Crowded dance floor, lights tracing arcs across the room, pounding loud electronic dance music. Everyone is dancing but Alice, wearing a black hoodie, loose pants, and tennis shoes, in the center of the dance floor. She’s occasionally jostled by the young energetic dancers around her, but ignores them, zoned out in her own world, letting the sound wash over her like a cleansing shower. She lives with numbers - the beats per minute, the color frequency of each light shining down from the ceiling, the equations of the arcs as the lights move across the dancers, the expected time she waits until she gets another call. With her head covered, no one can even tell she’s female. Alice is 15 but the fake driver’s license in her sweater pouch says she’s 21. In this light it’s impossible to tell if she’s black or white, but does it really matter?
After several minutes her watch buzzes on her wrist. Focused but head down, she pushes through the crowded dance floor to the closest exit.
Alice walks through the rain along the alley outside. She’s on her cell-phone with her friend Matilda. Matilda’s black, pudgy even in baggie clothes, sitting cross-legged in front of a computer. She’s Alice’s best friend. Actually, she’s Alice’s only friend.
“Kaleidoscope made another purchase,” says Matilda.
“Alias Kevin Smithereen?”
“Yes. Delivery is tomorrow. What do we do? ”
“Mattie, we either do something ourselves or we pass it onto Berman.”
“I have a test Friday,” Matilda says.
“You’re always studying for something.” Alice reaches the street. A Lyft pulls up. Alice gets in the back.
“Cops are trained to do this. We’re not,” Matilda argues. She's a little afraid of this one. For good reason.
“This one needs to be taught a lesson,” Alice says.
“I want to pass it on. I can use the anonymous email on the police website.”
“I don’t trust it. I think it logs the IP.”
“I can use one of the emails we created using the burner phone from Virginia.”
“Okay, but use the Texas phone instead. See you in 15.” Alice closes her eyes.
On the 6th floor of the Baltimore police department, Sheriff Berman sits at his desk in the police station. Coffee cups fill the trash, while each desk has a computer, keyboard, telephone, piles of files and papers. He clicks on a newly arrived email. Frowns. Berman quickly pushes things around on his desk until he finds a pad of blank paper. He makes notes on the email.
That night, in a run-down suburban neighborhood, Berman makes his move. Two sedans, one red with a dented back bumper, are parked in front of a house whose old rusted mailbox says “Smithereen.” Berman and his partner, wearing POLICE windbreakers, guide an overweight man in a wife-beater t-shirt to one of the cars.
Matilda is doing high school calculus homework in her living room with Alice. Matilda’s mom Rachel is working in the kitchen preparing an apple pie.
The TV news is on, which the girls pretend to ignore. A TV reporter says: “Alleged child pornographer Kevin Smithereen was arrested last night. Explicit images and video was found on his home computer. Police got information from an anonymous source, who also gave them the password to the computer.” Matilda and Alice trade a quick look at each other as the newscaster moves on to the next news item, then get back to their homework.
“Can I see what you got on problem 13?” Alice asks.
“Sure,” Matilda says, handing a page of mathematical computations to Alice. “Do you see that for problem 13 part (d), you have to use problem 10 part (a)?” Matilda asks. Alice zones out, thinking of Smithereen. “Alice?” Matilda asks. Alice snaps out of it. “Does it ever end, Mattie?”
From the kitchen, Rachel yells upstairs a question, “You girls doing okay?”
“It’s just a long assignment, Mom,” Matilda yells down.
“You girls want a coke?” Rachel asks.
Alice manages a faint smile. “Sure, I’ll get it. I’ll get one for you too, Alice.” Matilda goes to the kitchen, leaving Alice alone, zoned out. She thinks back to the crowded dance floor, light show, pounding loud electronic dance music, oblivious to the jostling in the middle of the floor, surrounded by a huge crowd. Everyone’s dancing but her, the girl in the black hoodie, loose pants, tennis shoes, and spaced-out look. She smiles, feeling the sound wash over her like a cleansing shower.
Matilda drove all the way from Baltimore to watch her brother and her 13 year old cousin. She hitched a towing trailer to her car to take both their bike bikes.
When they arrived at the track, Matilde parked in a lot, Manny and Gonzo unhitched the trailer and untied their bikes – Manny’s Hayabusa and Gonzo’s TL1000. While they readied them, Matilde wandered over to a screened-in hamburger stand, ordered a hot dog and coffee, and read a math book while she waited for them to hit the track. The book was the biography or the mathematician Paul Erdos, The Man Who Loved Only Numbers. She was in heaven.
Manny and Gonzo are enrolled in Advanced Racing, at Summit Point Motorsports Park in Summit Point, West Virginia. In the classroom, Wes, the skinny grizzled old instructor, collects the application forms from the students. Sonia, the younger assistant instructor, helps him. “Get those all filled out. I need the date you passed Intermediate Racing,” Wes says. Manny hands his application to Wes, who looks it over. Wes looks at Gonzo. “How old are you, son? You have your parent’s permission?”
“It’s okay.” Manny said. “I’m his uncle.”
“Wes dear, he’s the best rider in the class,” Sonia says.
Gonzo sits expressionless. Wes takes his application form. “Okay, you can stay,” Wes says. “Sonia, did you do their inspections?”
“Yep,” Sonia says. “Gonzo’s bike is good, so is Manny’s. They're the only bike that don't have leaky belly pans.” The others in the class hang their heads. “Okay, class, fix them up," Wes says. "We can’t have oil or gas leaks on the track."
Out on the track, Manny and Gonzo, take a few warm up laps. Slow. They check for loose gravel, especially on turn 4, and to warm the rubber on their tires to make them grippy. If you see any, report loose gravel to the track crew.
Matilde lays a towel down on a grassy observation area known as “the beach”. She settles down with her math book. It’s relatively quiet now but when she hears the approaching whine of the bikes, she puts her book down to look for Gonzo and Manny. It’s not hard to spot them. She knows it will be Gonzo fighting for the lead, with Manny somewhere back in the pack. After they pass, she returns to her reading.
Afterwards, Manny and Gozo get ready to hitch the trailer back to Matilde’s car. Matilde walks up to them. “Nice job you guys,” Matilde says.
“Thanks,” Gonzo says. “Manny beat me through the first two turns, but I caught up with him.”
“Gonzo’s getting faster every time we ride. Get some reading done, Mattie?” Manny asks.
“I did. Anyone hungry?” she asks.
“I don’t like the food here,” Gonzo says.
“While you boys tie the bikes down to the trailer, why don’t I get us some pizza for the drive back?” Matilde asks. Gonzo smiles.
“Sounds good. Before we go, Gonzo’s needs to fill out a registration for an 18-and-under race next month,” Manny says.
“Be back in 15 or 20 minutes,” Matilde says, getting in her car. Manny and Gonzo watch as her car takes the windy road through the trees to the main highway.
“I couldn’t ask for a better aunt,” Gonzo says.
“I couldn’t ask for a better sister,” Manny says.
As Matilde’s car roars out into the highway, they turn back to roping their bikes to the metal loops on the trailer. Then they hear a loud horn and a crash, then another crash. They turn to look and see Matilde’s car has crashed into a semi head-on, and a red sedan with a dented rear bumper zooms off.
“Can you see the license plate on that red car?” Manny asks in a terrified voice.
“It’s too far,” Gonzo says, running faster.
Matilde was side-swiped by the red car, lost control and verged into the lane of the semi. As Manny and Gonzo run through the woods to the crash site, they know she’s dead. The semi may have ended her life, but what killed her the red car with a dented rear bumper.
The church is crowded. Matilde had a lot of friends. For example, Alice. They’ve been friends since they we little. All of Matilde’s relatives are there, too. Her mom and dad, and her brother Manny, sit in front.
Alice shuffles up to the dias. “Matilde was my best friend. We laughed at the same quirky things.” Remembering one, Alice smiled. “I’ll tell you a couple of stories to tell you about Matilde.”
Matilde and Alice are 8 years old, playing doll house in Alice’s bedroom. “Your dollhouse has seven rooms. Mine does too,” Matilde says.
“You take Stacie and Ken, I’ll take Barbie,” Alice says. “How many ways can we put the dolls in the house so that your dolls are in the same room and my doll is in a different room?”
“I can put my doll in any of the seven rooms,” Matilde says. “I can put mine in any of the remaining six rooms.”
“That’s forty-two total?”
“Yes, six times seven,” Alice says.
At the dias, Alice dabs her eyes with kleenex. “That was when we were 8 years old. Later, when we were teenagers, we both enjoyed the stories of Douglas Adams. We both loved numbers.”
Matilde and Alice are 14 years old, laying on the floor reading books in Alice’s bedroom. Alice has The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy open in front of her. Matilde has So Long, and Thanks for All the Fish.
“What’s the answer to the ultimate question of the universe?” Alice asks. “I give up. What?”
“Forty two.”
“Do you remember that day we were playing dollhouse? You gave me
two dolls and you got one. Then you asked how many ways can we put the dolls in the house so that my dolls are in the same room and your doll is in a different room?” Matilde asks.
“The answer was --”
“Forty-two,” both of them say together. Matilde laughs to hard, Alice starts to laugh as well.
At the dias, Alice wipes her nose with a kleenex. “That’s Mattie for you. I’ll never forget her. I didn’t think this would be so hard.” Alice steps away and, crying now, walks out of the church.
Manny gets up and follows her. It’s dark inside but a nice day outside the church. Alice stands wiping her eyes, getting out earbugs from a pocket. Manny walks up to her.
“I loved that story. Funny and smart. That was so Matilde,” Manny says.
“We’re both more comfortable with mathematics.”
“I found a dead dog on my route yesterday.”
“Monica told me you’re a garbageman.”
“Someone threw away their dead dog.”
“Poor thing. Some people are disgusting.” Manny and Alice walk over to his motorcycle, a Suzuki Hayabusa in the parking lot.
“I definitely seen another side of people.” Manny laughs at the sickness of it all. He’s got an honest, easy laugh that makes Alice feel better. “Have you seen seen my bike? I love motorcycles the way you and Matilde love numbers.” Manny gets on, but he’s so big the bike
now looks small.
“I like it. You know, my grandma had one,” Alice says. She laughs.
Manny laughs with her. “You need a ride home?”
“I’ve never ridden on a motorcycle.”
“Put your feet on these pedals and hold your arms around me tight.” Alice gets on, sits on the tiny bump of cushion called a seat, but doesn’t
touch Manny. “This is a fast bike. Hold on and don’t let go.” Alice puts on earbugs, pulls in a Skrillex song, loud, and puts on her helmet.
Manny taps her helmet to get her attention. “Give me the bud for your left ear.”
Alice looks at Manny blankly. Manny repeats himself. She takes out her left bud and Manny puts it in his right ear, forcing Alice to get up close to Manny. Manny starts the engine.
Alice puts her arms around Manny, holds him tight, and they take off with a roar.
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