Later he would tell his father that it had all been because of the new girl. And Dad, Ryan knew, would understand. It was Mom who never got it.

“What are you doing, Ryan?” Mrs. McGirk asked, with the stupid look on her face that would cause children to abhor her for ages.

“I’m drawing a picture,” he replied.

Mrs. McGirk was new — just two years teaching pre-algebra — but Ryan already knew how she’d be judged by history. Reducing equations in search of the ever-elusive ‘x’, all the while with that stupid look on her face, like she was handing out the keys to the universe, and the ones who didn’t get it would rue the day.

“Is your picture in some way related to algebra?” Mrs. McGirk asked with a smirk, because of course she knew it wasn’t. Because that’s exactly how clever she was.

The new girl’s name was Michelle. She had arrived that morning and had immediately attracted everyone’s attention, for one reason and one reason only: she was beautiful.

The boys were in love with her and the girls already hated her, but it wouldn’t be that way for long. Eventually the only boys still in love with her would be the ones she hadn’t turned down, and the only girls who still hated her would be ones outside her circle of friends. But at the moment they were all anonymous, thirty-five thirteen- and fourteen-year-olds, none more interesting than the other. But Ryan was about to change that.

“No, unfortunately,” Ryan admitted. He pointed at the image projected by the overhead projector onto the screen behind Mrs. McGirk. “I saw immediately that the result would be four over three, so I decided to draw while you worked on it with the others.”

For an instant, Mrs. McGirk’s stupid look went sick. She glanced over her shoulder at the equation she’d written: 75x + 89 = 189.

“I hope that’s alright,” Ryan added.

“No,” Mrs. McGirk insisted, quickly regrouping. “It’s not alright. Just because you’re a step ahead doesn’t mean you can just go about your own business.”

Ryan set his notebook down, appearing chastised, although he wasn’t really. Michelle was two rows to his left, and he could sense her watching him, but he didn’t look at her, not yet. He kept his eyes down.

“So, what is it you’re drawing, Ryan?” Mrs. McGirk asked.

“I’m not sure you want to know,” Ryan said, shaking his head and closing his notebook. “Not really.”

“Please,” Mrs. McGirk said, crossing her arms. “I’m sure we’re all very interested.”

“Well,” Ryan began with a sigh, “You know the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel, Michelangelo’s Creation of Adam.”

“Of course,” Mrs. McGirk confirmed, nodding.

“Okay,” Ryan went on, “And you also know about the goddess-worshipping civilizations that existed in Western Europe for tens of thousands of years B.C.”

“Believe it or not, I do,” Mrs. McGirk said. “It wasn’t just math I studied in college.”

“Well, what I was working on,” Ryan continued, “was a speculative version of what the roof of the Sistine Chapel might’ve looked like if goddess worship had not been usurped by the patriarchal forms of worship that dominate today.”

Mrs. McGirk uncrossed her arms, and her eyes narrowed.

“The ceiling of the Sistine Chapel,” Ryan said, “if it had been painted to honor the female life-giving principle.”

Mrs. McGirk now approached Ryan, looking apprehensive. Arriving at his desk, she stood over him for a moment, peering down at the closed notebook resting on the desk.

Then she said, “Open it.”

Watching Mrs. McGirk ’s face, Ryan flipped open his notebook, revealing the drawing on the first page.

Mrs. McGirk ’s jaw went tight.

“Collect your things,” she said, “I’d like you to show your drawing to Mr. Harrell.”

***

Unlike Mrs. McGirk, Mr. Harrell, the principal of Clifford Middle School, took additional time to evaluate Ryan’s drawing. This was not because he couldn’t tell what it was — it was obvious — but because he couldn’t reconcile what he was seeing with what Ryan Sheffield was telling him.

“It’s the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel,” Mr. Harrell said, repeating the words Ryan had just said.

“You have to imagine that there never was any Christianity,” Ryan insisted, sitting in a low chair across the desk from the principal. “Women sit at the center of civilization, not as rulers or lords but as the source of life itself. We were thankful for what nature gave us, not for what we took. Borne of nature and borne of woman. This symbolizes our worship of both.”

“It’s a vagina,” Mr. Harrell said bluntly.

“Yes,” Ryan said, appearing satisfied.

He knew from experience that he could convince Mr. Harrell of practically anything, not because Mr. Harrell was stupid, but because Mr. Harrell knew that Ryan was smart. He was a troublemaker, sure, but one who got good grades.

“And in a world that worshipped the goddess,” Ryan continued, “this is what would be on the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel.”

“But I don’t see the chapel,” Mr. Harrell said, his eyes still focused on the drawing. “I only see a vagina.”

“Well,” Ryan said. “Technically it’s a vulva–”

“Ryan–”

“But that’s fine if you want to keep saying vagina,” Ryan said, as if making a concession. “And I was planning to work on the chapel next, but Mrs. McGirk interrupted me.”

“I see,” Mr. Harrell said, nodding. “But of course it makes sense that there wouldn’t be a Sistine Chapel in your drawing. Since it was built by the Roman Catholic church, in your speculative goddess-worshipping alternative universe, there wouldn’t be a Sistine Chapel to decorate.”

“No, of course not. But to give the observer an entry point, the drawing needs a known place of worship.”

“I won’t be sending you to detention,” Mr. Harrell said as he carefully began to remove the drawing from Ryan’s notebook. “Despite Mrs. McGirk’s rather emphatic insistence. But I will need to speak with your father.”

Ryan nodded, trying to look penitent but not really caring either way. Detention would’ve been fine, and he had nothing to fear from his father. His only goal now was get out of Mr. Harrell’s office before the school day ended. He needed to be outside so he could intercept Michelle.

“And in the future,” Mr. Harrell was saying, “let’s refrain from provocative art projects during school hours.”

“You have my word on it, sir,” Ryan said.

The final bell started to ring, and almost immediately Ryan could hear the sound of loud voices and footsteps carrying in from the main hallway.

He looked at Mr. Harrell with undisguised impatience.

“You can go,” the principal said.

***

Emerging from the front of the school in a crush of students, Ryan spotted Michelle some distance ahead. She was moving slowly down the sidewalk away from the building, a book bag slung over her shoulder. And she was alone, which meant that Ryan had acted in time. She still hadn’t made any friends. He could be her first.

He didn’t want to overtake her too quickly. He didn’t want to appear desperate. So he fell in with a group of students walking down the sidewalk in the same direction and steadily approached her from behind.

She was dressed simply in jeans and a pair of black Converse sneakers, with a jacket that had been necessary that morning — when it had been cool — now slung over her arm. Her T-shirt was lime-green and cut low, exposing a U-shaped patch of skin on her upper back, which was split down the middle by a golden blond ponytail.

The group of students dispersed, and a few seconds later Ryan was walking beside her.

“Hey,” he said.

She looked over at him and smiled noncommittally, but he could already tell she knew who he was. It was in her eyes.

“Hey,” she said back.

“We have pre-algebra together,” he said, unnecessarily. “I was planning to introduce myself afterward, but I had an unexpected appointment.”

“Yeah, I remember,” she said, nodding, letting a smile slip through. “You do that every day?”

“What? Draw, you mean?”

“Not just draw. Do you draw pictures of vaginas in pre-algebra class every day so you can go visit the principal?”

“Well, technically it was a vulva,” Ryan corrected. “But no, it would get old. Only every other Monday.”

Now she laughed, and Ryan felt some part of himself escape his control. This girl was better than he could’ve imagined. Not just pretty, but also sharp and confident, and with a laugh that gave him goose bumps. If he wasn’t careful, he would fall in love with her before the end of the next block.

“So it’s a regular thing,” she said. “Good to know you weren’t just trying to get the new girl’s attention.”

“Absolutely not,” Ryan insisted, averting his eyes, blood rushing to his cheeks. “Ask anyone. Vaginas every other Monday. Like clockwork.”

They were alone now, the after-school traffic having split off along the way down other streets. It was a gorgeous late winter afternoon, the sky blue, the sun low and casting long shadows on the sidewalk in front of them.

“Where do you live?” she asked.

“Back there,” Ryan said.

He stopped and pointed in the direction from which they’d come, past the school, which was no longer visible. It was a confession that he’d followed her, but he wasn’t worried. He felt confident she wouldn’t hold it against him.

“So, are you going to my house, too?” she asked, an eyebrow raised, her smiling lips slightly parted. Ryan could just barely see her tongue gliding along the tips of her teeth as she waited for him to answer.

“No,” Ryan said. “Not today, I don’t think. But later, probably. Today I just wanted to say hello.”

“Well, hello.” She extended a hand. “My name’s Michelle.”

“I know.”

He took her hand and shook it.

“My name’s Ryan.”

“I know.”

***

Dinner was late because Jane was late. It was never because of Walker or Ryan, because Walker and Ryan were always on time. If dinner was late, it was Jane’s fault.

Walker, who owned and managed a bookstore less than a mile from home, usually opened the store and then worked until around four, leaving his staff behind to finish out the day and close up.

Jane said this was reckless. Who knew what college students earning minimum wage would get up to without Walker there to keep an eye on them? But Walker insisted that his staff was trustworthy. They were book lovers who loved working at a bookstore, particularly an independent one. They took care of the store as if it were their own, and they knew that none of them, Walker included, was getting rich.

These days Jane, who worked at a large, struggling financial services firm in the city, was lucky if she arrived home before eight, which left her feeling like both the betrayer and the betrayed. The betrayer, because she was denying her husband and son her presence and forcing them to eat dinner late. The betrayed, because the easy life that Walker and Ryan were enjoying was largely built on her hard work and sacrifice. She was the reason Walker could afford to run his little bookstore and not get rich.

“I had a talk with Mr. Harrell today,” Walker announced casually as he placed a square of lasagna on his son’s plate.

Ryan looked up suddenly, as if surprised, although he’d been expecting this.

“I don’t suppose,” Jane sighed, “he was just calling to let us know what a star pupil our son is?”

It had been an unseasonably warm day, and Jane’s face was still shiny from the heat she’d endured on the bus ride home. The hair hanging down her forehead was shiny with oil, the result of her spending all day pulling it away from her face. The rest of her dark hair was firmly pulled back into a clip, but she always left her bangs hanging down. She thought it made her appear more feminine, but really all it did was get in her way.

“I wish,” Walker laughed, already indicating that he wasn’t taking the call too seriously. “But apparently Ryan caused a bit of a disruption in math class today.”

“Really,” Jane said, closing her eyes, her fingers pressed against the bridge of her nose. This was why she worked long hours. So her son could cause disruptions, and so her husband could laugh it off. “Where do we start? With the official story? Or Ryan’s imaginative revision?”

“I think simple yes or no questions will do.” Done serving, Walker took his seat across the table from his son, Jane to his left. “Ryan, were you drawing vaginas in math class today?”

The question shocked Ryan in a way he hadn’t anticipated, as if he’d forgotten that a discussion of his behavior would take place with his mother in the room. In an instant, his face was filled with blood.

“Yes, you should blush,” Jane said, reaching out for her glass of wine, real disgust in her voice. “Jesus Christ, Ryan. Vaginas?”

Ryan looked at his father, who still seemed more amused than anything else.

“So, a bit of gross anatomy mixed in with your equations,” Walker said.

Hearing this joviality, Jane tipped her wine glass back and drained it.

“Since I know you’re a spectacularly intelligent young man,” Walker went on, “and not a pervert, I’ll assume you were putting on a show?”

“Yes,” Ryan nodded, still red-faced. “There’s a new girl in school.”

“And you thought you’d impress her by drawing vaginas?” Jane cut in, refilling her glass. “Do you know what I’d have thought of a boy drawing vaginas when I was in middle school?”

“No,” Ryan flinched, full of regret. More than anything else in the world, he wanted his mother to stop saying vaginas.

“You’d have noticed him,” Walker pointed out, picking at his salad with his fork. “Which I’m sure is all Ryan was after. There’s a new girl in school, you want to get her attention. The rest’ll sort itself out. Right, Ryan?”

Ryan didn’t answer. He wanted his father to stop taking his side. His mother was angry enough.

“Okay, so Ryan can draw vaginas in school,” Jane summed up, “as long as he’s trying to draw attention to himself. Is that our parental conclusion?”

Walker set down his fork and gave his wife a long look. It had been a show, she immediately realized. Walker wasn’t taking Ryan’s side at all. She relaxed, fingering the stem of her wine glass, and waited.

Ryan was waiting too, and when his father finally turned back to face him, his fingers interlaced, Ryan braced himself. His mother was always angry; Ryan never knew when to take her seriously. But when his father’s lips when flat, when his eyes went hard, it was the real thing.

“There are some prices too high to pay for getting noticed,” Walker said. “Making people think you’re stupid is one. Offending people is another. Today you managed both.”

Ryan had spent most of the day feeling clever. Now he felt as far from clever as he could be. His mother could hardly look at him, and now his father was upset. He couldn’t even feel excited anymore about the next time he’d see Michelle.

“I made a mistake,” Ryan said. “I’m sorry.”

“Great,” Walker said, “but don’t apologize to me. Tomorrow I want you to apologize to Mrs. Girk. She’s got a hard enough job, teaching a class that for most of you kids will be worthless. Don’t make it any harder.”

“Okay,” Ryan said.

“And also apologize to your mother,” Walker went on. “I think you know how upset she is and why. No mother wants a son who disrespects women.”

Ryan could’ve explained that he hadn’t meant to disrespect women. He could’ve told them that he hadn’t just been drawing a vagina: he’d been drawing the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel. But at the moment, looking down at the plate of food in front of him, his appetite gone, none of that seemed as persuasive as it had before.

“Sorry, Mom,” he said quietly.

Jane’s frustration was only somewhat salved. She was still the parent directly affected by Ryan’s actions, still the parent more interested in punishment than understanding. Still the bad parent. But she could no more shrug off Ryan’s sincere apology than she could deny the effectiveness of her husband’s approach. So she reached across the corner of the table and gently touched her son’s hand.

“It’s okay, honey,” she said, in a tone that even sounded like she meant it.

“So this new girl,” Walker said, raising a forkful of salad to his mouth. “When do we get to meet her?”