TWO

“You’re late,” the physics teacher said as I walked into class. He looked more like a French teacher, with his navy blazer, purple bow tie and curly hair that almost touched his shoulders.

“Sorry,” I said, looking around the class for a seat. “I got lost.”

In my dreams I was on time and people clamored to sit next to me, asking me about my unique outfit and what music I was into. “What was R.E.M.’s early work like?” they would ask. “What’s so special about The Smiths?” I’d invite them to eat lunch with me, and we’d discuss Voltaire or Salinger over chutney or mochi. Before I knew it, I’d have a whole fan club dedicated entirely to me.

“You must be Sophie Sophia,” he said, looking at his list. “I’m Mr. Maxim. Take a seat.”

I sat in the front row—the only one open—and turned around to check out of the rest of the class: a sea of fluffy-haired girls mixed with normals mixed with the occasional guy in a sports jersey. And a few punk kids. I tried to make eye contact with the punks, but their heads were down. A few of the blondes snickered, but all in all, none of them looked like future members of my fan club.

“So that just about covers the syllabus,” Mr. Maxim said. He was sitting on the front of his desk, which meant he was either actually cool or just thought he was. “Does anyone have any questions?”

“Are we going to discuss M-theory?” a kid in the back row asked.

Mr. Maxim hopped up from the desk so fast one of his feet landed in the trash can.

“We have a physics enthusiast in our midst!” he said, trying to shake the trash can off his foot. “Is anyone else familiar with M-theory? String theory?”

I had to sit on my hands so I wouldn’t raise them or hug Mr. Maxim, who’d suddenly turned physics class into an afternoon with my dad.

“I thought we were studying gravity,” said one of the blond girls. Judging by the amount of hair spray she’d used, I was pretty sure she was familiar with the concept.

“We are. We’re not getting to theoretical physics until the end of the semester, but most of physics is theory,” Mr. Maxim said, freeing the trash can from his foot but leaving a red lollipop stuck to the side of his loafer. “Think about the possibility of extra dimensions. Think about black holes and time travel. Think about the millions of things we don’t understand. Physics could hold the answers.”

Answers were why I was there, but all the other kid’s heads were down, earbuds in ears. Mr. Maxim slammed a book on the desk, and people popped up.

“I get it,” he said. “Not everyone is into science. But physics is more than measuring things. It teaches you to look at the world in a new way. And whether you’re hanging at the pool or pondering mortality, physics will make you ask questions. And believe that anything is possible. If you learn nothing else from high school, that will be enough.”

“So I can skip the rest of my classes?” asked one of the earbud guys.

“That’s up to you,” Mr. Maxim said. “But as Newton said, actions have reactions.”

“Like detention?”

“Like every action has an equal and opposite reaction,” I blurted out. Some people grew up with the Lord’s Prayer, but I’d been hearing Newton’s Third Law of Motion since birth.

“Bravo,” I heard from the back of the class, followed by clapping.

And there he was—the first person I’d seen who didn’t look like everyone else. His blond hair flopped in front like Morrissey’s from The Smiths, and he was wearing one of those little-old-man shirts from the fifties, the kind that buttoned up the front. The kind that made me feel like I was back in New York, just like his wing tips and black Buddy Holly glasses. I christened him Fab Physics Guy.

“Well, well,” Mr. Maxim said, smiling. “I think we’ve found your lab partner, Ms. Sophia.”

The bell rang and people ran from the room, but I took my time, reveling in the fact that I hadn’t freaked out. It was just one class, but it was a start. I felt victory down to my bones. And then I felt the eyes of a certain Fab Physics Guy burning a hole between my shoulders. In the tradition of searching for answers, I had to ask: did anyone know the scientific equation for awesome?

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I was supposed to take chemistry. That was where they put sophomores, especially ones with science grades as nonstellar as mine, but I talked my way into physics. I used the Dad Bomb, something I usually left alone, but since Angelino Sophia was a theoretical physics professor at NYU, it held some weight. Weight that the guidance counselor promised not to share with my future science teacher. I got in on her recommendation, and I was going to absorb as much as possible. There was no way I was going to pass up a chance to find out what was so enticing about the whole physics thing. Why Dad spent more time in the lab than he did with us. And why, in the end, his job won and we lost. Mom always said he left us because of work, but I wasn’t sure. Even my friends with Wall Street dads saw them every once in a while or got a text. But I received nothing, which made me develop a little theory of my own, a theory unfounded in facts but based solely on feelings. Dad didn’t leave because of work. He left because of me.

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The rest of the day was uneventful, which is exactly what I wanted out of the first day of school. Mom was right—Havencrest was less stimulating than other places, even San Francisco. There, indie kids were everywhere wearing shirts they’d screen-printed that morning or tweeting about the next biggest band. They were nice, but exclusive. Brooklyn was more inclusive, either because I grew up there or because we wore uniforms. It evened things out a bit, or at least made them more obvious. If someone didn’t like you, you knew it. In San Francisco, girls would be nice to your face and giggle as you walked away, especially if you were the weird girl. Like me.

So far, the most ironic thing I’d seen in Havencrest was a football player wearing a Sunkist T-shirt, probably from Urban Outfitters. And a few drill teamers wearing Converse with their uniforms, like they were rebelling against Keds. No one had been mean, but no one had been that nice, either. The day was strictly monotone—nothing too high, nothing too low. I couldn’t think of anything less stimulating than that. But I had my rules, just in case.

How to Survive a New School
by Sophie Sophia

1. Don’t see things that don’t exist. At least not until after three P.M.
2. If you do see things that don’t exist, deny it.
3. If that doesn’t work, act like you don’t speak English.
4. Or that you were doing a performance art piece.
5. And if all else fails, throw candy and run. Enough chocolate and most people will forget anything.

The last bell rang and kids swarmed the halls, rushing for the red doors like it was the apocalypse. I followed them and stepped out into the back parking lot, enjoying the sunshine for the first time since that morning. I was walking along the fence that bordered the football field when I heard my name.

“Excuse me, Sophie?”

There, in all his vintage glory, was Fab Physics Boy. Saying my name. A small part of me wanted to stay and talk to him forever, but the larger part knew I had to leave. I was a ticking time bomb of potential freak-show-ness, and the only way to avoid it was to go. But I couldn’t move. My Doc Martens melted into the concrete like they knew something I didn’t. Like maybe this year was going to be different.

I looked at him, sun bouncing off his glasses, and smiled. Started to answer. So it’s no surprise I heard drums in the distance. And as I looked out onto the football field, I saw a band of giant pandas, marching and drumming with massive lollipops, keeping the beat.