I Am Charlotte Simmons (93 page)

BOOK: I Am Charlotte Simmons
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“ … things we're trying to deny ourselves”—she realized she had lost track of what exactly had led to things we're trying to deny ourselves.
“ … the calories, the carbs, the bread, the butter, the cheese Danishes I mentioned, the eggs, whereas in Japan there's nothing ‘scientific' about it—”
A delicious aroma was wafting over from the other side of the salmon-colored LithoPlast divider. With the extraordinary power the olfactory sense has—Mr. Starling had talked about this—it went straight to a receptor in her memory, bypassing her “logical mind”—the very way Mr. Starling pronounced the words “logical mind” put them in quotation marks—the aroma summoned up a vision, in detail, from the time she and Jojo had sat at this very table and the same aroma had come wafting over from the Thai food counter on the other side of the LithoPlast divider. It was absolutely “ambrosial,” the adjective Momma used for food that was out of this world—in fact, Momma used to serve a dessert she called ambrosia, slices of orange with white coconut shavings and a little bit, no more than a sort of glaze, of molasses covering the bottom of the bowl—Momma used cereal bowls—but why was she putting ambrosia … and Momma … in the past tense? Did this—
“ … and the yang of life, the passive and the aggressive, broadly speaking. As a result, the Japanese have the lowest incidence of—what's the matter?”
He was looking at her quizzically.
Oh God, she must have let her eyes wander. Had she really been staring at a blank wall of LithoPlast?
“Oh, I'm sorry,” she said, already centrifuging her brain to try to force some little white explanation to the surface … Got it: “What you said about different cultures and different foods? It made me think of—in neuroscience, you'd be surprised—or maybe you wouldn't—by what a hard time the neurophysiologists have trying to figure out exactly what neural pathways like … you know … what's the word?—
convey
!—it's
convey—
convey the sensation of hunger from the stomach to the brain.”
Adam just stared at her with his upper teeth overbiting his lower lip in puzzlement. The wonderfully happy look he had a moment ago was gone. That made her feel guilty all over again. He was sweet, and he really was smart—and why was she
glad
nobody else was here listening to all this? She consciously wanted to be Adam's friend, his close friend—no
it was more
than that … she wanted to love him! That would solve so many problems! She could live the life of the mind and the life of romance in one and the same person! All things that really counted would come together! She would once again be on the high road. She could return to Sparta and report to Miss Pennington without fear, without guilt, without … lies … but she didn't love him, and she couldn't force
herself
to love him … She didn't feel butterflies in her stomach at the very thought of him … If she did, she was convinced, love would drive all the cheap, smug standards of Cool out of her mind. But Adam did have his blind spots, after all, such as trying to turn ordinary things into his beloved “matrical ideas,” and he didn't even realize it was a form of showing off.
After breakfast, he insisted on walking her over to Phillips, to the very door of Mr. Starling's amphitheater—and then he stood there smiling at her until she turned her back to climb up the amphitheater stairs to the top, where she sat. When she took her seat and looked down—he was still standing there, smiling. Then he gave her a little wave that halfway resembled a salute. To top it off, he mouthed, in a heavy, overripe mime, the words :::::I:::::LOVE:::::YOU:::::HONEY::::: Charlotte was embarrassed to the core—what if somebody saw that?—but she felt obliged to give him at least a nod and a little white smile, which she did, and he
still
stood there—so she looked down at the desk arm of her chair, as if studying something with maximum concentration. Why couldn't he leave, like a normal person? Practically all the students in the class were juniors and seniors, and she didn't know any of them, except for Jill, her seatmate, and she barely knew Jill—nevertheless she was glad Jill hadn't arrived and wasn't witnessing Adam mooning over her like this—and there were definitely some cashmere types in this class, and she could just hear them saying, “So now the country bumpkin is banging a loser, a nobody, an independent … She definitely makes the rounds”—and above all she could hear the sniggers sniggers sniggers sniggers … She lifted her eyes as covertly as she could, which is to say, without lifting her head … Thank God! No Adam; he had finally left. But why the “Thank God”?
“Good morning, ladies and gentlemen.”
It was Mr. Starling, at the lectern. He was wearing a tweed jacket that would have looked almost gaudy if the amphitheater's stage lighting hadn't brought out its colors so richly—orange
yellow, chocolate brown, luggage brown, and a certain light blue that sang harmony and brought them all alive … perfectly, in Charlotte Simmons's eyes … Yet another stab of guilt
and regret … She could have been so close to this man … and his pioneering in humankind's understanding of itself … in the new
matrix
, as Adam would have it, except that Mr. Starling had already created a matrix, for real, not in dreams … and she could now be living on the very frontier of the life of the mind. He had given her her chance.
Her heart sank. Any day now, the final grades for the first semester would be out, and Momma and Miss Pennington would finally … find out … and she, the little mountain prodigy, could not think of any way to give them a little white forewarning that would soften the blow.
In his peripatetic, Socratic fashion, Mr. Starling was moving about the stage, lit up so resplendently by the lights overhead, talking about the origins of the concept of “sociobiology,” developed by a zoologist from Alabama named Edward O. Wilson. Wilson's specialty had always been ants—ants and the complex social order and divisions of labor within ant colonies. He had been a newly minted Ph.D., a young assistant professor teaching at Harvard, when he went to an island in the Caribbean known as “Monkey Island” to help his first graduate student launch a study of macaque rhesus monkeys in their natural habitat. They talked about certain similarities—despite the enormous differences in size, strength, and intelligence—between ants and apes.
“And Wilson experienced what every research scientist lives for,” said Mr. Starling, “the
Aha!
phenomenon, that flash of synthesis that will revolutionize the field. If there were similarities—analogies—between the social lives of ants and apes, why wouldn't Homo sapiens be part of the same picture? The analogies came flooding to his mind.” Mr. Starling paused, then looked about the amphitheater with a mischievous smile. “But just as Nature abhors a vacuum, Science abhors analogies. Analogies are regarded as superficial, as ‘literary,' which to the scientific mind—and certainly to Wilson's—means impressionistic. Now … since Science abhors analogies, just how did Wilson go about showing that from ants to humans the social life of all animals was similar—and more than similar, in fact, since in all animals it was part of a single biological system?” Mr. Starling scanned the hundred and fifty students before him. “Who will be so kind as to provide us with the answer?”
Charlotte, like so many others, craned this way and that to see if any hands were up. She herself didn't have the faintest idea. She had scarcely even looked at Wilson's book, which was called
Sociobiology:
The New
Synthesis—
not A New Synthesis, but capital-T The New
Synthesis
. How
could she have, given all she had been through for the past two months? So many students were craning about in their desk chairs to see if any brave soul was going to tackle that one, their chairs made a creaking, shuffling choral sound.
A hand went up barely three feet away from Charlotte … a girl two rows directly ahead of her. Long, straight light brown hair she had brushed until it absolutely shone. Oh, Charlotte knew about such things.
Mr. Starling gazed upward. His line of vision was such that Charlotte could have sworn he was looking straight at
her
… but of course he wasn't. He pointed, and it was as if he were pointing straight at her.
“Yes?”
The girl with the shining light brown hair said, “He used allometry? If that's the way you pronounce it? In all my born days”—
bawn days—
“I never heard a living soul say that word out loud.”
Laughter and chuckles all around.
All miii bawn days
. Countless faces were smiling at her. She had not only a Southern accent but a quite coy, little-ol'-me Southern accent.
“Would you define allometry for us?”
“I'll certainly try.”
I-i-i-i'll sutney try-y-y-y.
Appreciative chuckles. “Allometry … allometry is the study of the relative growth of a part of an organism in relation to the growth of the whole. It's a really—what's the expression—
bangin
' way to describe morphological evolution … is the way Iiiii'd put it.”
Renewed laughter, wholly
with
her! Such learned, esoteric material pouring forth in a flirtatious
Savannah deb-party Southern accent! This Dixie chick knew what she was doing!
“Very good,” said Mr. Starling. He had a big smile of his own. “And perhaps you can tell us why this allometry was so useful to Wilson.”
“Well,” said the girl, “it's like this new dance?” Laughter, laughter, before she could even name the dance. “Allometry enabled Mr. Wilson to like … do the submarine?” Laughter, laughter, laughter. “He went down … under the anecdotal level, the surface level? … and found mathematically corroborant first principles?”—
fuhst principles—
“and that way he doesn't”—
dud'n—“have
to say an ant is like a human being or that a … a … I don't know … a baboon is like a sea slug?—because he can show that behavior at that evolutionary level is demonstrably—or I reckon I should say allometrically? —the same as behavior at
this
evolutionary level … seems like to me.”
Laughter, laughter, laughter, even scattered applause—and some boy
shouted out, “You go, girl!” Another round of laughter—and then all eyes turned to Mr. Starling to get his reaction.
He was smiling right at the girl—and right in the direction of Charlotte. “Thank you,” he said. A pause, during which he continued to smile at his new discovery, the Savannah-drawling
flirtatious little prodigy. “Seems to me,” he said, “absolutely correct.” Laughter, laughter. He gazed out on the entire class. “Science abhors analogies. But science loves—or accepts—allometry
even when it finds its equations insoluble. But that problem needn't detain us.” Then he turned back to his little star comedienne, smiled at her once more. “Thank you.”
BOOK: I Am Charlotte Simmons
7.06Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
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