The study was lined with books that smelled of dust and intellectual superiority. Antoinette dragged Kellen into the room by his wrist. She had finished the wine and opened a bottle of scotch.
"Sit," she ordered, pointing to a wooden stool in the center of the room.
Kellen sat. He removed the cat ears, placing them on his lap.
Antoinette paced back and forth, holding a thick textbook titled Advanced Macroeconomic Theory. She slammed it shut, the sound echoing like a gunshot.
"You're probably too stupid to understand this," she slurred. "You're just a body. A pretty, empty shell. But I need to practice my lecture."
She opened the book and began to read aloud. She was talking about fiscal multipliers and government spending. Her words were running together. She was getting angry at the text, angry at the numbers.
She stumbled over an equation. She stared at the page, her brow furrowing.
"This is wrong," she muttered. "Why doesn't it balance?"
She looked at Kellen. His blank face seemed to mock her. She grabbed a heavy whiteboard marker and threw it at him.
"Pay attention!" she screamed.
Kellen tilted his head to the left. The marker whizzed past his ear and hit the wall with a plastic thwack. He didn't blink.
Antoinette marched up to him. "Explain it to me! Tell me what the Keynesian multiplier is!"
Kellen looked at her. He knew the answer. He had taken a free online course from MIT two years ago, studying at the public library until they kicked him out at closing time. He knew the formula better than he knew his own social security number.
He cleared his throat. He looked at the floor, feigning confusion.
"Is it... perhaps... related to how money circulates, Ma'am? Like... one dollar spent becomes someone else's income?"
Antoinette paused. She blinked, her brain trying to process his answer through the fog of alcohol.
"Lucky guess," she muttered.
She turned back to the whiteboard. She started writing furiously. She made a mistake in the third line of the calculation. A simple sign error. It would ruin the entire proof.
Kellen watched. His fingers twitched. He wanted to correct her. It was a physical itch in his brain.
"Ms. Lowe?" he asked softly.
"What?" she snapped, not turning around.
"I think... didn't you say the marginal propensity to consume was positive?"
Antoinette stopped. She looked at the board. She saw the minus sign she had written. She erased it aggressively with her thumb.
"Obviously," she said. "I was testing you."
She turned around, swaying slightly. She lost her balance. Her heel caught on the edge of the rug. She tipped backward.
Kellen was off the stool instantly. He moved with a speed that belied his relaxed posture. He caught her by the elbows, steadying her before she could hit the bookshelf.
For a second, they were close. Too close. She smelled of expensive scotch and despair. He could feel the heat radiating off her skin. She looked up at him, her eyes unfocused. In the dim light of the study, with his dark hair falling over his forehead, he looked like the man who had left her at the altar.
She raised her hand. Her palm was open, ready to slap the ghost she saw in front of her.
Kellen didn't flinch. He didn't pull away. He stared her down, his eyes dark and unreadable.
Do it, his eyes seemed to say. Add it to the bill.
Antoinette's hand hovered in the air. It trembled. Then, it dropped to her side. The anger drained out of her, leaving her empty. Tears welled up in her eyes again.
"Class dismissed," she whispered.
She slid out of his grip and sank to the floor, pulling her knees to her chest. Kellen stood over her, the textbook in his hand. He glanced at the page she had been struggling with, memorizing the next chapter's primary thesis for himself.
