2. Amalia
This campus is enormous.
Where on earth is the lecture hall?
Late on my first day. Totally on-brand for me. And for what? A hot chocolate I could have left half-finished like a normal person. But no — not me.
I’m staring down at the campus map, trying to hold my backpack with one hand, when I hear a group of girls giggling near a bench.
“Can you believe Silas Vaughn agreed to teach here?”
The question makes me stop dead in my tracks.
Silas Vaughn is the youngest professor to ever be offered the position of department chair of the Mathematics Department at the University of California - Berkeley.
He wrote his doctoral dissertation at seventeen.
Yes, seventeen. On the Banach-Tarski paradox.
I’m not advanced enough to grasp every geometric concept involved, but essentially, the paradox asks: if a sphere is divided into n pieces, can those pieces be reassembled into two spheres identical to the original?
The man is the definition of a genius. He came from nothing.
No wealthy parents, no intensive tutoring, just a raw talent for numbers.
What on earth is he doing here? In Ciudad de México, when every university in the world is fighting over him?
“Sara saw him yesterday, dropping off some paperwork, and,” a soft exhale, “she said the man has absolutely no business being that good-looking and a professor,” the other girl says, and I decide it’s definitely time to keep moving.
I have no idea what Silas Vaughn looks like, but I do know this is a chance to take both math modules with him, which means I have the opportunity to learn from a mathematical genius. And officially, every single cent scraped together for this tuition was worth it.
I’m still trying to match buildings to the map when I hear a voice behind me.
“Well, well. If it isn’t the ultimate nerd. I can’t even escape you here, Ame.”
My nickname on Paulina’s lips makes me close my eyes for just a second.
For Gauss’ sake, it’s my first day. Was a single act of mercy really too much to ask?
Two years ago we were best friends until she decided to copy one of my projects and present it as her own.
When I confronted her, she told me I didn’t need another perfect grade anyway and that I should keep my mouth shut.
Obviously, I didn’t. Because if she’d just asked for help, I would have built her an entirely new project from scratch, but instead she stole mine one night while I was sleeping over at her place and had my laptop with me.
When I explained to the teacher that I didn’t have a project to turn in because Paulina had already submitted mine, the teacher believed me without a second thought and failed my former best friend on the spot.
Since that moment, every single encounter has managed to go wrong in its own unique way.
“Paulina,” I say her name quietly as I turn around.
“I can’t wait to spend this year together, amiguita,” she says in a saccharine voice, and the sarcasm dripping from her tone is impossible to miss.
Without bothering to respond, I turn and walk away almost at a jog. Head down, thoughts a mess, which is exactly how I manage to round the corner of the building and collide with someone coming the other way.
“For the love of Fibonacci,” slips through my teeth.
My glasses are slightly crooked on my nose, but when I look up, I freeze.
He stares back at me, brown eyes so dark they’re almost black, like I’ve just added myself to a very long list of things ruining his day. Only then do I notice the coffee spreading in a dark stain across his black shirt.
At least it’s black.
“?Ayyy Diosito, perdón, perdón, perdón!”
I don’t even register what I’m doing, but I use the campus map as a makeshift napkin and start dabbing the coffee off his stomach. I also, somehow, stomp on his foot in the process. He says “fuck” and honestly, same. Officially, my brain has turned to jelly.
A hand closes around my wrist, and I instinctively look up at him.
His black hair is longer than most men wear it, a few strands almost falling into his eyes.
Like me, he wears a pair of glasses that only make him look more serious, and on his wrist is a vintage watch with a clean, simple face and a black leather strap, because of course there is.
Somewhere out there, a color wheel is crying, and I’m sure he doesn’t care even a little.
“Stop embarrassing yourself, miss.”
American. The accent makes that obvious, but it’s the cold flatness of his tone that makes me pull my hand back like I’ve been burned.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t see you.”
“That’s fairly obvious,” he replies, his voice sharp, and without another word he pulls out a handkerchief and walks right past me toward one of the faculty buildings.
Wonderful start, Amalia. What’s left? Accidentally hitting the dean in the head with your laptop? Then you’ll really be unforgettable in your first year.
Ay Diosito, I’m joking. Please don’t take that as a suggestion.
Then I remember I had a destination before I walked into that insufferable man. I get lucky when I find a group of girls who point me toward the building with the lecture hall.
The building is decorated with carvings of Aztec gods: Huitzilopochtli, god of the sun; Mictlantecuhtli, god of death; and my personal favorite, Xiuhtecuhtli, god of fire.
Xiuhtecuhtli is also called the creator of life, which is exactly why he’s my favorite.
There’s something singular about the act of creation, and that’s part of why I chose this program.
I get to build something from nothing, a program, a creation, that could actually make a difference in someone’s life.
The lecture hall is nearly full when I walk in, and of course the only open seats are in the front row.
I’m lucky the professor is running late too, so I get comfortable, pull out my colored markers to highlight anything important, and set up my laptop in case my hand cramps up mid-lecture.
Because as much as I love writing, love the feel of a pen in my hand, I learned in high school that some professors dictate like they’re competing in a speed-talking contest.
Right then, the door opens and my eyes land on the professor, who doesn’t even glance at us as he walks in.
I nearly have a full meltdown, because no.
No, no, no.
There is no way.
Diosito, if you make this a nightmare, I promise I’ll bring a bucket of fresh donuts to church on Sunday. Two buckets. I’ll make tamales for the whole neighborhood. ?Por favor?
By the spirit of Pythagoras, I will personally explain to every seventh grader exactly how the height in a triangle works if you just let me disappear right now.
Out of all the people I could have spilled that coffee on, it had to be my new math professor?
His shirt is still faintly stained, though it’s not nearly as visible now.
When he looks up at the class, it takes him exactly five seconds to find me, and his jaw tightens automatically.
“My name is Silas Vaughn, and I’ll be your professor for algebra and analysis for the duration of this year.”
Is it too late to transfer?
His pace is brisk, but he breaks down every formula and explanation clearly enough that you’d have no excuse for not following along. Unless you simply weren’t paying attention.
His dark shirt pulls across his back as he reaches toward the corners of the board, and what strikes me is how simultaneously young and severe he looks. I could have easily mistaken him for a PhD student without a second thought.
From somewhere behind me, a guy who is clearly here out of obligation rather than interest checks his phone for the fifth time and types out a message.
He has that irritating click-sound setting turned on — the one where every letter makes a noise — and even though it’s fairly quiet, it crawls under my skin.
I’ve shifted my focus back to the last formula I wrote down when, still facing the board, Professor Vaughn says in a crisp, measured tone, “You have exactly one minute to collect your things and leave, Mr. Estrada. If I turn around and your face and your phone are still in this room, that comes with five points off your first exam.”
I swallow hard because there’s a coldness and a finality to his voice that almost make me feel sorry for the guy, who’s gone a little pale.
This is a required course; five points off the first exam means you need a perfect score just to pass it safely, and something tells me this man does not hand out perfect scores.
The student gets up, red-faced, apologizes, and walks out, and Professor Vaughn doesn’t take his eyes off the problem he’s solving for a single second.
Ay Diosito, now I feel like even my breathing is too loud in this room. Four minutes left in the lecture, and I genuinely want to hold my breath until the bell rings, though knowing my luck, my head would probably explode before it does.
Head exploded, but perfect score on the exam, Amalia.
I almost laugh out loud at the voice in my head, the one that’s absolutely desperate for us to be the best, to get the highest marks, even if I’d have to drag myself to the exam on hands and knees.
For a few moments I force myself to rein in that anxiety, and the voice in my head that keeps insisting that if I don’t prove I belong here, I’m a failure.
All of tío Felipe’s sacrifices, every hour worked for a few dollars with se?or Gustav… it all adds up to exactly nothing if I’m not the best.
Pull yourself together, Amalia. You are more than a grade.
It’s just a shame that compared to the other voice, this one is barely a whisper.