. Only a portion of that total. A sad, meager portion. In the low double digits.

I look down, once more, at my new car. My new old car, I correct, scratching at a flake of rust with my thumbnail.

Bought and paid for, in cash, after a whole summer of legwork. Of researching gas mileage reports and reliability ratings. Setting a budget. Scouring online ad listings for something within that budget. Finding a buyer who wouldn’t run a credit score. Working extra shifts and checking vending machine change slots and keeping my eyes peeled to sidewalks, parking lots, bathrooms, bus stops—anywhere loose change might fall, unnoticed by all but me.

Even after all of that, this ramshackle mass of metal and rust… was still the best I could afford.

The seller had been pretty straightforward about it, too. I give him the money, he gives me the car, and that’s that. No returns. No exchanges. No complaints. Take it as is or leave it. So I took it. Now I can’t give it back. Can’t even try to sell it myself to recuperate the loss of nearly all my savings, because who else would be willing to spend that much on something in such a sad state of disrepair? No one. Not unless he’s truly desperate.

Fifty. Twenty-five. Three.

The irony is… overwhelming. A potent blend of nausea and vertigo. Enough to make you want to simultaneously puke and cry.

Not a little unlike getting kicked in the balls.

Putting my phone away, I grip the edge of the open car window. Dig my fingers into solidified object and try to recall the excitement I’d had inserting the key into the ignition. Revving my foot on the gas, like it could immediately drive me off into the dreams I’d had when first deciding, once and for all, it was time to buy a car. No more bumming rides off friends. No more hiking back and forth across campus. No more rushing from class to work with barely seconds to spare. The ability to go where I want, when I want.

Complete and total freedom from dependence on anyone else.

All at the cost of every last cent to my name.

That dream, it’s still so, so close. I’m touching it with my own two hands. It’s there, within my grasp, and—

Fifty. Twenty-five. Three.

I have to make it work.

But how?

I maxed out my tutoring hours at the library. Wasted my entire summer just to gather the amount I needed to buy the damn thing. Now, I have to find a way to save up that much to fix it, as well as supplement everything else I need for the school year. Lab fees and textbooks. Personal expenses. Rent.

The new semester starts on Monday. Between classes and studying, I’ll have even less time to work. Not to mention applying for internships. Maybe not the Prescott one, but others. More attainable ones. And there’s still effort that goes into those. Résumé building and cover letter writing and phone screenings and interviews.

There’s a way. I can work it out. Maximize my time by minimizing my schedule. I can spend less time at Kellermann’s. Study at football games. My friends won’t like it—Natalie, in particular, will raise hell. But I need to do something, fast. Who needs sleep, anyway? Certainly not Spencer or Kennedy, who woke me up before dawn with shushed groans and a thumping headboard.

Seven. It’s the seventh time they’d done that. This week. And Kennedy’s only just returned from a summer abroad. If this is any indication of what the rest of the semester will be like—and it is, because the numbers don’t lie—then I’ll need to invest in noise-cancelling headphones. Or a pillow that can better muffle noise. Earplugs, at the least.

“Are you freaking out, Gray?” Levi’s smile, for once, is replaced with concern.

“I’m fine,” I snap, because I much prefer his joking at my expense.

“Totally freaking out,” he mumbles to Spencer, but I don’t have time to correct him—or threaten to twist his other arm—because an unfamiliar car rolls up to the curb in front of our house.

Black sedan, tinted windows, nondescript. No one we know. Until the back door opens and out hops a girl in running shorts and an off-the-shoulder Lakewood Leopards sweater. She throws a suitcase onto the grass and slams the door shut with a loud thanks to the driver, then wheels around to face the yellow house at the top of Main Street. I see her eyes run over the sign hanging above the front door. The one that displays our house name in bold, big letters—the one she painted herself, way back at the end of freshman year.

Main Desire.

And as I watch her splay her hands on her hips, I can just make out Natalie Mason mouth to herself one word. It’s one that hits directly to the center of my chest. Because it’s the same one I feel when I look at that sign.

Home.

But for how long?

I push that thought aside as Natalie swivels her gaze just left of the house. To where Spencer, Levi, and I stand in the driveway. She breaks into a grin, then sprints up the hilly yard to us, only to run back, grab her suitcase, and start the trek all over again.

Levi greets her first, hauling her into a sweaty hug that makes her squirm in disgust. Spencer gives a half-hearted one-arm embrace, because he’s gotten another text from Kennedy, and Natalie teases him for being such an attentive boyfriend.

Finally, she rounds out her homecoming with a lunge at me. Her hair—frizzy, pink, and in a lopsided ponytail—itches my nose.

“You’re choking me,” I try to pull away.

“Suck it up, I have to fit a whole summer worth of hugs into this,” and she tightens her death grip. When she decides I’ve had enough, she takes a step back with one last squeeze to my shoulders. Then, pausing, she squeezes again. “Damn, someone’s been working out. How much are you bench pressing now?”

I wave her hands away and raise an eyebrow at her outfit. Before I can comment, Levi asks, “Notice anything different about the driveway, Mason?”

At first, Natalie’s confused by his smile, but then she jumps in surprise at the car she’s completely overlooked. “Who left their shit-mobile—Hold up, omigod omigod, Gray!” I wince at her gasping shriek. “You got the car! Theo said we were gonna take you this weekend to look and ahhh, omigod, you did it!”

I settle her exaggerated bouncing before she knocks me over. Once she’s calmed down, she takes another look around, like there’s more to be discovered and maybe she missed it the first time.

She’s been searching the moment she stepped out of that car.

I noticed. Naturally.

“He’s at the stadium,” I tell her while Spencer and Levi muse over something that happened at football conditioning. Natalie’s eyes meet mine, and I offer more, “Running through some practices with the new freshmen, but he said he’d be back—”

Not as soon as the words fall from my lips does another car turn onto the street. Rolls right into our driveway behind Levi’s SUV. A sleek, black hybrid with no signs of rust, and a driver side door that opens perfectly fine, the engine still running with a faint purr.

Natalie steps away from me as she watches the driver’s golden head emerge. Her smile matches the wide grin that breaks out on his face when he sees her.

There’s a second. A single moment where they regard each other.

Then Natalie runs the short distance between them, jumping into Morris’s waiting arms. She wraps her own around his neck and shrieks with laughter as he lifts her off the ground, in an embrace even tighter than the one she’d used on me. Too soon, though, Morris sets her right back down.

“You couldn’t even be here to roll out the red carpet for me? Some best friend you are,” Natalie says.

“May I remind you,” he responds. “You were supposed to get back yesterday.”

“Not my fault the flight got delayed.”

“You mixed up the dates.”

“Oh, now we’re victim-blaming? For shame, Theo.”

“Six hours, Nat. I waited six hours at the airport. Who’s the real victim here?” But Morris’s complaints are punctuated with buoyant chuckles, and Natalie beams ear to ear, her eyes never wavering from his.

Levi drops his head back with an irritated sigh. To Spencer and me, he says, “Gray, isn’t it true that too much unresolved sexual tension leads to spontaneous emissions?”

I wrinkle my nose, glasses slipping as I parse his question. “Don’t you mean spontaneous combustion?”

“Is that what you call it?”

That gets a snort out of Spencer, and Natalie turns at the sound, finally tearing her attention away from Morris. She asks, “What’s so funny?”

Levi thrusts an accusing finger at me. “Grayson’s talking about getting his rockets off—no, don’t, you already did that arm—Morris, stop him!”

Morris is less concerned about me contorting his tight end’s throwing arm, since he’s spotted the sorry state of a station wagon. He casts a heavy frown at it. I drop Levi’s arm, and leave him whining to Natalie and Spencer about his elbow, to step beside the blond.

“You did it,” Morris says without looking at me.

I mimic his stance, hands in my pockets, eyes studying the car, and I try to hide the way my chest swells.

“I told you we’d go this weekend to find you something.”

My chest deflates, impaled by a spike of annoyance.

“I got a good deal on this one,” I tell him, keeping my voice light, even as every part of me turns rigid.

He runs a hand over his jaw. “It’s not in the best condition, is it?”

That’s putting it nicely. “It needs a few repairs.”

Now he lifts his head, noting my dismissive shrug, which is way too jerky to be believable. “How much are they going to—”

“I’ll handle it.”

“If you need—”

“No.”

“I—”

“Morris,” I meet his gaze directly. “Did you know a cow has a one in seventeen million chance of becoming a Super Bowl football?”

With a sigh, Morris closes his eyes. I know from the annoyed set of his mouth, the way he stares me down, that this conversation isn’t over. And he knows from the stare I send him that I’m not backing down, either.

Not for this.

Because this is something I have to do, have to figure out, on my own.

Fifty. Twenty-Five. Three.

I have to.