Signs of You by Emily France

hiding in there. Come on, I think I can guess the garage code. And we can get into the house that way.”
    We head around front quickly, and Jay starts punching codes into the keypad. But the garage door doesn’t budge. The buttons f lash alarm-green, and I’m hoping this isn’t linked to a security system or something. Like where our f ifth incorrect guess at the code will send an alert to the cops and they’ll show up, sirens blaring.
    â€œDo you actually have any idea what the code is?” Kate asks, leaning up against the house. “Or are these totally random guesses?”
    â€œI was here when they set it up,” Jay mutters, still punching away. “His parents let him pick the number. He never said what it was, but he said something like he wanted it to be a constant so he’d never forget it. I mean, how many constants are in his life? His Honda’s model year? His birthdate? The date he f irst got laid? Wait. That would be never. Maybe four zeroes?”
    â€œHe said it was a constant?” I ask, rolling my eyes at Jay’s cheap shot. “It’s Noah we’re talking about. I bet he meant a mathematical constant.”
    Jay smirks. “Um, if I knew what that was, I might be able to wager a guess.”
    â€œI bet it’s pi,” I say. “He loves thinking about Cantor’s proof. Move over.”
    Jay looks confused, but steps aside.
    â€œCantor’s proof?” Kate asks. “A: How and why do you know what that is? And B: Given the fact that you know something like that, why are you failing math?”
    â€œIt’s about irrational numbers. Like pi. How they’re uncountable. Which really messes with your head when you think about it. Plus, pi is a constant,” I say, punching it into the keypad. “And I’m failing math because you don’t have to care to understand it, but you do have to care in order to do things like complete the homework. Or stay awake during the tests.”
    After I punch in 314, I hit enter. But the garage door doesn’t budge.
    â€œGarage codes are usually four numbers,” Jay says. “Not three.”
    â€œThen somebody Google pi, and give me three decimal places.”
    Kate jumps on it, swiping and jabbing at her phone. “It’s 3.141,” she announces, looking up. “And if that works, I am conf ident that this is the dorkiest garage code in all of Ohio. And perhaps the world.”
    We barrel into the house and head straight for Noah’s room. Jay swings the bedroom door open. It’s a mess. Like, a total and complete disaster area. This is troubling; Noah is the neatest, most methodical guy we know. Anal. He even keeps his pens organized by ballpoint size. His desk, usually organized and super clean, is covered with dusty books and piles of papers. There are several half-full coffee mugs by his green reading lamp.
    And sitting in the middle of the desk is his white cat, Sophie. She stands up and purrs, her long tail bumping Noah’s blinds.
    â€œGuess that’s who we saw in the window,” Kate says. She walks over to scratch Sophie behind the ears. Then she peers into one of the coffee cups. “And OMG. There are like, f loating spores in there.”
    Jay picks up a few of the papers that are strewn all over the f loor, and Kate goes right for Noah’s shelves.
    â€œYou guys,” I say. “Should we really be going through his stuff like this?”
    â€œWe’re not friends,” Kate says. “We’re family . And there’s a family rule: if we’re worried about you, we get to go through your stuff. Besides, he felt comfortable enough to go through Jay’s stuff and take something that wasn’t his, right?”
    I shrug and accept this, even though Kate has just proved that the Family Rule is morally dubious. I scan the spines of the books that are piled on the desk. There are titles like Famous Catholic