Read The Cinderella Theorem for Free Online

of being a normal awkward conversation about
school, the weather, or the new anchor on the six o’clock news.
    And
my mother wonders why I’ve found happiness in math.
    Fifteen
minutes later, Mom emerged from her office looking a little tired.
    Tub
Man jumped up and said, “Did, uh, you get everything worked out with Tressa?” I
think my father was concerned we would never get to magic ourselves away into
Smythe’s SFL.
    “Yes,”
Mom sighed. “It’s just that…” She sighed again. “It’s just that Tressa has
found another way to get her clutches on the prince.” Mom looked away, my father
looked at me, and I looked down. I’m no good at consoling authors when the
people they made up, and therefore control , do things that the author
doesn’t like. Honestly, that’s about as unmathematical as the Easter Bunny.
    My father,
however, seemed to be a little better at this consolation. “You’ll get her next
time, dear. I’m sure of it. If you can bring down Sir Wend, how can little
Tressa stop you?”
    “Matt,”
my mother began impatiently. “ I did not defeat Sir Wend. Driel did. And
I’m not the one trying to stop Tressa. Laurel must do that.”
    “But—”
    “Let’s
just go.” She started up the stairs. “Are you packed, Lily?”
    “Yes,”
I rolled my eyes, following her and trying very hard not to point out the
redundancy of her asking me again if I was packed.
    Before my entire family gets into the bathtub and
showers away to a land where Sleeping Beauty’s Wicked Stepmother really does
exist, I would like to state the mathematical improbabilities I am about to
face.
     
    (1) Though Einstein and Shrodinger did some work on
time gap theories, there is no mathematical evidence to support what we are
about to do.
    (2) It is a bathtub, not a door to a world unknown.
    (3) I submit, as further evidence to Point 2, the
fact that I have often taken a bath in the bathtub and have not seen any sort
of thing likely to be a “secret lever” or “magic doorknob” or anything like
that.
     
    Mathematical
improbability or not, we all got into the bathtub. I carried my bag. Mom had no
luggage. But, I suppose, she already had everything she needed over there. You
know, for her secret trysts and all. His Royal Highness, King Tub Man, pulled
the shower curtain closed. It was rather tight. I had to hug the duffle bag to
my chest.
    Trying
not to focus on the fact I was in the tub (fully clothed!) with my parents, I
asked, “I don’t want to sound critical or anything, but, um, how exactly do we
get there? Do we just stand here and say, ‘Open, thou door to Smythe,’ or
what?”
    King
Tub Man chuckled. “No. All we really need are our keys. Do you have yours,
Lil?”
    “What?”
Generally, I prefer more exact questions. Questions full of exactness tend to
result in answers full of equal proportions of exactness. But, in this case,
surprise won over exactness. (surprise > exactness)
    “Your
key, Lily. Did you bring your key? Your mother and I have ours, but you’ll have
to use yours to get in. Everyone has to have their own key.”
    Rationally,
I responded: “I don’t have a key. I have a key to the house, and one to the—”
    “Not
a key like a key ,” Mom interrupted. “This key is the only key that will
get you into Smythe’s SFL.”
    “What?”
I asked again. “What do you mean, ‘not a key like a key ’? That doesn’t
make any sense.”
    King
Tub Man bumped his leg on the ceramic soap dish. Rubbing his knee, he
elaborated, “For instance, Lily, my key is a paperweight made in the shape of a
golden egg from the goose that lays the golden eggs.” He pulled a miniature egg
out of his pocket.
    “Yes,
and mine is the golf tee from the first time your father and I went golfing at
Poseidon’s Under Sea Adventures putt-putt course.” And the golf tee was on
display for me to see.
    “So
what’s yours?” my father asked.
    I
just looked at him. “What?”
    Both
of my parents sighed, looking