“Me too,” Ms. McCleary says with a smile. “Lucy, do you need to use the bathroom or would you like a drink before you begin the exam?”
“What exam?” I slide my lightning-bolt charm back and forth on its chain.
“They want to see if you’re smart enough,” Nana says with a wink. She obviously knew about this part of the tour but didn’t bother to warn me.
“You ace every test,” Uncle Paul says. “Nothing to worry about.”
“It’s our standard entrance exam,” Ms. McCleary adds. “It’s required of all students who do not come from traditional schools. It’s 150 questions. All multiple-choice. Half are mathematics, and the rest are science, vocabulary, and social studies. You have 2 hours to complete it. So, do you need a restroom break?”
“No.” I look over at Nana. Her eyes are closed and her lips are moving. She’s praying. I guess she really wants me to do well.
Ms. McCleary shows me to a conference room. The test booklet, 2 pencils, and scrap paper wait for me on the table. Nana and Uncle Paul stay in her office. I wonder what they’ll do while I answer 150 multiple-choice questions.
I open a Clorox wipe and clean the table and pencils. Again, Ms. McCleary acts like this is totally normal.
“Do you need anything else?” She holds out her hand for the used wipe.
“No, thank you.”
“Good luck,” she says.
In general, I don’t mind tests. I find them boring but not scary. Some kids panic. Spencer, the boy who sits next to me in science, panics. When we have a test, I can hear his breathing get fast. His leg bounces nonstop. And when he lifts his arms, he smells sweaty.
I open the booklet. I look at my watch. I answer all the math questions. I look at my watch again. 11 minutes have passed. The rest of the test takes me less than an hour. About half of that time is spent counting the words. I’m sure I get every question right. I debate going back and changing a few answers, but at this school, getting them all correct is probably the average. Not hiding my genius is like taking off a pair of sweaty old sneakers. It feels good now, but I don’t think I’m ready to toss my sneakers.
After the test, Ms. McCleary gives us a tour. It’s hard not to be impressed by the science labs with shiny equipment, or the 3-D printers in the classrooms, or the music room where I could learn to play the harp, or the coffee bar in the student center. Windy would love a coffee bar.
“Obviously, we aren’t your typical high school. We only cover 11th and 12th grades. We have a 100 percent graduation rate. All of our students go to college, and 92 percent receive at least partial scholarships.”
“This is an awesome school,” Uncle Paul whispers to me. “Do you think I’m too old to apply? Or just too dumb?”
I elbow him in the gut.
“This way.” We follow Ms. McCleary back to her office. A basket with Oreos, Pringles, and oranges sits on her desk, along with 4 bottles of water and 4 cans of Coke.
“Help yourself.”
I go for the Oreos. I’m opening the package when my phone chimes in my jacket pocket.
“Sorry. I’ll silence it.”
“No worries. I have 2 teenage daughters,” Ms. McCleary says. “I’ll be right back.”
When she leaves, I pull out my phone.
Windy: what dog should we pick
Windy: ???
“Is it an emergency, Doctor?” Nana asks, joking.
“To someone it is,” I say.
Windy: Lucy! Help!
Me: kennel 4
Kennel 4 holds a dog named Rufus, a brown pit bull estimated to be 4 or 5 years old and weighing 60 pounds. I calculated his adoption time to be 22 to 26 days.
Windy: Rufus?
Me: yes
Me: unless there’s a new dog over 8 years, black fur, weighing more than 60 pounds, and is mostly pit bull or shepherd
I wait for the response.
Windy: Nope
Me: any Chihuahuas?
Chihuahuas are the only non-large breed that I calculated with a high adoption wait. They make the formula interesting.
Windy: we r going with Rufus!
I should be there. If an old black Chihuahua is available, it’s not fair to go with Rufus. (This theoretical dog is calculating at 29 to 33 days.) I chew on my bottom lip as I debate calling Levi.
“You okay?” Uncle Paul asks.
I nod.
“Boy problems?”
“No!”
When Ms. McCleary steps back into the room, Nana hits my arm. I silence my phone and put it away.
“Do you have any questions?” she asks.
Not really, plus my mouth is stuffed with Oreos.
“Does Lucy qualify?” Nana asks.
“She earned a perfect test score,” Ms. McCleary says. “This is not unheard of, but still, it’s very impressive. Now, Lucy will need to apply officially online.”
“Okay,” Nana says.
“I’d recommend you get this information in as soon as possible. Within the next few weeks, ideally. We are opening 2 spots for January. This is a great opportunity. We don’t generally allow students to begin midyear.”
January? That’s only 81 days away.
“Lucky for you, Luce.” Uncle Paul smiles. When I don’t smile back at him, he mouths, What?
I shake my head.
“You have an excellent chance of being admitted.” Ms. McCleary reaches into her desk, pulls out a cap with NCASME on it, and hands it to me.
I swallow the last of the Oreo. It goes down my throat like a baseball. I just started a new school. It was awful, and now it’s not so awful. I don’t know if I’m ready to do it all over again.
I haven’t gone out on Halloween since my brain got rewired by lightning. I don’t think 1 has anything to do with the other. I’ve never loved Halloween. It’s a lot of effort to get candy, and we always have candy in our apartment anyway. The last time I dressed up, I was 7 and went as a hybrid Disney princess. I had Ariel’s red hair and Belle’s yellow gown. Nana said if I liked both, I didn’t have to choose.
Windy, however, loves Halloween. And she’s insisting that Levi and I go trick-or-treating in her neighborhood. I try to get out of it with the most logical excuse. “I don’t have a costume,” I tell her. She offers to lend me 1 of her old outfits. There’s Cosette from Les Mis, or Eliza from Hamilton, or Sophie from Mamma Mia! But Nana comes up with something I actually like.
“You look great,” Nana says when I model for her in our living room.
I give her a salute. I’m wearing Uncle Paul’s old fatigues (adjusted to my size with safety pins), his dog tags, and a cap. I’ve also painted my face camouflage. It’s the 1st time I’ve ever worn makeup.
“Did you finish the NCASME application?” she asks.
“Yes, but I probably won’t get in. I had to leave whole portions of it blank. I have no leadership experience. I’ve never been part of a team. And the only volunteer work I’ve done is tutoring math online.” Which has gone from 30 hours a week to 10. (And most of that is spent helping and chatting with Levi123.)
“What about all this time you spend with dogs at the Pizza Hut?”
“That’s required for school. It’s an assigned project.”
“Wouldn’t hurt to have included it. You go there every other day,” she says. “Now smile. I want to send a picture to Uncle Paul.” After taking 4 photos with her cell phone, she drives me to Windy’s. Levi is already there, waiting on the front porch. He’s wearing a camera around his neck and a fedora with PRESS on a slip of paper tucked into the ribbon.
He takes my picture as I join him.
“Can we limit the number of pictures you take of me?” I ask, knowing he can’t be stopped.
“That’s like asking me not
to breathe.”
“No, it’s not. It’s like asking you not to take my picture.”
“Sorry,” he mumbles, and plays with the buttons on the back of the camera.
“It’s okay,” I say, feeling like a jerk. “Let’s just keep it to single digits.”
Cherish lets us in and tells us to wait in the living room. Windy’s not quite ready.
“Bet she wants to make a big entrance.” Levi takes a seat on the couch.
I sit, stand, sit, stand, sit on a chair across from him. Then I wonder if I should have sat next to him. Then I wonder why I’m wondering this. I shake my head to clear the thoughts.
Ms. Sitton has left out a veggie tray on the coffee table. I munch on a carrot stick.
“I stopped by the Pet Hut on my way here. Jesse had an adoption application already,” Levi says. “We only put up her profile last night.” We picked Jesse as our 7th dog to feature. She’s a bulldog mix, with brown, black, and gray swirled coloring, probably close to 10 years old. (I estimate her adoption wait would be 22 to 26 days without our help. Unless we consider her swirly coat to be mostly black; then she’d average 27 to 31 days.) She’s the kind of dog that’s so ugly she’s cute. It helped that Levi dressed her in a bonnet for the picture. Even I was tempted to touch her, but that might have made Pi jealous.
Strangely, Pi isn’t up for adoption yet. He’s becoming more of a Pet Hut mascot. He sleeps in the office, and when we come to visit—which has been 3 times in the last week—I keep him company while Windy and Levi get to know the other dogs. I’ve taught Pi to sit, lie down, and roll over. He’s a very smart dog. I don’t ask Claire why he hasn’t been moved into a kennel, because I don’t want him to leave. Which is selfish because I know I can’t adopt him. Nana’s not a dog person, and our lease doesn’t allow pets. I actually dug out the document from Nana’s file cabinet to double-check. No pets allowed.
“Guess we’ll get to pick dog number 8 on Friday.”
“Maybe we should do 2 dogs,” Levi suggests.
“We could.”
I help myself to more vegetables. I’d rather have a Snickers or a Twix, but Ms. Sitton is handing out scented pencils to trick-or-treaters.
“Levi, are you ready?” Windy shouts from the top of the stairs. “Get your camera.”
Windy walks slowly down the 18 steps. She’s wearing a white jumpsuit, a white hat, a mask over her mouth and nose, and orange rubber gloves (like the number 6).
“What are you supposed to be?” Levi asks.
“I’m a shrimp worker. I’m forced to shell shrimp for 18 hours a day for pennies in awful conditions. Here.” She gives Levi and me a postcard that lists all the brands with abusive labor practices. “I’m handing these out as we go door to door,” she explains. “But I still want candy. I’m just taking advantage of the holiday to help the oppressed.”
“This should be fun,” Levi says.
Windy’s neighborhood is perfect for trick-or-treating. The houses are huge but close together, and most residents are home. I estimate my Walmart bag weighs 1 pound by the time we get to the end of her street.
“I’m going to have to hide this candy,” Windy says. “My mom isn’t going to let me keep all 1,000 pieces.”
“29,” I correct her.
“You’ve been counting?” she asks.
I shrug.
Windy stops and looks in the quilted pumpkin bag that has her name stitched on the front.
“I do have 29 pieces. How many do you have?”
“30. The last house gave Levi and me extra. I don’t think they appreciated your shrimp postcards. But Levi only has 27 because he keeps eating his Whoppers.”
“What?” He crunches his candy. “I love Whoppers.”
“It’s just weird. You’re always counting stuff.” She stands under a streetlight. “Is it part of your OCD?”
I tap my toe 3 times.
“Leave her alone.” Levi opens another wrapper.
“I’m not picking on her.” Windy pulls down her mask. “You’re just really obsessed with numbers.”
“I am,” I admit.
Windy’s quiet, which sends a little shiver from my toes to my neck. She’s always talking, but right now she wants me to tell her more. I could keep walking. She doesn’t need to know everything about me. But she’s my friend—my best friend—and if I don’t tell her now, then when? Is there ever a perfect time to reveal that you’re a freak?
I take a breath and hold it, like I’m about to lift something heavy.
“I love numbers, and I love math. My brain is high-functioning when it comes to numbers. Um…actually, I’m a genius. A math genius.”
She raises her eyebrows.
“When I was 8, I was struck by lightning. The electricity destroyed part of this side of my brain.” I tap my left temple. “But this side was jolted awake. It’s called acquired savant syndrome.”
“Whoa. I had no idea,” Levi jokes.
Windy shakes her head. “But I get better grades than you do. Even in math.”
“I don’t want people to know.” I shrug. “I had a deal with my grandmother that I had to survive 1 year of middle school. I’m already the cleaning lady. I don’t need to stick out any more.”
A car drives by and blasts its horn. We step into the grass.
“But…” Windy folds her arms across her chest. “But, I don’t…” She stares into the streetlight.
“But what?” I ask.
“I guess I don’t get it,” she says. “If I were a genius, I’d want the world to know.”
“Lucy’s not you,” Levi says.
“I know that!” she snaps at him. Then she turns to me. “How much of a genius are you?”
My cheeks burn. How should I answer?
“Lucy, what’s the circumference of a circle with a radius of 8 yards?” Levi asks.
“50.265 yards. Or 150.796 feet. Or 1,809.557 inches. Of course, I’m rounding to the thousandth place.”
“And the area?” Levi asks.
“201.062 square yards.”
“I guess you’ve been doing more than counting stuff,” Windy says.
“Are you mad that I didn’t tell you?” I ask Windy.
“I’m mad that I didn’t notice. I should have noticed. Like with the dogs and the averages.” She rubs her forehead.
“You kinda did.” I try to make her feel better.
“Why didn’t you tell me before?” Her eyes meet mine, and I feel guilty, or maybe scared, or maybe both.
I look away. “I don’t know.” There’s no good way to say, I was worried you’d blab to everyone.
“Give her a break,” Levi says, opening another box of candy. “She did tell you 2 minutes ago. Lucy’s like a nervous teacup Chihuahua. She takes a while to trust someone.”
I know Levi is trying to help. But I don’t like being compared to a jittery dog.
“How long have you known?” Windy asks him.
“Longer than 2 minutes. But I’m like a golden retriever. Very trustworthy.”
“Well, what kind of dog am I?” She looks at Levi.
“A mutt,” I answer quickly. And they both stare at me. “Aren’t mutts the best dogs? Friendly and unique.” And forgiving? “And Pi is a mutt.”
“I guess.” Windy starts walking again. Levi and I follow.
“It’ll be okay,” he whispers to me.
I hope he’s right.
The next day on the bus, Windy acts like normal Windy. Except her backpack is full of candy.
“I’m afraid if I left it at home, my mom would throw it in the trash,” she says. “Do you want to count it?”
“No!”
“Relax.” She elbows me. “I was joking.”
I was up all night worrying that Windy would tell everyone
that I was a genius. I imagined sitting in the cafeteria and Windy yelling, Listen up, everyone. You need to know something about Lucy. This girl, my BFF, is a certified genius.
But I also stayed awake worrying that she would be mad at me.
“Windy, I’m sorry I didn’t tell you earlier.”
“It’s not a big deal,” she says while sucking on a Tootsie Pop.
“Well, it is to me. Can you not share—”
“You don’t think I can keep a secret, do you?”
“No.” I say it more as a reflex than a true belief.
“I won’t say anything. I promise.”
“Thanks.” I open my backpack and give her my gummy worms. Her mom made her hand over all the sticky candy the moment we got home last night. (“You can’t have that with braces.”) I’m not trying to buy Windy’s silence. Well, maybe I am, a little.
* * *
In last period, I get an envelope addressed to The Guardians of Lucille Fanny Callahan. Everyone gets an envelope. They’re 4 by 6 inches in size, white, and sealed. Still, some kids open them.
“Report cards?” I whisper to Windy.
“Yep.” She tears hers open. “Yes!”
“Bring these back tomorrow, signed,” Mrs. Shields, our social studies teacher, demands. “I’ll give everyone who brings it back promptly 5 extra points on your next quiz.” Mrs. Shields loves to give out bonus points. 3 points for having a sharpened pencil. 5 points for being in your seat on time when she has a sub. 10 points for bringing in interesting newspaper articles.
I hold on to the white envelope all through class and still have it in my hands when I get on the bus.
“Just open it,” Windy says. “What are you afraid of? Is it because you’re supposed to be a genius?”
“I am a genius,” I whisper. Maybe she doesn’t want it to be true.
I’ve been working hard to be an unimpressive A student. I try to get a few wrong on every test. I skip 1 out of every 9 homework assignments in each class to keep my grades in the very low A range. I never participate in class, but that’s for other reasons.
The Miscalculations of Lightning Girl Page 12