Talk Nerdy to Me

by Tiffany Schmidt

  “Of course she is.” Mom’s face was as pale as Dad’s was red. “I apologize. I didn’t realize how difficult it would be to remain unbiased.”

  “It happens to the best of us,” said a judge whose name I hadn’t caught. “Just ask my son how badly I flubbed coaching his youth soccer team. He was not ready to be goalie.”

  “Yes, well, I’m not sure that’s quite the same,” Mom said, but Dad was nodding.

  “I hope you’ll still stay,” said the last judge. “Many of these young scientists were excited to meet you. Maybe instead of judging, you could offer encouragement and positive feedback.”

  “We’d be happy to.” Dad squeezed Mom’s hand before she could respond. “Thank you for understanding. I hope this doesn’t put you in a bind.”

  Soccer judge shook his head and tapped through some functions on his tablet. “It’s no problem to recalibrate scores with a smaller judging pool. I’m just sorry you made such a long trip for no reason.”

  “Not for no reason.” It was Mom who spoke, but they both looked at me as they handed in their tablets and shook hands.

  “We need to get back on schedule.” Dr. Greene eyed the curious onlookers starting to gather. “But let’s catch up at the reception.”

  The remaining three judges moved to the left as my parents headed down the aisle to the right. Which left me facing Curtis. The only things between us were the table with his project and the stream of people pausing to interact with his cupcake display.

  “I’m sorry,” I said.

  He shrugged. “I won’t hold you responsible for their anger, if you won’t blame me for Win and Wink’s—they’re around somewhere and Wink’s on a vengeance mission. Win’s here under duress.”

  “Noted.” I wrung my hands together and wished I had Anne Shirley’s gift for words and flowery apologies. “But I meant sorry for me, not them.”

  “I like cupcakes! Can I have one?”

  Curtis shrugged in my direction. “Thanks, I guess, but I need to focus on this.” He turned from me to the parent-child duo standing in front of his booth. I left while he was flipping over the cupcake to show the white Gluten-Free label on its bottom.

  Embarrassment wasn’t hereditary—not passed down like detached earlobes or the ability to curl your tongue—but that didn’t stop me from keenly experiencing my parents’. They’d resigned as judges, but I had to stand at my table for another four hours and hope people didn’t ask me about it—though I knew they would. I walked reluctantly back to my row but perked up when I saw a familiar person standing at my table with headphones atop her red hair.

  Ms. Gregoire removed them as I approached. “I wondered where you’d gone. Not crossing roof ridgepoles or buying hair dye from peddlers, I hope.”

  I laughed and decided to take the book references as encouragement, even though the bet was clearly lost. “I make plenty of mistakes—hence my momentary detour into a project that was pea plants, not podcasts—but I’m not interesting enough to make them like Anne Shirley.”

  “I don’t know about that.” Ms. Gregoire grinned. “This podcast is incredible, and there are bound to be some rather amazing adventures in your future, Eliza. I just hope I get to be your teacher while they unfold.”

  “Are you going somewhere?” My throat tightened at the thought.

  “No. I have no plans to leave Hero High.”

  For a brief moment I had the urge to make an Anne-level gushy declaration of appreciation. Luckily I was spared by Ms. Gregoire pointing to my display. “Now tell me about this. I hear you had a most demanding adviser.”

  I laughed. “She was everything I needed her to be.”

  “I also heard your adviser is wonderfully impressed by what you’ve created. The bridge between science and story hasn’t been this well constructed in a very long time. It’s marvelous.”

  “Oh, that’s all due to my English teacher. She’s forever insisting we apply our experiences to the books we’re reading. So it felt natural to use personal reactions and anecdotes when trying to explain science concepts.”

  Ms. Gregoire’s smile was brighter than any of the medals I wouldn’t be getting. “I’m sure that teacher would be flattered to have helped.”

  “I hope so.” I wanted to find a way to compare her to Anne’s beloved Miss Stacy, but the sentiments were lodged beneath the gratitude in my throat.

  But maybe she understood my unsaid feelings, because she added, “I spy your parents over there—I have to go tell them how ‘bright and diligent’ you are.” I gaped, recalling that those were the exact words Miss Stacy used to describe Anne.

  Ms. Gregoire laughed and left me with a wink and one more quote from the end of Anne’s first novel. “Remember, Eliza, ‘I don’t know what lies around the bend, but I’m going to believe that the best does.’”

  It was Ms. Gregoire’s fault I couldn’t stop thinking about Anne as my parents hurried me through packing up my laptops, headphones, and display board.

  They’d wanted to leave as soon as the winners were announced, but I wanted my Gilbert moment. Well, I wanted a lot of different Gilbert moments, and mostly I wanted to play the Anne role in scenes where she and Gilbert were in love. But the Gilbert moment I wanted at the Avery was the one where Anne acknowledges her competition with him is no longer about beating him but about having a “worthy foeman”—and that “Next to trying and winning, the best thing is trying and failing.”

  Because I felt nothing but happiness for Curtis. He deserved his second place and the chance to go to the International Science and Engineering Fair. He’d need the prize money—especially if Win and Wink transferred to Hero High next year—and he’d accomplished something amazing.

  I was proud of him. I needed him to know that.

  Toting my bin of supplies, I went to find my parents. They were where I’d sent them when their efforts to “help” had tangled my cords—standing in front of the presentation they’d shortchanged earlier, reading his research.

  “Eliza, it’s time to go,” said Dad.

  “Just a minute.” Curtis’s table was covered in cupcake wrappers and test strips, but he was being mobbed with congratulations and hadn’t made it back yet.

  “Now,” Mom snapped. “We’re no longer judges, you didn’t win. We’re leaving before the awards banquet starts and it’s conspicuous. I’ve hit my embarrassment quota for the day.”

  “Just—” I snatched an abstract from my bin and flipped it over. I could hear Dad’s shoe tapping and Mom muttering. I ignored them and scrawled a few sentences, then tucked it under his display.

  Congratulations, Cupcake. You deserve this. I can’t wait to see what you do with Green Gables and at ISEF.

  41

  After a silent car ride home I escaped to my room and pulled two things out of my desk drawer: Frankenstein and a highlighter. I had a week to finish this book and figure out what to write—might as well get started.

  A half hour later there was a knock on my door. Mom leaned in. “I made you a sandwich.”

  “Thanks. Can you put it on my desk? I’m not hungry.”

  She did but then sat down in the chair. “Have you thought about what to do with your podcast? It would be a shame to let that effort go unrecognized.”

  I closed the book. “You hated the podcast.”

  “We didn’t. It was a surprise.” She looked down at her hands. “It’s possible we’d peeked at your materials in the lab and had been expecting genomic editing.”

  I lifted my chin. “I liked explaining CRISPR more than using it.”

  Mom took a bite of sandwich, apparently forgetting it was mine. “Well, we look forward to listening to your episodes.”

  “You don’t have to—as you pointed out, it’s very ‘elementary science.’”

  “We’ll be listening to hear you, not to learn.”

  I scowled down at my bed. “You said you’d hit your ‘embarrassment quota’ because I didn’t win.”

  “No.” Mom lau
ghed bitterly. “The embarrassment piece was all on us. You were right to call us unprofessional. Last night we swore we’d be unbiased—but . . . I’d cast Curtis as a cupcake-wielding villain. I saw his project and it was impossible to be objective.” She rubbed her forehead. “I’m sorry. You should know I’ve written an apology note and have a bakery delivering cup-cakes tomorrow—though he’s probably sick of them.”

  I fought a grin. “Don’t worry, Curtis will never be sick of cupcakes.”

  “I’m glad.” Mom pointed at me. “But that’s not why I came in here. I wanted to talk professional names. Have you given any thought to what you’ll use if you publish the podcast, or moving forward in general?”

  “What do you mean?” I was trying to wrap my head around my parents wanting to spend time listening to me explain things they already knew. Also, cupcakes? I wished I could see Curtis’s face when they were delivered. Or read their note. Not that I expected notes to change anything—not mine on his table, or their apology. I sighed.

  “How about E. Gordon-Fergus? Initials aren’t gendered and that might serve you better. Peer review of articles by women get harsher criticism. You know this. You’ve seen how often my accomplishments have been subverted into your father’s. We have to push back to have me listed first on dual publications.”

  I heard what she was saying. I’d seen blatant examples of it at the Avery. But still, I shook my head. “My first name is mine.”

  Mom looked at me like I was a toddler who’d just discovered that four-letter word, but I didn’t know how to express it more clearly. My appearance was a threat. My intelligence was a threat. My last name—it was theirs. It came preloaded with people’s expectations. My first name—that belonged to me. Sometimes it felt like the only thing that did, the only part of my identity that wasn’t a minefield.

  But now I was expected to sacrifice that? “When do we stop changing our behavior and start changing society?”

  Mom sat back in her chair. “You are so much wiser than I was at your age.”

  “You skipped grades and had all those awards already.”

  “But you know who you are. You’ve got a sense of self and purpose, of what you want from this world. That came from you. We weren’t here to help mold it.”

  I looked down at the book, the monster on its cover. I had no idea who I was. Didn’t they see I was lost and lonely?

  “Warner, come in here, please,” Mom called. “It’s time.”

  Her ominous words made my head shoot up as Dad entered with a gift bag in his hands. “We’re doing this now?” He waited for her nod before turning to me. “We’re proud of what you’ve taken on alone, Eliza. Not just the podcast, but everything. Your teachers speak highly of you and believe you’re capable of independent study.”

  “Independent study?” I was staring at the bag. We didn’t do gifts. Certainly not ones with wrapping paper. They’d brought me South Pole Station–branded pencils and a hat at Christmas, but handed them to me directly from their suitcases. It wasn’t like they’d had chances to shop—and it wasn’t like I knew what they wanted.

  Mom cleared her throat. “When I was gestating there were so many helpful books that detailed the stages of your fetal growth by week. But then after you were born . . . Parenting books lack consensus. None of them are empirical. They couldn’t tell us what it meant that your first word was ‘go’ or why you threw a tantrum in the grocery store. The advice on how to get babies to sleep was contradictory. Everything was full of caveats that this recommendation or schedule or advice might not work.”

  Dad chuckled. “We knew the mechanics—recommended amount of sleep and milk and ‘back is best’ and what temperature to keep your room, black and white contrast toys for brain stimulation, and duration of ‘tummy time’—but you weren’t compliant. You rolled early and slept on your stomach. You were hungry after I fed you a six-ounce bottle. You refused to adhere to your nap schedule, but fell asleep every time you were in a car. Tummy time made you spit up all over the black and white toys you ignored.”

  I’d never heard any of these stories, and I clutched each like a treasure. “What did you do?”

  “We threw out the books and decided we were highly educated people who would parent our own way. We eschewed the raised eyebrows and comments about ‘stability’ and ‘consistency’—and brought you with us to Iceland, then New Guinea, Peru, etc. We thought it was for the best.”

  “Until it wasn’t,” I said.

  “You’re older now—Brazil . . . it was an anomaly,” said Dad.

  “No,” Mom interrupted. “It was a mistake.” I cringed and she clarified, “Our mistake. You were young and curious, sick of being trapped in a lab. Of course you were going to wander off at some point. We should have known—and we should’ve noticed faster.”

  I ground my teeth against the memory of being lost and scared and possibly almost abducted. I hadn’t understood Portuguese. I’d never learned what the old woman who’d rescued me had yelled at the man who’d been following me in his car, but whatever she’d said, it had scared him away. Then she’d called the police and begun the process that had ended with me being reunited with my parents and us on a flight to Pennsylvania. It was the second-worst day of my life. The worst was a month later, when they’d gotten on a plane back to São Paulo without me.

  “You’re not that little girl anymore,” Dad said.

  “And we’re better listeners now,” Mom added. “At least we’re trying to be. Sometimes you have to be blunt with us—like in that letter you wrote on the airplane: ‘If you love me, you won’t make me go on any more trips. I just want a home.’” She shut her eyes, like the scared words I didn’t remember writing still hurt, eight years later. “What you’ve typed in your emails lately about missing being a family. We’ve heard you.”

  “I appreciate that.” I sounded stiff, because I wasn’t sure what they were building to, but clearly whatever was in that gift bag wasn’t going to be a tourist trinket.

  “We want you to come with us again,” Dad said.

  “Where?” I was making myself dizzy looking from one to the other—they were smiling, but clearly I’d missed a step between baby books and Brazil and whatever was currently being offered.

  “South Pole Station,” Mom said. “I know it’s anomalous, but we’ve thrown our weight behind it and thankfully we’ve got some friends in high places at the NSF.”

  I kinda loved the idea of Mom and Dad having the National Science Foundation on speed dial. I kinda hoped someday I would too.

  “You’ll technically be classified as part of our ‘research team,’ but you’ll do your high school classwork first. We’ll have to move quickly though—it’s getting close to sunset and there are only a few weeks and flights before we hunker down to ‘winter-over.’ You’ll need to take a cold-weather survival course when we get there—and there are rules. I’ve got a field manual and participation guide for you along with the gear we’ve started to collect.” Mom poked Dad’s leg. “Give her the bag.”

  It contained a binder full of papers and a pair of high-tech gloves. I set these on my bed.

  “There’s more in the basement. I’ll bring it up,” Dad said.

  “Try everything on.” Mom leaned forward in her chair. “We’ll make a list of whatever doesn’t fit. We’ve set up an appointment for a comprehensive physical tomorrow, and your dentist is going to rush that mouth guard. You’ll need to do an interview with the NSF—it’s a formality, but they’re bending rules for us, so be agreeable. I’ve got at least a dozen more items on the list to check off before Tuesday.”

  “This Tuesday?” I tugged on the left glove. It felt oversized and clumsy when I tried to open the binder.

  “Did you miss the part about winter and flights? The last plane in or out is in two and a half weeks.” Mom pointed to the binder. “There’s a lot of information to absorb, but we’ve got layovers in Los Angeles, Sydney, Christchuch, and McMurdo—you’ll have plenty of
time to read on planes.”

  “You want me to come?” I couldn’t make my brain process this. “But I didn’t win today.”

  “What does one have to do with the other?” Mom asked. “I’m not seeing causality here. Do you, Warner?”

  He shook his head.

  “Never mind. It’s just—” I paused and looked at their eager faces, at the table of contents in front of me—United States Antarctic Program emblazoned above the NSF logo. “I’m overwhelmed. Most scientists wait their whole life for this sort of opportunity. I never thought at sixteen . . .”

  “Luckily your parents have some clout.” Dad laughed.

  I winced. This time, when people accused me of nepotism, they’d be correct. But was that a reason to reject the opportunity to be with them? No way.

  “So, are you excited?” he asked.

  Was I? Absolutely. But also flabbergasted and reeling. “Still taking it all in.”

  “I’m noticing you haven’t said yes yet.” Mom looked like she might be grinding her teeth as she waited for my answer. “We really want you with us, Eliza.”

  “You do?” Before Brazil, we’d had fun. It hadn’t all been labs. I’d learned to ski on Icelandic glaciers, them patient and teasing. I remember splashing in the thermal pools after they’d taken water samples. Chasing one another down the beach as we measured sand dunes on Prince Edward Island. Their explaining the chemical processes of dye as we watched the weavers in Peru.

  Brazil had been a fluke—and a collective mistake. I’d known I wasn’t allowed to leave the lab without permission. And afterward . . . I had been the one who’d asked not to travel. They’d respected that request. Just like now, when they’d gone to so much trouble to include me after reading my emails about wanting us to be a family.

  Their anxious faces split into grins as I affirmed my decision out loud. “Yes, I want to come with you.”

  They hugged me—a rarity that made us all slightly uncomfortable—then Dad lugged up a crate of brand-new gear. My gear. He also returned my computer and phones. “Might as well enjoy these while you can—you’re not grounded anymore.”