Total pages in book: 129
Estimated words: 125117 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 626(@200wpm)___ 500(@250wpm)___ 417(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 125117 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 626(@200wpm)___ 500(@250wpm)___ 417(@300wpm)
“Umm. 4,567 divided by 8?”
“570 with a remainder of 7,” Carys said.
The boy gaped at her.
“You can check me,” she said.
He took out his phone and plugged in the numbers. “Whoa. She’s right.”
“987 times 2,309,” his father said.
Carys blinked and nodded, thinking for a moment.
“2,278,983,” she said.
“How are you doing that?” the man asked. “Is it a magic trick?”
“Yes,” Carys told him, leaning in like she was going to reveal a secret. “It’s the magic of math. The greatest show on earth.”
The man had no response to this, but at a look from his wife, he put five dollars into Carys’ bowl.
She did it over and over. People would be drawn in by the curiosity of a miniature horse, and Carys would offer for them to stump her. Not everyone took the bait, but many of them did—especially men.
When Greta asked if Carys was targeting men on purpose, she said, “Hell yes! Men are four times more likely to ask me questions than women or nonbinary people.”
“Of course you’ve crunched the numbers.” Greta laughed.
“Of course.” Carys grinned. She was fucking radiant.
“So…is there a trick?” Greta asked.
She’d been watching Carys do this for over an hour, checking the answers on her phone right along with the onlookers, and Carys had been right every single time. Once, she’d given an answer and Greta thought she’d made a mistake. But she’d corrected herself instantly.
“Only if you consider my brain a trick,” Carys said breezily. She shrugged. “Nah, I love math. I’m good at math. I’ve always been able to do calculations in my head.”
“You’re seriously just doing those problems in your head? How?”
Carys smiled. “I don’t know. You might as well ask how do you paint a picture or how do you know what words to use in a poem.”
“Okay, but those are choices. You could use another word or another color. Math problems have correct answers.”
“Right, but it’s all just how your brain works. Someone who can render perspective in a painting knows which lines and colors will give the desired effect. My brain knows how to calculate numbers.”
“Damn. Wish my brain knew how to do anything.”
Carys cocked her head. “I’m sure it knows something.”
“Yeah, it knows the birthdays of everyone in my tiny town and when carnivorous plants need to be fed. Impressive stuff.”
“Carnivorous plants? Tell me more.”
“Do you need to do more math?” Make more money was what Greta meant, but it seemed gauche to say it.
“This is more interesting,” Carys said and plucked up her sign and her bowl. She deposited both in her bag and said, “Want to walk some more?”
Dazzled by being thought more interesting than making money, Greta nodded. Horse, who had been snoozing at her feet for the past hour, seemed excited about a walk too.
Carys waved goodbye to her Jackson Square compatriots and led Teacup away. “So, carnivorous plants?” she prompted.
“They’re amazing,” Greta sighed. “All plants are part of the ecosystem, but often it’s so much more subtle or removed. Like, a certain animal eats a certain plant and poops it out, and the seeds in the waste grow a new plant and spread its life that way. But with carnivorous plants, it’s direct. They attract these insects and just consume them, living because of them.” Suddenly self-conscious, she trailed off.
“Yeah, we imagine plants as passive. As something that just sits there. Conceiving of them as predators or hunters goes against what we think of when we think plant,” Carys said.
“Right, exactly. And what’s the line between a plant and an animal when a plant is eating an animal? I mean, insects aren’t animals, I know, but it just makes all the distinctions among species and the roles we imagine them to have so fuzzy.”
“I love that,” Carys said. “Blurring boundaries, breaking down divisions, muddying up categorical expectations. Super queer.”
She winked, and Greta felt her cheeks heat.
“You’re so cute,” Carys said, laughing at her embarrassment.
“You’re utterly stunning,” Greta said, completely sincerely. “And brilliant. Killer combo.” She looked down at her shoes, the toes of her sneakers scuffed and worn.
“This is the Mississippi,” Carys said, ruby lips so close Greta could feel her breath.
“Huh?”
Carys’ eyes crinkled in a smile, and she nodded in front of them.
“Oh, gosh. A river.” Greta hadn’t even noticed their approach, so focused on Carys and their conversation. “It’s so…” She searched for an appropriately complimentary word. “Brown.”
“Muddy waters, darlin’,” Carys said.
The river was, at first glance, an unimpressive brown. But once Greta managed to tear her attention away from Carys’ eyes—a brown she much preferred—she took in its beauty. The city clung to its curves and an elegant bridge connected it with an island across the water.
Greta pointed at it. “Is that still New Orleans?”
“Yeah, that’s Algiers Point. The houses are super cute, and there’s a great ice cream place. We can take the ferry across if you like. Although maybe let’s wait until we don’t have Teacup. She doesn’t like the water.”