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“Why?” asks Ms. Finch.

Jenna’s tiny hands flutter by her sides. She turns to look at Misty sitting beside her, and I can see her face flushing. Jenna isn’t so good at speaking in public, but man, she can race through a genome project like lightning.

Misty takes over in her brash voice. “Don’t we need to have notes for the test?”

Ms. Finch’s brow pulls forward for a second before she smiles. “Oh, no, this novel is just to enjoy. There’s no test.”

A snort escapes from me. “No test?” It’s the craziest thing I’ve ever heard a teacher say. There’s always a test. Too late, I notice all eyes are on me.

“Something funny, Mr. Hanson?”

I look down at my hands and shake my head.

“Wait. Wait,” Greta says in a panicked whine as her face drains of color. “We’re not being graded on this?” She indicates the pages of notes from the last week. “I mean, wait.” It’s like listening to one of my dad’s vinyl record albums. Every so often the needle gets stuck in a groove and skips so that a word repeats over and over.

James surveys the chaos in the room and turns to me with one of his giant toothy grins. He mumbles, “My mom will not care for this. Not one bit.” But it is one of those loud mumbles meant to carry. And from there it grows and grows into a chorus of whining voices, many of them aimed at me, pleading, “Say something, Charlie.”

Ms. Finch is watching us, mystified. I can’t help but realize how insane our complaints are because there couldn’t be an easier assignment than to shut our traps and listen up.

The noise around me is peaking. James is looking victorious. The class is a united front on this issue, and they want me to join, sign my name on the Declaration of English Sucks. Shit, even Charlotte’s John Hancock is all over this thing—well, not the English sucks part, but she’s definitely signed off on the annoy Ms. Finch clause.

Charlotte cannot be my sole reason for joining this fight. I fight for math and the Brighton way. I am Mathman, able to solve tall problems in a single, well-calculated bound.

God, that’s lame.

If I lead my classmates, will Charlotte come to my room again to congratulate me?

I grit my jaw to banish the idea of Charlotte anywhere near my room before I can stand at my desk. The class turns in unison to look at me, their pleas falling silent on their lips. Ms. Finch watches me with interest. I want to apologize to her for some reason. Instead, I clear my throat and stuff my hands in my pockets.

“Ms. Finch, why waste our time with the novel if there is no test?”

There. I’ve signed my name. Happy?

The class nods and begins to murmur again. All eyes are on Ms. Finch. She takes out the novel in question and leans on her podium. “You think experiencing a brilliant piece of literature is a waste of time?”

I shift my weight from foot to foot. “Um…yes, ma’am. I guess I do.”

Ms. Finch’s face pulls into a look of disgust.

Stupid libido thinking it’s so smart. This is so going to blow up in my face. Everyone is quiet as we wait. My palms begin to sweat and my knees wobble.

Or maybe this has nothing to do with my southern hemisphere. Maybe my standing up today is the result of the way Charlotte looked at me, in the dimness of my room last week, like I’d be some kind of hero if I helped distract her sister. And the way her fingers, cool and soft, felt in mine as we sat in silence at the kitchen table last night, thumbing silently through the pages of each other’s minds.

Ms. Finch studies the book in her hand, running her fingers over the cover. Looking up at the whole class, she asks, “So you want a test on this novel?”

There’s a wave of nodding across the classroom.

“If we listen to the story, then we should be fairly compensated through a corresponding grade.” I sound like some ridiculous cartoon using every fifty-cent vocabulary word I’ve ever learned, but I can’t stop myself. “On the first day of class, you said that you knew all about us. If you want to motivate us, you’ve got to grade us.”

James snorts.

Greta exhales, a small sound like, ohhhhh.

I cross my arms across my chest to keep my hands from shaking as my ears burn. Ms. Finch’s forehead wrinkles, and she nods a few times. And for a fleeting moment, my chest seizes, thinking I’ve convinced her.

“No. No test,” she says. Without another word on the subject, she begins her lecture for the day.

I slowly take my seat. On the one hand, I’m glad there’s no test because I haven’t been paying attention to the novel. On the other, Ms. Finch has demonstrated once again that she is the one with the power in this classroom. We’re at her mercy.

I’d forgotten about the whole Revolutionary War that followed the signing of the Declaration. I’d forgotten that signing was only the first step. It’s not like John signed his name all huge and the king handed over the keys to the country saying, “Right then, you win.”

We’ll have to earn our independence.

---

Through some sick twist of fate, my locker is on the humanities hall, right beside Ms. Finch’s office. She sings when she works. Toneless and nearly tuneless songs seep out around the closed door into the hall. I would laugh, but there’s something earnest about this private singing.

Suddenly, the song ends, and Ms. Finch steps out of her office. She slings her red bag over her shoulder and sets her empty coffee mug on top of the lockers while she locks the office door. Turning to leave, she spies me as I’m willing my locker to devour me.

“Afternoon, Mr. Hanson.”

I drop my Advanced Theories in Physics book (a good eight pounds) on my foot and swear involuntarily. Jedi mind trick: You heard nothing.

I bend to retrieve the book, and when I stand I notice that she’s looking at me like she’s trying to see inside me.

“So, it’s you this year, eh?”

“Me?”

“Big man on campus. Top dog. King of the class. Crowned head of the seniors.” She rattles off a list of titles. I look at her stupidly. Ms. Finch stops listing and looks surprised. “Wow. You don’t even know, do you?”

“Know?”

“You’ve been chosen.”

“For what?”

“Greatness,” she says, hiking her red bag up on her shoulder and stepping closer. Her scent is all around me, but something is missing. Charlotte’s is full of so much more.

“They want you,” Ms. Finch says pointing her car key at my chest to accent the last word, “to take me on.”

It hits me. I don’t give a crap what “they” want. High school is a holding pattern. All I’ve ever cared about is the future. “They” can piss off.

Charlotte has chosen me, though. Hell if I know why, but she said as much the other night. I stood up to be counted for Charlotte.

Ms. Finch sizes me up one more time. “I’m glad it’s you.”

I flush like a star-struck tween, trying to knit together the threads of our conversation so my mind stops wandering toward Charlotte. “Why?”

“You’re a smart boy. I can see that. I bet you’ll make this interesting. Just remember,” she says solemnly, “‘with great power comes great responsibility.’”

I’m frozen like a jerk.

“The great Stan Lee. Spiderman? You must know it.” She grins and the flash in her eyes stops my heart. A challenge? Charlotte did say she was all about being some sort of Superteacher. I guess it’s a bigger victory to take down a fighting bull than to tip a sleeping cow.

While I stammer for a reply she heads down the hall and leans on the double doors, opening them to the afternoon light.

“See you tomorrow,” she calls before she dissolves into the glare from the autumn sun.

2.6

There’s a pallet of new stones to rebuild the small retaining wall around the garden bed at Dimwit’s today. They aren’t evenly shaped, so stacking them is a pain. They keep toppling and I keep shoving them back in place, grumbling things like, “Quote Spiderman to me, will she?” and “I’d like to hang her from the flag pole with a web.” Real intelligent crap.

I’m rebuilding the same section of wall for the third time when Mrs. Dunwitty’s shadow falls over me. “Hey, Sisyphus,” she says. “Ever think of, oh, I don’t know, thinking?”

I look up at her, the sun behind her making her skin darker than usual so that her eyes are lost like black holes. “Did you just call me a sissy?”

Dimwit tilts her head back and holds her sun hat as she cackles. “You may not be smart, but you sure are good for a laugh.” She rumples my hair, which totally weirds me out. “I called you Sisyphus.”

I look at her blankly, and shove a tilting rock back in place.

“It’s a myth. Sisyphus was an ancient king. He was punished by the gods and spent eternity pushing the same rock up a hill only to have it roll down again.”

“That sucks.”

“Guess ya’ll haven’t studied it at your smarty pants school.”

I shrug and reach for another rock. I fit it into place and it rolls back into me. I peek at Dimwit to see if she’s noticed.

“Answers a lot of my questions, like how you can be so smart and yet stupid at the same time.”

“I’m not stupid,” I mutter and shove the toppling stone back in place again. Not that she’s buying the load of manure I’m selling.

“Prove it,” says Mrs. Dunwitty. “Use your super-knowledge to engineer me a proper wall.”

Engineer? I stare at her a second longer before looking at my pitiful wall. Of course it’s falling down. I’m just grabbing at stones and stacking them, but if I were to apply some geometry and basic physics, adjust the angle of the stack, and add some drainage to reduce internal pressure…

My brain starts to race as I pull down the bit of wall I’ve already built. I run to the car for paper and a pencil to sketch a plan.

I’ve sorted the rocks and dug a trench for the foundation by the time the sky darkens. I’m laying the base stones when Mrs. Dunwitty shuffles over. I peek at her face as I reach for another stone. She looks pleased as she studies the plan I’ve drawn out, holding it at a shaky arm’s length and squinting at it. I’m surprised to feel pride swelling in my chest.

“Looks good, son,” she says. “Why don’t you clean up for tonight?”

I sit back and brush my hands off on my gym shorts.

“You’ve got potential,” Mrs. Dunwitty says as she hands me back my plan. Coming from Dimwit, that’s like winning the lottery.

---

When I walk into my house, I hear singing coming from the family room. It’s a man’s voice, but Charlotte’s buoys it as she sings along. I follow the sound to find Charlotte and Becca watching some old musical. Well, Charlotte is watching, and Becca is reading in the recliner.

I go up to shower and then work on my MIT application. Last thing Greta said to me this afternoon was, “Grow a pair and finish it, Chuck. MIT is waiting.” And while I think the pair I have is just fine, she is right about MIT. There are fifty-four days until the early application deadline.

I spend ten minutes tinkering with my short answers. I have seven versions of “ What has been the most significant challenge you’ve faced?” Every last one of them reeks of bullshit.

I read the next short answer question.

We know you stay busy with many school and extra-curricular activities. Tell us about something you do for fun.

Algebra.

Probably not the answer they were looking for. These questions are meant to show what a well-rounded individual I am. The thing is, I’m not round. I’m straight, like an arrow.

I doodle a straight line on a scrap of paper. I put an arrow tip at one end. Now my line will go on and on in that direction. I put an arrow tip on the other end. I have no limits in either direction. I am infinite.

My stomach grumbles. I’m not infinite. I’m hungry. Frustrated, I close my laptop and head to the kitchen.

I pull a box of cereal from the pantry, trying—and failing—to ignore the flickering light from the TV in the family room. But then Charlotte laughs, and I’m done for. Attracted to her laughter like a moth drawn to the TV’s soft light, I drift into the family room.

Becca is stretched out on the recliner now. She’s fallen asleep with her mouth slightly agape. I’m pretty sure she was up most of last night reading. I notice she’s nearly done with the giant book resting in her lap. The sound of her light snoring is like the last traces of thunder in a distant storm.

Charlotte is curled up on one end of the couch. Her sketchbook and a handful of charcoal pencils are on the end table beside her. I crane my neck to see what she’s working on. I can’t make out any shapes from here, just darkly smudged lines.

“You’re freaking me out,” Charlotte says, not looking away from the TV. “In or out?”

At the sound of her voice, I jump and crush my box of cereal. I hear the unmistakable sound of the contents being pulverized and spy a crooked smile on Charlotte’s lips.

“Sorry,” I say, stepping closer. “I needed a break from MIT.”

“I thought you loved MIT.”

“Yes, but I don’t love writing application essays.”

The men on screen are singing some nonsense song. The words are meaningless. Sort of like my answers to MIT’s questions. I sigh. “I’ve got to finish, though. Greta won’t quit bugging me until I hit send.”

“So you’re doing it for Greta?”

The tension built up inside my chest leaks out between my pursed lips with a sound like air hissing from a tire. “No. MIT is for me.”

She pats the seat next to her on the couch and thankfully changes the subject. “Ever seen Singing in the Rain?”

I grimace.

She mimics me. “It’s a classic. You’ll like it. Plus, you can pick up some dance moves.”

I chuckle. “Oh, I’ve got moves.”

“If you’ve got moves, then I want to see them.” She laughs and then offers to share her blanket with me, but I’m suddenly sweating.

I set my smashed cereal box on the table by her sketchpad, and steal a closer look. It’s a picture of a girl standing in a downpour, her face tilted upward. Her mouth is open and her eyes are shut. I can’t tell if she’s laughing or screaming. Maybe something in-between.

I trace the taut charcoal line of the girl’s jaw before moving to sit down. I feel the way that sketched girl looks, caught between desire and fear, and I’m amazed that it took a drawing—Charlotte’s drawing—to help me understand why I keep avoiding my application. MIT may be what I want, but it terrifies me, too.

I just can’t figure out exactly why I’m afraid.

I settle on the far side of the couch, and Charlotte catches me up on what I’ve missed. The movie depicts the change Hollywood went through as silent movies were replaced by talkies. That part is pretty interesting, but then out of nowhere, people break into song and dance, which makes me squirm in my seat because who does that?

Charlotte sings along with the actors. Her voice has a rich texture in the semi-darkness. I’d like to wrap myself in the silkiness of her song. Where did this girl come from, and what am I to do now that she’s here? I study her profile in the flickering light of the TV.

“You’ll miss my favorite scene staring at me like that.” She doesn’t look at me when she says it, but points toward the TV. “You don’t want to miss this.”

The man in a fedora (Don) kisses the lady in the strange purple hat (Kathy). They’re standing under an umbrella. Kathy tells Don to stay out of the rain.

Charlotte leans forward, grabbing my knee. Her fingertips are blackened from smudging the charcoal lines of her sketch. She recites Don’s next line along with him.

“From where I stand, the sun is shining all over the place.”

She squeezes my knee and then clasps her hands at her chest, like she’s trying to hold herself all together. She sings along with Don as he sings and dances in the rain, her eyes big and glassy in the light from the TV.

The guy’s soaking wet, splashing around in puddles, and probably going to lose his voice, the one thing he needs to make his new movie, for what? “It makes no sense,” I mutter to myself as Don tap dances through puddles.

“He’s in love. It makes him happy. What doesn’t make sense?”

“But why’s he singing and dancing around in the rain? Can’t he just be happy somewhere dry?”

Charlotte shakes her head. “Please don’t confuse love and logic, Charlie. They aren’t even remotely related.”

Don keeps dancing, his movements exploding with wild joy, until he runs into a cop who is also out strolling in the rain for no reason I can see. I wonder if he’s in love, too. I still don’t get it, but I do have to admit that by the time Don walks off, humming the tune, I do feel lighter.

“Have you ever sung in the rain, Charlie?” Charlotte asks when the scene’s over.

“No.”

“It’s a romantic notion, but highly overrated. Reality can really suck.” She tucks her blanket around her more tightly. “I read that Gene Kelly had a fever of 103 degrees when they shot this scene. It’s all an act.”

“It is a movie, Charlotte. It’s not supposed to be real.” I smile, but what she’s said has struck a nerve. That’s why I’m stalling on my MIT application. Reality. What if MIT isn’t everything I’ve made it out to be?

“For one thing,” Charlotte says, bringing me back from my thoughts, “you get wet when you sing in the rain. Very wet.”

“You don’t say,” I deadpan.

Charlotte kicks one foot out at me. It lands in the palm of my hand and, without thinking, I tickle it. She gasps and bites back a peal of laughter.

“You’re a dead man, Hanson,” she cackles, yanking her foot away, and pursing her lips. God, I’d love to kiss those lips. Just once.

She maneuvers so she’s kneeling on the cushion between us wiggling her fingers in my direction in a prepare-to-be-tickled sort of way. Her eyes roam over my body to find her target. Every inch of me pleads to be chosen.

When Becca stirs in her sleep, Charlotte’s fingers freeze. Her eyes widen. I grit my teeth in a startled expression, which makes Charlotte snort, which makes me laugh. Actually, it may be fair to say I guffaw. I don’t know that I’ve ever guffawed before. It feels pretty good.

The old recliner squeals in protest as Becca sits up. “What did I miss?” She’s looking toward the TV, so I’m guessing she means the movie, but I’m suddenly all too aware that I was just about to get into a tickle war with her best friend. Her only friend.

Bad form, Chuck, the Greta in my head snipes.

I stand and straighten out my rumpled shirt. “I’d better get back to work.”

Charlotte sits back and pulls the blanket over her again. She runs her smudged fingers—the ones enticing me just moments ago—through her inky hair.

My insides ache. “Thanks for the movie, Charlotte,” I call out as I turn to leave. I need to go. I need to do some wicked math to get this girl out of my system.

“Anytime, Charlie.”

---

Settling in front of my computer again, I pull up the proof I’m working on for the Young Mathematicians online journal, the one I’m hoping will catch Dr. Bell’s eye. Working through the numbers usually calms me down. Instead, I keep imagining Charlotte, standing alone on an empty street, singing in the rain.

When she tilts her head back to sing, I see the girl in the picture Charlotte drew. The girl lost somewhere between a song and a scream.

Nope. I can’t work on this proof if I’m distracted like this. I’ll screw something up.

I pull out my scrap paper, noticing the infinite line I’d drawn earlier. I mark off a section, assigning each point a value. Behind the line, I draw an X- and Y-axis and begin solving for the slope. It’s a simple problem. I’ve solved hundreds of them. It’s like breathing. Isolate the variable. Stick to the plan. Solve the equation.

It’s as easy as 3.14159265.

I scribble more problems, increasing the difficulty, until I’m finally staring down an equation worthy of my skills. But even working through this behemoth does nothing to erase the memory of Charlotte’s eyes on me in the dark.

I jab my pencil at the paper, pressing the tip so hard it snaps. Closing my eyes, all I see is the nape of her neck, a black curl draped along the soft line of her spine, and her tattoo. There is a physical pulling in my gut, tugging at me in all sorts of places, aching to reach out and trace the lines of the indelible infinity symbol there.

Math isn’t working. How can math not be working? Is this the beginning of another psychotic break? If it is, why do I suddenly feel so calm, like I’ve broken through the eye wall of a hurricane and into the tranquil heart of the storm?

I open my eyes and focus on the first straight line I drew. When I stood up in class to be counted on Charlotte’s side, I changed the direction of my life. I deviated from my safe course. I could go back and erase the point at which I turned, but I don’t want to. I don’t want to erase Charlotte from my life.

Looking at my page of solved problems, the inkling of a plan wheedles its way into my mind. It’s there on the sheet in front of me—over and over again. Have a problem to solve? Isolate the variable.

If Ms. Finch can refuse to give us feedback in the form of a grade on that stupid novel, then we’ll withhold our feedback, too. All of it. Every last word.

2.7

“So we’re really doing this, eh, Chuck?” Greta asks Monday morning on our way into school.

“It’s what the people want.” I grab the heavy exterior door before it closes in my face. “As the valedictorian, it’s my duty to lead.”

“In your dreams,” Greta hisses, squeezing through the door before me. “This moves forward because I made it so. Without me, you’d be the only jerk-off in class playing this little game.”

James chuckles. I scratch my nose with my middle finger. He grins even wider.

“You’re right. We’re a team.”

James tosses his meaty arms around our shoulders. “The A-Team.”

Greta and I both groan.

By lunch, Greta confirms every student in our English class is committed to my plan. If this is going to work, we have to be all in.

Class starts as usual. We’re in our seats as Ms. Finch rushes in sipping coffee seconds after the bell. She sets her coffee down on her podium, picks up the novel she’s reading to us, and tells us to shut our traps. Thing is, no one’s trap is open. Everyone is silent, with hands folded on their desks, looking anywhere but at Ms. Finch. The lecture begins and we take notes, but no one asks questions or makes any unnecessary noise.

The silence is eerie. And awesome.

Ms. Finch pauses at one point during the lecture and gazes out over the class, a crease in her brow. “Any questions?”

Silence.

“Oh-kay,” she continues. “Kinda weird, but okay.” The way she’s biting her bottom lip lets on how un-okay today’s class has been. “I tell you what,” she says. “I’ll give ten extra credit points to the first person who can tell me the difference between an epic and an ode.”

Nothing. Which she realizes may mean we weren’t listening when she went over that crap earlier, so she tries again. “Too hard? Twenty points to the student who can tell me who wrote Shakespeare’s sonnets.”

She looks triumphant, like surely even lit-illiterates like us can figure out that one. Still, no one answers. I know it’s killing them. It’s killing me. Twenty free points going to waste.

“It’s Shakespeare, guys. Shakespeare wrote Shakespeare’s sonnets.”

We look through her.

She sighs, “Right. Um…so use the rest of class to work in your project groups. Anyone need a pass for the library?”

A few people look at me. They’ve already forfeited extra credit points, and using this time to do research on our stupid projects would save valuable after-school time for research we care about. I shake my head once and look at my hands.

I steal a glance around and notice everyone has his or her back turned away from the front of the room where Ms. Finch watches us with a furled brow.

And that, ladies and gentlemen, is how you isolate a variable.

If Ms. Finch has a compulsion to be the best, then our ignoring her should get so far under her skin, she’ll want to peel it off layer by layer to get to us. And while she’s peeling away, Charlotte should be able to enjoy her life for a little while with no interruptions. Perhaps she’ll enjoy some of that free time with me, in my room, in the dark—

---

It started raining during English, so I’m free from my indentured servitude for the day. Charlotte’s car is parked in its normal spot on the curb when I get home. The joke around the house these days is that Charlotte hangs out all the time because Mom loads the pantry with junk food. Mom says as long as Charlotte stays, she’ll keep buying the good stuff. That’s how thrilled my parents are about Becca socializing for once. They are willing to slowly poison us with artificial flavors and preservatives. I say hurray for junk food, but sometimes it feels more like Charlotte is hiding out at our place, like we’ve taken in a refugee.

Inside, Charlotte’s melodic voice is everywhere all at once. It makes my pulse stutter.

She’s in front of the microwave, a bag of popcorn turning inside, singing a tune that’s upbeat and sad at the same time.

I drop my keys on the counter, and Charlotte turns to see me. She’s not embarrassed that I came home to find her singing in my kitchen. Instead, she smiles, wide and warm, and reaches for a wooden spoon from the jar by the stove. Using it like a microphone, she switches to a familiar refrain from Singing in the Rain.

She stops inches from me. The last note trails off, washing away my senses.

She laughs, her breath soft against my face. “Any requests, Charlie?” She grins up at me. Part of me wishes she’d take a few steps back so my heart can slow a little, but another part of me wants to pull her even closer.

“N-n-no.”

“Jo had a bad day at school today,” she says, her smile brighter than a supernova.

Joe? “Is Joe your boyfriend?”

Charlotte steps away from me, her head cocked to the side like a bird. “My wha—Jo is my sister.” She leans back on the counter. “Seems the kids were being mean to her last period.”

“We weren’t mean,” I say, feeling heat rising to the tips of my ears. “I solved your problem with algebra.”

Charlotte squinches her nose at me. “I don’t care what you did. She’s madder than a hatter.”

I want to understand her. I do. “That’s good, right?”

Charlotte taps out a rhythm on the palm of her hand with her wooden spoon microphone. “Yes, that’s good. So good that she’ll be working late on new lesson plans for the geniuses. Currently, I am not her top concern. I’m even on my own for dinner tonight.”

Becca has come downstairs to hear this last bit. “You can have dinner here. Right Charlie?” Charlotte stops mid-drum and arches a brow at me. My heart ratchets up again.

Dad comes in from the garage, shaking water from his coat. Becca asks, “Charlotte? Dinner? Yes?”

Dad nods. “Food. Good.” His brown curls are sagging into his eyes and his mustache looks like a wet dog hanging out under his nose. Dad likes to point out that he’s had a mustache since before the hipster douches decided they were cool. “Cool” being a relative term. He notices he’s dripping everywhere and heads for the mudroom.

“That’s settled,” Becca says as she plunks one of my science journals on the counter.

I thought my heart was flying before, but the thought of Becca sifting through my magazines has launched it into supersonic speed. “Where’d you get that?”

“I didn’t go anywhere near your stash of girlie magazines.”

“Becca—”

“Research, Mr. Hanson?” Charlotte’s face is a replica of Ms. Finch’s teacher-y look.

I try to act cool, as if that’s possible after my little sister has sunk me like a battleship. “Whatever,” I say, coughing on the word.

“Actually,” Charlotte says, laying the journal on the counter so I can see the page, “I could use that super brain of yours.”

I don’t step any closer. I’m not getting sunk twice.

“I need you to explain this Austrian cat thing.”

“Austrian cat what?”

“Schrödinger,” Becca says.

I groan, “God, not Schrödinger again? That theory is so played these days.”

Charlotte giggles. “I’m sorry. Did you just say that some obscure Austrian scientist is played?”

I cross my arms over my chest, trying to stand my ground, even though the look in her eyes is threatening to make it impossible for me to stand at all. My voice falters, only an angstrom, “I’m just tired of the stupid cat. Is it dead? Is it alive?”

“Yes.” Charlotte waves one finger in the air “That is the question. So which is it?”

“Well, it isn’t anything, really. It’s just a thought experiment to illustrate the concept of quantum states. Until we look in the box, the cat is in a superposition of being both dead and alive. But, once we look, we force the dumb cat into one state or the other. It’s called a collapsing reality.”

Дата добавления: 2014-12-24