The question makes me stop dead in my tracks. Silas Vaughn is the youngest professor to ever be offered the position of department chair of the Mathematics Department at the University of California - Berkeley. He wrote his doctoraldissertation at seventeen. Yes,seventeen.On the Banach-Tarski paradox. I’m not advanced enough to grasp every geometric concept involved, but essentially, the paradox asks: if a sphere is divided intonpieces, can those pieces be reassembled into two spheres identical to the original? The man is the definition of a genius. He came from nothing. No wealthy parents, no intensive tutoring, just a raw talent for numbers.
What on earth is he doing here? InCiudad de México, when every university in the world is fighting over him?
“Sara saw him yesterday, dropping off some paperwork, and,” a soft exhale, “she said the man has absolutely no business being that good-looking and a professor,” the other girl says, and I decide it’s definitely time to keep moving.
I have no idea what Silas Vaughn looks like, but I do know this is a chance to take both math modules with him, which means I have the opportunity to learn from a mathematical genius. And officially, every single cent scraped together for this tuition was worth it.
I’m still trying to match buildings to the map when I hear a voice behind me.
“Well, well. If it isn’t the ultimate nerd. I can’t even escape you here, Ame.”
My nickname on Paulina’s lips makes me close my eyes for just a second.
For Gauss’ sake, it’s my first day. Was a single act of mercy really too much to ask?
Two years ago we were best friends until she decided to copy one of my projects and present it as her own. When I confronted her, she told me I didn’t need another perfect grade anyway and that I should keep my mouth shut. Obviously, I didn’t. Because if she’d just asked for help, I would have built her an entirely new project from scratch, but instead she stole mine one night while I was sleeping over at her place and had my laptop with me.When I explained to the teacher that I didn’t have a project to turn in because Paulina had already submitted mine, the teacher believed me without a second thought and failed my former best friend on the spot.
Since that moment, every single encounter has managed to go wrong in its own unique way.
“Paulina,” I say her name quietly as I turn around.
“I can’t wait to spend this year together,amiguita,” she says in a saccharine voice, and the sarcasm dripping from her tone is impossible to miss.
Without bothering to respond, I turn and walk away almost at a jog. Head down, thoughts a mess, which is exactly how I manage to round the corner of the building and collide with someone coming the other way.
“For the love of Fibonacci,” slips through my teeth.
My glasses are slightly crooked on my nose, but when I look up, I freeze.
He stares back at me, brown eyes so dark they’re almost black, like I’ve just added myself to a very long list of things ruining his day. Only then do I notice the coffee spreading in a dark stain across his black shirt.
At least it’s black.
“¡Ayyy Diosito, perdón, perdón, perdón!”
I don’t even register what I’m doing, but I use the campus map as a makeshift napkin and start dabbing the coffee off his stomach. I also, somehow, stomp on his foot in the process. He says “fuck” and honestly, same. Officially, my brain has turned to jelly.
A hand closes around my wrist, and I instinctively look up at him. His black hair is longer than most men wear it, a few strands almost falling into his eyes. Like me, he wears a pair of glasses that only make him look more serious, and on his wristis a vintage watch with a clean, simple face and a black leather strap, because of course there is.
Somewhere out there, a color wheel is crying, and I’m sure he doesn’t care even a little.
“Stop embarrassing yourself, miss.”
American. The accent makes that obvious, but it’s the cold flatness of his tone that makes me pull my hand back like I’ve been burned.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t see you.”
“That’s fairly obvious,” he replies, his voice sharp, and without another word he pulls out a handkerchief and walks right past me toward one of the faculty buildings.
Wonderful start, Amalia. What’s left? Accidentally hitting the dean in the head with your laptop? Then you’ll really be unforgettable in your first year.
Ay Diosito,I’m joking. Please don’t take that as a suggestion.
Then I remember I had a destination before I walked into that insufferable man. I get lucky when I find a group of girls who point me toward the building with the lecture hall.
The building is decorated with carvings of Aztec gods: Huitzilopochtli, god of the sun; Mictlantecuhtli, god of death; and my personal favorite, Xiuhtecuhtli, god of fire.
Xiuhtecuhtli is also called the creator of life, which is exactly why he’s my favorite. There’s something singular about the act of creation, and that’s part of why I chose this program. I get to build something from nothing, a program, a creation, that could actually make a difference in someone’s life.
