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Back The Infinite Noise Save as PDF
Chapters (70)
  1. Title Page
  2. Copyright Notice
  3. Dedication
  4. 1
  5. 2
  6. 3
  7. 4
  8. 5
  9. 6
  10. 7
  11. 8
  12. 9
  13. 10
  14. 11
  15. 12
  16. 13
  17. 14
  18. 15
  19. 16
  20. 17
  21. 18
  22. 19
  23. 20
  24. 21
  25. 22
  26. 23
  27. 24
  28. 25
  29. 26
  30. 27
  31. 28
  32. 29
  33. 30
  34. 31
  35. 32
  36. 33
  37. 34
  38. 35
  39. 36
  40. 37
  41. 38
  42. 39
  43. 40
  44. 41
  45. 42
  46. 43
  47. 44
  48. 45
  49. 46
  50. 47
  51. 48
  52. 49
  53. 50
  54. 51
  55. 52
  56. 53
  57. 54
  58. 55
  59. 56
  60. 57
  61. 58
  62. 59
  63. 60
  64. 61
  65. 62
  66. 63
  67. 64
  68. ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
  69. ABOUT THE AUTHOR
  70. Newsletter Sign-up

All right, Adam. If you’re going to do the direct approach, do the direct approach.

“Caleb,” I say. “He’s … different.”

“I know, sweetie.” She smiles and my face heats. “He seems like a really special boy.”

“Yeah,” I say, staring into the sink, “he is. And I just—I want to be a good boyfriend to him, you know?”

Oh shit. Did I just tell my mom that Caleb is my boyfriend? We haven’t actually had that conversation yet. I sneak a look at her to see her smile taking up her entire face. I haven’t seen that expression in years.

“I think that’s very sweet, Adam.” She smirks and I barely suppress the eye roll. “But what does this have to do with the work your dad and I do?”

The steely flint is back and my heartbeat picks up a couple paces.

“You just … you’re always talking about how different brains are, and Caleb’s brain is, you know, different. Like the way my brain is different,” I add, the admission like a blade against my skin.

“Oh, sweetie, I didn’t realize—” The steel in my mother softens and dissolves, but for the wrong reasons.

“No, he’s not—Caleb isn’t like me. I mean, as far as I know. It’s not the same kind of different,” I say nonsensically. “He’s got other stuff going on.”

“What kind of other stuff?”

Direct approach, Adam. That’s the best thing. The direct approach.

47

CALEB

I swear to God, the moment this semester is over, I’m not going to think about math for the entire summer. Trying to do trigonometry while surrounded by people who also really hate math is the worst kind of torture. And with Adam off in super-advanced-special-person math, I’m completely on my own.

Moses has been a good emotional touchstone—he’s better at math than most people in the class, so he doesn’t get caught up in the tangle of frustration in the same way as everyone else. And when that doesn’t work, Tyler, weirdly, has been a refuge. I hate his feelings—hate him, hate what I did to him, his now-slightly-bumpy nose a constant reminder—but he spends so much of the class period bored or completely checked out that hooking onto his feelings is usually a complete wash.

Together, though, they’re toxic. And today I’m in a radioactive wasteland the moment I step out of the classroom.

“God, just leave me alone, Tyler,” Moses spits, louder than I’ve ever heard him. And here’s the swarm: fear, anger, self-hate … the complete cocktail I’ve come to expect from this particular combination of people. I don’t even know what they’re fighting about today and I really don’t care. I just want to get out.