was sort of annoyed, sort of amused. “Well, since I’m here, at least let me help. She asked me to hang that photo of hers, too.”
Usually, I preferred to do projects alone. But I did have a ton of homework this weekend and was supposed to take Anya to the park tomorrow. “Okay,” I said. “Thanks.”
We headed down the hall to get parietals.
Over the past week, I’d run into David around campus and here in the dorm a few times. Always happily. Aside from the gorgeous thing, he was friendly and easygoing, and knowing he was around made me feel like if I ever had a major problem with Celeste, there was someone sane who could mediate. It was pretty obvious he was an equal-opportunity flirter, so I wasn’t convinced that, like Celeste had said, he’d noticed me in particular. But since it didn’t matter either way, I just enjoyed the buzz I got from his attention.
Back in the room after getting parietals from Ms. Martin, I assigned David the duty of measuring for the new brackets, while I finished up removing the old ones.
When the drill stopped screeching, he asked, “Where’d you learn how to use power tools?”
“My dad,” I said. “He’s a carpenter, old-house restorer guy. Big into DIY.”
“My dad’s smart as hell,” David said. “But the only thing he can hit with a hammer is his thumb.”
“It takes practice.” I wondered if his dad was a mathematician, like David. Like the man in the movie A Beautiful Mind . “I’ve been using tools since I was a kid,” I said. “I made that bookshelf this summer.”
I turned to point and noticed not only the muscles in David’s back when he raised his hands, but also what he was doing. “Are you measuring the front of the molding?” I asked.
“Yeah,” he said. “Why?”
“With this type of molding and these brackets, it has to go inside the frame. See?” I held one up and demonstrated.
“Oh. Right.” He smiled. “Maybe I’ll hang the photo first.”
I took down the last of the old brackets as he got the frame from her closet. “So, you inherited your dad’s,” I coughed, “ talent with this stuff. Is he where you got your brain for spoon math, too?”
“My what?” David said.
“Well, I know that you’re a math whiz. And you made that comment about spoons. So I figure you were talking about some type of equation or theory, or something.” I was kind of kidding, but also a little serious. I didn’t know anything about superadvanced math, and I hadn’t come up with any more plausible idea.
“Like, physicists have string theory, and mathematicians have spoon theory?” he said, standing there holding the photo.
“Yeah, exactly.”
David laughed. Hard. “Spoon theory. That’s great.”
“So if that’s not it,” I said, enjoying the goofy heh-hehs of his laughter, “are you going to tell me what you really meant?”
“I don’t think so,” he said, still smiling really wide. “It’s going to sound lame in comparison.”
“The more you delay, the more you’re building it up,” I teased.
“Okay, okay.” He rested the photo on the floor and hooked his thumbs in his pockets. “I took a metalwork class last year and developed a bit of an obsession with spoons.”
Metalwork. “Wait,” I said. “So you actually make spoons?”
He shrugged, as if to say, “See? Lame.”
“Spoons have always annoyed me,” he said. “I could never find the right one for the right job.” He went on to describe how he made them for specific uses. One had a built-in rest, so that it didn’t touch the table after you used it to stir your coffee. One had a small hole in the basin, so you didn’t get a whole lot of milk with your bite of cereal.
“You realize this is kind of weird, right?” I said. I couldn’t decide if it was cool-quirky weird, or just plain strange.
“I guess,” he said. “It was something . . . concrete to do. You know?”
That I understood. Making something useful, something you could touch,
Usually, I preferred to do projects alone. But I did have a ton of homework this weekend and was supposed to take Anya to the park tomorrow. “Okay,” I said. “Thanks.”
We headed down the hall to get parietals.
Over the past week, I’d run into David around campus and here in the dorm a few times. Always happily. Aside from the gorgeous thing, he was friendly and easygoing, and knowing he was around made me feel like if I ever had a major problem with Celeste, there was someone sane who could mediate. It was pretty obvious he was an equal-opportunity flirter, so I wasn’t convinced that, like Celeste had said, he’d noticed me in particular. But since it didn’t matter either way, I just enjoyed the buzz I got from his attention.
Back in the room after getting parietals from Ms. Martin, I assigned David the duty of measuring for the new brackets, while I finished up removing the old ones.
When the drill stopped screeching, he asked, “Where’d you learn how to use power tools?”
“My dad,” I said. “He’s a carpenter, old-house restorer guy. Big into DIY.”
“My dad’s smart as hell,” David said. “But the only thing he can hit with a hammer is his thumb.”
“It takes practice.” I wondered if his dad was a mathematician, like David. Like the man in the movie A Beautiful Mind . “I’ve been using tools since I was a kid,” I said. “I made that bookshelf this summer.”
I turned to point and noticed not only the muscles in David’s back when he raised his hands, but also what he was doing. “Are you measuring the front of the molding?” I asked.
“Yeah,” he said. “Why?”
“With this type of molding and these brackets, it has to go inside the frame. See?” I held one up and demonstrated.
“Oh. Right.” He smiled. “Maybe I’ll hang the photo first.”
I took down the last of the old brackets as he got the frame from her closet. “So, you inherited your dad’s,” I coughed, “ talent with this stuff. Is he where you got your brain for spoon math, too?”
“My what?” David said.
“Well, I know that you’re a math whiz. And you made that comment about spoons. So I figure you were talking about some type of equation or theory, or something.” I was kind of kidding, but also a little serious. I didn’t know anything about superadvanced math, and I hadn’t come up with any more plausible idea.
“Like, physicists have string theory, and mathematicians have spoon theory?” he said, standing there holding the photo.
“Yeah, exactly.”
David laughed. Hard. “Spoon theory. That’s great.”
“So if that’s not it,” I said, enjoying the goofy heh-hehs of his laughter, “are you going to tell me what you really meant?”
“I don’t think so,” he said, still smiling really wide. “It’s going to sound lame in comparison.”
“The more you delay, the more you’re building it up,” I teased.
“Okay, okay.” He rested the photo on the floor and hooked his thumbs in his pockets. “I took a metalwork class last year and developed a bit of an obsession with spoons.”
Metalwork. “Wait,” I said. “So you actually make spoons?”
He shrugged, as if to say, “See? Lame.”
“Spoons have always annoyed me,” he said. “I could never find the right one for the right job.” He went on to describe how he made them for specific uses. One had a built-in rest, so that it didn’t touch the table after you used it to stir your coffee. One had a small hole in the basin, so you didn’t get a whole lot of milk with your bite of cereal.
“You realize this is kind of weird, right?” I said. I couldn’t decide if it was cool-quirky weird, or just plain strange.
“I guess,” he said. “It was something . . . concrete to do. You know?”
That I understood. Making something useful, something you could touch,
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