The Miscalculations of Lightning Girl

by Stacy McAnulty

  “I know what you’re thinking,” Mrs. Jensen says to us—a statement I always find weird because I’m never able to guess what another person is thinking. And she claims to know what an entire 7th-grade class is thinking. “You’re asking yourself, how can I make a difference? I’m only 12 or 13 years old. I can’t drive. I don’t have any money. I have homework and soccer and dance. How can I help my community?”

  That wasn’t what I was thinking. I was calculating the number of hours left in the school year. 1,160.

  “Here are some of the projects that 7th graders—students the same as you—have tackled over the past few years.” She waves at the screen with 1 hand and uses her other hand to press a button on a laptop that sits on the podium.

  We watch a video that profiles different projects. The 1st shows 3 girls in matching shirts bringing Legos to a local children’s hospital. The next features 4 boys who collect old sports equipment to send to Kenya. I never really thought of Kenya as part of my community, but 1 of the boys says because of technology, we have to think of our community on a global scale. The last group is 2 girls and a boy. They organize a day where people help clean Liberty Park. It actually seems like the most work out of the 3 projects. They get sweaty and dirty, and it doesn’t look like much fun.

  When the video finishes, Mrs. Jensen claps. “And that is only a sample of the great accomplishments by our students in the past few years. And now it’s your turn. When you return to 1st period, you will receive a packet with all the details. There are several deadlines along the way. The 1st is next Friday. By then, you’ll need to have formed a team of 3 or 4 students and selected a teacher mentor to help you through this project. And by the end of the month, your group will identify a situation in our community that can use your help.”

  Mrs. Jensen goes on about some of the other rules. The projects can’t be political. Like no handing out flyers for people running for president. We also aren’t allowed to raise money for a cause. We can collect stuff but not cash. And there are rules about religion, too, but they are even more unclear.

  Windy grabs my arm when Mrs. Jensen finishes.

  “We’ll be a team, right?”

  “Sure,” I say. “But we need another person.”

  “I’ll find someone. No problem. Then we’re going to change the world.” She says it like she believes it.

  “Great.” I want to be excited with her. But I don’t think we’ll even be able to find someone willing to work with us—willing to work with me. And changing the world is a tall order for someone who is just trying to survive each day.

  There’s no need to hide my genius in language arts class because I’m not a genius in language arts class. I’m a decent reader and an okay writer. But when a teacher puts words in front of me, I have to count them before I can read them. I like counting, and I’m a fast counter, but I don’t have superhero abilities. I saw a scene in this old movie where a waitress drops a box of toothpicks, and this savant guy looks at the pile and tells her how many toothpicks are on the floor in a split second. I can’t do that. It takes me time to total the number of words on the page and the number of letters in the words. I’m sure I’m faster than anyone else in 3rd-period language arts, but my counting is extra work that doesn’t get me any extra credit.

  So when Ms. Fleming hands out a short story, I try to count the words quickly. Unfortunately, she calls on me to read 1st.

  “Lucy, please begin.”

  “I pass.”

  “Excuse me? What exactly are you passing on?” she asks, and the rest of the class laughs.

  “Can’t someone else read it?” I’ve only counted the words in the 1st paragraph. 192.

  “I’m sure someone else could read it. But I asked you.” She takes off her glasses. I’m not sure why. Maybe so I can see her evil stare more clearly.

  I look down at the story. I count the words in the 2nd paragraph. Only 27. For a total of 219.

  “You may begin, Lucy.” Ms. Fleming interrupts my counting of the 3rd paragraph. More of the class laughs. I blink a lot to keep my eyes from getting too wet.

  I read the 1st paragraph slowly. I pause after each sentence and try to count more words. I can’t. I reach the bottom of paragraph 2 and stop.

  “Very nice,” Ms. Fleming says. “Continue, please.”

  The next paragraph is long. I push myself hard to count all the words so I can read. Kids around me murmur. Ms. Fleming sighs heavily. My head feels light and my cheeks hot. I lose my spot in the jumble of words. I have to start over.

  “I lost my place,” I whisper. I’m not talking about the words but the count. I need the count. My eyes move quickly over the 1st few lines, reconfirming their totals.

  1st line, 17.

  2nd line, 22.

  3rd line, also 22.

  4th…

  “I’ll read,” someone calls out.

  “Fine,” Ms. Fleming says. “Take over, Windy. And, Lucy, I’d like to speak to you after class.”

  I let out a breath and sink into my seat. I don’t worry about what excuse I’ll give Ms. Fleming at the end of class. I just count.

  We finish reading the story as a class. Then we form groups to discuss the theme. I’m grouped with 3 girls I haven’t met yet. They make me the secretary, which means I have to write everything down—and do all the actual work—while they talk about some boys I don’t know. I try my best to answer the questions written on the Smart Board.

  After class, I stick around as Ms. Fleming ordered. She seems to forget about me until I start walking toward the door.

  “Lucy,” she calls out. “Do you want to explain your reluctance to participate in class?”

  I shrug.

  “You’re a very smart girl.”

  “What do you mean?” I shouldn’t respond. I should be quiet and nod.

  Ms. Fleming’s eyebrows shoot up. “I mean, you seem like a smart girl.”

  She knows nothing about me. It’s just teacher talk. That’s a relief. Life is easier when there are no expectations.

  “You’re plenty capable of succeeding in this class. But you will need to participate, follow the rules, and do the work.”

  I was the only 1 in my discussion group who did any work. Ms. Fleming doesn’t seem to know this, or she doesn’t care.

  “Do you understand what’s expected of you?” she asks.

  “I just…I don’t like to read out loud. The words get jumbled in my head or my mouth or something.” I try to explain my problem without really explaining my problem, hoping she’ll understand and maybe show some sympathy.

  “Okay. This is something we can work on. A goal.” She pulls off her glasses and puts them to her lips. “Wait 1 second.”

  She walks over to her desk and opens a blue folder. I’m already late for science. Everyone will watch me walk in and watch me sit.

  “Here.” She hands me 4 sheets that are stapled together. “We’ll be reading this story next week. You can practice reading it aloud so you’re more comfortable.”

  “Thanks.” I can count the words ahead of time, too. For a split second, I think about telling her the whole truth. I decide against it.

  “And our 1st class novel will be The Call of the Wild, if you want to read ahead.” She points to the piles of books on the back shelf.

  “Thanks,” I say again.

  “You’ll see, Lucy. By the end of the year, we will have you comfortable reading out loud.” She gives me an encouraging smile. I wish I could believe her, but I know I’ll never be comfortable in this school.

  I survive my 1st 2 weeks of middle school. Only 171 school days to go until summer break. We have homework for the weekend, but it’s for language arts class, not math, so that’s disappointing. Mr. Stoker thinks he’s rewarding us by not giving homework on Fridays.

  Windy
and I share a bag of peanut M&M’s on the bus ride home. I don’t mind sharing, because she always uses hand sanitizer when I offer it.

  “Hey, my mom said you can come over for a sleepover tomorrow night,” Windy says. “Can you come?”

  I don’t know what to say. I’ve never spent the night at someone’s house.

  “Don’t worry. I told her she has to clean really good for you and get Clorox wipes. A lot of them.”

  “You shouldn’t have said that. She’s going to think I’m a brat.” And Windy knows I carry my own wipes everywhere. It’s like she wants her mom to know I’m weird.

  “No, she won’t. So, can you come?”

  “I’ll have to ask my grandmother.” I can’t tell if the feeling in my gut is excitement. Someone’s inviting me over. Or is it fear? So much could go wrong. Or maybe I haven’t cleaned the desks enough at school and have finally caught some disease. I’m pretty sure I’m going to throw up.

  “Why do you want me to sleep over?” I ask.

  “It’ll be fun.”

  “Okay.”

  Windy gets off the bus before I do. She says she’ll call me in an hour to make plans. She needs to know if I’m allowed to watch R-rated movies or just PG-13, and if I can smuggle in candy.

  Nana is thrilled to hear about the sleepover. Judging by her jumping around, you’d think I’d been invited to the White House. The next day, we argue about things we’ve never argued about before. Clothes.

  “Not those pajamas.” She makes a disgusted face. “They’re ratty. Take the purple pj’s with the owls.”

  “They’re not comfortable,” I say.

  “They’re cute.”

  Cute wins. But only because I don’t feel like arguing any more.

  “We’re leaving in 5 minutes,” she says. That gives me enough time to get online and explain my absence. I haven’t missed a Saturday night math chat since February, and that was because we had an ice storm and didn’t have power for 106 hours.

  LightningGirl: it is with a heavy heart that I share this news

  LightningGirl: I will be unavailable for the Saturday night math chat

  LightningGirl: when I return in 18 hours I will comment on the topics discussed

  I’m trying to sound professional, but judging by the reactions, I may have taken it too far.

  SquareHead314: LG, is everything OK?

  Numberlicious: sounds serious

  HipHypotenuse: you’re in my thoughts and prayers

  LightningGirl: I’m OK

  LightningGirl: ttyl—or tomorrow

  * * *

  Windy lives in a neighborhood where every home has a sign in the bushes advertising its brand of security system. Her house is 3 stories tall, with real pillars out front.

  “Nice place,” Nana says as we walk past the rosebushes and onto the porch. I go to ring the doorbell with my elbow, but Windy opens the door before I get a chance.

  “I’ve been waiting all day.” Windy yanks me in by the arm. “Come in,” she says to Nana.

  “Hey.” I tap my toe 3 times.

  “Look! Hand sanitizer. Right near the door. Just like at your place.” It’s the only thing about Windy’s house that is just like my place. She gives me 2 squirts.

  “Thanks.”

  Windy picks up a paper from the same table and puts it in my face.

  “Here’s a list of everything we are going to do.”

  She holds it too close for me to read. I can see that she’s numbered the activities, all 31 of them.

  “Okay,” I say. I probably don’t sound okay. I can’t catch my breath.

  “Mrs. Callahan, is Lucy allowed to dye her hair?” Windy asks.

  “Um…,” Nana says. “Are your parents home?”

  “My mom is,” Windy answers. Then she turns around and yells into the quiet house, “Mom! Lucy’s grandma wants to talk to you.”

  Windy turns back to us with a smile. “My father doesn’t live here anymore. My mom kicked him out last year. I’m not supposed to know the reason, but I do. Do you want me to tell you?”

  “No,” Nana answers.

  Ms. Sitton walks into the foyer before Windy can share any family secrets. Her shoes click on the hardwood floor. 1-2, 3-4, 5-6, 7-8. She’s tall and thin and very put together—like with makeup and jewelry and high heels. Her black skirt and pink shirt (the color of 11) make me think she’s dressed for something important or that she is really important. She looks nothing like Windy.

  “Hello.” She holds out her hand to Nana. “I’m Adele Sitton.”

  “Barb Callahan.”

  “Thank you so much for allowing Lucy to come over,” Ms. Sitton says. “I’ve heard so much about her.”

  That makes my stomach hurt. What does she know? What did Windy say? Did she Google search me?

  “Lucy is very excited,” Nana says.

  “Great.” Ms. Sitton puts her hands over Windy’s ears. “Windy has a hard time making friends.”

  “I can still hear you, Mom.” Windy pushes her away.

  The adults exchange phone numbers, and Ms. Sitton asks if I have any allergies. I don’t. Then it’s time for good-bye.

  “Have fun,” Nana says. “Call me if you need anything.” She kisses my cheek. Suddenly, I think I might cry, which is stupid because I’m only going to be gone 18 hours. I look at my watch. 17 hours and 41 minutes. I miss my bed. I miss my room. My computer. My nana. My ratty pajamas.

  I close my eyes and recite the numbers of pi in my head.

  3.1415926535897932384­626433832795­0288419716…

  “You okay?” Windy asks, grabbing my shoulder.

  “Yeah.” I tap my toe 3 times to stop the flow of numbers.

  “Come on.” She gives me a tour of the house, which doesn’t include many details. “Dining room, living room, fancy living room with no TV, Mom’s room, kitchen.” All of them are huge.

  I count the stairs as we walk up—18—and don’t touch the handrail. Windy has an older sister named Cherish, who isn’t home. The upstairs belongs to them. They each have a bedroom. There’s a study with 2 desks, and the walls are lined with bookshelves (I want to count all the books, but we don’t stop), and a room she calls FROG, with a big TV, beanbag chairs, a video game system, and a shelf of board games.

  “FROG?” I ask. There isn’t an aquarium, and it isn’t decorated with Kermit pictures or lily pads.

  “Family room over garage. FROG.”

  I guess it’s a term you only learn if you own a mansion.

  “So, what should we do 1st?” Windy asks. She takes my bag and puts it down in the corner. A container of Clorox wipes sits on her dresser. Across the top is written For Lucy.

  “I thought you had a list.” I tap my toe 3 times.

  “I do.” She smiles. “I was trying to be polite.”

  “Whatever you want to do.” I don’t mean whatever. There are plenty of things that I would never do. Like share a fork or eat in a restaurant with a sanitation rating lower than A.

  The purple walls of Windy’s room are covered with an odd combination of adorable save-the-animal pictures and Broadway musical posters. A bulletin board filled with ticket stubs and photos hangs above her bed.

  “Is that Maddie?” I ask, pointing to a picture taken on a beach. I already know the answer. It’s definitely Maddie. She’s in 6 pictures—camping, birthday party, roller-skating, Girl Scouts, soccer team, dance class.

  Windy moves closer and squints. “Oh yeah. Our moms are good friends, so we hang out sometimes.”

  “Really?”

  “Well, we used to.”

  “What happened?” I ask.

  Windy shrugs. “We’re still kind of friends. She’s just super popular now.”

  And the worst person I’ve ever m
et.

  “So, what are we going to do?” I ask, changing the subject.

  “Manis and pedis.” She holds up 2 bottles of nail polish. “It’s the best brand. Never tested on animals.”

  “Okay? But can we wash our hands 1st?”

  “Sure.”

  A few minutes later, we’re painting each other’s nails to the soundtrack of Newsies. We both have very sad nails, short and broken. Windy paints mine lime green (like the number 41), and I paint hers bright pink (a shade lighter than the number 21).

  “You’re not very good at this.” Windy laughs. “You keep getting polish on my knuckles.”

  “Sorry,” I say. “I’ve never painted anyone’s nails before.” It’s also hard because I try not to hold her hand while running the brush over each nail 3 times.

  “Really? I guess I’ve been in training since the moment I was born. My mom owns 2 day spas. She’s all about looking good and feeling good. She’s in her 40s, and she still wears a bikini when we go to the beach.”

  “She’s very pretty,” I say.

  “I know, and I don’t look anything like her.” Windy slowly shakes her head. “Lucky for her, she has my sister. You can see the shared DNA in their long eyelashes and small butts.”

  “You have nice eyelashes,” I say, hoping to make her feel better. I’ve never really noticed her eyelashes behind her glasses. They’re nice enough.

  “Whatever. I’m pretty sure I was switched at birth. At least I hope so. I look forward to meeting my real mom someday. I’ll know her when I see her. In 1 hand she’ll be carrying a bag of peanut butter cups, and in the other, a Greenpeace sign.”

  “I think your mom’s nice.”

  “Whatever.” Windy rolls her eyes. “What about your parents? Where are they? Dead or something?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Oh my god, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”

  I hold up a hand to stop her apology. “It’s okay. My mom died of ovarian cancer when I was a baby. I don’t remember her. And I never knew my dad. He didn’t stick around.” Uncle Paul says my dad split 2 seconds after the pregnancy test came back positive, and that it was a good decision for all of us—especially me.