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you believe it, and then she is out of your league. If only Mr. ­Kimbrough had been born fifteen years later, I could have taught him a thing or two.
    â€œDid you have anything to do with that?” he asks me flat-out.
    â€œNo. I had nothing to do with Adam Foster dating Olivia Reyes,” I lie, just as flat-out.
    Mr. Kimbrough looks deflated. I actually feel bad.
    â€œI could have sworn,” he murmurs, “that I heard someone talking about an algorithm .”
    I stop in my tracks. Mr. Kimbrough’s snooping has gone deeper than I thought. I need to try more evasive maneuvers.
    â€œWell you are a math teacher, Mr. Kimbrough,” I offer. “I’m sure people talk about algorithms around you all the time.”
    â€œYeah, but this was different.”
    We’ve reached an uncomfortable impasse in the conversation. We’ve also reached the stairs that lead from the courtyard to the parking lot. From here you can see the entire front of the school—all white walls with Spanish-style red clay shingles on the roof. I glance at Mr. Kimbrough. I can sense the wheels turning in his head. It’s apparent that he’s not gonna let this go easily. I can continue to feign ignorance and hope he doesn’t ask more questions, or I can take control of the situation by trying one more thing: indulging him.
    â€œMr. Kimbrough, I’m no expert. And I don’t know what algorithm you’re talking about. But . . . maybe I can try to help anyway?”
    He considers this. “I appreciate it, Shane, but this is inappropriate. I shouldn’t have wasted your time.”
    â€œIt’s not inappropriate. We’re just two guys chatting. It’s okay.” That said, we both look around to make sure no one is staring at us. Next period’s bell has already rung and everyone is scrambling inside. I’m gonna be late. Whatever. Mr. Kimbrough has gotten my attention.
    He leans in once more and speaks softy: “Do you know Ms. Solomon?”
    â€œSure,” I say. “She teaches history.” I’ve never been in her class, but I’ve seen Ms. Solomon around the halls. She’s younger than Mr. Kimbrough, maybe late twenties, and kind of a fox. If she is what this is all about, then I have newfound respect for the man.
    â€œWell . . . the thing is . . . ,” he stammers.
    â€œYou’re crushing on her,” I say.
    Mr. Kimbrough nods his head as if he’s admitting this to himself for the first time. “I guess you could say that.”
    â€œHave you asked her out?” I say.
    â€œOh God, no!”
    â€œWhy not?”
    â€œShe’s the most beautiful woman in the world,” he says. “My love for her is . . . divided by zero.”
    â€œDivided by zero?”
    â€œUndefined, Shane. Have you forgotten your algebra?”
    Ah, math joke. Mr. Kimbrough, you’re killing me.
    â€œShane, the thing is . . . Deb—er, Ms. Solomon—is such an incredible person. I wouldn’t want to sully that by asking her out, like a peasant. And, oh man, what if she turned me down? I’d have to get a new job. Refinance my mortgage . . .”
    â€œMr. Kimbrough, slow your roll. Relax.”
    A classic pitfall of nerds of all ages: talking yourself into rejection before you’ve even done anything. I call it pre-­rejection. Or just prejection . But at least Mr. Kimbrough has passion. I can work with passion.
    â€œDo you know what Ms. Solomon likes?” I ask.
    â€œLikes? Hmmm. Well, she’s mentioned she enjoys teaching about the Civil War.” Mr. Kimbrough ponders this further. “You know what? There’s actually a Civil War exhibit at Memorial Museum this month.”
    â€œPerfect.”
    â€œI can’t just ask her, though. What if she says no? I could never look her in the eye again.”
    Something makes me think that Mr. Kimbrough isn’t making much eye contact with her to begin