Parallel

from Arcadia , a play we read in AP English last year. (I wouldn’t have remembered it except for the fact that I flubbed it when I read it aloud in class. “In an island of ashes, oceans of order,” I’d said, and someone made a joke about Oceans of Order being a great band name.) The original line is a reference to the patterns that emerge out of chaos, a major theme in the play. The phrase captures Seurat’s masterpiece perfectly. By themselves, the dots are just little circles of color. But in the right arrangement, they become so much more.
    Before I can get too far with this idea, Tyler interrupts it. “Is that a monkey?”
    “It’s supposed to be satirical,” I say vacantly. “The word for female monkey in French— singesse —was a slang word for prostitute.” My comment earns an impressed look from Dr. Mann. “It’s an equation,” I say then, still thinking about Arcadia . “The dots are the variables. The coherent image we see from far away is the solution.”
    “ Et l’artiste est le mathématicien ,” Dr. Mann says.
    “The artist is the mathematician,” I translate, liking the idea. But how much control does the artist have over the solution? I imagine my life as a painting and wonder the same thing.
    My left foot begins to throb, so I shift all my weight to my right one.
    “Papa!” Greta is calling to her father, gesturing for him to come meet whoever she’s talking to. Dr. Mann gives us a little bow before departing.
    “So how long till we can get out of here?” Tyler asks, clearly not interested in discussing my philosophical ideas about life and math and pointillist painting. “I’m bored.”
    “We’ve only been here an hour.”
    “An hour in museum time is, like, five hours in regular time,” he replies. “How about we stay until nine, then hit the keg?”
    “Fine. This ends at ten, anyway.”
    “You should call Caitlin,” he says. “Tell her to stop by the cul-de-sac after the lab.”
    I’m debating whether to shoot this idea down or pretend to call her when I hear my phone buzz from inside my clutch. Tyler hands it to me. He’s looking at my screen when I read the incoming text:
    Caitlin: C U AT THE PARTY?
    I look from the text to Tyler.
    Shit.
    By the time we get there, the “party” has dwindled to more of an intimate gathering.
    Everyone is standing around the fire someone built in a metal trash can. Some football players are roasting marshmallows on a stick. Andy Morgan, our star running back, whistles when he sees us.
    “Lookin’ good, kids!” Andy calls out. Tyler twirls me, and I do a little curtsy in my dress, careful not to put too much weight on my bad foot. Across the cul-de-sac, Ilana is giving me the death stare. She’s standing away from the fire with a group of drama girls, drinking a diet soda and looking pissed off at the world. Tyler heads toward her.
    “S’more?” Andy asks, pressing a charred marshmallow between two graham cracker squares and holding it out for me. “There are chocolate bars around here somewhere.”
    After a truckload of salty hors d’oeuvres, a melted marshmallow is hard to resist. “Sure,” I tell him. “Thanks.” I nibble on the corner of the graham cracker, waiting for the insides to cool. “How long have you guys been here?”
    “About an hour,” Andy replies. “Long enough for Ilana to get pissed that Tyler hadn’t shown up yet.” I feel a flash of sympathy for Ilana. She and Tyler are standing off to the side, away from the rest of Ilana’s friends, in the midst of what looks like a heated discussion. I try not to stare. “Hey, there’s Caitlin,” Andy says, shoving another marshmallow into his mouth. “She’s so hot.”
    I look up and see Caitlin parking her Jetta down the street. My eyes dart back to Tyler. Ilana has his forearm in a vise grip. It doesn’t look like he’ll be having any alone time with Caitlin tonight. I feel myself begin to relax. I’m not really worried that Tyler will rat me out since I told him it was a secret, but he’s been known to get chatty when he’s been drinking, which, thanks to his flirtatious banter with the bartender at the museum, includes tonight.
    “You look amazing!” Caitlin says to me as she walks up. “How was the gala?”
    “Really great,” I tell her. “You should’ve seen my mom—”
    “Are you kidding me?” Ilana’s voice, even more high-pitched than normal, stabs me in the eardrum, stopping me midsentence. All heads swivel in