"Would you put that down and find the rest of them!" Schwarz yelled.
Eric dropped the bra.
"I mean . . . please?" Schwarz sighed and let his head fall back against the wall with a thunk. "They are everywhere."
"What's he talking about?" Eric asked.
"Invasion of the bras." Max pointed to the dresser, where a lacy black strap poked out of the top drawer. "It's heaven."
"It is Hades." Schwarz moaned and plopped his face into his hands. "I opened my desk to get a pencil, and there it was, just . . . just sitting there. A . . ."
"Bra?" Eric said helpfully.
Schwarz grunted. "It is them. The girls upstairs. They think it is funny to torture me."
"The girls upstairs?" Eric asked. "You mean--"
"Ste-pha-nie," Max sang out, grabbing the pink bra off the floor and plucking another one out of a math textbook, "a.k.a. lovergirl."
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"Shut up." Schwarz buried his face in his pillow--then squeaked in disgust and tossed it on the floor. Max bent down and retrieved a white bra that had been tucked inside the pillowcase.
"Face it, Schwarz, she wants you," Max taunted.
"If she wants me so much, why is she trying to--"
"Distribute her deliciously sexy underthings--which are, I might add"--Max grabbed a lacy black bra out of Schwarz's sock drawer-- "dripping of sex-- throughout your bedchamber?" Max's bullshitting abilities were legendary, but even he couldn't quite pull off the nonchalant act in the face of the lingerie onslaught. He could play the lecherous lothario all he wanted, but Eric had seen his last attempt to make conversation with a real live hot girl--if you could call four hopelessly cheesy pickup lines punctuated by a knee to the groin a conversation.
Eric pelted him with the pink satin B-cup. "Any chance at all you could take a five-minute break from being you?"
"Any chance? I don't know, let's ask the probability king." Max turned to Schwarz. "Oh great mathemagician, what sayst thou?"
There was another sigh, a long one. "Zero percent probability." Schwarz hung his head. "Can you please find the rest and remove them?"
"Only if you explain to me how you can be scared of a bra," Max said. "Those girls just turned your room into the promised land, and you're acting like you're in hell."
"Eric, please, can you--"
"Hey, don't look at me." Eric held up his arms in protest. "I hate to agree with"--he jerked his head toward Max-- "that, but what's the deal? I know your precious Playboy Bunnies don't have
32
too much use for bras, but that's no reason to be afraid of--"
"I am not afraid!" Schwarz said hotly, squirming away as Max dangled a bra in his face. He jumped off the bed and crossed to the other side of the room, giving Max a wide berth. "I just ... I do not need to see that stuff."
"Bras," Max said.
"That is not why I like the magazines," Schwarz added. "I keep telling you that. It is not about . . . you know."
"Sex," Max said.
"The girls are beautiful." Schwarz blushed. "They are perfect. It makes me think about . . ."
"Sex," Max said, louder this time.
"Numbers," Schwarz said, a dreamy look coming into his eyes. "An equation that draws all the elements together into one simple, unified system. All the irrelevant chaos falls away. The universe resolves itself into order. That is how you recognize a good equation. There is an imperceptible elegance. Perfection. Beauty."
Max thudded his fist against his forehead. "You're hopeless. You're hoarding a copy of every Playboy issue ever printed and you want to talk to me about the beauty of numbers}" He raised his eyes to the ceiling. "A decade of friendship, and he's learned nothing from me? I've failed. Failed!"
Eric clapped Schwarz on the back. "Ignore the drama queen. But, Schwarzie, I gotta tell you, even perfect, beautiful girls wear bras. So I've heard."
"Can you just. .. just take them away?" Schwarz pleaded. "I have three problem sets due, and I cannot get anything done. Not when they could be anywhere."
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Max and Eric exchanged a glance. "I think that can be arranged," Max said, smirking as he stuffed the black bra into his backpack for safekeeping, and began the hunt.
After all, what are friends for?
"Excuse me, but I really do not think this is a good idea," Schwarz said again, but they were already at the top of the steps.
"Sorry, my friend, but even child prodigies are wrong sometimes," Max said, his arms overflowing with bras. "And this is your time."
It had taken more than an hour, but they'd ransacked Schwarz's room and found each and every bra, including the red satin one stuffed in his laundry bag, the purple cotton one hiding beneath the Turns bottles and Bactine from Mrs. Schwarzbaum's latest care package, the miracle push-up one lodged between the June and July issues of Journal of Dynamic and Differential Equations, and, most sacrilegious of all, the lime green double D slipped into the box holding Schwarz's Playboys. Now, Max had decreed, it was time to return the merchandise.
Eric raised his hand to knock--then froze. The door was almost entirely covered by brightly colored condom wrappers.
"You can get them for free in the common rooms and the health center," Schwarz said sullenly. He sounded like a man facing the death sentence. Doomed. "They collect them and then stick them up here. They call it art." He smiled hopefully. "So does that mean we can leave now? Please?"
Max gazed at the door in admiration. "Oh, we are so not leaving."
Eric knocked. Schwarz cowered.
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The girl who opened the door was wearing a zip-up hoodie and baggy sweatpants, but the loose cotton couldn't disguise the fact that she was built like a model, long and leggy and lean. The silky blond hair didn't hurt. Eric glanced back at Schwarz, who shook his head slightly.
No, then. This wasn't the amazing Stephanie, goddess among women.
But it was still a college girl.
Make that college woman.
"I assume these are yours?" Max asked, dumping his pile at the girl's feet. He gave her an oily grin. "We especially loved the little one with pink hearts all over it." Max glanced not-so-subtly down at the girl's ample chest. "Though I'm guessing that one wasn't yours."
The girl burst into giggles and turned her head over her shoulder. "Steph, I think the skanky freshman is hitting on me!"
Behind her, the room exploded into laughter.
"Baby, I'm not a freshman, I'm a senior," Max said indignantly.
"Yeah, right. You're a--" The girl's eyes widened. "Oh, God, you're one of Schwarzie's little high school friends, aren't you?" She choked out a laugh so forceful that a light spray of spittle flew out and misted Max's nose.
"Ask Schwarz how he liked his surprise!" a girl's voice yelled out from behind her.
The girl in the doorway peered over Max's shoulder. Schwarz gave her a weak wave. "He's even redder than we thought!" she called back into the room. "He looks like his head's about to explode." And before the boys could say anything else, she scooped up the armful of bras and the door closed in their faces.
"You forgot one," Max snapped, still dangling one last bra from
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his fingers. He whirled on Schwarz. "Please tell me that wasn't your precious Stephanie."
Schwarz shook his head and leaned back against the banister, trying to catch his breath.
Max rolled his eyes. "Since when did they start letting bimbos into Harvard? I mean, she may be hot, but--"
The door swung open. Another girl's head poked out, this one framed by wavy, shoulder-length brown hair and a pair of thin, rectangular, black glasses. Her cheeks glowed red, like they'd been battered by the wind. "First of all, she's not a bimbo, she's a two-time national forensics champion and all-American rower. Second of all, I'm not a bimbo, and I could give you all the reasons why, and I could do it in any one of the three languages I speak, but I'm not going to, because third of all, you're still in high school. And fo
urth, I believe this"-- she plucked the final bra out of Max's hand--"is mine."
The door closed before he had a chance to react.
Schwarz sighed. "That was Stephanie."
Max slid open his front door. Twenty-two bras, he thought, hoping the happy memories would insulate from what came next. I touched twenty-two bras today. He patted the outer pocket of his backpack, which held a lacy black treat. Plus one to grow on. And there was plenty more where that came from.
Imagine the financial possibilities, he thought gleefully. Schwarz was sitting on a lacy goldmine, and didn't even know it. Certainly, Max's regular eBay customers--the ones who knew he was the guy to satisfy their every craving for mint condition Transformers, Micro Machines, Hot Wheels, Cabbage Patch Kids, or that rare and beautiful find, a
36
Snoopy Sno-Kone Machine in full working order complete with three synthetic flavors of polyurethaned sugar crystals--would have no use for an anonymous coed's unwashed, stretched-out cotton lingerie. But there was an untapped market for such things out there, Max was sure of it: horny losers hungry for tangible evidence that real girls-- and their undergarments--actually existed. Max might not want to befriend anyone who would buy stolen bras off the Internet, but he had no compunctions about supplying them, not if it would bring in the cash. If Schwarz could be persuaded to go along--and who was he kidding, Schwarz could be persuaded to do anything. . . .
But it was no use. Even a get-rich-quick guarantee couldn't buoy his spirits. Stepping into the Kim household was enough to deflate any mood. It was like an allergy--every time he came home, he felt his chest tightening, his throat closing up, his lungs gasping. But it wasn't the air. It was the color. That deep, dark bloody red.
Crimson.
Everywhere. Crimson rug, crimson couch, crimson flag waving over crimson mantel . . . and, worst of all, crimson walls.
The Kims had no art hanging in their home. Most of the space was taken up by framed photos--many of the twins, Nikki and Vikki, proudly accepting a variety of trophies, dancing in recitals, delivering speeches, accepting diplomas; a smattering of relatives, always staring head-on at the camera, stiffly posed, a rigid smile across their face as if somewhere beneath the frame, a gun was prodding them to "smile, or else," and, dominating every room, a photographic record of the childhood of the Kims' only son.
In the entry hall: Max bundled up in a red snowsuit, stuffing a fistful of snow into his sister's mouth.
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Over the couch: Max in a high chair, spaghetti streaming down his face.
In the kitchen, hanging above the row of pots and pans: Max, uncomfortable and unhappy in a starched crimson suit, seated on the lap of the John Harvard statue.
Only one wall in the Kim house was photograph-free, and this was the wall on the far end of the living room, opposite the door to the kitchen, visible from almost every point on the ground floor. This was the wall of achievement and, in flowery script bordered by heavy, solid wood frames, it reported the following:
Maxwell Kim,
Maxwell Kim, PhD in chemistry, Harvard University, class of 1985
Victoria Kim, BA. in history,
Victoria Kim, fjff), Harvard Law School, class of 2007
Nicole Kim, BS in biology, Harvard (University, class of 2004
An empty spot awaited Nikki's forthcoming diploma from Harvard Medical School, only a year away.
Another gaping hole toward the center of the wall had long been reserved for Max Jr.
Twenty-three bras, Max told himself, his lips moving. The black lacy one. The pink one with the tiny flower, the--
He was starting to sound like Schwarz. Things were even worse
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than he'd thought. Probably for the best that there was no more time for quiet contemplation--or, more accurately, self-pity. It was six forty-five. Which meant time for dinner.
And yet another round of The Conversation.
It was always the same one, and had been ever since Max had made his big announcement.
"But why?" Maxwell Sr. asked yet again, digging into a heaping plate of kimchi. "Just make me understand."
"It's a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity," Max said, as he always did. "And it's now or never."
His father shook his head. "Another will come along. It always does. If you work hard, if you go to college--"
"I will go to college." Max reminded himself to keep his voice calm and level. Maxwell Sr. didn't believe in yelling--at least when it came to voices other than Maxwell Sr.'s. "I told you. I'll go at night, take classes at BU or something--"
"BU?" He turned to his wife. "You talk to him. Tell him not to ruin his life."
"We just want you to be happy," Ellen Kim said, giving her son a hesitant smile. "Just look at your sisters--look how far they got with a good degree."
Look at your sisters. Look at your sisters. Max had been looking at--up to--his sisters since he was a helpless toddler, forced to play the role of Baby in their interminable games of House (and later, School, Prison, Wild Frontier, and his personal nightmare, Fairy Princess Tea Party). Now they were finally out of the house, yet he was forced to stare at their cap-and-gown photos and framed summa cum laude diplomas every day of his life.
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"Harvard isn't the only measure of success in the world, despite what you think." Max scraped his kimchi over to the side of the plate, revealing the familiar VERITAS crest embossed in gold at the center. The Kims ate exclusively from Harvard commemorative china. "I don't need a Harvard degree on the wall to prove how smart I am. And I definitely don't need it to get rich. Not when this company--"
"Zipco? Zero?" His father snorted. "It's not a company. It's three guys in a basement. You think you're going to be the next Bill Gates working in a basement?"
God, I hope not, Max thought. Eric could--and did--worship Bill Gates's path-blazing philanthropy all he wanted, but to Max, Microsoft would always be the evil empire, with Bill at the helm, a Palpatine determined to co-opt or destroy every last Jedi. Microsoft, Harvard, they were just different faces of the same monster, Max thought, massive Death Stars that exterminated any and all obstacles in their paths. He would not be turned to the dark side.
"It's XemonCo," Max retorted. "And they won't be in a basement forever. They're just starting up. That's why it's called a start-up."
"I know what it's called. Don't talk to me like I'm an idiot. Not when you're the one who's throwing away his whole life to work for free. Only an idiot would volunteer for indentured servitude."
"It's not for free."
"So they're paying you a salary now?"
Max looked down at his crimson, white, and gold commemorative plate, molding his kimchi into a tidy pile directly over the gold VERITAS. "You know they're not."
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"So what, then? Monopoly money? Maybe they're still on the barter system, they're paying you in pizza and potato chips?"
Max sighed. He'd explained the deal to his father, too many times. In exchange for the data-grinding algorithm he'd designed, XemonCo--the cutting-edge start-up that was, if its plans came to fruition, poised to unseat Google--had offered him full-time employment and a significant chunk of company stock. The latter was contingent upon the former, which meant forgoing his all-but- certain admission to Harvard in favor of the working world.
Though, as his father was always quick to point out, you couldn't really call it work if you weren't getting paid.
"This is it, Dad. The big score. You're the one always saying money is power. As soon as the search engine is done, it'll lubricate the cash flow. ..."
"And what are you going to do until then?"
Max looked up from his kimchi pile in confusion. "Until then?"
"Are you expecting your mother and me to support you? While you lie around playing video games all day and taking kindergarten classes at night?"
"My
search algorithm is not a video game, it's--"
"You think we're rich?"
"Rich enough to pay Vikki's and Nikki's tuition for fifteen years," Max pointed out. "And, like you tell me every night, rich enough to send me to college, med school, law school, and oh yeah, when I get around to it, to get my PhD."
"Only if you want, of course," his mother said.
"Right." Max tried valiantly not to roll his eyes. "So I just assumed ..."
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"College. Yes. Harvard. Yes." His father stood up, pushed his chair in, and looked over Max, fixing his eyes on the framed portrait just above his head, one that featured Maxwell Sr. on a crimson-splashed stage, accepting a degree. "Money for your future, yes. But money for you to make this kind of mistake? No."
Maxwell Sr. grabbed a roll from the basket at the center of the table and pressed it down firmly in the center of Max's kimchi tower, mashing the mountain into a lake of greenish-red sludge. "The free ride ends with graduation," he said. "You go to Harvard--or you go it alone."
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Your child can contribute to her school and community by pursuing what she enjoys and sharing it with others.
--Eva Ostrum, The Thinking Parent's Guide to College Admissions
The car skidded to the right, then veered left, dodging a turbocharged flamethrower. A hail of gunfire exploded from the alleyway, and the windshield shattered into a storm of glass, but he pushed forward, the tires squealing, and he was almost safe, a smooth getaway, free and clear--when the roadside grenade blew out his tire. The front wheels jerked off the ground, and the car tumbled down an embankment, smashing and crashing its way to the bottom. There was a sickening crunch of metal. And then the car exploded into a ball of fire.
Eric tossed aside the controller in disgust. It was his third try, and this time he'd lasted only three and a half minutes before getting toasted. Other than his new Wii--which even his brain-dead sister had agreed was "more addictive than crack, not like I've tried it, because I'm not a total skeeze, but you know what I mean"--Eric