by Greg Pincus
“If you say so. Now promise me if you write anything fantastic in your journal, you’ll let me see it,” Kelly said, even though she knew she didn’t need to.
“Why should this journal be different from any other?” Gregory said. “Though it might cost you some pie.”
“What if you have a journal next year?” Kelly asked quietly.
“I’ll call and read it to you.”
“Every night?”
“Except Weird Wednesdays. I don’t like to talk much after that meal if I can help it.” Before Kelly could continue the rather depressing thread, Gregory grabbed his journal. “So, Ms. Writer, can I read your Author’s Camp stuff?”
“Only when I can read yours,” Kelly said a little too quickly.
“Ohhhhh. You don’t have anything yet, do you?” Gregory felt great saying it, for once being in the position of superiority. Although not really, he knew, since he didn’t have anything ready yet either. But with Kelly, this was like being ahead of her.
Kelly busied herself rearranging the plates and glasses on their table. “Maybe I’ve got something,” she said softly.
“You kidding? You’ve got tons. That story you wrote after we visited the animal shelter doesn’t need any work, Kelly. It made your mom cry.”
“And you.”
“That was allergies! But it’s really great. Or I can help you find something else, if you want.”
“Wellll, none of my writing’s about math, so I’m not sure you can help right now, Mr. Busy Writer.” Kelly grabbed the plates from their table and walked them over to the PLEASE BUS YOUR PLATES bin near the counter. “Now I’ve got some homework to do, G. So unless you want to —”
“Sorry. Already done,” Gregory said, patting his journal. “Besides, I have to go home and meet Dad.”
Kelly lifted an eyebrow as if to say, “Like when you had to meet with your father after ordering twenty-seven boxes of tangelos when I was selling fruit to raise money for a dance recital that never happened because you never paid?”
Gregory looked at the raised eyebrow of his best friend. “No, Kelly. I’m not in trouble for ordering twenty-seven boxes of anything. Dad says this’ll be fun.”
Kelly’s eyes went wide. “Fun? What could it be?”
With a shrug, Gregory said, “I got nothing. Your guess is as good as mine.”
“You need me to come with you?” Kelly asked with concern.
“Nah. You’ve got homework! Besides, even with my dad, how bad can fun be?”
Kelly didn’t answer. But really, Gregory thought, it just couldn’t be that bad, could it?
When he got home, Gregory found his dad bouncing around the house with nervous energy. It was strange enough that his father had left work early just for plans with him, but bouncing? That was weird.
His dad was also not usually big on surprises, but he had refused to give even a hint about what was in store. Gregory had to admit he was intrigued. A little, anyway, though he didn’t let his dad know it.
“Come on,” Dad said. “Follow me.”
“Umm … hi, Dad. Nice to see you,” Gregory said.
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m just so excited.” His dad smiled, then motioned his son forward. “Come on!”
Still wearing his backpack, Gregory followed his father through the house. His dad’s path led unpredictably from room to room, as though designed to unsettle him even more. Finally, his dad laughed.
“Okay, this time for real,” his father said as he headed upstairs. Immediately, Gregory realized what was about to happen. Fun was not the word that popped into his mind, though he couldn’t place the feeling.
His father led him to the end of the upstairs hall, and they stopped directly underneath a trapdoor in the ceiling. A rope hung down from the door. His father grabbed it.
“You know what’s up there, don’t you?” he asked.
“Yes, of course. The attic.” But it was more than that, and Gregory braced himself for the reply.
“It’s the Lab!” his father said while practically jumping up and down with glee. He pulled on the rope and the trapdoor opened, bringing a ladder down with it. “And you can finally, finally, finally come up and join us!”
The attic had been off-limits to Gregory from the time he was born. At first, he had thought it was for safety reasons. But as he grew up, he realized that the attic was basically like a foreign country: Mathland, the spot where his father retreated when he wanted to think and work and play with math.
When O entered his first City Math contest, he was allowed up the rickety ladder too. Nowadays, O spent as much time in the Lab as most of his peers spent watching TV and playing video games combined.
In many other cases, when someplace was off limits, Gregory’s immediate thought was “Well, I gotta see it!” But when it came to the attic, he’d never once pulled down the ladder and climbed it. Now he had no choice. He was going up.
“I’m so excited, Gregory. I sometimes thought this day would never come.” His father practically floated up the steps. “Come on! Come on!”
As Gregory climbed the ladder, he was immediately struck by the smell of chalk and rubber cement and … and … cheese? Sure enough, open bags of cheese puffs were everywhere, as were endless blackboard walls covered with equations, designs, and formulas.
“Look at it! Isn’t it beautiful?” Dad’s eyes sparkled.
Gregory tried to find beauty, but what he saw was math on walls, math on desks, math books on shelves, and his father’s math trophies in an overflowing case. “What’s with the cheese snacks?” was all he could think to say.
“All work and no play isn’t healthy!” Dad said with a laugh. “O designed his last five City Math projects up here. He says it’s inspiring to see all my awards. And I thought … maybe …” His father pointed to the corner of the room where a gorgeous old rolltop desk was waiting, completely empty.
“That’s a cool desk.”
“It was my father’s. I was using it, but I cleaned it out for you. I thought maybe you’d want to do your City Math work up here.” His dad shifted his weight from foot to foot, waiting expectantly.
Gregory looked around the room — chock full of models that O was working on, symbols in formulas that he’d never seen before, a big poster for Math Is Magic Camp taped to a wall, desks covered by reams of paper with scrawled who-knows-what on it — and tried to come up with an appropriate response.
“You know, Dad, I don’t think my project needs this much space.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah. It’s not … I mean … I don’t have a big model or anything like that, and you know I love to work in my own room. And, like, I have homework every night too, and I like doing that in the basement.”
It was impossible not to see the disappointment on his father’s face. For too long, the only sound was the wind outside the attic windows. Gregory was sure he was going to get a lecture, sure he was going to hear how he didn’t appreciate the wonders of math and this space devoted to it. Instead, he got “Okay, then. If that’s where you’re going to get the best work done, you should do it there.”
Then his dad smiled. “I guess I was maybe a little bit hoping to get a peek at your project. Sometimes I’ve helped O with his. But I’m proud of you for wanting to do the work all by yourself.”
“Thanks, Dad.”
Just then, O clambered up the ladder. He stopped short when he saw his brother.
“Bummer,” O said. “You’re not staying, are you?”
“No worries, O. You keep your special place.” Gregory pushed past his brother and started down the ladder. Then he stopped and poked his head back in. “I really do love the desk, Dad.”
As he disappeared from sight, Gregory saw O sit down at his desk and immediately dive back into his project. Gregory paused at the bottom of the ladder. He was breathing hard, and he didn’t know why. He was also still listening to the voices in the Lab above him.
“Owen, I don’t th
ink I understand your brother,” he heard his dad say.
“He’s a math-class-failing, totally-not-City-Math-worthy boy,” O replied. “Pretty easy.”
“No one’s that easy, Owen. Not even you. Besides,” his father continued, “there’s no way Gregory would tell us he was entering City Math if he didn’t have a good project. We’ll find out. Plus, he knows he has to pass the class, so logic says he must be doing his homework. But he still doesn’t want to be up here. It doesn’t make sense.”
“Perhaps, Dad, Gregory isn’t all about making sense?”
Now that the Lab was no longer off limits, Gregory had to admit that he felt different somehow … though it wasn’t clear that it was a good different. Still, he felt enough himself to know that he had heard all he needed to hear. He quietly snuck away before anyone caught him eavesdropping.
The next day, Gregory dropped his journal off with Mr. Davis before school started. He tried to wait while Mr. Davis read it, but his teacher would have none of it.
At the end of school, Mr. Davis gave him back the journal in a closed manila envelope. By the time Gregory got the journal out, Mr. Davis was gone.
Later, at the Slice, Kelly and Gregory read over Mr. Davis’s reply again and again, long after they’d split a piece of banana cream pie. Very nice, Gregory. Can you tell me a story about you using math with your family or your friends?
“There’s got to be a trick here, doesn’t there?” Gregory asked.
“I don’t think so.” Kelly shook her head, looking in the journal. “Is that the best grade you’ve ever gotten in math class?”
“I got a ‘very nice,’ Kelly. That’s not a grade.” Gregory took a big sip of steamed milk from a Slice coffee mug. The pie was always delicious, it was true, yet sometimes the pure, simple pleasure of a perfect steamer was exactly what he needed.
“Whatever. And a story about math and your family? Hello. Could it be easier?” Kelly threw a napkin at Gregory.
“Don’t get angry at me. I didn’t do anything wrong.”
“Other than fail math,” Kelly said.
“Bet you wish you were failing.” Gregory grinned, a bit of frothed milk on his upper lip making his smile particularly goofy.
“But then I couldn’t go to Author’s Camp. And that would be sad, wouldn’t it?” Kelly smiled back at him … though it was for impact, not for friendliness.
Gregory declined to answer, worried that maybe Kelly was figuring out the truth. He put that thought out of his mind and instead began to think about the story he was going to share with Mr. Davis. When he got home, he started writing.
Kelly has always helped me with my math stuff. I remember when I was three, I counted “one, two, three, ten, five, nine, eight, six, seven, four,” and I wouldn’t change no matter what. Then one afternoon, Kelly had a dozen of her mom’s amazing mini-chocolate-chip cookies in a bowl and she said, “Do you want four or ten?” And I said, “FOUR!!!!” because I was sure it was the biggest number, and I couldn’t believe she let me choose.
I learned how to count better after that.
And here’s some bonus math. Kelly is moving › 100 miles away. It’s a good thing I learned how to count already.
Even though Gregory had many, many stories of math within his family — stories of O winning contests or Kay doing multiplication at the age of three and a half or his parents doing flashcards with him at the table when he was barely two — this story spoke to him. He was glad he shared it, since Mr. Davis liked it too.
Wonderful! his teacher wrote. Now I have another question for you. Can you tell me about your City Math project? To get extra credit, you do have to let me know!
Instantly, Gregory knew how he could avoid answering the City Math question. Kelly might be the one succeeding with her dance classes, but he could tap dance around anything when he wrote. Still, Mr. Davis did raise another question, even though his teacher couldn’t have known it. And try as he might, Gregory couldn’t keep his mind off it: With City Math a potential, looming disaster, how was he ever going to see Kelly again after the school year?
Thinking it over, Gregory decided there was only one thing he could do. So, he picked up his journal and his pen, and he started writing.
For the next week, Gregory followed the same routine: He went to school and dropped off his journal, muddled through classes, then came home right after school and went down to his room. He avoided Kelly and Alex as much as he could and only saw his family during meals. He didn’t notice if March came in like a lion or a hippo or a rhinoceros. He was a boy on a mission.
“What have you been working on so hard?” his mom asked one night at dinner.
“Everything!” Gregory said with enthusiasm. “Can I have some more …”
“Durum paste au gratin with raspberry coulis.”
Gregory smiled and nodded. “I love seeing your excitement,” his mom said as she went for the serving dish.
“I bet it’s because you’re so focused on City Math,” his father said. Gregory was pretty sure he heard O giggle, but when he looked, all he saw was his brother drawing an intricate pattern in the raspberry coulis on his plate.
“I know that when I’m playing with new recipes, I’m just full of energy,” his mom said as she dipped the serving spoon into what Kay had already dubbed the “cheesy gluppity glup.” “Whatever it is you’re doing, Gregory, just keep doing it.”
His mom plopped the glup onto her son’s plate. The sound echoed around the room, bringing conversation to a close. This, Gregory thought, was clearly one of Mom’s biggest successes, at least from his point of view.
In truth, Gregory genuinely was busy doing many things. Most involved writing. And, he told himself, math and City Math too, since first among the recent things he’d done had been writing Mr. Davis a response that would change the subject as effectively as durum paste:
My first City Math idea didn’t pan out, but I’ve got other ideas that look more promising. They’re a little hard to describe right now. I’m sure you’ll like them, and I’ll show ’em to you when they’re ready. I’m still as gung ho about City Math as I ever was!
That seemed to work well enough, since Mr. Davis hadn’t mentioned City Math since then. In fact, Gregory had had total journal writing freedom until today’s note from his teacher: What more can you tell me about math in your life? Do you ever use it in any other class besides mine?
Normally, Gregory would have answered that question with a derisive laugh, but just last night he’d had a cross-subject breakthrough.
One of the other things he had been working on was finding something to send in to Author’s Camp since there was now a shred of hope he could pass math and get parental approval to go.
True, the hope depended in part on him coming up with a City Math project, but he decided there was no point in working hard to go to Author’s Camp if he didn’t even have a sample to send in to get in in the first place. So, he’d gone through all his notebooks and papers, looking for any good short story or essay or poem that seemed worthy to submit as a “work in progress.”
He hadn’t found the perfect piece yet, but he had stumbled upon a poem he had written for Mrs. Harris at the beginning of the school year. Tonight, when he went to his room after dinner, he carefully transcribed that poem into his math journal:
The Fraction Store
I bought a quarter pound of eighths.
I bought an ounce of thirds.
I filled a bag with seventeenths that I will
feed the birds.
I found a ninth of thirty-fourths.
I grabbed a single half.
The sixths and fifths were playing games,
which really made me laugh.
But as I tried to pay for stuff,
Well, that’s when things got strange —
Although they’re selling fractions there,
they just can’t figure change.
Mr. Davis wrote a smiley face as his reply the next day
. Gregory couldn’t help himself: He went to the Slice to show Kelly.
“I used old English homework for my math homework!” Gregory grinned as he stood beside Kelly at the counter, watching her mom bring a perfectly cooled peach cobbler from the back.
“I’ve always loved that poem, G.”
“So I get a smiley face from you too?” Gregory asked.
“You get one every day,” Kelly said as she held a bowl out for her mom to scoop the cobbler into. “Why haven’t you been coming here after school?”
“I’ve been working.” The fruit-laden, sweet cobbler smell caused Gregory to add a moan at the end of his sentence.
“You can work here. You’ve always worked here.”
“I won’t be working here next year. I figured I better get used to it,” Gregory said as he got some vanilla ice cream.
“Yeah, well, it’s not next year yet, okay? I’ve been sitting here writing, writing, writing, and it goes a lot better when you’re around, okay? And it’s more fun.” Kelly plopped her cobbler on her table, and if cobbler falling on a table could sound like someone was angry, that’s what this cobbler did.
“I’ve got a lot of stuff going on, Kelly. Dad. City Math.” Gregory shifted uncomfortably. He hadn’t meant to mess up Kelly’s work, but, he told himself, he really had needed to focus. “And I was working on Author’s Camp stuff too.”
Kelly softened a bit. “Really? How’s it going?”
“My writing goes better when you’re around too, I guess. I don’t know. I don’t think I’m a very good writer, if you ask me.”
“Are you kidding? You just pulled out an extra credit English class poem that I couldn’t write in a million years and got a smiley face in math!”
“A quarter million years,” Gregory corrected. “It’s about fractions.”
“Be serious for a minute, Gregory K.,” Kelly said loudly enough to mean it. “Let me help you get ready for camp. Let me go through your stuff.”
“No. It’s okay. It’s under control,” Gregory said. He took a bite with the perfect proportions of cobbler topping, fruit, and ice cream … and his happy sigh filled the Slice.