Miracle Girl Part IV

 

         The next day I show up at apartment 26 with cookies.  And a smile.  And not near enough of a plan.  I hit the doorbell and step back.  For a few seconds, silence reigns on.  Then the door swings inward a few inches.  Mercedes looks tired and a bit bedraggled, like she's just woken up.  I wonder why, since we didn't stay out very late last night.  Her eyes slowly focus on me, like she's trying to remember who I am.

          I proffer the cookie sheet toward her.  "I made too many and I--"  I stopped in mid-sentence, realizing that that was a coward's explanation.  "I thought I'd bring you some cookies to thank you for coming with me last night."

          There it is, out on the table.  Acting with confidence, just like she told me to.

          "Thanks."  She takes the tray awkwardly with one hand because her other is curled around a thick purple textbook.  So she hasn't been sleeping.  What has she been doing?  I quickly memorize the title:  Chemistry, the Central Science, by Pearson.

          "Are you ok?"  I ask almost impulsively.

          "Yeah, I was just up late talking to my brother last night."  More family references.

          "How's he doing?"

          "Alright."

          "Cool.  Doing anything interesting today?"  She shrugs apathetically.  My concern deepens.  Something about her is fundamentally different from the happy-if-a-bit-pensive girl I took to the Arts Festival last night.   Something fundamentally wrong.

          "Just school."

          "Ok."  It's obvious I'm getting nowhere here.  "Have a good day, then."

          She raises a hand to wave and a weak little half-smile cracks the side of her face.

          "You too."

 

          I slide into the second row seat in Dr. Blinn's class.  My note-taking things are in my backpack, but I have a feeling that I'll remember things better in this class with just my mind than I would with pen and paper.  I move a few inches closer to the edge of my seat, wondering what life-altering advice is in store today.  It seems like forever before the bell rings and Dr. Blinns steps up to the front once more and writes another word on the board D-E-C-I-S-I-O-N.

          "Decision is a funny word.  So often we see it as an incident as opposed to a continuum.  We say, 'I decided on a major yesterday,' or, 'I decided to be more outgoing last week," as if choice was something to be made once and never thought about again."

          In reality, the decision we make in our heads is only the start.  It must be made again and again every day afterwards through our actions.  We decide to be an anthropology major, but do we take the classes, do the homework, pass the classes?  We tell the world that we're going to talk more, but does it ever become a real part of us?  Or does it only last until something more exciting distracts us?"

          He walks up and down the row, gesticulating wildly with short sweeps a chalk-filled hand.

          "Being the outliers of humanity is not something that a person says he will do one day and then forgets about it.  It is a decision that must be made anew every single moment.  Without active, fearless effort on our part, we will inevitably drift back into the sea of normalcy from whence we came.  It takes fire to be more than normal.  It takes an unconquerably firm spirit."

          He swivels to face the class.  "What is it that makes our decisions permanent?'  He asks.  There's a pause and then someone in the back raises their hand.

          "Yes?"  Says Dr. Blinns.

          "It's our behavior, isn't it?"

          Dr. Blinns smiles.  "That would be the obvious thought.  But people can perform the exact same behavior by making completely different decisions.  For example, one person can go on a diet to prepare for a marathon, and another can do the same to improve their self-image.  Granted, both people decided to eat less-fattening foods, but their larger, overarching decisions to run faster or think better of themselves were completely different."

          I raise my hand.  "So our decisions are more about are desires, then?"

          "Yes, but even that isn't the full picture.    A bandwagon follower will train for a marathon because he is the kind of person who is motivated by faddish trends, while a professional athlete will do the exact  same behavior with the same desire to excel, but he will do it because he is the kind of person who does his best at whatever is important to him regardless of what anyone else is doing.  Even deeper than what we want is who we are."  He sets the piece of chalk on the table.  "I'm not in the business of changing behavior.  I'm in the business of changing hearts."

 

 

 

          I walk slowly homeward, turning over and over again in my mind what Dr. Blinns said.  My mind strains to comprehend the difference between a person's desires and who they are.  The two are so closely related that I'm not sure that they're divided at all, but when I think really hard about it I catch a glimpse of what he was talking about.

          The spiritual mountain I decided to climb is starting to look higher than I had anticipated.  Dr. Blinns is right.  The decision to change is one that has to be made every day.  An acute self- appraisement tells me that in the last twenty-four hours since my date with Mercedes my drive to change her for the better has already dropped by half.  It isn't that I don't want to help her anymore, but the exertion required to keep the true goal within my sights has grown greater with time.  With a burst of effort I refocus my mind on the distant look I'd seen on Mercedes' face that morning.  I will not be mediocre.  I will be the miracle I want to see in the world.

          "Nick!"

          Startled, I look around.  There's Mercedes walking toward me, a smile on her face.  I smile back.

          "Where are you headed?"

          "Home.  I just finished my classes for the day."

          "Me too."  She quickens her pace to catch up with me. 

          "Thank you for the cookies, by the way."

          "No problem.  How was school?"

          "Kind of weird.  My math professor got in an argument with some of the students about their grade and they were all acting all childish about it, so finally the teacher told them to shut it or he would give them both zeros."

          "Did it bother you?"  She shakes her head

          "No, it wasn't really any of my business."

          I recall with a cringe the many times I've railed on fellow students behind their backs, both in my mind and verbally.  I will have to do better at that, I decide.  No, I will have to be better.   I voice the question that's really been on my mind.

          "How did you know that I live in the same apartment complex as you?"

          Mercedes just gives me a cryptic look and says, "Just a matter of being in the right place at the right time."  She's an enigma, that one.  But somehow just talking to her is enough to remind me that my efforts here are more than just a metaphysical construct.  They're about her, a real, live human being, and my desire to help her with the silent pain that still stings behind her smile.

 

 

 

          "Shouldn't you be taking notes?"

          I whip around in my seat, hastily snapping the top of my laptop shut.  "What's it to you?"           

          "The real question is, what's it to your test score?"  Lydia whispers back pointedly.  I feel a sudden jolt of regret for snapping at her.  Normally I'd just let it slide, but for some reason it's becoming more important to me not to be a hypocrite about the way I do things, and being rude to one person while you're trying to change the life of another definitely falls into that category.

          "Sorry, I didn't mean to say that."  The taste of eaten words burns rancid in my mouth.  "I was just working on another project."

          "I don't mean to nag, I just want you to do well," she replies, which makes me feel even worse.  It's ok, though, because I already have the information I need.  Chemistry, the Central Science  is a basic chemistry textbook, no more than 100 or 200 level material.  Coincidentally, the Chemistry Department website lists a Rydell J. Pearson as a faculty member with the same spelling as the author.  Crosschecking his name with the university course catalogue reveals that he teaches exactly one section of Chem 105 which just happens to be today, in a few hours.

          It's with a satisfied though increasingly nervous heart, then, that I turn my attention back up to the front.

          "The final project will be a group presentation," says Dr. Orozco, striding across the classroom.  "Which will be worth 20% of your final grade."  My ears perk up instantly.  That's enough points to save my grade and, by extension, my medical career.  The professor continues:  "Groups will consist of three to four students each.  You must be present on the day of the presentation to receive credit for the assignment.  If you have other finals that day you will have to talk to your professors beforehand to reschedule them.  If you are sick, hire someone to wheel you in on a stretcher."

          "Do you want to be in my group?"  asks Lydia.

          "Sure."

          "And me?" asks Jarren.

          "Ok," says Lydia, and my heart sinks.  But then I think of how I'm going to be dropping by Mercedes' class in an hour and the thought dispels the cloud of gloom from my mind.  Now if only I can figure out what I'm going to do when I get there.  That seems to be becoming a perpetual problem in what I'm now affectionately calling my Gandhi Scheme.

          On my way there I stop by the university broadcasting center, one of the most coveted student workplaces on campus.  I don't have a water droplet in a professional athlete's water bottle's chance of actually landing a job here, but I figure it's another way of developing confidence in myself so I charge into the fray, wielding an unsheathed resume and an uncharacteristic burst of fiery determination.

          The main lobby is empty, but I catch a glimpse of a man heading down the far hallway so I walk swiftly after him.  I catch him about a third of the way down.

          "Excuse me, do you know where I can turn in an application to work in the lighting department?"

          He gestures to himself.  "I'm the head of the lighting department."

          "Great!"  I hand him my resume with a smile.  "Give me a call when you want an interview."

          He nods.  "Sure thing, kid."  Now I'm sailing away, wondering why I'd never realized before how exhilarating it is to conquer oneself.  Now for round two:  a rendezvous with the Chemistry department.

 

            I've thought out my strategy meticulously.  The success of this operation depends on me being able to sit next to Mercedes during class.  A fat lot of good it'll do her for me to sit in on her class if I can't even talk to her.  If I go in first I can't assume that she'll notice me among the 150 other students in the class, or that she'd sit by me even if she did.  On the other hand, if I wait too long, there might not be any empty seats anywhere near her.  So instead I camp on a chair several yards down the hallway, nonchalantly scanning the faces of the students entering the auditorium over the top edge of my laptop.  There.

          I snap the lid of my laptop shut and follow Mercedes into the classroom.  She holds the door open behind her with one hand as she passes through, but she doesn't look to see that it's me that's behind her.  I follow her up to the fourth row behind her and slide into the cushy green seat to her left.  I've contemplated how to respond to the inevitable questions, and the conclusion that occurs to me most readily is that I need to be the one that asks them.

          "I didn't know you were in this class!"  Mercedes looks over at me and nearly jumps out of her seat.  This is clearly the last place she expects to see me.  Before she can recover I reload and fire another round.

          "Do you have a pencil I can borrow?"

          She stares at me dumbly for a moment, then starts rifling through her bag.  There's some unnamed tension in the air.  I'm worried that she's going to stiff-arm me all class, but then she hands me the pencil and adds:

          "I hope we don't have another quiz today."  My shoulders relax a notch.

          "I hope so too."  For authenticity's sake, if nothing else.  It's been a long time since Chem 105.

          There is no quiz, but there is a group worksheet that we're supposed to work on in pairs.  I dig down deep into the depths of my memory of Freshman year to resurrect a basic knowledge of what we're talking about.  I only hope I can remember enough to be believable.  I stare down at the first problem:  "A 2 L Helium balloon at STP is heated until it expands to 2.2 L.  How much was the temperature of the balloon increased?'

          I rub my temples, neurons whirring into overdrive.

          "STP is 1 mole, 1 atmosphere, at 0 degrees Celsius, right?" I ask.

          "I think so..."  She seems rather uncertain for someone who is actually taking the class.

          "What formula is that again?"

          "I'm not sure."

          I pick up her textbook from the floor beside her chair and flip through it.  A minute later I find what I'm looking for.  It's a fairly simple formula.  I'm surprised she can't remember it.

          "It looks like we're supposed to use PV=nRT."

          "Oh, that's right!"  She jots it down, and the ice is officially broken.  I allow myself a deep breath. The Gandhi Scheme is unfolding well so far.  Now everything depends on what happens after class.

          "Where are you headed now?" I inquire as we emerge into the Spring sunlight once more.

          "I'm going to the Mitchell building now.  You?"

          "In the same general direction."

          "Good."  We stroll along for half a minute or so before I deliver the question I planned this whole exchange around.

          "What's the hardest thing about being Mercedes?"

          The question flashes from me to her like a lightning strike and I flinch instinctively in anticipation of the peal of thunder to follow.  I feel the intensity of the moment begin to build.  Something dark flashes behind the purple of Mercedes' eyes.

          "Living with who I am."

          I feel like she's telling me the truth.  But what that has to do with family problems, I can't begin to fathom.

          "I wouldn't mind being you.  You seem pretty wonderful to me."

          Mercedes gives her sad sort of half-smile again and says, "Thank you, Nick," like she doesn't really believe me.  "I think my parents would disagree with you, though."

          There it is.  Family again.  I go in for the kill.

          "What do your parents have against you?"

          We're passing through a narrow pathway that runs between two buildings.  There are people around, but none close enough to hear.  My eyes are fixed on Mercedes, my heart pounding.  Will this be the moment that she trusts me with her secret?  She looks over at me.  Her mouth is half open, frozen between words, caught between two things she's trying not to say.  They collide in a violent display of will and mental pyrotechnics.  The conflict pours out her eyes so that I can see that, at least.  One of the two forces gains the advantage and she opens her mouth wider.  My pulse quickens by another 20 beats per second.

          Then suddenly something shifts and the door closes, her eyes darken, and the moment is lost.

          "None of your business."  She says, with a smile so fake that it means the opposite of what it displays.

          I'm stung, doubting myself again.  Did I go too far?  We climb up the steps to the Mitchell building and I know my time is almost up.  I try to think strategy, but all I feel is regret for being too bold.

          "Sorry."

          She glances back over her shoulder at me as she grasps the handle of the door and for a split second I think I see a glimmer of light spark once more through the darkness behind her eyes.  She smiles again, this time half-sad, with a trace of warmth.

          "Have a good day, Nick."

 

Part V will be posted on Monday.