Heads You Win

When Sasha returned to school the next morning, Mr. Sutton was more interested in studying the examination paper than in finding out how his pupil felt he’d done, and although he smiled when he saw the ticks, he didn’t point out to Sasha that he’d missed a question on a theorem they had gone over in great detail only a few days before.

“How long will I have to wait for the results?” asked Sasha.

“No more than a couple of weeks,” replied Sutton. “But don’t forget, you still have to take your A-levels, and how you do in them could be just as important.”

Sasha didn’t like the words “could be just as important,” but he returned to his slavish routine. It worried him that he found the A-level papers a little too easy, like a marathon runner on a six-mile jog. He didn’t admit as much to Ben, who felt it had been far tougher than any marathon, and no longer expected to be the proud owner of a TR6.

“You could always be a bus driver,” said Sasha. “After all, the pay’s pretty good and so are the holidays.”

“You’d get longer holidays if you go up to Cambridge,” said Ben, revealing his true feelings. “By the way, I’m holding an end of exams party at my place on Saturday night. Mum and Dad are away for the weekend, so make sure you don’t miss it.”

* * *

Sasha put on a freshly ironed white shirt, school tie, and his new suit. As soon as he arrived at Ben’s home he realized that he’d made a dreadful mistake. But then, he had assumed the party would be just a few of his classmates, who would down pints of beer until they fell over, fell asleep, or both.

He discovered his next mistake as he walked into a hallway that was larger than his flat. There were just as many girls as boys at the party, and none of them were wearing school uniform, so he’d removed his tie and unbuttoned his shirt long before he reached the drawing room. He looked around and smiled, quite unaware that everyone seemed to know who he was. But he didn’t talk to a girl until more than an hour had passed, and she evaporated almost as quickly as she’d appeared.

“He’s from another planet,” he heard her tell Ben.

“Only wish I occupied it,” his friend replied.

Sasha wished he had Ben’s ability to casually chat to a girl, and make her feel she was the only woman in the room. He settled down in a comfortable chair from which he could observe the scene as if he were a spectator watching a game where he didn’t know the rules.

He froze when he saw a particularly attractive girl heading in his direction. How long would this one last before she too evaporated?

“Hi,” she said. “My name’s Charlotte Dangerfield, but my friends call me Charlie.” She’d broken the ice, but he still froze. She made a second attempt. “I’m hoping to go up to Cambridge in September.”

“To read maths?” asked Sasha hopefully.

She laughed, a gentle laugh followed by a captivating smile. “No, I’m an art historian. Or at least that’s what I’d like to be.” What’s my next line? thought Sasha, trying not to make it too obvious that he was staring at her legs as she perched on the arm of his chair.

“Everyone says you’re going to win the Isaac Barrow Prize. And as I’m no better than a borderline case, I’ve got everything crossed, including my toes.”

Sasha was desperate to keep the conversation flowing, but as he’d never visited an art gallery in his life, all he could manage was, “Who’s your favorite artist?”

“Rubens,” she said without hesitation. “Particularly the early paintings he did in Antwerp, when we can be certain he alone was responsible for the entire canvas.”

“You mean someone else painted his later pictures?”

“No,” she said. “But once he became famous and even the Pope wanted to commission him, he allowed his more talented pupils to assist him. Who’s your favorite artist?”

“Mine?”

“Yes.”

“Leonardo da Vinci.” The first name that came into his head.

She smiled. “That’s hardly surprising, as, like you, he was a mathematician. Which of his paintings do you particularly like?”

“The Mona Lisa,” said Sasha. It was the only one he knew.

“I’m visiting Paris with my parents in the summer,” said Charlie, “and looking forward to seeing the original.”

“The original?”

“At the Louvre.”

Sasha was trying to think what to say next, when she slipped down into the seat beside him, leaned across, and gently kissed him. Neither of them said a great deal during the next hour, and although Sasha was clearly untutored, she didn’t treat him as if he’d come from another planet.