Windy finally pulls the envelope out of my hands.
“Hey!” But I’m too late. She’s already slid a finger under the flap and has it open. She hands me the folded sheet of paper.
“Do you want me to look 1st?” she offers.
“No!” I open the single page. I have A’s in all the classes except math and language arts. Ms. Fleming gave me a B, and math doesn’t even have a grade. It has an I for Incomplete.
“That’s not awful,” Windy says over my shoulder.
I look back at the report. Each class has a comment. And they are pretty much the same.
Lucy is a conscientious worker.
Lucy’s work is of a high standard.
Lucy needs to participate more in class discussions.
Mr. Stoker’s comment is the only truly original 1: A parent-teacher conference requested.
I fold the paper and put it back in the envelope.
“How did you get an Incomplete?” Windy asks.
“I don’t know.” I wonder how Levi did in math. He’s on MathWhiz daily, and the few grades I’ve seen have been better. He had a 79 on the last quiz.
“My mom is always like, ‘Do your best, Windy. That’s all anyone can ask.’ But I know if I got less than an A, she’d flip.” She pushes her hair behind her ears. “Luckily, I got all A’s. You know what that means?”
“Honor roll?”
“No…well, yeah. But that’s not what I’m talking about. My mom promised me an epic birthday party if I got straight A’s. I told you that.”
“That water park place…”
“Rocky Mountain Lodge.” She squeezes my arm. “It’s going to be awesome.”
“Sounds fun.”
“Your nana isn’t going to ground you for getting an Incomplete, is she? Because you have to go.”
“I’ve never been grounded.”
“Good. I’m inviting all the girls in our homeroom. Well, my mom is. She’s worried I’m not trying hard enough to make friends. But it wouldn’t be fun without you.”
“All the girls? That’s 13.”
“I know. We’ll have to get a suite. They have these cool rooms with sets of bunk beds. And each of them has a TV mounted over the bed.”
“Do you think Maddie will go?” I’ve never seen Maddie outside of school, and I’d like to keep it that way.
“I’m sure. She’s been to all of my birthday parties. Our moms are best friends.”
“Yeah, you’ve mentioned that. And you and Maddie used to be superclose.” My voice comes out mocking and mean.
Windy gives me a sideways look like I’m speaking in a different language.
“What about Levi?” I ask quickly.
“No boys. It’s a sleepover.” Windy doesn’t stop talking about her birthday until she gets off the bus.
“I’ll call you later, and we can talk more about it.”
If Nana does ground me, that wouldn’t be the worst thing. Then I could avoid the water park friend fest.
* * *
No such luck. Nana laughs when she sees my report card.
“Is this your 1st B?”
“Yeah.”
“Maybe we should hang it on the fridge.” She smooths the paper and then admires it like a work of art. “And what’s the I for?”
“Incomplete.”
“Ahhh. Are you still pretending to be dumb?”
“Not dumb. Normal.” I snatch the paper back. We are not displaying it anywhere.
“Well, it’s dumb to pretend to be something you’re not.”
I stomp off to my room—ignoring Nana’s pleas for me to come back—and log on to my computer. Here, I don’t have to pretend. I join a calculus chat.
LightningGirl: anyone need me???
HipHypotenuse: always!
We go to the Pet Hut on Friday after school. I check out the dogs and plug their data into my formula—in my head.
“This is the winner.” I point to a black Lab named Flint. (His estimated wait is 20 to 24 days.)
Windy pulls a leash and harness from the wall, and Levi opens the kennel.
“I’m going to see Pi.” Taking pictures and getting to know the dogs is not my favorite part of our project.
I quietly knock on the office door before opening it. No one is inside. No one ever is.
“Hey, Pi.” But my dog doesn’t greet me like usual. I walk around the desk and pull out the chair. No dog. Only my green-and-yellow sweatshirt.
I go to the front desk, where Noah is reading a textbook.
“Where’s Pi?” I ask.
He shrugs. “With Claire. They were going to the vet’s.”
“Again?”
“I don’t know.”
I wait in the office. I enter 3 adoption forms into the computer. I fill Pi’s water bowl. Levi and Windy finish taking pictures of Flint. They put up the new post, complete with a picture of Flint catching a Frisbee in midair.
“I like your action shot,” I tell Levi.
When they finish, I stall and suggest they put up another post. “There’s a Chihuahua mix in the 2nd kennel on top. I think his name is Marty.”
While Levi and Windy are walking Marty, Claire finally returns with Pi.
“Oh, Lucy. Hi.”
Pi runs across the office and leaps into my lap. I catch him like a football. He licks my face. He’s the only animal on the planet that I’d allow this honor.
“I was getting worried.”
I’m talking to Pi, but Claire answers for him.
“Lucy, we need to talk.” She makes an exaggerated sad face and takes a seat on the corner of the desk. “There’s no easy way to say this. You see…Cutie Pi is sick. Very sick. He has cancer.”
“No,” I say. “That’s not right.”
“I was just at the vet.”
I rub Pi behind his ears. He closes his eyes and stretches his neck. His tail wags, and his whole body vibrates.
“I’m sorry, Lucy.”
The office door opens without a knock. Windy and Levi come in.
“I guess you found your dog,” Levi says. “You were panicking for nothing.”
I put my chin on top of Pi’s head so I don’t have to look at my friends.
“You okay?” Windy asks.
“I just told Lucy the awful news,” Claire says. “Cutie Pi has cancer. He has a tumor at the base of his brain. You may have noticed that he tilts his head a lot.”
I did. I thought he was inquisitive.
“The vet ran an MRI,” Claire continues. “Which is like an advanced X-ray. Cutie Pi has a tumor the size of a Ping-Pong ball. It’s affecting some motor skills and will gradually get worse. He may lose balance, walk into things, be unable to control his bladder.”
Windy stands over me. She puts a hand on my shoulder and her other hand on Pi’s back. “Poor dog.”
“I’m glad y’all are here. I wanted to give you a chance to say good-bye.” Claire clasps her hands and pulls them to her chest, almost like she’s praying.
“Good-bye?” Windy repeats. “He’s not going to die right now.”
Claire shakes her head. “No. Someone from animal control is supposed to pick him up today or tomorrow.”
“You said if we did the data entry, you’d keep him.” I want to pull out a signed document or show a video of our conversation. I need physical evidence to remind Claire that she promised to help Pi. But I have nothing to show her. My hands clench into empty fists.
“What’s going to happen to him?” Windy asks.
“Don’t make her say it. You know what’s going to happen,” Levi says.
“We cannot adopt out sick dogs. There are too many healthy animals that need homes. I’m sorry.” Claire frowns.
“But you said you’d keep him i
f we volunteered for you. We’ve entered 239 adoption forms into the computer. That has to be worth 1 dog’s life.”
“That was before I knew his condition. I’m sorry.” Claire crosses her arms and hugs her chest. She wants to rescue animals, but she has to think about the numbers, too.
“You can’t do this. I’ll adopt him. I’m taking him home with me. You aren’t going to kill him.”
“Calm down.” Windy squeezes my arm.
“Lucy, let’s go for a walk. Let’s get some air,” Claire suggests.
Pi looks up at me, his head angled. His mouth hangs open, which makes it look like he’s smiling.
“Fine.” I stand up and hold Pi in my arms. Claire probably expects me to put him on the ground. I refuse to let go.
She pulls open the door. I follow her to the trails in the back, where volunteers walk the dogs.
“I needed to get out of that office,” Claire says. “Clear my head.”
I nod. Pi wiggles in my arms. He’s not trying to escape. He’s trying to get comfortable.
“Lucy, I know you can’t adopt Cutie Pi. I’ve seen you 2 together. If your family was able to take in a dog, he would have gone home with you weeks ago.”
“I know, but…”
We walk down a muddy path. I stumble on a root, then catch myself.
“Here. Let me carry him,” Claire says. “He must be getting heavy.”
She right. He’s heavy and squirmy. Pi’s not happy about the handoff at 1st. I rub his head and tell him it’s okay. But nothing is okay.
“I know we could find someone to adopt Pi. We will put him on our blog. I bet he has 30 phone calls on the 1st day.”
“It’s against our policy. Lucy, I’m sorry.”
“It’s not fair! What if someone wants to adopt him?”
“He’s not available for adoption. We cannot ask a family to pay $175 for a terminal dog. There are too many—”
“Then just give him away,” I say. “Free dog to a good home.”
Claire stops walking and looks up at the cloudy sky.
“You have to give him a chance. Please.” My eyes fill with tears. I want to wipe them away, but I can’t. Touching your eyes, nose, or mouth is an easy way for bacteria and germs to get into the body. I try to use the sleeve of my jacket.
Pi looks from her to me. What good is it being a genius if you can’t help 1 dog?
Claire’s chin trembles. The rims of her eyes are red.
“Are you okay?” I ask.
She nods. “When I was a kid, I hated it when adults told me, ‘Life’s not fair.’ I understood, but it always felt like giving up. And I was just about to say the same thing to you. Life isn’t fair.”
I take Pi back so she can wipe her tears.
“I’m sorry,” I say.
“For what?”
“This isn’t your fault. You want to help animals. I know that.” She always smells like dogs and seems to work every day. She would help if she could.
“So do you and Levi and Windy.” She smiles.
“No.” I shake my head. “I don’t care about the animals. I mean, I don’t want bad stuff to happen to them, but I don’t love them or anything. I’m more interested in the numbers. I didn’t care about Rufus, Murphy, Flint, Jesse, or any of them.” I hiccup. “But Pi. He’s different. That’s all.”
“I didn’t mean—”
“I hope you don’t think I’m a bad person.” My nose runs, and my eyes are scratchy. I take a deep breath. “I read that 670,000 dogs are killed in shelters each year. And I only care about 1 of them. I’d let all the other dogs go if I could save Pi.”
“I don’t think you’re a bad person.” She goes to hug me but stops. I’ve pulled away from her before. “I’ll keep Cutie Pi here for a bit longer, okay?”
“Really?”
“Let’s give it a try. You can put him on the blog. But he’s not officially available for adoption.”
I nod. “He’s free to a good home.”
“Make sure you’re honest about his condition. It’s a tough situation. We don’t want to trick anyone into falling in love with a terminally ill dog. We have to be honest. Okay?”
“Okay. And thank you.”
“Thank you, Lucy. I love all these dogs, but sometimes I forget what it’s like to love just 1.”
Pet Hut Dog Profile Blog
November 2—Meet Cutie Pi
Cutie Pi is a 6-year-old (approx.) beagle-husky mix with terminal brain cancer. He was abandoned at the Pet Hut shelter on September 18. He eats 2.5 cups of kibble per day. His life expectancy is less than 1 year. Cutie Pi likes kids (middle school–aged). He prefers a nonsmoking house and likes to be called Pi.
There’s no adoption fee because this is not an adoption.
Free to a good home.!!!!!!!!FREE!!!!!!!!!
* * *
I create the post for Pi. If I had money, I’d hire a marketing person or a journalist to do it. The lightning strike did nothing for my writing skills. Pi deserves better than my best. I make sure to be honest and use lots of exclamation points. Levi adds 8 pictures of Pi—double the number of photos we usually put up for a dog. In 2 of them, Pi wears my green-and-yellow sweatshirt. I know he’s going to find a home. And for extra good luck, I ask Nana to pray for him.
Nana schedules the parent-teacher conference for Tuesday at 7:00 a.m.
Yesterday, I asked Mr. Stoker what he wanted to talk to her about. I knew I couldn’t be failing math. I’ve got the numbers to prove it. He just said, “I want to talk about 1 of my favorite students.” That wasn’t a lot of help.
Nana follows me into the school and to room 213. The door stands open. Mr. Stoker sits at his desk working on papers. I stop and grab Nana’s arm before we go in.
“Please don’t tell him I’m a savant,” I whisper. I’d like to think my favorite teacher wouldn’t treat me differently if he knew, but I can’t be sure. He might demand that I be switched to a different class, claiming it’s for my own good. That’s not a chance I’m willing to take.
She gives the smallest nod—and a giant eye roll—and then goes into the classroom.
Mr. Stoker gets up and greets Nana with a handshake. “Nice to meet you.” Then he directs us to sit in the front row. No one pays attention to me as I clean the desk that Max Christie usually sits in or when I take 3 tries to sit.
Mr. Stoker perches on his stool.
“Let me start by saying that Lucy is a wonderful student. She may not always do her work, and she may not put in a full effort, but I can tell she is fascinated by my class.”
I sink a little in my chair.
“She pays attention, and when she has the courage to ask questions, they’re deep, thoughtful questions. More than once, she has stumped me. Sent me scrambling back to my college textbooks.”
“But she’s not doing her work?” Nana asks.
Mr. Stoker reaches over to his desk and grabs a grade book. “She’s missed 4 homework assignments. I have a feeling that she completes the assignments but perhaps forgets them at home or on the bus.”
I shrug.
“And what are her grades like? Is she failing?” Nana asks.
Mr. Stoker laughs. “No, no. She’s scored between a 92 and a 95 percent on every quiz and every test.”
He doesn’t realize it takes me longer to get a question wrong than it does to get it right. I even show my work and make mistakes in either the method or the calculations. And I never do the bonus problems.
“That’s pretty good,” Nana says.
Mr. Stoker clears his throat. “I feel Lucy is holding back. I know she’s new to public school. There are enormous pressures.” He smiles at me. I turn away. “Perhaps you are afraid of doing well.”
“I’m doing okay.”
“Yes, you ar
e,” he says.
“Lucy,” Nana says. “You’re the only 1 who knows what’s going on in your brain. Is there something you need to tell us?”
I shake my head.
Nana sighs.
“Lucy.” Mr. Stoker looks at me. “I don’t want you to be afraid to fail or succeed in my class. Does that make sense?”
I nod because I want to believe him. Then I look at Nana.
“She’ll try harder,” Nana says. “Now I have some questions for you.”
“Certainly.”
“Is she making friends? Is she fitting in?” Nana holds out her empty hands. “These are things that aren’t on the report card.”
“Nana, stop.”
“We are considering sending Lucy to another school next year. It’s a sort of boarding school, and I need to know if she can handle it. In your honest opinion.”
“Well…” Mr. Stoker pauses, scratching his mustache. “We’d hate to see her go, but I’m sure she’ll do well wherever she ends up. What do you think, Lucy?”
“I guess.”
“So, she’s making friends?” Nana asks again.
“Maybe Lucy can answer—”
“Yes, I have friends. Please, Nana, stop.”
“Her group for the Cougars Care Project is doing some great work,” Mr. Stoker adds. “I’m impressed with their commitment to the project and each other.”
I wonder if he heard about language arts class. Maybe Ms. Fleming cornered him in the teachers’ lounge and told him about Windy and Levi’s stance after I refused to read aloud. Does he know we were kicked out of class?
“Good.” Nana stands up. “I’m proud of you, Lucy. But if you miss another homework assignment, you will lose your computer for a week. And no TV. Or candy.” She gives me a hug.
“It was nice meeting you, Mrs. Callahan.”
“Take care of my girl. She’s 100 percent ordinary. Normal. Plain. Boring. Average.” Nana winks at me, and I beg with my eyes for her to stop. “Absolutely nothing special about her.”
Mr. Stoker laughs like he’s in on the joke, and, for a second, I worry that he is.
The Miscalculations of Lightning Girl Page 13