Normal Is Boring.
“I’M IN!” YELPS CHARLOTTE after I pitch the idea. “We have smarts, we definitely have wits, and I happen to think we are very good under pressure.”
“Count me in,” adds Izumi. “This will make my mother super happy. It might even be fun.”
“Worst. Idea. Ever,” says Toby flatly. “And not fun. Definitely not fun.”
“Come on, Toby,” I respond. “You don’t mean that.”
“I do,” he says. “I mean it. I mean it a lot.”
“Please?” I beg.
“No,” Toby says.
“Pretty please?”
“No,” he repeats.
“So you’ll think about it?” I ask.
“Don’t be boring,” adds Charlotte.
“And dull,” says Izumi.
“What’s wrong with just being a nice, normal, regular, boring Smith School student?” Toby grumbles. “Go to class. Mess with my computers. Hang out at the Annex and eat cheese fries. I’ve been on the Smith campus for all of an hour, and already you’re trying to ruin it.”
Clearly, a chance at getting into the spy school early is not incentive enough. I need another approach. “Wouldn’t it be cool to tell Veronica you won the Challenge?” I suggest. “She won her senior year, remember?”
Toby visibly perks up. “You think she’d care?”
“Absolutely,” I say. “These things matter to Veronica. It would give you heaps to talk about the next time you see each other. Compare notes, go over winning strategies. She might even call you to say congratulations. You know she monitors these things.” I don’t know if that is exactly true, but I can totally see her doing it. It fits with her personality.
Toby is quiet, considering.
“Think about it this way,” Charlotte offers. “We’d get out of Smith for a week. Different disgusting cafeteria food. No math class with Wacky Mr. Warren. No school meeting.”
“We can check out another campus,” I say. “Maybe it will be horrible and we’ll come back to Smith all grateful and stuff.”
Izumi bursts out laughing. “As if. Where is the Challenge this year, anyway?”
“Briar Academy,” Toby says. “On the other side of Hartford.”
“Fabulous!” I shout. “I love Hartford this time of year!”
Toby stares at a gaggle of new girls trying to defy physics and cram a too-big box through the front door of McKinsey House. They try it a number of different ways, and even though it is never going to fit, they keep at it. Determined or foolish? Sometimes it’s a fine line. We wait patiently as Toby turns the possibilities over in his head.
“Okay,” he says finally. “I’ll do it. But on one condition.”
“Anything,” I say.
“You have to tell me who Iceman is.”
Well, there goes that brilliant idea. Iceman is the world’s most notorious black hat, a hacker of epic reputation. Nothing is safe from Iceman. Last year, we discovered she’s not much older than we are and has everyone fooled. She helped us when she didn’t have to, and we owe it to her to keep her identity secret.
“No,” we say together.
His eyes turn steely. “Fine. If we go, I want to win. Winning means I’m Veronica’s equal.” Of course, we laugh hysterically at this while Toby waits patiently for us to stop. “You know what I mean. She’ll have to take me seriously. She might even want to hang out and talk about our Challenge victory win. Got it?”
We all have individual skills and talents, but as a team they add up to something bigger and better. Everyone knows that Toby is a master of invention. No one would be surprised to see him win the Challenge. Izumi is a star athlete, takes math with the seniors, and can logic her way out of anything. Charlotte can learn a new language in a week, give or take, plus she has the uncanny ability to manipulate people without them even knowing it’s happening. In truth, our team is pretty close to my definition of “exceptional” already.
Except for me. What do I bring to the table? This thought is much too alarming for move-in day, so I push it aside. We squish Toby in a group hug that he very vocally hates. We are going to the Challenge! We will prove our worth! We will get into spy school early!
But that night, as we huddle on the floor of Izumi’s dormitory room, a box of pizza between us, scrutinizing our new class schedules and teachers, I can’t get it out of my mind. What am I good at? I want to ask my friends, but what if they don’t have an answer? What if everyone realizes I’m dead weight, a fraud, an impostor, of no help to our team?
I take this discomfort to bed with me. I toss and turn for a while, and just as I might actually fall asleep, my mother calls. I know it’s her because my phone indicates the caller cannot be identified. Also, she keeps odd hours.
I can tell right away that Jennifer is not in our New York City apartment. There’s wind in the background and the sound of crashing waves.
“Don’t ask,” she says, before even a “hello.”
“Got it,” I say.
“How was move-in day? I’m sorry I wasn’t there to help you.”
“I moved in a month ago,” I say. “Remember?”
“Right! Yes. Of course. I hear Drexel got you invited to the Challenge.”
My mother is probably in the middle of the ocean, and she still knows what’s happening before I do. With Jennifer, even a measure of privacy is a dream. I could drill her on her sources, but she will never tell. She’s not a legend for nothing.
“Yes,” I mutter.
“Congratulations. I happen to believe you four will make an excellent team.” There’s a loud crash in the background and shouting, definitely not in a language I understand. “Hold on.”
My mother covers the receiver and joins the shouting. Thirty seconds later, she’s back. “Boy, some people just don’t understand the most basic instructions. Modern-day pirates have a lot to learn. Now, where were we? The Challenge?”
Did she say “pirates”? “It doesn’t matter,” I mumble. “We can’t win with me on the team. I’m not interesting enough.”
“What on earth does that mean?” The shouting in the background grows faint. A door slams. Footsteps echo on a hard surface. “You can’t seriously think that’s true.”
“But what makes me special?” I blurt. “What am I good at?”
“Abigail Hunter,” Jennifer says sternly. “You are loyal and kind and determined and fearless, and you do not quit. Especially when things get tough.” My ears grow warm. “Now, it’s one thing for me to say you are all those things. But it is quite another for you to believe them about yourself. You don’t need a spy school to be special. Or a Challenge, for that matter. Do you understand?”
Maybe I don’t need those things, but I want them. Before I can respond, the background yelling resumes. Did I hear the word “sinking”? “Oh, boy. Gotta go, honey. But don’t worry. Everything is fine! Have a great first day of classes!”
And just like that, she’s gone.
Chapter 4
Ties of Torture.
EVERY WEDNESDAY MORNING, we have school meeting, a ritualistic torture during which the entire Smith School student body is crammed into the Main Hall auditorium to listen to twenty minutes of announcements (Join synchronized swimming! Come out for the debate club! Lost and found has forty-eight Smith hoodies already!) and a minilecture on a motivational topic (Integrity! Duty! Empathy!). Intentional absence from school meeting means demerits. If a student incurs enough demerits, she will spend her weekend cleaning toilets or sorting dirty uniforms in the athletic center. Neither option is particularly appealing. Most students spend school meeting perfecting the art of open-eyed napping.
The heat has not let up, and our ugly uniform skirts and shirts don’t help. To make matters worse, Mrs. Smith, rehabilitated and returned to the helm of the Smith School asylum at the end of the last school year, has instituted an addition to our wretched uniforms—the tie. For girls, it’s a limp piece of red ribbon that slides around our collars and loops in
to a bow. For the boys, it’s a traditional tie, but from the looks of my classmates streaming toward the auditorium, 90 percent of them didn’t finish watching the YouTube video on how to tie a proper Windsor knot before school meeting. We are a ragtag, wilted bunch.
Toby falls in with us. “Hey, guys,” he says with a yawn. His tie is askew, and there is cat hair all over his pants. Is he harboring a secret pet in his dorm room? I wouldn’t put it past him. If Toby asked, Drexel would install a private petting zoo in the hallway. What are the chances the cat’s name is Veronica? He pulls a shiny rose-gold phone from his pocket and uses it to examine his teeth, making sure his breakfast isn’t lodged in there. It’s not, but I don’t care about that.
“Is that what I think it is?” I whisper, eyes glued to the gold phone.
“If you think it’s my phone, then yes.”
“You know what I mean. Is it a spy phone?” Spy phones do things that regular phones don’t, like spray hot water in an enemy’s face or blast a whistle that deafens all those around you. The idea of the spy phone is to create a distraction, buying time so you can escape a bad situation.
Toby glances anxiously over his shoulder. “It’s not a spy phone,” he says, yanking on his tie.
Seven hundred and fifty-four students, minus Nathan Winters, who suffers from school–meeting-related narcolepsy and never shows up, squeeze through the narrow doors of the auditorium. We take our assigned seats. By design, none of us sit near one another. As if we’d somehow cause an uprising in school meeting by mere proximity.
Mrs. Smith takes the stage. She isn’t hot in her khaki suit, white blouse (no tie), and stiletto heels. It’s possible that the real Mrs. Smith failed rehab and the Center replaced her with a robot. She scans the student body. We wiggle and squirm, baking in our stupid uniforms.
“My, you all look lovely this morning,” she purrs. “For those of you questioning the addition to our standard uniform, we are simply paying homage to our past.” Behind her the huge screen flashes a black-and-white photograph of a dorky Smith School student, circa 1958, wearing the terrible tie. “During my absence, some of you have become distracted from our core belief: Non tamen ad reddet. Not to take, but to give back. It is important to remember our roots, our foundations, our purpose.”
Murmurs of displeasure ripple through the crowd. Adults always go on about the good old days, but in reality, they weren’t always so good.
“Now I have some exciting news to share this morning,” she continues. “As you all know, every two years we participate in the Invitational Interschool Global Problems and Solutions Challenge, an opportunity to showcase the overall high quality of the Smith student.” It sounds like she’s describing a steak. I glance down the row at Toby, who rolls his eyes and pretends to go to sleep.
“It is my job to recommend a team to represent our school, one that is best suited to creatively solving the problems that challenge the world today. At the last Challenge, we placed first, and I expect us to do so again. Join me, and let’s congratulate our very own team of Owen Elliott Staar and Poppy Parsons, who will be headed to Briar Academy in one month’s time to compete!”
My heart sinks. How can this be? Drexel built the science center! Down the aisle, Toby grins. There is a wave of muted grumbling from the roughly seven hundred students who wanted an invite. Smith is nothing if not competitive, and the Challenge is a big deal. To make matters worse, now we have to listen to Poppy gloat. She storms the stage as Owen Elliott dawdles behind. He’s the only kid at Smith who can tolerate Poppy. We suspect he’s too nice to tell her to go away. He’s also the boy who hit me in the face with a squash ball last year and landed me in the infirmary with a black eye. He said it was an accident. He apologized no fewer than four hundred times. I thought it was because Jennifer was headmaster and he was worried about getting in trouble. But eventually I realized his regret was genuine.
As Owen Elliott and Poppy join Mrs. Smith onstage, I slump further in my chair. In my head, the plan had worked perfectly. We got in the Challenge, we won, we gracefully accepted offers of early admittance to the spy school. Of course, all my plans work in my head. It’s when they meet reality that things go sideways.
“Poppy.” Mrs. Smith swoons. “Would you like to share a few words of wisdom with your classmates?”
The distinct sound of gagging rises from the student body. Mrs. Smith glares. Did she insist on the ties so she could easily strangle us when we get out of line? Poppy elbows Owen Elliott out of the way, takes the microphone, and tosses her perfect hair dramatically. Owen Elliott scrutinizes his cuticles as his sole teammate delivers a speech on how to be awesome like she is.
“Here’s the deal, fellow students. My dormitory is so loud I can barely hear myself think. And whenever I ask a girl to turn down her music or turn down her voice or turn off her lights, she will inevitably just blow me off, you know? Like, not listen at all, be totally rude. So I took action and designed Blackout, which is what got me invited to the Challenge. Blackout is a little bit of computer code that can infiltrate any of your electronics and turn down your music or turn off your laptop or even blow out your lights. And if you keep yelling all the time instead of using an indoor voice, I’ll just shut off the power to your room entirely and you will be left in a blackout. If you can’t behave, I’ll do it for you. Get it?”
An eerie silence settles over the auditorium. Students throw one another sideways glances. Did she just say what I think she just said? Why, yes, she did. Poppy is prepared to infiltrate your dorm room and disrupt your life if you get on her nerves. No wonder she doesn’t have friends. Owen Elliott looks set to collapse in horror. A low hiss moves through the crowd, but Poppy doesn’t seem to notice. She had better wrap this up or things are going to get ugly. Mrs. Smith stands nearby, glowing with pride. What a pair.
“But maybe they invited me because of the smart cloth?” Poppy muses, spinning the microphone cord around her hand. The hissing grows louder. “It tells you if you’re too hot or too cold or thirsty or whatever, all on an app. Get it?”
Isn’t this why we have brains? I guess Poppy thinks our sad human heads could use some improvement. Finally, Mrs. Smith shows mercy and reclaims the microphone before there is a revolt.
“Isn’t that so interesting?” Mrs. Smith asks, herding Poppy and Owen Elliott offstage. “We should all strive to be like these two. They will make us proud. Oh, and before I forget, there’s a second team this year. Apparently.” She pauses, crinkling up her nose with disgust, and I just know we’re in.
• • •
After school meeting is adjourned, I rush out into the hallway to find my team. Instead, I end up elbow to elbow with Owen Elliott.
“Nice tie,” he says with a grin. Owen is tall and skinny with unkempt brown hair and eyelashes like a giraffe’s. His parents are divorced, and he spends summers in India, where his father lives.
“At least mine isn’t held together with a rubber band,” I say. Owen’s hand floats to his neck.
“I was running late,” he replies, rolling his eyes. “Are you guys really going to the Challenge?” His surprise does not please me.
“Do you have a problem with that?” I shoot back. He looks momentarily stung.
“No! I . . . just meant . . . congratulations.” But his sentiments probably reflect what the general student body is thinking—we got in on something other than our merits. My cheeks flush.
“I bet we beat you,” I snap. Being mean to Owen Elliott is like kicking a puppy. And yet here I am. His face registers my annoyance.
“I think you really have a shot,” he says. And now he’s being nice? What is wrong with this boy? I stomp away, feeling uncomfortably confused, leaving a bewildered Owen Elliott in my wake.
My friends huddle on the steps next to the bronze bust of Smith’s founding father, Channing Smith. Channing has a wide forehead, small eyes, and a thick mane of hair. Oddly enough, in the portrait of Channing that hangs outside Mrs. Smith’s offi
ce, he is bald save an unattractive fringe. Creative license? Currying favor? Or maybe, as Jennifer likes to say, the truth lies somewhere in the messy middle.
Izumi is so excited she bounces on her heels. “It’s really happening! We’re going to the Challenge!”
“It’s cool,” Charlotte agrees. “I hear Briar is way nice.”
“There’s so much work to do,” Toby frets. “We need to research and study up on all the previous Challenges. See what they had to do. Come up with a plan. I should call Veronica. Get some tips. Right? Is that a good idea?”
It takes them a minute to notice I’m simmering. “What’s with you?” Charlotte asks. “Isn’t this what you wanted? Why aren’t you happy?”
“I am happy,” I shout. “But Owen Elliott is beyond annoying. The worst.”
“The nicest kid in school? That Owen Elliott?”
“None other.”
“Boy, he really gets under your skin,” Izumi says.
“We’re already getting a hard time for being selected,” I say.
“Did he say that?” asks Charlotte. “Specifically?”
“Not exactly.”
“What did he say?”
“Congratulations?” I respond meekly.
“I can totally see why you’re so mad,” Charlotte says, with a smirk.
Toby’s eyes float to the space above my head. “Maybe go a little easy on him. His parents are, well, kind of jerks.”
We fall silent. In this context, “jerk” can mean any number of things. They ignore him, they expect perfection, they helicopter, they intrude, they belittle, they trivialize, they demand. They use him against each other. They forget he is even there. None of it feels good.
“That stinks,” says Izumi.
“It does,” I agree.
“Either way,” says Charlotte after a pause, “we’re going to crush Team OP.”
Chapter 5
Owen Elliott Does What?
BEING AS WE WERE HERE on campus a month before everyone else, me, Izumi, and Charlotte have staked our claim to the McKinsey House common room. We lounge on the ugly plaid furniture, eat contraband Doritos, and obsess over the school’s electronic bulletin board, affectionately nicknamed TrashTalk, where we are supposed to post things like volleyball practice has been moved back a half hour and did anyone find a Smith School hoodie, size large, with a tear in the sleeve? Instead, we use it to, well, trash-talk one another whenever possible. Currently, we are trending, which is almost always a bad thing. 55 percent of the school thinks we deserve to go to the Challenge, 35 percent thinks we don’t, with 10 percent who could not care less and think the rest are a bunch of losers for having an opinion in the first place.
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