"Dynamic Equilibrium." I wrote the words across the chalkboard as I spoke, words I’d written across the same board for almost fourteen years now. "What is it?" I scanned the rows of empty faces. "Ryan?"

"Mr. Clark, I don’t think that was in our reading last night." The boy sitting behind him laughed.

"Nice try, Ryan. But no such luck." Silence. "Okay, Dynamic Equilibrium. The state of interconnectedness among the Earth’s major components. And what are those components? Jennifer?"

"Oh. The major components. That would be, like, the components of the Earth?"

"Thank you, Jennifer, for that wonderful clarification." More laughter. "Yes, the major components of the Earth." The chalk squeaked as I wrote. "The atmosphere, the geosphere, the hydrosphere, and the biosphere. Right, Jennifer?"

"Right, Mr. Clark," she said, rolling her eyes, smirking.

"And these components, my friends, exist in a state of changing balance. A significant change in any one of them will result in a change in all the others. Yes?"

"Yes," echoed my students lazily, humoring me, scribbling my words in their notebooks. I appreciated their efforts, slight though they were, but as the bell rang and the students were suddenly energized and heading out the door, I knew that this couldn’t possibly be enough for me anymore. The students weren’t interested in Geology, not one of them. They would never find any excitement in the things I loved, like earth and air and lava and rock, the things that continually built up and broke down around us. The time had come. I could feel it strongly, standing at the board in the abandoned classroom with the bit of dusty chalk still pressed between my fingers. It was time to go to the volcanoes.

I’d wanted to do field research on volcanoes since I was eleven. That was the year I had to get glasses, thick glasses, heavy enough to never quite stay on straight, and as I wore them I sat low in my desk at the back of Miss Pittipski’s sixth grade classroom. I eventually discovered an intense comfort in the natural disaster books that lined the back wall, protecting my face from unwanted attention by looking down at the glossy pages. I memorized the pictures, felt the draw of the volcanoes in their neat line, waiting to erupt. It didn’t happen often, the eruption, but I knew I wanted to be there someday when it did. Later, in high school, I started to check out books from the library. I read everything I found on volcanoes, even the occasional tale of a virgin sacrifice flung into a mythic volcano to preserve the natural order. I was intrigued by the concept; death to maintain life, bones and flesh and hair consumed by molten lava to nourish the earth. The lava, even trapped in those pages, looked like liquid fire, incandescent, living and breathing. I wanted to see it up close.

I had gone as far as filling out a grant application, hoping to do research in the New Zealand portion of the "ring of fire" volcanic belt, hoping to finally study volcanoes in person instead of through books. But the application never seemed to find its way to the mailbox. It was just easier to stay in Missouri, to keep my stable teaching job, to continue lecturing to high school sophomores about the types of feldspar and the viscosity of magma. I had been warned by my mother, over and over, that I would regret teaching high school. "Fred, honey, those kids’ll eat you alive," Mom would say, or some variation of that sentiment. I knew what she meant, and her intentions were good. I wasn’t particularly fond of dealing with people. I tended to avoid the meaningless conversation that acquaintances, and even strangers, seemed to insist on. But it always felt different when I was teaching, somehow; everything fell into place, made sense. At least that’s what I kept telling Mom, kept telling myself.

I packed up my books and notes, taking my time, then headed for the parking lot. I liked to wait until the students were mostly gone before I left for the day. I got into my car, a practically new car with power windows and locks, my reminder that stability can be a good thing. But as I drove toward home, I thought again about the grant application, folded neatly in my desk drawer back at the classroom. I could still send it in. I could do it.

I turned onto my street. The thud seemed to come before I saw her, before I screeched my tires and stopped in the middle of the road. My first glimpse was all limbs and hair, endless hair, whipping and twisting as she fell. I jumped out of my car, then slowly took in the languid beauty of her body, bent into a sort of dancer’s pose beneath the front bumper. Her eyes were open; I was shocked to see her eyes, so lovely, so alert. She looked up at me, fully conscious, with no trace of emotion. Her face was thin, too thin, with cheekbones too harsh to rest beneath those eyes, but her simple beauty staggered me. I smoothed my hair and tried to flatten the unironed pocket of my shirt. The back of my neck was stinging and hot. I couldn’t speak at first; I just looked at her delicate face, waiting for the police to arrive, hoping one of the neighbors had seen the accident and called for an ambulance.

"Miss? Are you okay? Miss?" I coughed into my fist.

"Hey," she said, her voice deep and strong.

I stepped toward her. "Are you hurt?"

"Wow," she said. She started to sit up.

"No, no, stay right there. You need an ambulance."

"Oh, no, man. I’m fine. See?" She pulled herself up onto her elbows.

"No. Wait. We should call the police." I wanted to reach out to her. Touch her arm.

"Hell no." She sat up all the way. "No police. I’m fine." She slowly got to her feet.

"Well, here. Look. I live just a few houses down." I cleared my throat, pushed up my glasses. "Come inside, rest a little." I held my hand out to her.

She looked at me for a moment. I tried not to look away, tried to calm my breathing and steady my hand. Then suddenly she wrapped her fingers around mine and leaned herself into me, an almost-hug. She laughed into my neck. "Lead the way, man. I’m all yours."

I took her into my home, not quite believing she was real. I put her on the couch, hoped she didn’t notice the chicken soup stain on the armrest, and brought her the green and black afghan I’d inherited from my grandmother.

"You’re too cute," she said. She tucked her feet underneath her. It occurred to me for the first time that she was barefoot. She had been walking around outside without any shoes. She curled into the couch and pulled the afghan up to her chin.

"What can I get you?" I asked. I wasn’t sure what to do next. Should I sit beside her? "How about some tea? Or Coke?"

She laughed, a deep, throaty laugh that filled my small living room. "No coke," she said. "Water’s good."

I gave her water, sat on the footstool across from her, and let her talk to me. I didn’t have to say much. I just watched her lips as she formed the words, breathed in her mass of tangled hair whenever I could catch the scent. It smelled airy and light, like ripe strawberries. She told me about her ex-boyfriend.

"We were crashing at his sister’s house down the block. She has an extra mattress in the basement. Tiffany. What the hell kind of name is that?" Her laugh was quieter this time. "Hey, what’s your name, anyway?"

"Fred Clark," I said.

"Fred Clark. Yeah, that works for you. I’m Carrie."

Carrie. I let the name swell inside me. Carrie.

"So anyway. Mick, that’s my ex, he got all pissed at me this morning and told me to get lost. I hung out on the corner down there for a while, you know, thought maybe he’d come out to get me. He didn’t come." She raised her fingers to her lips.

Her hands were so delicate, slightly shaking. How could anyone ask her to leave? I wanted to hold her to my chest and make her feel safe.

"Say, Fred Clark, you think I could maybe crash here tonight? You know, just till I figure out what’s next?" She brushed a few wispy strands of hair from her face. "What do you say?"

I scooted forward a bit on my footstool. "Well. Yes. Yes, that would be fine. Carrie." A short laugh escaped before I could stop it, a sort of hiccup sound, and I felt my face tingle with heat. "It’s the least I can do, Carrie. I mean, good grief, I hit you with my car."

She leaned forward and picked a curl of lint from my sweater sleeve, then let it slip from her fingers. I watched it float down to the carpet.

"Don’t sweat it, Freddie. My own damn fault, wandering around in the middle of the street." She looked at me for a moment, then away again. "Yeah, my fault. Mick’s fault. Whatever."

Her hands were at her lips again, and I thought maybe she needed a cigarette. I didn’t smoke; I had nothing to offer. "I feel like I should give you something," I said. I looked around the room. It was an old house, with no luxury, no personality, but thankfully, no bugs. Everything was brown or beige, which was fine. I liked earth tones. I scanned the mantle above the rarely-used fireplace. My rocks were there, my favorites, lined up according to classification: igneous rocks first, then sedimentary, then metamorphic. I already knew which one I would give her. The first one, my obsidian, my promise of volcanoes to come. I held the rock out to her, its glassy texture reflecting the light. "It’s obsidian," I said. I turned it over in my hand. It was deep black, flat and shiny. "Volcanic glass. When lava cools quickly, almost instantaneous, it forms this." I looked at her finally, into her eyes, offered my simple gift. She took it from my hand. "It, I guess, it means a lot to me, helps me through things. Sort of like a promise that things will get better. Maybe it can be that for you." I softly bit my tongue to stop the words. Too much, too much.

"You’re a real sweetheart, aren’t you?" She closed her fingers around the rock. "Thanks, Freddie."

While I drove to work the next morning, I couldn’t stop smiling. I kept replaying the scene in my mind, Carrie on my couch, holding the rock, her lips saying my name. Freddie. I’d never been Freddie before. She had fallen asleep soon after, and I didn’t want to disturb her in the morning. So I left quietly, with Carrie wrapped in my afghan, the rock still in her hand, and a new, distinctly feminine scent cutting through the stale air of my living room. I would bring her dinner on the way home. Maybe fried chicken, with mashed potatoes and gravy. She was so thin.

I taught my classes in a giddy daze, every word reminding me of Carrie.

"Geothermal gradient," I said, writing in big, loopy letters. "Class, my dear students, what does this mean?" No one moved, or seemed to breathe. I didn’t care. "Well, the deeper you go into the Earth, the higher the temperature, right Casey?"

"Sure, Mr. Clark." Casey was balancing a pencil on his finger.

I thought about Carrie, how much I wanted to dig deeper into her mind, discover the world that was hers. I wanted to know everything about her, to scrape past the crust and the mantle and find her core. The heat would be intense, comforting. I wanted inside her life.

During my afternoon free period, I found myself grading the students’ short essays rather leniently. I wrote encouraging comments on them with shiny green ink, like, "You really ROCKED on this one!" and "Very GNEISS job!" I pushed my glasses up further on my nose and wondered if maybe I should get contacts.
I left the classroom as soon as the bell rang and headed to my car. What kind of fried chicken would she like? I usually got mostly legs and breasts. My breath quickened at the words, embarrassed by the thoughts crossing my mind. I knew I would be completely respectful of Carrie. She seemed so precious, untouched almost, her fair skin like a soft drift of snow covering the heat inside. I would thaw her out slowly, taking my time. My lips would barely brush hers at first. I would kiss her eyelids, her hair. I would treat her as she deserved to be treated, far better than the ex-boyfriend she mentioned. And suddenly the possibility occurred to me that Carrie might not be there when I got home. Maybe she wanted to get as far away from her ex as possible. Maybe she felt guilty staying in my house, like she was somehow intruding. I should have left her a note. I pressed down on the gas pedal. I would skip the food for now. I needed to know if she had gone.

She was sitting at the kitchen table when I came in, drinking water from the same glass as before. She turned to look at me, smiled, stood up. "Hey, Freddie. Hope it’s okay I stuck around. I can get out of here if you want."

The relief filled my chest. "No. No, don’t go. Have you had dinner?"

She wanted to order pizza. We sat on the living room floor, our backs leaning against the couch, and shared our pepperoni with extra cheese. She talked between bites.

"So you’re a teacher?" She chewed daintily as she spoke.

"Yes. Geology."

"Oh, yeah. The rock."

"Yes." I wanted her to talk about herself, to open up to me. "So how are you feeling today? Any pain from the accident?"

She turned her body toward mine a bit. "You know, when your car hit me, I thought it had started to rain. That’s how I remember it now. I hit the ground and began to taste the rain. It was soft, salty, melting like candy on my tongue. And the raindrops, splatting against the ground and the car and my face, they sounded like firecrackers, the kind I played with when I was a little girl, in long, crackling strips or in handfuls thrown at the ground." She leaned her head back and looked up at the ceiling.

"Oh. Carrie, you must have had a concussion. We really should get you to the doctor." I wanted to touch her hand, but my fingers were greasy from the pizza.

"I know it wasn’t raining," she said. She started twisting the corner of a napkin. "I’m perfectly fine. Most of the time, you know, I’m fine. I make it through. Not a big fan of people, I guess is what it is. You know?"

"Yes, I do." I picked up a napkin and wiped my hand.

"I know I’m not pretty, I know they all look at me and think, yeah, she’s not very pretty, huh. So I just don’t put myself in those situations much, places where people are, where I’m supposed to be clever and talk to them and have my hair look right and all that. I just keep mostly to myself, and I’m fine, really."

"Carrie, but you are pretty. You’re so pretty." I could hardly get the words out. I should kiss her now. Right now, I should kiss her right now.

"Mick said I wasn’t very pretty," she said, matter-of-factly. "But he likes my legs. He says I got great legs."
I wanted to kill him. "He doesn’t know what he’s talking about."

Carrie laughed. "Oh, Freddie. You like me, don’t you?" She touched my bottom lip with the tip of her finger.
Everything inside me froze. I couldn’t move. I wanted the moment to keep going, to always have her skin on mine. Finally, I forced myself to speak, then regretted it because she took back her hand. "You’re lovely," I said.

"I’m glad you hit me, Freddie."

"Oh, don’t say that." I closed the pizza box and moved closer to her.

"I was pretty high, you know." She didn’t look at me as she said it.

I suppose I did know, but it wasn’t something I wanted to think about, to admit consciously. I didn’t want to believe in the drugs, the drugs that made her want to walk in the middle of a street, barefoot, hair flowing, smelling of strawberries. I wanted her to be flawless. The police could have come and I would have taken the blame, I would have suffered for her. They could have locked me up and I still would have seen her hair, her lips, her toes, and I would have been content. "Does Mick do drugs?" I asked.

"Oh, yeah. It's like his food." She pulled herself up to sit on the couch.

"You know, you’re safe here." I moved up next to her.

"I know," she said. She blinked heavily. "So it’s okay if I camp out on your couch again tonight?"

"Oh. Yes, of course. Did you want to go to sleep now?"

She yawned. "Yeah, I think so, Freddie. I’m beat." Then she slid her arms around my neck and pressed herself into me, hugging me tightly. "You’re so great," she said, her mouth against my ear.

I smothered my face with her hair, inhaled her deeply. I wrapped my arms around her thin back. It was time. I had to kiss her.

"Good night, Freddie. You’re good for me, you know?" She pulled away and leaned back into the couch. I reluctantly stood and covered her with the afghan. She smiled and said, "I’ll see you tomorrow."

That felt like something, like a promise. It was enough. "Good night, Carrie."

Before I left the next morning, I stood at the foot of the couch and watched her sleep. Her chest rose and fell. She snored lightly, her lips barely parted. The early morning light spilled shadows across her forehead and cheeks. I stepped behind the couch and leaned down to her face. I touched my lips gently to hers. She didn’t stir. I closed the blinds all the way and went out to the car.

My first hour was a free period, so I sat at my desk for a while, thinking about Carrie. I looked at the room of empty desks. I could hear each tick of the clock. Each second hung in the air around me. Geologic time, I thought. Vast spans of time over which seemingly insignificant processes can produce major effects. A moment can make a difference. I took the grant application out of my drawer, unfolded it, looked at my signature in deep black ink. Frederick T. Clark, Geologist. I thought again of Carrie. And I knew. She would go with me. I could go to New Zealand, bring Carrie to the volcanoes. It was so perfect that it almost hurt to think about. But I couldn’t wait another moment for it to begin. I tucked the application into my jacket pocket and grabbed my keys.

I turned the corner of my block and thought of the first time I saw Carrie. She was so fragile, yet so strong. I didn’t hurt her. And she was mine to protect. I pulled into the driveway and ran up the steps. I opened the door and looked at the couch. It was empty.

"Carrie?" I called out. I went to the kitchen. Her water glass was in the sink. "Carrie? Are you here?" I walked down the hall to see if the bathroom door was closed.

It wasn’t, but my bedroom door was shut. As I moved closer, I heard her voice. "Carrie, it’s me," I said. I opened the door.

She was laying along the foot of my bed, one leg hanging over the side. She was completely naked. Across her stomach rested a thick, hairy leg. Mick, I supposed. His head was on my pillow. He was in my bed.

"Fred." Carrie sat up and pushed Mick’s leg away.

"You’re spilling the shit," he said. I noticed the lines of powder on Carrie’s pale breasts.

"Fred, I’m sorry, we’re going." She grabbed her panties from the floor and pulled them on.

"Maybe I ain’t ready to go yet," Mick said.

I felt the heat rising in me, a violent rage surging through my body. My face was on fire. My voice exploded into the room. "Leave my home," I said. "Leave or I’ll call the police."

"Oh, you do that." Mick climbed off the bed and grabbed Carrie’s arm. "We’ll just let them know how you ran over my girl with your car."

I took a step back through the doorway. I looked at Carrie, fully dressed now. She didn’t look delicate next to Mick. She looked wasted away, sunken and empty. She looked dirty. Skin clung to the bones in her cheeks. Her hands seemed too big for her arms. I could see now how yellow her skin was, darkening beneath the eyes, how dry her eyes seemed. How odd that they weren’t reflecting the light. Her hands fumbled toward her lips, and I could tell she needed much more than a cigarette. I wanted to stare into her eyes, to find my Carrie, but instead I focused on a crease of skin along her neck, right across the center, a dingy, crooked line of indented flesh.

"Let’s just go, Mick." Her arm was turning red.

I moved toward her, put my hand over her fingers, brought them down from her mouth. I pressed her palm against my chest.

"Son of a bitch," said Mick. His fist hit my cheek with a sharp pop. Carrie and I both fell to the floor.

"Get out of here, Fred," she said, her voice almost a whisper. "We’ll go." She pulled herself up and reached into her pocket. She took out my rock, rubbed her thumb over it slowly, then handed it to me. "Go, Freddie."

I grabbed the doorknob and climbed to my feet. "He needs to leave first," I said, staring at Mick. He laughed, but I didn’t look away. I squeezed the rock in my hand, the sharp edges digging into my skin. Finally, Mick pushed past me into the hallway. Carrie followed behind him. I stood there and listened to the sound of her leaving.

At some point I must have looked at the clock and realized I could still make it back to school by second period. I must have left my house, started my car, drove down my street. I must have found my way to my classroom, because I noticed I was sitting in my desk again. This time, there were students in front of me. I looked at them for a minute, blinking, making sure they were there. Then I went to the chalkboard.

"Plate tectonics," I said. I wrote "divergent" on the board. "Two plates move away from one another," I said. "New material is created." I wrote "convergent" underneath. "Two plates collide. One is forced down beneath the other into the mantle, where it melts and is eventually absorbed. Material is destroyed." I wrote "transcurrent" beneath that. "Two plates move past one another," I said. "No significant creation or destruction occurs."

I listened to the sound of pens scratching across paper. My jaw was stinging. I walked back to my desk and sat down. I took the rock from my pocket and held it in my hand, watched it reflect the buzzing fluorescent light. "Class dismissed," I said. I set the rock on the edge of my desk.
No one moved for a moment. Then there was a noisy shuffle as the students filed out into the hallway to wait for the next bell.

"Mr. Clark?"

I looked up and saw Ben, one of my students. I’d never heard him speak in class before.

"Yes, Ben?"

"Obsidian, right?" He was pointing at my rock.

"Yes. Yes, it is." I pushed up my glasses.

"Yeah. I have one of those at home."

"You do?"

"Yep. Volcanoes make it, right?"

"That’s right, Ben. When lava cools very quickly."

"Yeah. That’s pretty crazy, huh, how something dangerous could make something as cool as this rock. It’s like, quiet. And pretty, or something." His face was red. He started to turn away.

"Yes," I said. "It is pretty, isn’t it?"

"Yeah," he said, almost laughing. "Sort of amazing that this cool thing can form while it’s just sitting there, letting the rest of the lava just pass right over it. I don’t know."

"I know what you mean," I said.

"Well, see you tomorrow, Mr. Clark."

"Yes. I’ll see you tomorrow."

As Ben walked away, I pulled the grant application out of my jacket pocket. I held it over the trash can for a moment, then let it slip from my fingers.