The Miscalculations of Lightning Girl

by Stacy McAnulty

  She smiles. “True. I like to think I’m making a difference in the world.”

  “Windy Sitton likes musicals, though she can’t sing.”

  “True, too.”

  “She’s also bossy and nosy and has an opinion about everything.” He counts the traits on his fingers.

  “True and true and true. I’m a born leader. I speak my mind. And it’s not like I’m reading people’s diaries or breaking into lockers. I’m observant. Your turn, Lucy.” She shovels a spoonful of mashed potatoes into her mouth.

  “What about her?” I nod toward Maddie. I don’t really want to know. I’m stalling.

  Windy swallows. “That’s Maddie Thornton. She does gymnastics and dance. And she’s a really good singer. She sang the national anthem at a professional baseball game last year.”

  “It was minor league,” Levi adds. “And she got the words wrong.”

  Windy continues like Levi didn’t say anything. “Maddie and I were best friends in 5th grade, and our moms have known each other forever. She’s also wicked smart.”

  “You mean just plain wicked,” Levi mumbles.

  “She’s not that bad,” Windy says. “Now it’s definitely your turn, Lucy, unless you want me to talk about the teachers, too. Ms. Fleming went through a nasty divorce over the summer.”

  “Okay. Um…”

  “Tell us something good 1st.” She says us, but no one else is listening, except maybe Levi.

  “I’m good at math.”

  “Okay.” She seems disappointed.

  “You already know my…um…routine.”

  “The sitting thing?” she asks.

  “Yeah.” She missed it in math class but got to witness it in language arts and twice in science.

  She laughs. “Maybe you really aren’t interesting.”

  “Told you. I’m mostly ordinary.” At least that’s what I want everyone to think. Lightning Girl, your ordinary, everyday savant cleaning lady.

  Nana is waiting when I get off the bus. She’s the only adult around. I’d be embarrassed if I weren’t so relieved to be done with my 1st day.

  I tap my toe 3 times as she wraps me in a hug.

  “How was it?” Judging by her huge smile, I’d say she’s expecting to hear good news.

  “If I tell you it was torture, that everyone thinks I’m a freak, that I probably caught a disease from accidentally touching the bus’s handrail, that the teachers act like prison guards, and that I hated all 400 minutes of it, will you still make me go back?”

  “Yes.”

  I shrug. “Then it was fine.” I walk toward our building.

  “Lucy.” Nana follows me. “And what do you know about prison guards? That’s not a fair comparison.”

  “This whole thing isn’t fair.”

  “You think you’re the 1st kid who doesn’t want to go to school? Please.” Nana walks ahead of me. She opens the door so I don’t have to touch it.

  It’s only 1 year, I repeat to myself. I can suffer through a year of middle school. But it still seems like a waste. I should be dedicating my life to solving the unsolvable problems of mathematics, like the Riemann hypothesis or the Hodge conjecture.

  “Your uncle wants you to call him,” Nana says as she turns on the TV. “He wants to hear all about your big day. Try not to complain too much.”

  I use my new cell phone. Nana, Uncle Paul, and our neighbor Mrs. Chapman are the only people whose numbers are programmed into it. Not that I need the phone numbers saved. They’re all locked in my brain.

  “Hey, genius,” Uncle Paul answers. “How was—” The phone call breaks in and out, but I know what he’s asking.

  “It was the absolute worst.” I say this loud enough for Nana to hear. I want her to know I need more than her prayers. I need out of that school.

  “Middle school is supposed to be the worst. It’s like a giant hazing for adulthood. We all gotta go through it.”

  “No, we don’t.”

  “Lucy. Come on. You can do this. You’re—” The line cuts out again.

  “I don’t belong there.” I twist my lightning-bolt necklace.

  “Have you ever heard the saying ‘Fake it till you make it’?” he asks.

  “I don’t know. Maybe.”

  “It means you gotta act like you belong or act like you can do something, and eventually you’ll be able to.”

  “That doesn’t make any sense.”

  He gives an exaggerated sigh. “Go to school tomorrow with a big smile on your face and act like you belong there.”

  Why do all adults think smiling is the answer?

  “I do belong there, but only according to my age and the law.”

  “That’s right. And act like you belong at the popular lunch table and on the chess or basketball team or whatever extracurricular you want to do. Eventually, you’ll go from faking it to making it. It’s all about confidence. Are you writing this down?”

  “No.”

  “You should be. I’m basically giving you the secret to life, kiddo. No charge.”

  “Gee, thanks.”

  “Hey, I gotta go. Call me later if you need more advice. And at some point, we need to talk about boys. I’ve got a lot to say on the subject. Okay? I love you, genius.”

  “Love you, too.” I put my phone away and grab a box of Oreos from the cabinet.

  “What did Uncle Paul have to say?” Nana asks from the living room.

  “He told me to be fake.” I shove a cookie into my mouth.

  “That’s horrible. You need to be yourself, Lucy. Give it time.”

  “I’m giving it 1 year. That was the deal.” I take another cookie and get some milk from the fridge. We don’t have any real homework today. Nana needs to sign a few papers. That’s all. I kind of wanted math homework. That would have been something fun to do. Maybe other kids at other schools are luckier than I am and actually got assigned math problems.

  I go to my room and log on to my favorite site, MathWhiz. I’ve been tagged in 14 forum questions.

  LightningGirl, help!

  I love you, LightningGirl.

  LG, if you can solve this freakin’ problem, I’m going to marry you and we’ll make little lightning babies.

  Okay, that last 1 is super creepy.

  Maddie may rule at East Hamlin. Windy might know everything about everyone. But here, I’m queen.

  Nana goes to work at Cracker Barrel. And I stay on the computer until 10:00 p.m., solving people’s problems and chatting with SquareHead314.

  SquareHead314: You were missed today.

  LightningGirl: I had class

  SquareHead314: What are you teaching?

  Is it lying if I don’t correct him?

  LightningGirl: It’s only an intro class. Nothing exciting.

  SquareHead314: Glad you could still make time for us.

  LightningGirl: Trust me, I’d rather be here

  I won’t admit it to anyone, but I’m looking forward to math class. I’m sure Mr. Stoker will spend the year covering topics I mastered when I was 8. But to me, it’s like hearing a favorite band sing an old song or rewatching a favorite episode of Supernatural.

  Math class doesn’t start right away, because we are assigned our lockers during 1st period. Mr. Stoker hands us each a sheet with our locations and combinations. My combo is 48–9–27. All divisible by 3. Multiplied together they equal 11,664, and that number has a perfect square root, 108!

  My locker number isn’t nearly as impressive. 250B. The B means that it’s on the bottom, and it’s directly below Maddie’s—250A. It may be the worst location in the school. Windy’s locker is in a different section, on the other side of the door to room 213.

  Levi is sort of a neighbor. His locker is 252B. He doesn’t say any
thing as he throws some books in, slams the door closed, and locks it. Maddie takes her time placing binders and hanging a mirror. I wait for her to finish before disinfecting my lock.

  I want to clean my locker quickly. I want to get back to math class. I open another wipe. I’m going to need at least 3 more. Crumbs and pencil shavings cover the bottom, and it smells like wet shoes. I clean the sides, the back, and the hooks. It’s the locker’s floor that’s a problem. Each pass of the cloth collects grime, debris, and even hair.

  “1 more minute,” Mr. Stoker warns.

  Only 2 other girls are still in the hallway. I open another wipe. 5 wrappers lie on the ground. If I use any more now, I won’t have enough for the rest of the day. I scrub until the cloth rips. My locker is still not sanitized.

  My neck is hot. I can hear blood rushing through my ears. The digits of pi tick through my brain.

  3.141592653…

  I tap my toe 3 times to make the numbers fade away. Maybe I can get some paper towels and spray from a janitor.

  “Back to your seats, please,” Mr. Stoker says.

  The other girls slam their doors closed. I do, too. Without putting anything inside my locker. I can’t.

  “May I use the bathroom?” I ask as the others go back into the classroom.

  “Lucy, it’s time to…” He stares at the used wipes and wrappers in my hands. “Make it quick.”

  In the girls’ room, I throw away the garbage and quickly wash my hands using 3 squirts of soap. On the way back to class, I use 3 pumps of hand sanitizer.

  Mr. Stoker is at the front of the room, erasing the whiteboard. I haven’t missed anything. Was he waiting for me?

  I sit, stand, sit, stand, sit in my seat. Someone clears a throat. Someone else sighs. Maybe they’re disgusted by me. Or maybe those are just classroom noises.

  I take out my mechanical pencil. Mr. Stoker finally turns around, ready to begin. My mind floods with the possibilities. It could be something beautifully simple. Even finding the area of a circle (area = πr2) would be interesting. I love any formula that requires pi. If I ever got a tattoo, it would be π.

  I expect him to pick up 1 of the dry erase markers that sit on the ledge. He doesn’t. Maybe he’s going to explain a theory using simple, clear terms. Instead, he walks to his desk and grabs a pile of papers.

  “This is not a test,” he says.

  Still, most of the class groans on cue.

  “This is an assessment,” Mr. Stoker continues. “To see where you are and where the class is as a whole. I’ll use it to determine where we need to start.”

  He gives the 1st person in each row a few sheets to pass back.

  “Does it count for a grade?” a boy behind me asks.

  “No. But you should still do your best. You learned some of this stuff in 6th grade, and some of it you probably have not been taught.”

  I raise my hand, slowly and carefully, like I’m putting my arm inside a bees’ nest.

  “Lucy?”

  I suddenly realize how weird my question is, and I try to think of another instead. I can’t, so I just say what’s on my mind.

  “If we finish quickly, will you have time to start our 1st lesson?”

  There’s a distinct giggle. Maddie.

  “Let’s focus on the assessment today. I’d like everyone to take their time. If you’re done early, check it over.”

  The not-a-test sits on my desk. On the front page are 10 questions. I’ve already answered them all in my head.

  41

  15

  2

  x = y2

  1, −1

  13

  6

  True

  True

  False

  I turn to the 2nd page. The answers fly into my head in a swirl of colorful number shapes. In less than 2 minutes, I’m done. At least in my weirdly wired brain. I haven’t written anything yet. I look around the room. Heads are down. Pencils are moving. Levi’s desk is the closest. He’s only written his name and some calculations under the 1st problem. He’s got the answer wrong.

  Suddenly, Levi turns and looks at me. I drop my head like he caught me watching him get dressed. I take my hair out of my headband and try to hide my face. I can’t see him, but somehow I still feel his eyes on me.

  Mr. Stoker turns on a small speaker. Classical music that reminds me of a jewelry-store commercial fills the room.

  “Relax, everyone,” he says. “Just do your best.”

  I already know my best is going to be the class’s best. I might even be better than Mr. Stoker. Probably. It’s not his fault.

  I glance again at Levi’s paper. He wrote 7 as the answer to question number 1. But he got his order of operations wrong. He needed to square before adding.

  The answer is 41.

  I write down 7.

  I can’t hide my need to sit-stand or tap my toe 3 times, or my obsession with de-germing any and all surfaces. But I can hide my superpower. They don’t need to know. I’m not hurting anyone. I can fake it till I make it. I can fake being normal, and eventually I will be.

  Maybe.

  Slowly, I fill in the rest of the answers. I make 3 more mistakes. If this were for a grade, I’d get an 82, or a B. I plan on getting an A in the class. I mean, I don’t want to ruin my chances of getting into college next year.

  Nana wants 1 year, 1 friend, 1 book, and 1 activity. I calculate this will be easier to achieve without being a freaky genius. I can be normal smart. It’s only middle school. This is about survival.

  Nana’s cell phone rings at 6:42, as we are cleaning up from dinner. I can tell from her face that she doesn’t recognize the number on the ID.

  “Hello?”

  I carry our cups to the sink.

  “This is she.” Nana looks at me and raises an eyebrow.

  Usually, I like to wash the dishes. I use the hottest water to rinse away all the food and microbes. But tonight, I have the urge to run to my room. I turn. I’m too slow. Nana grabs my shoulder.

  “Well, can she take it over?” She pauses for an answer that I can’t hear. “I see.” Pause. “Certainly.” Pause. “Thanks for calling. Good-bye.” She puts the phone down on the counter.

  “Wrong number?” I joke.

  “That was your math teacher. He said you got a 0 on today’s test.”

  “What!” It wasn’t even a test. It was an assessment.

  “Lucy, what’s going on?”

  My face feels hot. “I did not get a 0.”

  “It’s what he said.” Nana threw up her hands. “Is this a cry for help, Lucy? Are you trying to prove some point? Because I don’t get it. Your old grandmother isn’t as smart as you. Tell me what’s going on.”

  “I did not get a 0!” I shout. “I got an 82.”

  “Lower your voice. Mrs. Chapman is going to hear you yelling through the walls.” Nana reaches for me, but I step back. “Tell me what’s going on.”

  I want to go to my room, but I know she’ll follow me, and the lock on the door doesn’t work.

  “I got a few answers wrong on purpose. I didn’t want to stick out.” Any more than I already do. “I promise I didn’t get a 0. He made a mistake.”

  “You took a dive on a math test? That’s out of character.”

  “An 82 isn’t exactly a dive. And it’s not a secret cry for help. I don’t want to go to that school. You know that, Nana. But if I have to be there, I don’t want to be the savant or the genius.” I don’t want to be the cleaning lady, either.

  “Suit yourself. At least you’re developing some acting skills. In case you decide you don’t want to devote your whole life to math.” She wiggles her eyebrows at me.

  “And you should be a comedian.” I wiggle my eyebrows back.

  “Maybe I will.” She tur
ns to the sink. “Your teacher wants you to stay after school tomorrow. I’ll pick you up at 3.”

  “Fine.” I go to my room and log on to MathWhiz. My life is still homework-free. I help in the calculus forum for 30 minutes, and then I check out the trigonometry page. SquareHead314 has already answered the most interesting questions. I send him/her a message.

  LightningGirl: you didn’t leave anything fun for me

  SquareHead314: It’s the beginning of the school year.

  SquareHead314: Not a lot of fun happening yet.

  LightningGirl: true

  SquareHead314: If you’re bored…

  SquareHead314: why don’t you set up tomorrow’s problem of the day?

  SquareHead314 and HipHypotenuse put up ridiculously easy math problems on the forums every day. Usually something like, “Susie and Sally are going to a brunch with 8 other people. What’s the probability they will sit next to each other?”

  LightningGirl: OK

  SquareHead314: But don’t make it too hard this time. No one got your last 1.

  LightningGirl: you did

  SquareHead314: Aim a little lower.

  LightningGirl: that’s my new motto

  Math mystery solved: I got every answer “wrong” on my math assessment because I did not show my calculations. I thought I was careful, but I failed to read the 1st line of instructions: Show all work.

  I’m not the only 1 who screwed up. Levi has to stay after school with me.

  Mr. Stoker asks us both to sit in the front row. I sit, stand, sit, stand, sit at Windy’s desk. I don’t wipe it down, but I don’t touch it, either.

  Mr. Stoker pulls his wooden stool over and half sits on it. “Mathematics is not only about getting the correct answer. It’s about being on the road to the correct answer. Knowing the path can be just as important as knowing the solution.”

  I completely disagree but stay quiet. Math is about right answers and proving the right answer. I love mathematic proofs, but I don’t think we’ll get into them in 7th grade.

  “If you take each problem a step at a time,” he continues, “you’ll grow the answer organically. The process will take root in your brain. This is true learning.” He folds his hands and closes his eyes like he’s meditating.