Page 3 of Gingers Can Do Maths

We have a pact of firsts. First time trying raw sushi. First time ice skating. First time leaving the country without our parents. We did that on a train ride they still have no clue about.

But when I told Sin I wanted all of her first, I meantallof them.Every single one.

But not now. Not even next year.

Sin’s not ready for all of that. I know it hasn’t even crossed her mind. She’s too busy concentrating on schoolwork.

My heart swells when I remember how hard she worked to join me in advanced maths last semester. We’d stay up, then go to sleep with the moon. A memory of an equation imprinted onto Sin's left cheek zooms into my mind's eye. Between the summer heat and her damp skin, the ink from the textbook had transferred. I remember prying the page off, taking heed of her pleas that I be extra careful not to rip it. Her tattoo, a jumble ofx’sand brackets, had lasted two days despite her scrubbing.

But it was all worth it. For one year my Sin was able to stay by my side in every single class. Now we’d be sharing another schedule at Ennox Preparatory for Science and Technology come fall. We’d be able to drop some core classes and hyperfocus on our passions. For me, that’s physics far more advanced than what our current public school has to offer. For Sin, that’s anything tech-related that requires the use of her long, shimmery nails. She’d already grown bored of the robotics club, having mastered all of the builds in record time. Ennox would have far more advanced models she could fiddle with for weeks on end.

For once, Sin’s not squirming in my arms, desperate to get down because she thinks I’ll drop her. I won’t. She can’t tell yet, but I’ve been lifting for months, trying to get a physique that would complement Sin. A physique she could become attracted to.

With my pasty white skin, orange hair, and toothpick arms, I can’t blame her for only seeing me as a friend.

For now.

But I'm patient. I'll wait.

Still something in me purrs with satisfaction that she isn’t pushing me away. She’s clinging to me with just as much enthusiasm, her fingers easing into my nape while the other wraps around my shoulder.

“Your hair’s getting long on top,” she says, playing with the strands. “I like it.”

Then I won’t cut it as often.

“And you’ve been using the deep conditioner I made.”

Sin likes creating anything by hand, including her own hair and skin products. She'd dig in one of her thousands of purses and pull out hand lotion, lip balm, face and body mists at least twice a day, all homemade. First, she'd moisturise herself to radiant perfection, then me. I didn't care if I smelt too feminine as I listened to her explain how she'd literally machine-whipped everything together so it had the consistency of mousse. I just sat like a good boy as she ran her ring finger around my lips for what I hoped was a second too long as she slathered me in balm.

With the deep conditioner, she’d tried to make it more masculine smelling by adding in essences of leather and sandalwood, but ultimately, I still smelled like vanilla marshmallows. Like her and that's why I used it religiously, regardless of its smoothening effect on my formerly, straw-like hair.

“I’d use anything you made me.”

“Even poison?” she laughs, sliding back onto her platform heels. I don’t think I can remember a time she hasn’t worn heels besides physical education class where she’s forced to put on trainers. The fake height makes her swear that she’s still taller than me, but I’ve finally got her beat by a centimetre. “What if I told you this was poisoned?” She holds up her lavender, bedazzled, insulated lunch bag. It’s massive because there’s always two lunches inside. I still remember the first time she’d offered me half of hers.

She’d seen me sitting alone in the canteen. She was alone too, but she hadn’t come over to be friendly. She’d asked what about her was so damn appealing that I couldn’t stop gawking. She was partially joking, partially serious, and a tad creeped out because Ihadbeen staring at her, studying her like she was some sort of specimen.

Later, she told me that a friendship was the last thing she expected. She just hoped that if she confronted me, I’d have enough shame to ignore her afterwards.

That didn’t happen.

I stared and stared and the more annoyed she grew the more I couldn’t control myself because her annoyance made her glare back at me. Her irritation made her look atme. And when she saw me, I’d finally gotten what I wanted. Her undivided attention.

That’s when she noticed I never ate at lunchtime. It wasn’t because I didn’t have money. My parents made sure to throw lots of it at me, I just never spent it. In fact, I had no less than twenty bills crumpled at the bottom of my bag at all times. I’d told Sin it was because the food in the dining hall was disgusting. That was a half-truth. The other half was a mild case of emo rebellion due to my parents' emotional neglect. Why couldn’t they ever pack me lunches? Or take me to the barber? Or do any school or food shopping with me? I was old enough to do it myself, but I’ve always done it myself. If I stopped doing it at all, maybe they’d notice.

They didn’t.

At first, Sin offered,no,force-fed me half of her lunches. Then she just brought me my own because I was obsessed with whatever she made. Poisoned or not.

“So long as it’s slow acting,” I say, taking the lunch bag and opening it.

It’s peanut butter and jelly sandwiches but nothing with Sin is ever simple. The bread’s homemade and toasted in butter, the thick crust glazed in honey. Even through the wax paper, I can see that she was generous with the fillings that are oozing out between the thick slices.

I feel bad about my contribution. Two yoghurts for dessert.

She wrinkles her brow. “Won’t that be far more painful?”

“Maybe. But it means I get more time with you. Maybe I’ll make it to our graduation at Ennox.”

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