An Elegant Solution

Becca Hickman didn't know why she picked up the grubby-looking book in the first place, and she couldn't possibly articulate why she kept it. She thought about it often, later. Thought about the chain of events, the decisions. She would try to recall what she thought and -- just as importantly, she realized -- how she felt as things unfolded.

It was lying just behind the Theater building, at the edge of a service drive; she saw it as she took the shortcut from her Physics class to Mountain View Drive. She made the walk every day - Physics class to the service drive to Mountain View, then a few blocks north, turn onto Calle Linda. Her house was the second one east of Mountain View.

She walked past the book at first without actually noticing it. Clearly she SAW it; somehow her brain just didn't process that something unusual lay in the drive. Either that or her brain didn't want to deal with the unusual at that moment. She was a dozen feet past it when her brain sorted out the message her eyes had sent. Book on the ground flashed in her mind.

Becca picked the book up. It was a cardboard-bound thing. On the outside, bland and anonymous, similar to a journal she'd purchased at a dollar store recently. She brushed off the bit of dirt and particles of disintegrating asphalt that clung to the back cover.

Inside, the pages were no less anonymous than the cover. There was no name on the first page or inside the cover. The only clue was the handwriting. It was somewhat sloppy and clearly, to her, masculine - small, cramped letters, small loops (the small e's looked like almost like undotted small i's). Only the first handful of pages were filled in. The rest of the journal - she was sure that's what it was - was blank.

She didn't bother to read the content, beyond the first sentence: "I feel lost, like I don't know what comes next for me, but I can't imagine it being good". Join the club, she thought; she certainly felt lost most of the time, and from what she heard from her few friends, it was common among high school kids. She sometimes thought that those who didn't feel lost had their eyes on goals that wouldn't hold up over time - good looks, the right boyfriend (or, of course, girlfriend), the right clothes.

She took the book with her, thinking she would throw it in the trash at home. It seemed wrong to her to read more.

But by the time she was halfway home, she found herself wondering what was on those pages. Maybe there'd be a clue if she read through them, assuming she could decode the handwriting. This belonged to someone, she thought, or at least it had; they would likely want it back, to continue their teenaged existential crisis. Her best friend, Emmy, had introduced her to that phrase: existential crisis. Emmy was vague about the actual meaning, but Becca thought it might be roughly translated as "what the hell am I here for?" Or maybe, she thought now, I don't know what comes next for me.

By the time she let herself into her house -- as usual before her parents (working) or her younger brother (Emmy called him "band nerd" but once said he was cute for a little kid) -- she felt she couldn't wait to find what was in the journal. She realized she had been gripping it so tightly that her hand was starting to cramp. She grabbed a Coke from the fridge, dumped her backpack on the kitchen counter, and dropped herself onto the sofa.

There was a blank line between the opening sentence and what followed; whoever had written this used blank lines as paragraph separators, she decided. The next few paragraphs were disappointing: complaints about cafeteria food, worries about the exam for a driver's license, more complaints about overly inquisitive parents. "The jerk in fourth hour" seemed a frequent annoyance. Still no names, she thought; even the subject of the fourth hour class wasn't divulged.

On the third page, there was a break from worries and complaints, at least sort of. X-Boy (she had named him in her mind) wanted the cafeteria to serve pizza from Il Torta Perfetto. She knew the place; it IS really good pizza, she thought.

She was halfway through the next paragraph - more parent troubles - when she remembered Emmy telling her the cafeteria was going to provide Il Torta Perfetto pizza to a few straight-A students each Friday, working through the list until each had a Perfetto lunch, then starting over again.

Random. That's so random.

On the fourth page was a sentence that caused her to do something she thought only happened in TV or movies, or to drama queens: her jaw fell open. She stopped cold, closed the book for a moment, and then re-opened it and re-read the sentence: "I really, really want to win the Math Prize". The unimaginatively named Math Prize was given to the student with the highest score on a state math test.

In her haze, she didn't immediately realize this might be a clue to the writer's identity. A couple of weeks ago, it would've triggered a short list of names in her mind; Becca was strong in math herself, and might've thought she’d be in the running, except for Ali Lee. She knew Ali. Ali was a math prodigy. Ali won last year, and could only have gotten better.

Ali didn't win this year.

Ali was dead.

Alec LeClerc, a boy she'd never heard of, had won. They had announced it two days ago. No mention of Ali, Becca assumed out of sensitivity. Ali had died the previous week, crossing in a marked crosswalk, with the light (she always was careful, Becca thought), life cut short by a drunk driver.

Frantically she read on. More complaints, some about an older brother, and then

"This is so wrong. They'll serve Perfetto in the cafeteria, but only to straight-A students As IF I'll ever be one. English and History kill me every time."

She was getting a very, very uneasy feeling.

She was skimming now, looking for something more about math, or maybe Ali. Near the top of the last page with writing on it:

"Ali's dead. No way. No frickin' way. I can't even... I think I'm gonna be sick."

Oh God oh God oh God oh God...

"No no no no NO"

(the last word was written in letters 3 lines high)

"I WON THE MATH PRIZE"

"NO!!!!!!!"

The exclamation points took up the rest of the line.

Becca felt dizzy. Her mouth had gone dry, and her hands trembled slightly. She had stopped reading, though there were only a few lines left. No no no no... God God God... Deep breaths.

She slowly calmed a bit, and after a few moments, she focused her eyes on the remaining lines.

"It's this damned journal. I wish for things all the time. It doesn't come true, except the things that were likely anyway - we DID go to Disneyworld last summer, and I got that laptop for Christmas - but I needed that anyway, and nobody, for chrissake, DIED for it."

Becca, against all sense, spent a moment trying to decide if she was bothered by his irreverence: "chrissake". He should've at least capitalized it. Her state of distress was deep: it didn't enter her mind that these thoughts were completely and utterly disconnected from the situation. "Random", she might've labeled them.

"I have to burn this thing. It's evil. Tonight when I get home."

That was it. That was the last entry.

Becca's mind raced. He must've dropped it. Why, why, WHY hadn't he been more careful?

She sat perfectly still, hardly breathing, for several minutes. Her mind churned. Some time ago, Becca had started trying— trying— to be skeptical, like her father. It was hard. Coincidences happen. Yes... yes, these were coincidences. The school had a history of unconventional rewards for academic success. For all she knew, Alec had turned in a suggestion— there was a box, in the office. People were killed by drunk drivers. They were.

Maybe I should test it. Something easy and simple. Something harmless.

Her hands began to tremble again.

Wanting the Math Prize seems pretty harmless.

She almost jumped out of her skin at the sound of the door opening. How long have I been sitting here?

Her mom hustled into the kitchen, the tote bag she used for work in one hand, a grocery store bag in the other. "Hi, Bec. How 'bout we have..." She stopped, peered sharply at Becca. "You alright?"

Becca realized she was gripping the journal tightly, leaning forward on the edge of the couch, staring blankly straight ahead.

Her mom began to walk toward her. "Are you..."

Becca shivered. "I'm okay. Just thinkin'". The last part was true enough; the first part not so much.

"Oh. Okay. Chili for dinner?"

"Sure. Sure." Becca stood from the couch still clutching the journal. She took her backpack from the counter. She had made up her mind: she would burn the journal. End it. That was the best. Whether the journal had any power or not— whether the events were coincidence or not— destroying it wasn't a bad thing.

She started to walk back to her room and stopped dead. If I burn it, Mom'll ask why. What would she say? No worries, Mom, I'm just burning a magical, evil, murderous book. This thing killed Ali Lee, so, like, it's gotta go...

"Bec?" Her mom was looking at her. "Bec?" She realized she was standing stock still halfway down the hall.

A vague response flashed in her mind. "Physics assignment's a bitch."

"Sweetie!"

"Sorry Mom. I'm gonna study."

She went into her room and closed the door.

Later, she tried to think how long she had sat at her desk, her mind whirling, unconnected thoughts flashing. It was a blur. Why did I pick it up? WHY? Should've left it... I wasn't gonna read it. It should already be in the trash... Wait. Why DID I read it? Wasn't gonna, then...then I HAD to. The longer I held it, the more I HAD to read it.

Gradually, slowly, a simple plan formed. Dad might say "that's an elegant solution". She almost smiled - that would be high praise.

Becca took a breath and opened the journal. She turned to the last page. She picked up a pen she only used for special writings -- that was her phrase -- letters to her best friend who had moved, the occasional poem. She wrote in her most careful hand, taking care to make each letter clear. This HAD to be clear.

"I wish this journal never existed."