{"id":598,"date":"2020-11-24T21:26:28","date_gmt":"2020-11-25T01:26:28","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/blogs.ubalt.edu\/welter\/?page_id=598"},"modified":"2021-06-24T16:03:04","modified_gmt":"2021-06-24T20:03:04","slug":"solving-for-x","status":"publish","type":"page","link":"https:\/\/blogs.ubalt.edu\/welter\/fiction-archive\/solving-for-x\/","title":{"rendered":"Solving for X"},"content":{"rendered":"
\"\"

image from Education for All<\/em> series by Guilherme Bergamini<\/p><\/div>\r\n

\u00a0<\/h3>\r\n

Solving for X<\/strong><\/h3>\r\n

Leslie Pietrzyk<\/p>\r\n

For a while there, my friend Jase told me to call him Old Spice. What kind of stupid nickname is that, I asked, isn\u2019t that like some ancient perfume or something?<\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n

Just call me it, he\u2019d said, then mumbling so I wouldn\u2019t hear but I did\u2014please. Fine, I said. Time for class, Old Spice. That\u2019s back when we were in seventh grade, when we first met. We turned into friends because boys didn\u2019t like him, and girls didn\u2019t like me. Easy.<\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n

Later, he requested plenty more nicknames. Jase is the one that stuck, Jase not Jason, and whatever names maybe come after, Jase is probably how I\u2019ll think of him for the rest of my life. My friend Jase. My crazy friend Jase. We\u2019re in ninth grade now.<\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n

Some of the others: Potsie, Petey, J-Man, J-Bird, Secret Spice, Goldbug, HahaMan, Hooboy, Hoo. I forget the rest.<\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n

I wanted to say that first time that\u2019s not how this works, deciding your own nickname. Other people are supposed to. Like, it\u2019s their sign of affection. Right then, thinking that, my whole huge heart pretty much snapped, so it\u2019s easy now to call him whoever he wants to be, whoever he thinks he is. In\u00a0my<\/em>\u00a0head he\u2019s Jase, though neither his mom or dad call him that, out of spite, he says, and the teachers forget, out of stupidity, he says. It\u2019s only me. Like only I know for real who he is.<\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n

For all his interest in names, he\u2019s never once called me anything except Stephanie. Not even Steph. Or Steffie, which I secretly love so fucking, fucking much.<\/p>\r\n\r\n

<\/p>\r\n\r\n

My famous father\u2019s name is Steve, so I assume that\u2019s why I\u2019m Stephanie. Like, my mother convinced herself this halfway named-after-him name would get him giving a shit? Like, oh gosh, maybe he won\u2019t notice I\u2019m a not Boy, Junior, which is maybe the child he\u2019d want. How do I know? Because I found the old paternity paperwork and because he said so right in court. In so many words. In these words: \u201cI did not have a significant relationship with this child\u2019s mother. I am sorry this child\u2019s mother is dead, your honor, but I will not take custody of this child.\u201d His accountant pays the bills I rack up by being alive. That\u2019s his and my bond, along with a chart and one significant sentence on a DNA test. If a famous man doesn\u2019t want a child at all, not one bit<\/em>, I am the exact proof that ramming her with a glorified girly version of his famous name won\u2019t force uncaring into caring.<\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n

Jase\u2019s dad and mom love him, even if according to him they don\u2019t. I see love, the lines in his mom\u2019s face smoothing when he lumbers into the kitchen and drinks her almond milk out of the carton or when his dad drives up and he\u2019s on the phone but he smiles exactly the instant he sees Jase even if he\u2019s in the middle of an important, lawyerly sentence.\u00a0\u00a0They\u2019re afraid of Jase maybe, because he is prickly and strange, like a rare animal burrowed deep into the Australian outback, but their fear doesn\u2019t mean they can\u2019t also love him. Until I met Jase, I thought fear might crowd out the other emotions.<\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n

I\u2019m not afraid of anything.<\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n

Take that, Steve!<\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n

That day when Jase wanted me to call him Old Spice, the first nickname he assigned himself, he also said, Tell me that you love me.<\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n

We were standing outside math class, waiting for the bell to ring before we\u2019d have to go in for absolute sure. We were both good at math, but we both hated it\u2014or he did, so I did, too. So logical and cold, he complained.<\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n

I\u2019m not saying that here, I said.<\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n

Then when?<\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n

Later? Later when?<\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n

Later!<\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n

He looked down at that giant Mickey Mouse watch we\u2019d found in a thrift store last week and bought for five dollars. This is when he was still wearing it on his wrist though it couldn\u2019t keep up with the real time. This is before he smashed it with a hammer out on his back patio and left the teeny-tiny, smashed-up pieces out there to see if ants would carry them away (which, no). Give me a time, he said, a specific time. Still staring at that watch.<\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n

I\u2019m not doing that, I said.<\/p>\r\n

<\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n

The bell rang\u2014yes!\u2014and I turned to go inside to slump to my desk, but so fast, like a fire suddenly catching, his hand shot out and he grabbed my arm, hard, and pressed his fingers down, hard, and I bit my bottom lip, hard, so I wouldn\u2019t shriek. It was an almost-delicious surprise of pain slamming all at once. Mr. Carson was heading to the door, the kind of teacher who loved locking you out for being late, especially if he heard footsteps clattering up the hallway. I love you, I said, whispery-quiet, how people talk in church.<\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n

I love you, Old Spice, he said. Say it that way, say it just like that.<\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n

His fingers pushed and pushed, bruising through muscle and bone, down to the deepness beyond. I was snapped into attention. Something important was happening. This was me living in slow-motion time. I was the alivest anyone or anything could ever feel, ever. Carson was a single step away from his door.<\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n

I love you, I said, Old Spice. He caught his breath with a tiny, pleased gasp, then released my arm which throbbed and pulsed. I glided ahead of him into the classroom, aware of the heat of his body behind me. Aware of Mr. Carson shooting his ridiculous arrows of condemnation our way and everyone else radiating\u00a0what-stupid-shit-now\u00a0<\/em>boredom.<\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n

Jase caught up to me and said so low only I could hear, Later, I\u2019ll make you say it like you mean it. Or maybe everyone heard.<\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n

I slid into my seat, my heart bouncing and thrashing. My fingers trembled when I reached for my pen. Ragged breath scraped through my lungs. My eyes jittered as I stared at the numbers my pen wrote on the clean white paper that somehow had appeared on this desk in front of me, as Mr. Carson led the class in solving for X. Still, I never believed for a second that I had been afraid.<\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n

Rather, I knew I wasn\u2019t afraid of Jase\u00a0demanding<\/em>\u00a0my love. It was his asking that scared me: his sincere desire utterly exposed. His demeaning need. Allowing me to see this weakness, as if offering a gift.<\/p>\r\n

 <\/p>\r\n

 <\/p>\r\n

\"\"<\/strong><\/p>\r\n

 <\/p>\r\n

Leslie Pietrzyk<\/strong>\u00a0is the author of the novel\u00a0Silver Girl<\/em>\u00a0and the forthcoming story collection,\u00a0Admit This to No One.\u00a0<\/em>Twitter\/Instagram:\u00a0<\/em>@lesliepwriter. More info here<\/a>.<\/p>","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

\u00a0 Solving for X Leslie Pietrzyk For a while there, my friend Jase told me to call him Old Spice. What kind of stupid nickname is that, I asked, isn\u2019t Continue Reading →<\/a><\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":3453,"featured_media":0,"parent":1301,"menu_order":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","template":"","meta":{"footnotes":""},"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/blogs.ubalt.edu\/welter\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages\/598"}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/blogs.ubalt.edu\/welter\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/blogs.ubalt.edu\/welter\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/page"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/blogs.ubalt.edu\/welter\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/3453"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/blogs.ubalt.edu\/welter\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=598"}],"version-history":[{"count":17,"href":"https:\/\/blogs.ubalt.edu\/welter\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages\/598\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":1584,"href":"https:\/\/blogs.ubalt.edu\/welter\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages\/598\/revisions\/1584"}],"up":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/blogs.ubalt.edu\/welter\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages\/1301"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/blogs.ubalt.edu\/welter\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=598"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}