Talk Nerdy to Me

by Tiffany Schmidt

  I couldn’t read his spikey scrawl through blurry eyes, but I nodded anyway. “They’re perfect.”

  “Is Toby bringing over the mics?” Mr. Campbell asked. He slid a bowl of green beans across the table toward me. “I thought he and Rory were at the movies.”

  I gratefully accepted the task of snapping off the beans’ ends. Anything to stop my hands from fidgeting. Was I wasting his time? The glowing–pea plant project was done, and it was too late to switch back. Wasn’t it? Why was I here?

  Because my parents’ revelation felt like being abandoned all over again. They’d known. A self-help book had done nothing to stop those tiny, plastic Barbie shoes from being flicked at me in class. I’d come home with small red welts. A book.

  But I hadn’t told them—they’d heard from teachers, but not from me. I was too scared to admit weakness or flaws, or give them any ammunition to be disappointed in me and stay away. I’d wanted them to guess—felt like if they were truly as smart as everyone said, that they should know . . . Much like how I’d tested Merri’s friendship ESP instead of telling her about Curtis.

  I groaned.

  I was here because here felt safe, and Mr. Campbell made me feel like enough. But I owed him an answer. “I love our podcast. But I’m worried it’s not flashy. I’m not discovering anything new.”

  “No, but you’re creating something that could give new information to many.”

  “Yeah.” And I loved it. Had I mentioned I loved it? “It’s not going to win though. I think I’ve always known that.”

  “Do you care?”

  “I—” I hesitated, because the truth surprised me. “My parents will, but I don’t.” Even if it meant also losing Anne or letting them down.

  “They called me the other day, you know. They do that every month or so.” Mr. Campbell chuckled. “This time they had questions about your friend group. They also wanted to know if grounding had ‘ever proved detrimental to the girls developing a growth mind set.’ So, if you’re mad about being grounded, I guess blame me.”

  I hadn’t known this. And was shocked they’d allowed anecdotal evidence to determine my punishment. They were trying. Yes, it was taking some “recalibration”—but maybe we could make it work if I met them halfway. If we all stopped running. If I dropped facades and told the truth. If they listened. “It’s fine.”

  “Now, I’m no expert—but when Merri was little, one of her teachers gave me this piece of advice about gifted children—and we both know how much you qualify.” He waited for me to shrug-nod. “Gifted children have a tendency to center their identity and value on what they achieve academically. They’re used to things coming easily—they don’t have to, say, struggle like Rory does with math. Because of that, they don’t have as many opportunities to build up fortitude in the face of frustration—or learn what it means to persist. Or that failure can be temporary. We were told to find ways to put Merri in a ‘frustration zone,’ so she would have a chance to work her way through it. And that we needed to praise her efforts more than her outcomes.” Mr. Campbell gestured to the list of questions before resting his hand on my shoulder. “I’m proud of your efforts here, Eliza. Whether or not you win, you’ve made something great.”

  “Thanks.” I patted his hand and sat up. “But is Merri home? I need her and her laptop. And do you have any cardboard or poster board?” This was probably impossible, but I was going to try—and with their help, I might just pull it off.

  “She’s upstairs. You go get her, I’ll fetch the display board and glue sticks.” He paused. “Welcome back, cohost.”

  Lilly Campbell-Rhodes’s headlights lit up my kitchen as she backed out of the driveway after dropping me off. They showed Mom sitting at the table, her hands curled around an almost-empty mug of tea. “You’re an hour late,” she said.

  “Sorry, I was working and lost track of time.” She nodded like she understood. It probably helped that the things I carried supported my answer. I placed Merri’s laptop and borrowed pairs of headphones on the table. “Mr. Campbell says you called to ask him about my friends.”

  “We contact George and Jennifer frequently. More frequently lately, since Nancy proved useless beyond reporting the most basic observations.”

  I took a step toward the table and a deep breath. “Ask me. Don’t monitor my web searches or call my guardian or teachers or friends’ parents. Ask me.”

  “Would you have told us?” Mom tilted her head. “About the boy?”

  “Curtis,” I corrected, dropping my bag to the floor with a thud, setting my new display board carefully beside it, because the glue was still wet. Apparently four hours at the Campbells’ hadn’t dulled my anger. “And possibly—if you hadn’t also been sending me those ‘studies’ about the dangers of dating. Either you thought I wouldn’t read them, or you thought I wouldn’t understand their science is garbage. I’m not sure which is worse. If you don’t trust me, why should I trust you?”

  Mom lowered her head. “George suspected something was up. But he either didn’t know the details or was keeping your confidence. He’s so connected to his daughters. His knowledge of their lives—your life—is astonishing.”

  “Because he’s there!” I curled my toes against the floor, craving the pounding of trails. “He carpools and volunteers in our classrooms. He listens. He shows up.”

  After four hours of brainstorming, cutting, pasting, and running to the store for more printer paper, Mr. Campbell was probably still wiping glitter off his kitchen floor. I’d just barely saved my poster from Merri’s attempt at “bedazzling”—but since she’d spent the whole night helping me write and revise an abstract for the podcast project, I had zero complaints.

  Post-movie, Rory had come in clutch with some drawings for the display board, and Lilly had left Haute Dog early to bring over snacks. Everyone had paused their plans to help me.

  I waited for Mom to add an excuse about the “value of her time.” Instead, she sniffed. “After Brazil, how could we possibly chaperone other people’s children when we’d almost lost our own?”

  There were no throw pillows in our house. No cozy couch blankets or plush carpets or kitschy cross-stitched samplers hanging on the walls. Nothing to absorb the magnitude of her revelation. It echoed in the empty spaces, in the cavernous distance between us.

  “It’s late.” Mom and I turned to where Dad was standing in the kitchen doorway. “We have a big day tomorrow. I suggest we get to bed.”

  To bed. Not some sleep. Because maybe Dad knew none of us would.

  39

  The gymnasium where the Avery Science Competition was being held was chaos. The wooden floor was covered in rows of tables in various states of setup. And everywhere, students, display boards, crates of equipment and parents who were being shuffled to the side: “Stop being so embarrassing, Mom.” “Don’t touch that, Dad. You’ll ruin everything.”

  My parents were sequestered somewhere, getting badges and instructions. It had been an awkward morning and a silent car ride. I’d spent it trying to process the significance and insecurity in Mom’s words from last night. Trying not to think about Brazil.

  They’d looked relieved when they’d dropped me off to set up while they’d checked in with the other judges. “Two hundred and eighty entrants,” Mom had said. She’d looked a bit smug when she added, “It’s a record for the Avery.”

  Dad’s parting words had been a reminder: “We won’t be judging you.”

  I’d snorted. “Well, that’ll be a nice change.”

  Compared to the projects nearby, my setup was simple. I’d placed mine and Merri’s laptops on my table, along with a couple pairs of headphones. That plus my display board and copies of my abstract were all I needed. My presentation was nonexistent. Everything I had to say was in the podcasts.

  What I hadn’t factored in was how nerve-racking it would be to not have anything to do. The other participants were interacting with people who’d stopped by their tables, rehearsing for the ju
dges, answering questions. I was watching people in headphones listen to my recorded voice. It gave me plenty of time—too much time—to wonder where Curtis was and track the progress of the first group of judges.

  Then it was my turn. Mom and Dad stood to the back, official scoring tablets lowered. “Well, we certainly know this candidate,” Dad joked, and their three colleagues gave strained laughs. There were two more judges roaming individually, but they would focus on the finalists only after the initial five narrowed them down.

  “If you’re ready, Eliza, why don’t you begin,” encouraged Dr. Greene. I recognized her dark complexion and natural hair from photographs that accompanied the coverage of her cutting-edge research in gene splicing. She would’ve loved my pea plants.

  I cleared my throat. “There are two hundred and eighty student scientists here today”—thank you, Mom, for that helpful fact—“and if any of us walked up to a stranger in a grocery store and attempted to explain our projects with all the technical language that is lauded here, we’d likely be met with blank stares and confusion. That’s not good.”

  The judges glanced at one another, but I continued. “Science should be accessible. If we want people to get as excited about climate change as they once did about the space race, then we need to present it in ways that can be understood.

  “When I think of my own relationship with science, my favorite memories are of times when I’ve shared it. Whether that’s examining samples of glaciers with my parents, or explaining epigenetics to my best friend’s dad, or analyzing riparian buffers while running trails with . . . a friend.” I swallowed. “For my project I’ve created a science podcast that welcomes listeners of all backgrounds. It eliminates the technical lingo and explains concepts through anecdotes and allegories. You’ll have to judge my success for yourselves by listening to any of the podcast episodes I’ve created. Headphones are there—and you can select from the topics listed on the screens.”

  I stepped back as three of the judges previewed the options on my laptop. Mom and Dad approached Merri’s borrowed computer with wrinkled foreheads. “I thought she was . . .” Mom shook her head. “This seems like rather elementary science.” Dad shh’d her. They were slower to choose an episode but faster to remove their headphones. They didn’t meet my eyes.

  Dr. Greene clicked Pause. “This project is difficult to evaluate with the Avery’s criterion. We’re limited to a few minutes per table.”

  That was her polite way of telling me not to expect a medal. I shrugged. “I understand, but this was the format that worked best for what I wanted to accomplish.”

  She smiled. “If you launch it publicly, please send me the link. I’d be happy to come on a future episode as a guest.”

  I nodded and told myself my parents weren’t disappointed or unimpressed—they’d warned me they had to appear impartial. But when they moved with the other judges to the next table after offering me only a small nod, I retreated behind my display board to blink back tears.

  “A podcast, really?” The voice from the other side of my board was deep and haughty. “Who’d have thought Gordon-Fergus would go twee and trendy . . . instead of, you know, actual science.”

  His remarks were met with a shrill laugh, and a female voice added, “Apparently the intelligence genes were not inherited.”

  “Seriously, if she were smart she would’ve done an iLive channel. Put on a tight shirt, worn some makeup. At least then I could’ve watched it on mute.”

  I hugged myself. I wished I’d worn my hair up or a baggier shirt, but I ground that thought between my teeth. I would not let these strangers make me feel small.

  “Her last name is the only reason people pretend to think she’s smart,” the girl added. “But watch her still win because of nepotism and everyone’s practically drooling on her parents.”

  “Like you’re not? ‘It’s such an honor, Dr. Fergus . . .’”

  “Shut up!” she squeaked.

  I peeked around the display board to see they were both wearing lanyards that designated them as Avery entrants. The girl was twirling a set of my headphones. “Think she’s adopted? Because how did they produce Miss Teen Science Fair?”

  I’d had enough. I stepped forward and cleared my throat. The girl dropped the headphones and the guy almost knocked over a laptop in his efforts to catch them. I stuck out my hand. “Hi, I’m Eliza Gordon-Fergus. I wanted to introduce myself since you were having so much fun talking about me.” I flipped a strand of hair over my shoulder and upped my affect. “You must be, like, so smart to make superficial judgments about people you haven’t met. Wow.”

  They looked at each other, trying to decide if I was for real.

  I yanked my hand back and glared. “Seriously, though—‘judgmental jerk’ isn’t a good look. If you want to get anywhere in the very small science community, stop treating people like conquests or competitors and respect them as colleagues. Regardless of their gender or appearance or last name . . . because I’ll remember yours.”

  The girl tried to sneer, but it looked like she was about to sneeze. The guy covered his name badge and stammered, “You’re—you’re not going to tell your parents, are you?”

  I rolled my eyes and shook my head, walking away before they could. Enough standing around and waiting. It was time to find the boy who’d always seen me.

  40

  “Excuse me.” I stopped a passing Latinx girl. She was the second person I’d seen carrying a cupcake. “Where did you get that?”

  “One row over. Look for a poster that says Gluten Quest. They’re really good. The guy was cute and super nice. That’s some science I’d happily get all over.”

  “Thanks.” I was irrationally annoyed that she’d seen Curtis’s appeal in a few minutes when it had taken me months. I hurried in the direction she’d indicated, arriving as the judges stepped up to his booth. Which was perfect. There was something delicious about watching him in his element—knowing he was too busy charming the fivesome to notice I was standing behind them with open admiration in my eyes.

  He already had Dr. Greene laughing. “I can’t wait to hear more. We’re ready to begin.”

  “Someone seems to have confused ‘science fair’ with ‘bake sale.’” These words stung worse than the ones I’d overheard about myself, because it was my father who’d faux-whispered them, my mother who’d laughed. The other judges did not.

  Curtis’s smile faltered, but he swallowed and began his presentation. “When I was two, my aunt Joan took me to the movies. She bought me Reese’s Pieces, and while everyone else in the theater was focused on the screen, I was struggling to find a way to get oxygen in my lungs. This is how we learned I’m allergic to peanuts.

  “I’m careful with food labels and carry an epinephrine injector, but because of this experience I’m interested in food sensitivities and safety. I’m grateful that many places, including this university, require everything that contains the top eight allergens—milk, eggs, fish, shellfish, tree nuts, peanuts, wheat, and soy—to be clearly marked.

  “But sometimes products aren’t labeled, and after reading about gluten in unexpected places like beauty products, Play-Doh, and even medications, I wanted to create something that would bring peace of mind to the estimated one percent of Americans—three million people—with gluten-sensitive enteropathy, aka celiac disease. Using an enzyme-linked immunosorbent assay—also known as an ELISA test”—his eyes sought mine for the briefest of moments, so clearly he did know I was here—“similar to what you’d find in a pregnancy test, I’ve devised a way to detect the presence of one of the main proteins that make up the gluten family. For today I’ve focused on gliadin—the prolamin found in wheat gluten—but this test could be replicated to screen for secalin and hordein, the prolamins in rye and barley too.

  “For my test, you simply take a piece of your questionable item—in today’s example, these cupcakes.” Curtis’s eyes flicked to my parents, and I wondered if he was thinking about the la
st time we’d shared a room with them and baked goods. His hand shook around the bulb syringe he was using in his demonstration. “Titrate a droplet of your resulting suspension onto the test strip. If it turns red, it indicates the presence of gliadin—which is the component of wheat gluten that helps baked goods rise.” The other judges leaned closer to see the test strip, but not my parents. They were frowning statues.

  “If the test strip stays white, the item is free of wheat gluten.” Curtis held up his—it was red. He flipped over the cupcake he’d used for the demo. The bottom of the wrapper read Contains Gluten. The other three judges applauded. One leaned in to ask a follow-up. I waited until Curtis was handing out cupcakes and test strips, then grabbed my parents by the wrist.

  “Why aren’t you by your table?” asked Mom.

  “And why are you here?” added Dad, shooting another look over his shoulder at Curtis.

  But Dad’s glare had nothing on mine. I whisper-hissed, “You are being unspeakably rude and unprofessional.”

  “That boy broke your heart,” Mom answered. “Did you think we hadn’t noticed? Our bathroom shares a wall with yours, Eliza. You’re still crying in the shower. I have no intention of being kind to him.”

  “That boy”—I gave up whispering, because sometimes shouting was necessary—“is brilliant. And kind. I deserved to have my heart broken for the way I treated him. But none of that matters right now . . . well, except for the brilliant part. Do you not understand the significance of what he created?”

  “If it works,” Dad muttered, but his ears were red and he’d dropped his chin.

  “Then maybe you should be over there testing it with the other judges.” I hesitated, then went a step further. “Or maybe recognize that you’re not impartial and recuse yourselves.”

  “I think Eliza might be right.” I hadn’t noticed Dr. Greene joining us, but her words were gentle and she punctuated them with a bite of mini-cupcake. “She’s wise beyond her years.”