Dr. Cleever followed me back to his office and the entire time I walked, I felt heat prickles on the back of my neck, the way you sometimes get when people are staring at you. When I got to the door I peeked back over my shoulder and he was just Dr. Cleever, behind me with the white paper box that contained a more than generous slab of my mother�s incredible brownie tiramisu.
I went back to my chair and sat down. He set the box between us on the desk, then flipped open my book to check the stuff I had practiced. I watched him quietly, but then he looked up at me over the rims of his glasses, nodded to the tiramisu between us and directed, �Eat.� He picked up a red pen and made a circle on my work. A red pen! God! Teachers actually have red pens at home!?
The genteel Dr. Cleever that I had witnessed earlier was gone and in his place was the standard straight to business Dr. Cleever I knew at school. While I thought that he wasn�t that bad, a lot of my friends thought he was a hard ass and I could see their point, as he never listened to their excuses for missing assignments or failed tests. For the most part, I managed to fly under the radar because I pay attention in class (mostly because my brain is distracted by non-math thoughts about Dr. Cleever) and because even when I don�t understand it, I always hand in my homework on time. And neatly. I think half of my passing math grades came from my ability to blind my teachers with arrow straight columns and perfect precision penmanship. But I could see how he could intimidate people. My friend Michaela always said Dr. Cleever was cleverly disguised as a nice guy, but underneath his caring exterior lurked a skeleton made of stone. A tombstone, she�d add dramatically. Mostly because Dr. Cleever gave her a D last term.
I picked up a fork and took a small bite of the tiramisu, then fidgeted in my seat. I wondered how long I was going to be here, as I still had other homework to do. I also think Mom expected me to help her close the restaurant too, which I loathed, but it was all part of our agreement to keep me in Aeropostale and her in cheap labor.
Still absorbed in checking my practice work, he set down his red pen and picked up a fork, leaned over and speared a segment of tiramisu. He brought it to his mouth and then held it there for a minute and exhaled.
�Ok� let�s see. Here�s a good one to start. The surface area of a cube is 864 square centimeters. What is the ratio of the number of square centimeters in the surface area to the number of cubic centimeters in the volume of the cube? We need a common fraction for the answer.�
�Oh God. I don�t remember formulas! I get all balled up by formulas!� I set down my fork a little harder than I intended to. It clattered on the desk, reverbing like a bell.
�Break it down, Katie,� he soothed. �Forget about formulas and just use logic� a cube has six even sides, correct?�
I clicked my tongue sarcastically at him. �Because it�s a cube.
He exhaled through his nose and I could see him silently make the decision to not address my snotty comment, and immediately felt a little regret. He began again, this time with an edge in his voice that made me certain I wouldn�t be snotty again. �So. What do you do first.�
�Oh, duh. Divide by six. 144.�
He rose from his side of the desk and came over to stand behind me.
�Write it down.�
�Write what?�
�Draw a cube for me.�
I drew a square and then made it three dimensional.
�Each side has a surface area of 144, yes?� He leaned down over me to tap the back of his pen against my little cube. I felt the row of buttons on his shirt briefly graze my back. �So that means each side�� He paused to wait for my answer, but I was too distracted by the sharp smell of his cologne� oh, I knew that smell. I could picture myself at the men�s perfume counter, sniffing the high end stuff. What was it? Cool Water? No. Something Lauren or Chanel men� something� argh, I would have to go to the mall and figure it out. He cracked the pen down on the pages, making the book jump up off the desk. �Come on, this is fourth grade math. �
�12� each side is twelve.�
�So length is 12,� he drew a perfect little 1 and 2 next to one of the sides. �And this length is 12.�
I sighed exasperatedly. �Yeah. But this still doesn�t get me anywhere closer to knowing the ratio! So volume of a cube�involves a damn, er, darned formula! Why can�t they just put a formula there and have me figure it out?�
He flicked the pen down on my fingers. �Ok, that will be enough of the whining, Miss Katherine Elizabeth Bell.� I raised my eyebrows in shock but then remembered that he had heard my mother in all her glory use my middle name yesterday. I was surprised, however, to see him smirk at the look on my face. �They don�t give you the formula because they expect you to use that pretty little head of yours for something other than simple arithmetic. A chimpanzee could be taught to read a formula; you need to be able to understand it rather than just vomiting back a memorized bunch of formulas.� He flicked the pen on my workbook again. �Now, what does it mean when you take a number and cube it?�
�What does that have to do with��
CRACK! The pen made the workbook dance. He exhaled behind me, impatiently. I wanted to turn my head to see the look on his face, but I could tell by his voice that he was very close to my head, just behind my peripheral vision.
�Um� it means that you multiply something by itself three times.�
�So� what is your length cubed?� His voice was again soft and patient in my ear. I watched his hand toy the vicious red pen up and down the crease.
I slowly picked up my pencil, waiting for the pen to rise and snap my fingers again, but he waited expectantly just out of site, that faint whiff of his cologne wafting up behind me.
�1728?� I said, cautiously.
�Excellent. That is your volume. And the ratio to surface area?�
�6/12�
�Expressed in lowest common denominator.�
�One half.� I said, turning my head to see if I was right and practically bumped noses with him.
He hovered there for a second. �Perfect,� he said softly, in a strange strangled voice, as though he had just heard the final notes of a lovely piece of classical music. He dropped the red pen in the crease and stood back up.
�I think that�s enough for tonight. For tomorrow, please finish the next two practice pages, but I would also like you to write out in words the reasoning behind your logic for each problem. Grab your books and run home. It�s getting late. I�ll trust you to let yourself out.�
I felt almost high, my head buzzing with integers. I watched his disappearing back in disbelief.
He strode out of the room, his back disappearing into the recesses of the mazelike house, until I could only hear his footsteps creak on the old wood floors. �Oh, and good job, Katie. You�ve pleased me tonight.� Then the sound of a door closing and then nothing.
I packed up my practice books into my backpack, hefted it over my shoulder and then bounded out the graceful leaded door and down the porch.
This was bizarre. Bizarre. Definitely something that would blow my friends minds tomorrow. Very interesting. Especially when he was leaning over me like that, making the hair on the back of my neck stand up. Just like�that.
I swiveled around on my heel, just in time to watch the curtain move on one of the windows.
Most interesting, I thought to myself, and then headed for the restaurant.
