Ernest saw AP Bio as a refuge from the vagaries of daily life, despite how Frank and his friends lurked at the other lab tables doing their scheming that from a distance, looked remarkably like their usual lab work. He always felt that if he kept going with biology and the sciences, he would get to do something noble one day, like being a doctor. Helping others was a noble goal, and it justified the sacrifices inherent in having his parents drive him to school early. Others had their own motivations: most wanted the GPA bump, some had bought into the reputation Ms. Norris had cultivated as a benevolent tyrant, and Frank said simply "I wake up early anyway." None of these were as noble as his, and even the kids who seemed inclined toward bio only wanted to work at Genentech at the end of the day. That was no fun.

Ms. Norris had a habit of scheduling impromptu chats with her students, sometimes to ask them about bad grades in a half-supportive way, sometimes to gauge their career goals, and sometimes whenever she had that tingly psychic sense that they were troubled. Students were frequently troubled—it was an occupational hazard when working with sophomores. But today Ernest seemed especially pensive, and so she called Ernest over after class. With him, it was typically something easy to diagnose like a bad grade in another class. He was simple like that.

"Ernest, my dear, why so glum?" Ms. Norris asked in her usual stilted, caring manner she reserved for her favorite students.

"Well, it's not an academic thing. It has to do with the heart," Ernest said sheepishly.

"Oh, you're doing dissections! We'll do some of those at the end of the year, but not hearts. Those are fascinating! In college I remember..."

"I don't mean dissecting the heart, at least in the literal sense. I guess I can tell you since she's in the other period: I want to ask Madeline out for winter formal, but don't know how. I've never done this before, and, well, I feel like it's out of character for me. Everyone assumes that I'm just so serious all the time, I can't do anything fun or romantic. It's not like I can't, but I've never tried before."

"Well, what do you like about her?"

"She's serious, just like me," Ernest said deadpan. "We have common interests—we study together sometimes. It's not like I'm committing to dating her or anything if she says yes. It's just a few hours. We'll be friends anyway, right?"

Ernest wouldn't use the word "crush" to describe his relationship with Madeline because only immature, unserious people had crushes. They were just friends. The downside of being a serious person who had a passing interest in another serious person was that nobody wanted to make the first move: it was beneath them, any display of pathos. And the worst feeling was being a serious person who worked up the courage to show weakness, only to have this display rebuffed. He and Madeline had been classmates in middle school, when both of them felt more youthful, less inhibited; he remembered when Madeline had punched a bully in the face in sixth grade, and immediately used her reputation as a goody-two-shoes when the teacher came to get back out of it. There were a few people he'd love to punch, Frank being one of them, but he could never work up the courage.

"Relationships come and go in high school—I've seen, in the span of one week, two lab partners go from mutual inattention to holding hands to complete antipathy. The worst that happens is that she says no—it's not like you two are in the same classes or anything, to my knowledge. And with both of you being very serious, stern people, you'll just maintain a stiff upper lip and never talk about it again."

"I know you're right, Ms. Norris, but still—agh, I don't know. I'll work up the courage when the time is right."

"Good luck," Ms. Norris said reassuringly, and Ernest left for brunch. Fate had dealt him the joker, it seemed: as Ernest was muttering to himself various permutations of how best to rhetorically and logically convince Madeline a dance she was probably going to anyway was best spent awkwardly at his side, Madeline walked right by, and just as it seemed like she was about to pay him no heed, she turned to him:

"Hey, Ernest, are you going to formal?" Madeline asked, and Ernest knew his cue:

"Yeah, I guess I am. My parents are making me go because they think I need socialization. How rough is that? Are you going?"

"No kidding, my parents said the same thing. I guess I am. I don't know anyone else who's going though, so it will be a bit lonely," Madeline said, slightly pensive.

"Well, you'll know me. Hey, that gives me a funny idea: how about we go together?"

Ernest had imagined all the possibilities for what could unfold after that fateful question. Madeline smiled thinly, a rarity, and gave a nod.

"Great idea. I'll see you Friday evening, then," Madeline said, and walked off without another word or truly, any gesture of warmth. She was always so serious.

As promised, they spent formal together: their parents took photos of the pair beforehand, and both seemed forgiving of the implications that this might lead somewhere if all went well. Ernest's parents had never given him the talk about how dating during high school was irresponsible, mainly because he had never shown any inclination toward doing so; most of his monastic tendencies were self-imposed, and his parents speculated that this was a good first step into the world of real life. The dance itself was unexciting: neither of them knew how to dance or why everyone else seemed to be having so much fun with the Cha Cha Slide, and they were unclear on if physical contact were required to do things properly. At the end, Madeline had turned to him, said "Thank you for tonight," and given him a hug. Nothing more. And the next day, when they ran into each other, it was clear that this single data point would not be representative of a trend.

Ms. Norris checked in with Ernest during the next early morning lab session, noting that Ernest did not seem as pensive as before:

"So how did it go? Did she say yes?"

"Well, she did, but I really don't get what the hype was about. Dances are so boring. I don't think I'll go to one again, and I don't think she liked it either, if I'm being honest."

"Are you two going to go on more dates, if I'm not intruding, or was this a one-and-done deal?" Ernest paused when Ms. Norris asked this—he hadn't thought about this. And in a way, he realized, that answered the question.

"This wasn't a date. We're still friends. This was just a social outing like any other, not like we ever actually do these. I still feel a fondness for her, but that's because we're friends. No more fondness than any other friend."

"I'm glad you had the experience, Ernest. Sometimes we let our mind wander astray and come up with all these fantasies for what could happen, and we get so invested in these fantasies that reality can never catch up. But you're a very serious person, and I'm glad that didn't happen," Ms. Norris remarked, and changed the topic to their lab. She was right: it was the novelty of the experience that attracted him, not Madeline herself. There was nothing romantic about a high school dance in reality, it was the meaning ascribed to it that made it greater than the sum of its parts.

That academic exercise complete, Ernest discarded any trappings of another life he could have had, and returned to his studies with renewed focus, never trying anything of the sort ever again.

Discussion Questions:

Why are there so many stories with minor characters? What commonalities do they have?

Do Ernest and Madeline remind you of any other characters we've met?

Ms. Norris talks about how sometimes people get so invested in fantasies that "reality can never catch up"; when has this happened so far?