“I was thinking maybe you’d like to make a scrapbook while you’re here,” she says. “But it’s just an idea. No worries if you’re not into it.”
“Thanks,” I say.
My dad appears in the doorway with the phone still in his hand.
“Your mom will call back,” he says.
“Okay, now open the one from your dad,” Katie says. She leans over and gives him a fake punch to the arm. “We have a little wager going.”
I pull the tissue paper out of the other gift bag. It doesn’t seem like there’s anything inside. I reach down deep and find a piece of paper. It’s a receipt for a family membership to the Orlando Museum of Art. It’s good for two adults living in the same household and their children.
“So who wins?” Katie asks. “Seeing art or doing art?”
“We’re so glad you’re here, Mika,” Dad says.
Last summer, that would have gotten a major eye roll from me. I would have told Mom about it when I got home, and it would have gotten a major eye roll back from her. But now I’m kind of glad he says it. Katie reaches over and gives my hand a squeeze. Then the phone rings again.
“Barnes here,” Dad says, sounding official. He walks into the hall.
“Looks like it might be just us,” Katie says. “Let’s take these monsters to the dog park before dinner.”
Katie lets me sit in the front seat of the car. Mom won’t let me sit in the front seat until I’m twelve, but Katie says there’s no reason I should have to squish between two stinky dogs in the back.
At the park, I throw Willie and Fritz a ball and a Frisbee. Then I sit down on a bench to draw with my new pencils. It seems like the light here is different. And everything’s green, even in the middle of February. I don’t know if I would want to live here all the time, but it’s nice to have a break from the cold.
“So tell me about middle school,” Katie says, sitting down next to me. “Who’s your favorite teacher? Who’s your least favorite teacher? What’s happening? I want to know everything.”
I tell Katie about Mr. Vann and how it’s weird that math is my favorite class this year. I tell her that we don’t do any drawing in art because “drawing” is not part of the fifth-grade curriculum. I make those fake quotation marks in the air. Katie rolls her eyes and sighs, like she can’t believe what she’s hearing.
“My mom’s looking into finding an art class after school,” I say. “But she’s still working on it.”
I wait for Katie to tell me that my mom has a lot on her mind and that I need to be patient and understanding, but instead, she just asks more questions.
“And tell me about your friends. How’s…What’s her name? Ellie?”
“Ella,” I say. “We have this thing called pods in middle school, and she’s in a different pod, so…”
“Okay, so not Ella,” Katie says. She makes a swiping motion with her hand like she’s moving Ella to the side and making space for something new.
I tell her about Dee Dee and her funny science shirts, and Chelsea and her fancy cupcakes.
“We’re thinking of making like a club,” I tell her.
“An art club?” Katie asks.
“No,” I say. “I guess it’s more like a math club.”
“Totally cool,” says Katie. “But you’ll need a good name.”
* * *
—
The next day, my dad has to go into work, so just Katie and I go to the museum.
The Orlando Museum of Art doesn’t have Impressionists, no Monets or Renoirs, not even anything by Matisse, but they have lots of other cool artists.
There’s one painting I really like called Below Albany. It was obviously not painted in February. The caption says it’s from the Hudson River School, so not French, but a little closer to home. I love the sky over the river, soft and wispy and exactly right.
In one of the galleries, there’s a workshop going on. It’s supposed to be for little kids, but Katie talks the teacher into letting us have some supplies. We each get a clump of clay and a bunch of feathers.
Katie makes a bird. I make a collection of tiny fairies.
Math Journal Entry #16
Set it up with two different sets.
What’s the union? What’s the intersection? Show what you know!
Please use numbers, words, and/or pictures.
Grandma Beau and Mom pick me up at the airport on Saturday. For a second, I think it’s so nice that they both came to get me. But when we get to the car, I notice that Grandma Beau is the one doing the driving.
“So?” Grandma Beau asks in her trying-not-to-be-nosy way.
“It was fun,” I say. “Katie gave me some really nice colored pencils. I drew too many pictures of Willie and Fritz. Dad had to work a lot.”
Grandma Beau gives a little snicker. “Surprise, surprise,” she mutters under her breath.
“It’s warm there,” I say. “Like there’s no winter.”
“How was the flight?” Grandma Beau asks. “Did your ears bother you?”
“No,” I say. “I had gum.”
“Did they pick you up at the gate?” she asks next. “I hope they picked you up at the gate.”
“Katie did,” I say. “Oh, and I got some new shoes. They’re slip-ons, but they’re really soft, and they have a little heel. It’s only like an inch. Katie thought I was old enough for a little heel, but she said that if you thought the heel was too…”
I stop talking because it feels like Grandma Beau is using all of her energy to get us out of the maze of the parking garage. Mom has her head resting against the passenger-side window with her eyes closed. It feels like my voice is evaporating somewhere between the back seat and the front seat. And even though I just got home, I still feel very far away.
That’s one thing about measurement that we never covered in chapter four. How it’s possible to feel so far away when you’re only sitting a few feet back. We also didn’t learn how one really big problem makes all of your other problems seem pretty small.
The size of that heel seemed so important when Katie and I were talking about it. It took us a long time to pick out those shoes. And we made sure to put the receipt in a safe place in case we needed to return them. (I taped it into my scrapbook.)
When Grandma Beau pulls out of the parking garage, the sky is thick and gray. It’s already almost dark, even though it’s barely five o’clock, and I can’t help thinking that in Florida it would still be afternoon and bright. Willie and Fritz would be camped out on some couch or bed where they’re not supposed to be. My dad would probably be at work, but Katie would be fixing us dinner. I would be sitting at the table working on my math journal or my scrapbook.
“Do you have homework?” Mom asks distractedly, like it’s a regular day, and I didn’t just get off a plane after being away for a whole week.
“Just math,” I say. “I already did it.”
“There are approximately fifteen chapters in our faithful textbook,” Mr. Vann announces as he pops in the door at 1:01. “As we unfortunately did not have time to start a new unit right before the vacation, we will have to start one right after.”
“But we didn’t share our last math journal entries,” Chelsea says.
“Let’s not and say we did,” Mr. Vann says, “because today is sure to be one of our busiest days of the year. Today is the day we complete four chapters in one day.”
Mr. Vann starts rummaging around in his desk drawer. He doesn’t find what he’s looking for, so he walks over to the storage cabinet in the back of the room.
He opens the cabinet door and pulls out a pocket calculator that looks like it was made sometime in the 1980s. He walks across the room and drops the calculator on Dan’s desk, but Dan’s not there. He’s shaving again.
The bulky plastic thing lands w
ith a clattering sound. It doesn’t seem to be any worse for wear. It’s probably indestructible.
Mr. Vann goes back to the cabinet and manages to locate a few more ancient calculators. “Please open your books to chapter ten, chapter eleven, chapter twelve, or chapter thirteen. Take your pick. Makes no difference to me.”
I open my book to chapter ten, Advanced Computation: Addition, then chapter eleven: Advanced Computation: Subtraction. Chapter twelve is Advanced Computation: Multiplication, and chapter thirteen: Advanced Computation: Division.
“Can I just use the app on my laptop?” Dee Dee asks, pulling her computer out of her backpack.
“Can I use my cell…Oops!” a kid named Eliza says before she remembers that she’s not supposed to have her phone at school in the first place.
“But of course,” Mr. Vann says. “I’ve only got ten of these beauties.” He holds the calculator like he’s trying to sell it in a commercial. A bunch of kids sheepishly take phones out of their bags and pockets.
“Please select some problems from the book and start pressing buttons,” says Mr. Vann. “But get it out of your systems now, because after today, it’s back to the past, where the only technology available will be paper, pencil, and your mind.” He taps his finger against his forehead.
“And today, you may choose your own groups because even though variety is the spice of life, sometimes you might feel like something not so spicy.”
Chelsea takes out her phone and brings it over to my desk. I can’t believe she’s actually breaking the “phones stay home” rule. But I bet her mom makes her carry it for emergencies. Dee Dee brings her laptop over to my desk, too.
“I just thought of a name for us,” Dee Dee says first thing. “All break, I couldn’t think of anything. It’s like trying to find a name for a band, and there are no good band names left. But it just came to me. Don’t think of it as corny—think of it as retro.” She waits a minute and takes a deep breath. “The Calculators.”
“I love it,” Chelsea says, smiling. “It sounds like the name of a movie. Like when they make a movie about us.”
“It’s awesome,” I say. “The Calculators. It fits.”
“Dee Dee, Chelsea, and Mika,” Mr. Vann calls over to us. “A little less human communication, please, and a little more mindless data entry.”
Mr. Vann continues roaming around the room. “When I was a student, we didn’t have smartphones or tablets or laptops.” I can’t help imagining a young Mr. Vann walking to school, clutching his math journal to his chest.
“In fact,” he continues, “the power of the computer that got man to the moon can now be found in the tiny phone that Dylan is using to text his friends over in Pod One. OMG. LOL.”
When Mr. Vann stops talking, it’s quiet except for the hum of kids whispering and the clicks of keys tapping. The sound is soft and busy and full.
I sense someone behind me, looking over my shoulder. I assume it’s Mr. Vann peeking at my work, making sure I’m attending to precision. But when I turn around, Mr. Vann is all the way at the back of the room. He’s busy cleaning out the storage cabinet that the ancient calculators came out of.
“Good day, Highbridge students.” It’s Principal Mir. She must be wearing her quiet shoes today because I didn’t hear her clicking when she came in. She takes out her tiny notebook and writes something down.
I look around the classroom. The way I see it, 50 percent of the class is breaking the “phones stay home” rule, 40 percent is breaking the “laptops in lockers” rule, and the other 10 percent is just chatting. I know we haven’t gotten to percentages yet, but however you add it up, it doesn’t look good. I’m a little worried for Mr. Vann.
“Greetings, Principal Mir,” Mr. Vann calls from the back of the room. He takes a break from cleaning out the storage cabinet. He doesn’t look very concerned. “Lovely day, isn’t it?”
I look out the window. It looks like it’s snowing sideways.
Principal Mir just nods, returns her tiny pencil to its place behind her ear, and leaves the classroom.
Math Journal Entry #17
“Calculators are the greatest invention since sliced bread.”
—OR—
“Calculators make middle school students lazy.”
Make your case. (Then put your calculator in it.)
“Calculators are extremely effective,” Mr. Vann announces, “for finding the correct answer.”
Dan is finally back from February vacation. He makes a big deal of writing this down, like Mr. Vann has just shared the biggest secret of the universe.
“However,” Mr. Vann continues. He’s walking around the room, collecting the plastic calculators and returning them to the newly organized storage cabinet. He jokingly swipes Chelsea’s phone from the top of her desk.
At the beginning of the school year, she would have gotten really upset. But now she just holds out her hand. “Neither a borrower nor a lender be,” she reminds him.
Mr. Vann does a little sleight of hand to give Chelsea her phone back. “However,” he repeats, “calculators are somewhat less effective for tackling innovative problems and embarking on reflective discussions of relevant math topics.”
“That’s what math journals are for,” Dee Dee adds.
“I challenge you, dear thinkers,” Mr. Vann announces, “to produce a word in the English language that rhymes with…PEMDAS.” The first syllable rhymes with stem. The second syllable rhymes with brass.
“Are you sure you want us to answer that?” Dan asks with a smirk. “I mean, the first thing that comes to mind is obviously phlegm-a—.”
“Point taken,” Mr. Vann interrupts. “Moving on. PEMDAS is not a word. It is an acronym. It is a road map to guide us through the choppy waters of a complicated problem.”
I won’t point out that you don’t use a road map to guide a boat, but I get Mr. Vann’s meaning.
“What’s an acronym?” a girl named Helena asks.
“Dee Dee?” Mr. Vann nods. “Care to assist.”
“An acronym is a word created by the first letters of its component definition,” Dee Dee explains. “For example, NASA stands for National Aeronautics and Space Administration. Or laser—Light Amplification by Stimulated Emission of Radiation.”
“Precisely,” Mr. Vann says. “PEMDAS is an acronym to help us remember the order of operations. Because when we do something, dear thinkers, is just as important as what we do, perhaps more so. PEMDAS stands for…Well, I think I’ll let you figure that out. Please find a group and work together to create a reasonable definition for PEMDAS. And no opening your textbooks!”
Dee Dee, Chelsea, and I meet up in our regular corner.
“The first official Calculators meeting is Saturday,” Chelsea announces. “I asked my mom. Five o’clock. My house. I’m cooking.” She smiles, and Dee Dee and I nod, and that’s that.
“Could it possibly be Pie Every Monday, Donuts All Sundays?” Mr. Vann asks as he strolls around the room. “Or People Everywhere Make Decisions About Sandwiches? Or maybe it’s Persnickety Elephants Manufacture—”
Mr. Vann is interrupted by a loud ding-ding-ding. You might think that was the bell, if you forgot that the bell sounds like a horn, but it’s the PA system.
The voice of Ms. Alice from the main office fills the room. “Mr. Vann?” she says. “Sorry for the interruption.”
I’m trying to remember if today is an early-dismissal day and Mr. Vann has forgotten to dismiss us early. That happened last time there was early dismissal. Ms. Alice had to call to find out why none of the kids from Mr. Vann’s Grade Five Pod Two Math Block C were on the buses.
“Copy,” Mr. Vann says toward the little speaker by the door.
“Do you have Mika Barnes in class?” She says the first syllable so it sounds like my.
“No,” Mr. Vann
says. “But I do have a Mika Barnes.” He pronounces my name correctly.
“In any case, could you send her down to the office, please?” Ms. Alice asks.
I feel a shiver go up my spine. I’ve heard people use that expression before, but I’ve never actually felt it.
“My mom?” I say, more to myself than anyone else.
“Want me to go with you?” Dee Dee asks.
“It’s probably nothing,” I say, but I don’t know if I believe that. Ms. Alice loves her PA system, but she doesn’t call you out of class for nothing. I pick up my stuff and leave the room.
I can hear my own footsteps going down the hall. They’re echoed by a click, click, click from behind. I turn around and see Principal Mir disappear into Mr. Vann’s room.
It feels like it takes me forever to reach the main office. When I finally get there, Ms. Alice is standing at a filing cabinet while talking on the phone. She has an incredible ability to hold the phone in the crook of her neck while she does a million other things.
Ms. Alice smiles at me in a school-office-friendly way and points to a door labeled “Counselor.”
I am totally confused. Am I supposed to walk in? Why am I here? Should I just go back to math? Then the door opens.
“Hello, Mika,” says a man. “I’m Mr. B.” He smooths down his tie, which is decorated with snowpeople playing baseball.
Mr. B motions for me to come into his office and sit down. He has a miniature sofa that looks like it came straight out of the same catalogue as the ones in the waiting rooms at the hospital.
“Hello, Mika,” Mr. B says again. “I just wanted to introduce myself and say hello.”
“Uh, hi,” I say.
“How are you today?” he asks.
“Uh, fine,” I say.
“Your mom and I thought it might be helpful for you to have someone to talk to.” He pauses. “You know, about what’s going on at home, a little support from the Highbridge Middle School community.”
Solving for M Page 9