It was darker than I’d expected, but my feet still found the puddle pooling under the window. As silently as an assassin, I pushed the window closed and waited for my eyes to adjust. Director Verity might have fooled the math nerds, but she couldn’t fool me.
But when the lightning flashed again, it was plain to see that it was just another storage room. Cardboard boxes lined one wall, and plastic buckets lined another. There was even an old easel in the corner, like a kid sent to time-out. Had they stolen it from Camp Vermeer?
After wringing out my soggy shirt—Angeline’s shirt, actually—and shoving my curls out of my face, I hunkered down next to the puddle and pulled out my napkins. They were slightly waterlogged, but I’d put napkins through worse. After finding a (mostly) dry one, I pulled out my pencil and went back to work.
I read back through the problem, but it made no more sense down here than it had up in the bathroom. I didn’t even notice I was doodling until I’d drawn a very official-looking scale, with heavy plates and ropelike chains. On a whim, I added two red balls—which I labeled with two Rs—and a blue ball to one side, then two yellow balls and a one-pound weight to the other. Then I drew another scale with four red balls and a one-pound weight on one side and two more balls, one blue and one yellow, on the other.
My heart started to thump as I sketched the third and final scale. This wasn’t a math problem; it was an art one. And I happened to be Camp Archimedes’s resident artist.
While I stared at the scales, waiting for lightning to strike, I doodled balls and weights around the edges of the page. I tried to decide how many blues were the same as one yellow or how many yellows were the same as a single red, but I just kept seeing circles. On another whim, I redrew the scales with other shapes instead of balls—and immediately noticed that the right side of the second scale was the same as the right side of the third.
I scribbled a new scale with four reds and a one-pounder on one side and one red and two yellows on the other, balancing the left side of the second scale with the left side of the third. It took me a few tries and all but one of my napkins, but I solved it. I solved it.
The math nerds were going to flip.
I was lying on my back when I woke up the next morning. Normally, my ceiling, which Toby and I had painted to look like the cosmos, greeted me when I woke up, so the bottom of a bunk was a major disappointment. I was tempted to roll over and try to go back to sleep—until I remembered that I’d solved it. The First Freaking Problem.
I sat straight up in bed, banging my head on the top bunk. I kept the groaning to a minimum, but Brooklyn still rolled over.
“Could you be any louder?”
A part of me wanted to throw one of my dirty socks at her (and after a day of tromping through the mud, they were bound to be especially dirty), but I forced myself to resist. The fact that my dirty socks were stuffed in my shoes downstairs might have had something to do with it. “Sorry,” I said instead.
Angeline stretched like a cat. Did she practice stretching, or were some girls just born that way? “What time is it?” she asked.
My fingers scrabbled for my phone until I remembered that I’d left it in the pocket of the pants Angeline had let me borrow. “I don’t know,” I said as I glanced out the window. I’d once spent a whole summer doing studies of sunrises, so I should have been an expert on figuring out what time it was based on the position of the sun. I should have been, but I wasn’t. “Seven thirty, maybe?”
“Seven thirty?” she replied as she tumbled out of bed. “We’re going to miss times table sprints!”
I couldn’t have cared less about times table sprints, since I was planning to be gone by lunchtime at the latest. And since I’d already conquered the unconquerable First Problem.
While Angeline threw on a fresh shirt and another pair of sparkly pants, I retrieved the shirt she’d let me borrow—which was now splattered with dried mud—and lobbed it at Brooklyn’s head. “Up and at ’em, sunshine! Don’t want to miss times table sprints.”
The muddy shirt missed her by a mile, so she didn’t even stir. “Times table sprints are for third graders.”
“Oh, come on,” I said. “Times table sprints can’t be that bad.”
“You’re right,” she said. “They’re worse.”
These darts were aimed at Angeline, but she didn’t let them pierce her, just folded her arms across her waist. “You might as well get up. You know Director Verity won’t let you skip.”
“Yeah,” Brooklyn replied, finally climbing out of bed, “because I’m not director’s pet.”
This insult made me flinch, but if it bothered Angeline, it didn’t bother her for long.
“Are you ready?” she asked me, thoroughly ignoring Brooklyn.
I glanced over at Brooklyn, who was switching out one dingy sports bra for another, then at Angeline, who was pretending not to care that we were going to be late. I wanted to be there for Angeline (especially since she’d been there for me), but I also wanted to make sure that Brooklyn didn’t try to dawdle. I needed her in that common room when I solved the First Problem.
“Almost,” I replied as I pretended to rummage through my duffel for a can of body spray. The bag had been waiting for me when I slunk back in last night, evidence of Toby’s awesomeness. “I just need to freshen up …”
I didn’t know how to end that sentence, but Angeline didn’t seem to care. She did this awkward arm-wave thing—it must have been a hip-hop move—and practically skipped out the door. It banged shut on her heels with a satisfying smack.
As soon as Angeline was gone, Brooklyn kicked the muddy shirt at me. “You can cut the crap,” she said. “I know you don’t use that smelly stuff any more than I do.”
“Maybe,” I admitted, hugging my sketchbook for support. “But if you think for one second that that makes you and me the same, you can stop thinking that right now.”
Brooklyn didn’t bother to reply, just stuffed her feet into her combat boots and stalked out of the room. I was still trying to decide if I felt more grateful or insulted as I hurried after her.
I’d just crossed the second bridge when I found myself surrounded by a cluster of math nerds. Munch was in the lead, but the rest weren’t far behind. They were so busy arguing about irrational numbers that they barely noticed me. I didn’t bother to cut in as we tumbled down the stairs and spilled into the mess hall.
Director Verity was manning the first station. “Good morning, Esther!” she said brightly, dumping a scoop of egg balls on my plate. Mom said that scrambled eggs were surprisingly tricky, but I would have thought that someone with a math degree could have figured them out. “I trust you got a good night’s sleep?”
“More or less,” I said as I took two strips of bacon from a silent Mr. Sharp. These looked slightly more edible, but only because he’d burned them to a crisp.
“Excellent, just excellent,” Director Verity replied. “We’ve got lots of activities lined up, so you’re going to need to get your rest. We certainly want to make the most of the time you have to spend with us!”
I couldn’t contain a sneaky grin. “Oh, I’m planning to,” I said. Last night’s scribbled-on napkins were nestled safely in my pocket.
I nudged my tray along, accepting pancakes from Mr. Pearson and fresh fruit from Ms. Gutierrez, but at the drinks station, I stopped. Toby was pouring orange juice while decked out in a bright red apron that said KISS THE COOK.
“How’d they rope you into this?” I asked.
Toby’s shoulders rose and fell. “I already ate,” he said.
“You always were a softy,” I replied, taking a picture of him for good measure. Mom was going to find that apron all kinds of hilarious. “Speaking of which, thanks for dropping off my duffel. It’s nice to have my sketchbook back.” I checked both ways for Angeline, then cupped a hand around my mouth. “And it’s even nicer to be back in my own clothes.”
Toby’s beard twitched slightly. “I thought the sparkles su
ited you.”
I socked him in the shoulder, but he didn’t sock me back. He never bothered to react. It was kind of irritating.
“I checked the weather report,” he said. “It’s supposed to rain today.”
I felt my shoulders fall. “We were supposed to leave today.”
Toby cleared his throat. “About that,” he replied, sending me a sideways glance. “Are you sure you want to go?”
“Of course I’m sure!” I said, then remembered the napkin in my pocket. But Toby couldn’t know that I’d solved the First Problem. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
“I don’t know,” he said, but from the way that he was bouncing, it was clear he really did. “I guess it just seemed like this place was growing on you.”
“Growing on me,” I replied. “What do you mean, like diaper rash?”
“Don’t insult them,” Toby said. “You should know better than most that we’re all artists in our own way.”
I lowered my gaze. I hated it when Toby made me feel bad (though it was usually because I deserved it).
Toby cleared his throat. “Anyway, the truck’s not in great shape, so it can’t stay where it is.” He motioned toward Mr. Sharp, who was still dispensing bacon. “Gordon said he’d help me tow it. We’re gonna head down after breakfast.”
“Won’t that be dangerous?” I asked.
“No more dangerous than welding rebar, and I’ve done that plenty of times.” He sent me a sideways glance. “You could come with us, if you want. We could always use a lookout.”
“Thanks for the offer,” I replied. “There’s something I need to do first, but if I’ve wrapped it up by then, I’ll definitely go with you.”
Toby dipped his head, then poured another glass of orange juice. I sat down next to Marshane, since Angeline was nowhere to be found. She must have eaten fast.
I tried to tune the math nerds out, but that was easier said than done. Munch and the soccer fan couldn’t come to an agreement on who would win in a street fight, Star-Lord or Gamora. They kept trying to get me to take sides, but even though I had a strong opinion (Gamora, no question, since Star-Lord’s attention span was no longer than his pinkie and fights were all about staying focused under pressure), I didn’t let them draw me in. The napkins in my pocket suddenly felt as heavy as a bag of bricks. I’d always liked being the center of attention, but the thought of talking math in front of a quotient of math nerds was enough to make me sick. What if I’d gotten it wrong? What if I really was a stupid artist?
I was so busy freaking out that I almost missed the moment when Director Verity cleared her throat. “Good morning, number crunchers!”
The others parroted, “Good morning,” but with less enthusiasm.
“And now for our first order of business,” Director Verity went on. “Has anyone solved the First Problem?”
She surveyed the dining room through narrowed eyes. I honestly couldn’t tell whether she wanted us to say yes or no, but whether she wanted it or not, I was about to lay it on her.
Slowly, very slowly, I raised my hand. “I have.”
CHAPTER 7
An awkward hush fell over the dining room, and I lowered my hand. Director Verity hadn’t called on me, but it seemed dumb to leave it up there.
Finally, she cleared her throat. “That’s excellent, Esther.” Apparently, “excellent” was her word of the day. She produced a piece of chalk from nowhere. “Would you care to put it on the board?”
I gulped. I’d worked in chalk before, but never on a real, live chalkboard. Still, I couldn’t not put my solution on the board, so I slid out of my seat, took the chalk out of her hands, and slunk into the next room. The math nerds followed me as I marched up to that chalkboard with as much confidence as I could muster. The chalk felt cool in my hand, but it also felt familiar, like a long-lost friend who’d just come in from the cold.
“It’s just a picture,” I explained as I drew three scales on the board. “One scale has two reds and a blue on one side and two yellows and a one-pounder on the other. Another has four reds and a one-pounder on one side and a blue and a yellow on the other. And the last scale has a red and two yellows on one side and a blue and a yellow on the other.”
It would have been nice if I’d had my pastels so I could color-code the balls, but the only thing I had was this one piece of off-white chalk. Still, I put it to good use. I drew circles for the red balls, squares for the yellow, triangles for the blue, and stars for the one-pound weights.
“I thought they were balls,” Marshane piped up. I should have known he’d be the heckler.
“They are balls,” I replied. “You can think of the different shapes as symbols.” I motioned toward the mumbo jumbo they’d written on the other boards. “You guys like symbols, right?”
At least that shut him up.
I drew a fortifying breath. “The first thing you have to notice—or at least the first thing I noticed—is that one side of the second scale and one side of the third scale are the same. So that means four reds and a one-pounder must balance with one red and two yellows.” I drew another scale to represent it. “Does that make sense so far?”
The math nerds didn’t answer, but Director Verity smiled. I figured that meant I was headed in the right direction.
“Now there are reds on both sides of the scale, so we can take one off both sides”—I erased two of the circles—“so now we have three reds and a one-pounder balancing with two yellows. So if we add one-pounders to both sides of this scale”—I added two stars to my drawing—“we’ll have three reds and two one-pounders balancing with two yellows and a one-pounder, which is what we have on the right side of the first scale.”
I stopped to double-check my work. The math nerds were leaning in, like they were paying close attention, and Director Verity had gone from smiling to squinting and taking notes. I couldn’t decide if that was good or bad, but since she hadn’t cut me off, I decided to keep going.
“In other words,” I said as I drew another scale, “three reds and two one-pounders are the same as two reds and one blue.” I erased two red balls on both sides. “That means that one red and two one-pounders are the same as one blue. So if we substitute one red and two one-pounders for the one blue on the second scale”—I quickly made this switch—“then we have four reds and a one-pounder balancing with one red, one yellow, and two one-pounders.” I erased the extra symbols. “And that’s the same as three reds balancing with a yellow and a one-pounder.”
I stepped back to survey my work—and to give Director Verity and the math nerds a little time to breathe. If they held their breath much longer, they were probably going to faint. I’d better wrap this up, and fast.
“At first, I couldn’t figure out how to get rid of that extra one-pound weight, but then it occurred to me that, if a red ball was one pound, it would be easy to subtract them.” I erased the one-pound weight on one side and a red ball on the other. “And when I made that substitution, all the other scales still balanced.” I found the last blank spot of chalkboard and scribbled down the answer. “Red is one pound, yellow’s two, and blue is—you guessed it—three.”
My voice squeaked on the last words, but I couldn’t help myself. I was as nervous as a turkey on the day before Thanksgiving. After dusting off my hands, I waited for someone to swoop in and say I’d messed up the addition and gotten the whole problem wrong. But the math nerds didn’t budge. Brooklyn’s glare had morphed into a stare, and Whistler was no longer whistling. I was tempted to run off and take my chances with the gully, but before I could get my feet to respond, Director Verity lassoed me. Her nails dug into my shoulder.
“Esther Lambert,” she said slowly, like she was sampling my name, deciding if it was sweet or salty. “Not only did you solve the First Problem”—her face split into a wide grin—“but your solution strategy is one I’ve never seen before!”
I didn’t have a chance to fully process what she’d said before Marshane whistled and the rest o
f the common room exploded with applause. It wasn’t like I’d won the seventh-grade election, but it still felt like the world—or at least Camp Archimedes—was in the palm of my hand.
Once the applause died down, Director Verity clicked her heels. “Now that Esther has solved the First Problem, let’s continue on with the day’s activities.” She gave my shoulder one last squeeze. “I know times table sprints might feel beneath you, but I’ve found that memory drills are the best way to calm the mind.”
“I like times table sprints,” I lied, since I suddenly felt like a math nerd.
Her grin exposed both rows of teeth. “I’m sure you do,” was all she said.
I’d never been a gloater, but I was proud of that solution. There really was something to be said for thinking outside the box and looking at a problem from a completely different angle. After taking a sly shot of my solution on the board, I tried to get in touch with Mom so I could tell her the good news, but my phone still had no bars. I guess that explained why the director hadn’t taken them away from us—she must have known they wouldn’t work.
News of my solution spread like wildfire—which was to say it only took an hour for the three people who hadn’t heard it to come up and congratulate me. Mr. Sharp, who’d stepped into the bathroom during my three minutes of fame, actually said, “Nice job,” and Graham, who’d been late to breakfast, awkwardly patted my back. But it was Angeline’s reaction that took me by surprise.
“You solved the First Problem?” Her eyes were as round as harvest moons. “You solved the First Problem?”
I felt my cheeks get hot, but it must have been because we were now sitting by the fireplace. We were supposed to be weaving dream catchers with Fibonacci spirals, but even though they’d shown me tons of photos (including a dozen of a snail from every imaginable angle), I couldn’t tell the difference between a Fibonacci spiral and every other kind of spiral. Luckily, I’d made multiple dream catchers before, so my weaving was spot-on. But Angeline couldn’t have cared less.
The Multiplying Mysteries of Mount Ten Page 5