Stacey the Math Whiz

by Ann M. Martin

  But I have never been so scared as I was that Saturday evening in my dad’s new car.

  “Hey, that was a red light!” Dad shouted angrily out the window to a biker.

  I won’t even tell you what the biker said in response.

  Samantha turned and smiled at me over her shoulder. “I think your father has found his new calling — New York City cab driver.”

  “I keep forgetting if the restaurant is on West Sixty-seventh Street or Sixty-eighth,” Dad growled.

  “I don’t know,” Samantha said.

  I looked out the window. The side streets were whipping by us. Café des Artistes is my absolute favorite restaurant, and I could see the familiar entrance as we passed it.

  “There it is!” I shouted.

  Bad move.

  EEEEEEE … went the brakes of my father’s car.

  EEEEEEE … went the brakes of the car behind us.

  HONNNNNNNNK! blasted several horns.

  “Ed!” cried Samantha in shock.

  My dad was eyeing the curb across the street. “Is that a space?”

  “Fire hydrant,” I replied.

  “Ooh, I see one!” Dad pressed the accelerator and the car lurched forward.

  The opening was a block away, and by the time we arrived, another car had made a U-turn from across the street and was nosing into the space.

  “You creep!” Dad shouted. “Didn’t you see me?”

  “He can’t hear you, Dad,” I said softly.

  Samantha was shaking her head. “Ed, please, just put it in a garage.”

  “At those rip-off rates?” Dad replied. “Garages are only for out-of-towners.”

  Zoom. We were screeching around the block. The side street was crammed with parked cars, so Dad pulled up next to a parking meter on Broadway.

  We climbed out, and Dad fed the meter with quarters. “This’ll be a fraction of the cost of a garage,” he said proudly.

  Samantha sighed with relief. “At least we can all relax.”

  As we strolled down West Sixty-seventh, snow fell lightly, muffling the traffic noise. The trees that lined the sidewalk were decked out with white lights, and a piano sounded from a window across the street. Dad and I gave Samantha a blow-by-blow account of the Mathletes meet. When I told her some of the problems, she was amazed we could answer them at all.

  My jitters were quickly disappearing.

  How was dinner? Wonderful. We sat by a window and watched the snow, and I felt as if we’d been transported to the nineteenth century.

  While coffee was being served, Dad pulled three tickets out of his jacket pocket with a dramatic flourish. “Anyone interested in seeing Shooting Star?”

  My mouth hung open. (Don’t worry, I’d swallowed.) Shooting Star was only the hottest show on Broadway.

  “You’re kidding!” I said.

  “How did you get tickets?” Samantha asked.

  “Through my old company. I put the order in before I was downsized.” Dad chuckled and looked at his watch. “I figured that after the show we’d take a spin around the city and look at the skyline, then take in some jazz in the Village. I’ll show you NYU, where I went to school.”

  “A nice, relaxed evening,” Samantha said with a smile.

  “Since we’re driving,” Dad went on, “it won’t take long to —” Suddenly his face went slack. “Oh, no! The car!”

  He slapped his credit card on the table. “Give this to the waiter. I’ll be right back.” With that, he stood up and bolted out the door.

  Samantha and I chatted a little tensely until Dad returned, red-faced and holding a parking ticket. “Forty dollars!” he muttered as he sat down. “What an outrage!”

  Samantha put her arm around him. “Much cheaper than a garage, huh?”

  Dad was a good sport. He tried to laugh about it. But as we walked to the car, I could see him glancing nervously at the windshield, hoping no other ticket had been tucked under the wipers.

  We hit major traffic going down Broadway. This did not help Dad’s mood one bit. Plus, every single one of the streets was plastered with No Parking signs. No meters in sight. At eight o’clock, curtain time, we were stuck behind a tour bus on West Forty-third Street. “You two go ahead,” Dad grumbled. “I’ll find a parking garage.”

  Well, Shooting Star was fabulous. I think Dad would have agreed too, except he didn’t see all of it. He arrived at the theater just as the first musical number was ending. And he was in such a deep funk, I don’t think he noticed much until the second act.

  Oh, well, the night was still young.

  Unfortunately, it grew old fast as we waited for the garage attendant to retrieve Dad’s car. Which now had a thin, foot-long scrape on the passenger side.

  “You’ll be hearing from my insurance company!” was the last thing Dad said to the attendant as we drove away.

  His mood picked up as we drove to the Village, chatting about the show. We even found a legal parking space.

  The jazz quartet was wonderful, but Dad whisked us away after two numbers for our tour of NYU.

  How was that? Fine, if you adore looking at cement and brick. Every time I spotted some cool-looking store nearby, Dad’s reaction would always be something like, “Let me show you where I studied American history.”

  We ended up at an Italian pastry shop, where Dad and Samantha sipped romantically at their cappuccinos while I tried not to fall asleep in my fruit-sweetened sherbet.

  The rest of the night is a blur. I remember Dad’s hubcaps were missing when we returned to the car. I remember an argument with a delivery truck driver when we were stopped at a light. And I remember dropping off Samantha at an East Side high-rise building and then circling around Dad’s block about twenty times looking for a parking space.

  Somehow I managed to stay awake enough to climb the stairs of Dad’s building. When we entered his apartment, I noticed the mantel clock read 1:17.

  “Wow, what a night, huh?” Dad said. “Let’s get some sleep, and I’ll drive you back tomorrow. Maybe we can see a movie —”

  “I have a baby-sitting job tomorrow,” I said with a yawn.

  “No problem. I’ll stay over at the Strathmore. Maybe we can squeeze in the movie after school Monday.”

  “Mathletes session,” I explained. “And a Baby-sitters Club meeting.”

  Dad shrugged. “Well, you know me. I have time. How about Tuesday?”

  My eyes were closing. “Listen, Dad, I’m tired. Maybe we ought to talk about this tomorrow.”

  “Sure, sweetheart,” Dad replied. “You go ahead and use the bathroom first.”

  As I shuffled away, visions of sugarless plums danced in my head. It was nice to be with Dad, but not exactly relaxing. He was leading his life as if it were one big datebook.

  And all the appointments in it read STACEY.

  Ms. Hartley had a word for our team — juggernaut. When she first said it, I pictured a gallon of milk floating in outer space. But it means something totally different: a powerful force that crushes everything in its way.

  A week after our Stoneybrook victory, we competed for the regional championship. Our opponents were two area schools, Howard Township and Mercer. Howard had an amazing captain named Alan Bardwell who had actually taken the math SAT and done well on it — yes, in eighth grade!

  I thought I was going to faint before the meet. The crowd at Mercer Middle School was even bigger than the one at SDS. Kristy was leading cheers and being booed by people from the other schools. The pressure was horrible. But Ms. Hartley came to the rescue. She gathered us backstage to do “Zoo Crew.” It’s a great exercise she said she’d learned in acting class years ago. You ask yourself what kind of animal you feel like. Then you act it out.

  I thought, NFM (Not For Me). Nerd City.

  Beside me, Bea became a screaming monkey. Jason ran around in circles, bellowing like an elephant. Mari became a yapping Chihuahua.

  I felt like laughing. So I became a hyena.

  We wer
e hopping around like fools. Kids from the other teams were staring at us in disbelief. But you know what? It felt fantastic.

  And my stage fright disappeared.

  We ended the meet with 69 points to Howard’s 63 and Mercer’s 58! (As Ms. Hartley noted, “Howard may have Alan Bardwell, but we have balance.”)

  By the way, I, Stacey the Juggernaut, had a perfect score.

  One nice thing about our victories was the publicity. Our regional trophy was put front and center of the SMS trophy case, and a big poster advertised the Southern Connecticut district championship, which was the following Saturday.

  This time, a whole bunch of our charges came, including the entire Pike family and the Barrett/DeWitts. It felt like a football game.

  The meet was in a gymnasium in Chatham Middle School. The place smelled like sweat. Très noisy, too. When we did Zoo Crew, hardly anyone noticed.

  One of our opponents was Saltonstall Prep, whose team members all dressed in jackets and ties. The Chatham team was in normal clothes, but it was equally smart.

  On the first question, when each team had a perfect score, I knew we were in trouble.

  The lead changed about a dozen times. By the last problem, Saltonstall had 70 points, Chatham had 66, and we had 65.

  As one of the Saltonstall members spun the wheel, perspiration dripped down my forehead. Beside me, Emily was shaking.

  “I’m hot,” Jason whispered.

  “Use the showers,” I suggested.

  “Ha-ha.”

  No one was in a jolly mood just then.

  The category was factors and divisibility. The head of Chatham math, Ms. Crandall, read the problem:

  “At a Mathletes meet, Mark said to Rebecca, ‘I have three siblings. The product of their ages is thirty-six. The sum of their ages is the same as my age. How old are they?’ Rebecca thought about that for a while, then said to Mark, ‘Yo! You didn’t give me enough information to solve the problem.’ Mark apologized and said, ‘The oldest one likes rainforest crunch ice cream.’ ”

  Ms. Crandall placed the problem on the overhead projector. We all looked at it with a big group Duh.

  “We’re sunk,” Alexander muttered.

  “What does ice cream have to do with it?” Rick asked.

  Stacey’s First Rule of Math popped into my mind: If in doubt, write.

  I grabbed a pencil and said, “Okay, start at the top. What three numbers multiply out to thirty-six?”

  “One times one times thirty-six,” Bea said.

  “One times two times eighteen,” Jason added.

  I scribbled on and on:

  “Now, the sum of the ages has to equal Mark’s age,” I went on. “So let’s add them up.”

  I inserted plus signs and made sums:

  “Now what?” Mari said. “We still don’t know Mark’s age!”

  “I guess fourteen,” Jason volunteered.

  “You can’t guess,” Bea said. “Rebecca didn’t have enough information to solve the problem. That must be a clue.”

  Bing! A light went on in my head. “She couldn’t tell, because two different combinations add up to thirteen! Mark must be thirteen!”

  “So how old are the siblings?” Mari asked.

  “ ‘The oldest one likes rainforest crunch’?” Jason read. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  I looked at the two “thirteen” sums carefully. Then it hit me. “That’s it! His siblings can’t be one, six, and six, because there wouldn’t be an oldest one. The oldest would be twins!”

  I rang the bell and shouted out: “Two, two, and nine!”

  “That’s correct!” Ms. Crandall replied. “Stoneybrook Middle School wins!”

  The gym erupted. It was pandemonium. Chaos. Worse than the World Series.

  Well, maybe not that bad. But our team was mobbed. The Pike kids were jumping all around me. Kristy was punching the air and whooping. Mom and Dad actually smiled at each other.

  Ms. Hartley gave me a huge hug. “Congratulations, Stacey, you were sensational!”

  “Thanks,” I said.

  “We’re going to be in the state finals! I’ve been dreaming of this for years.”

  Hoo boy.

  State finals. I was going to have to go through all this again.

  * * *

  Claudia rode back to Stoneybrook with me in Dad’s car. We needed to drop her off for a tutoring session with Lindsey “I Hate Math” DeWitt. (The Barrett/DeWitts had gone to the meet in one big, overcrowded minivan, which was why Claudia was with us.)

  Claud and I sat in the backseat, yakking excitedly about the meet, while Mom and Dad sat silently up front.

  You may be wondering what Dad had been up to the previous two weeks. No, he had not found a job yet. Yes, he had been looking. Just about every evening, though, he’d driven out to Stoneybrook. Once Dad even brought Samantha. I thought Mom would freak. She didn’t. (Okay, she wasn’t doing cartwheels, but she managed to be friendly and polite.)

  “Stacey, I am so glad Lindsey went to the meet,” Claudia said to me as Mom and Dad remained quiet. “She had a great time. She finally saw how much fun math could be. I mean, it’s fun the way I do it, but she still hates it in school.”

  “She may always hate it,” I said. “Some kids just do.”

  “I have a plan. Stoneybrook Elementary is having its math fair next week. A lot of our charges are joining up, even Buddy. Of course, he started teasing Lindsey about it, saying she was too stupid to join, typical stuff. She insisted she could do a math fair project, too, if she wanted to.” Claudia smiled. “I think I can convince her to do it.”

  “She must have really changed,” I remarked.

  Claudia shrugged. “See for yourself. Come with me to the session.”

  It didn’t sound like a bad idea. I missed seeing Lindsey. Dad had offered to take me to a celebration dinner, but that wouldn’t start for a few hours. I asked Dad to drop me off with Claudia.

  As we entered the house, Claudia cried out, “Here she is, Stacey the Genius!”

  “Clau-aud!” I said.

  The whole family rushed in. Everyone wanted to talk about the meet.

  “Lindsey told us she wants to be like you when she grows up,” Franklin announced.

  “You set a great example,” Mrs. DeWitt chimed in. She turned to Claudia. “Having a terrific tutor doesn’t hurt, either.”

  “How did you know all that stuff, Stacey?” Buddy asked. “I couldn’t answer any of those problems.”

  “She has a brain,” Lindsey said. “Unlike you.”

  “So funny I forgot to laugh,” Buddy snapped.

  “I saw a mouse under the bleachers,” Madeleine claimed.

  Mrs. DeWitt looked horrified. “You did?”

  “It was just a ball of dust,” Taylor said.

  “Well, the dust walked and had a tail,” Madeleine insisted.

  Eventually we changed the subject (thank goodness). Claudia, Lindsey, and I went upstairs.

  The last time I’d tutored Lindsey, it had taken about a half hour just to convince her to open up her math book. This time she plopped it open on her desk. “I’m learning my times tables,” she announced.

  “Quick,” Claudia said. “What’s three times four?”

  Lindsey scrunched up her face and began counting on her fingers. “Three plus three is … six,” she muttered. “Then seven eight nine … then ten eleven twelve. Twelve!”

  Claudia applauded. “Yaaaay! Okay, here’s a hard one. Six times four.”

  It took Lindsey a loooong time counting out this one. Finally she said, “Twenty-three?”

  I shook my head. “You really should —”

  “Off by one, Lindsey,” Claudia interrupted.

  “Twenty-four!” Lindsey shouted with a big grin.

  “Yyyyyyes!” Claudia exclaimed. “Isn’t she great?”

  “You know, you’d be better off memorizing the tables one at a time,” I suggested. “Hold the table in front of you, covering up the ans
wers to test yourself. That way, you can see a pattern while using rote memorization.”

  “But my way works,” Lindsey protested.

  “Stacey, she’s just starting,” Claudia said.

  I nodded. “Yes, but you have to start right.”

  “Lindsey, let’s do some borrowing,” Claudia suggested, opening Lindsey’s book to a page of subtraction problems.

  Lindsey worked hard, then showed me what she’d written:

  “See,” Lindsey explained. “You can’t take seven from four, so you borrow a one —”

  “Actually, you’re borrowing a ten,” I explained. “Don’t forget, you’re taking it from the tens column.”

  Lindsey looked confused. “Am I supposed to write a ten next to the four?”

  “Staceyyyy, you’re just being technical,” Claudia complained.

  “It’s not technical at all,” I said. “Place value is important. Also, you don’t need to write that zero in the hundreds column of the answer. Zeroes are only needed to hold place value if the next highest column is a positive integer.”

  Lindsey cast a nervous glance at Claudia.

  “Well, yeah, Stacey’s right about the zero, I guess,” Claudia mumbled.

  “Can I play downstairs?” Lindsey asked.

  “Let’s do another problem,” Claudia suggested.

  Lindsey shook her head. “I’m done.”

  She bolted from her chair and ran for the door.

  “Lindsey?” Claudia called. “Let’s do our song for Stacey.”

  Lindsey thumped downstairs. Claudia thumped after her.

  I stayed in the room, feeling like a total dork.

  Why couldn’t I have shut my mouth? Claudia may not have taught Lindsey the best way, but she’d done a good job. I’d never seen Lindsey so interested in math — until I’d butted in.

  I slumped onto the bed. My eyelids felt heavy all of a sudden. I had the urge to curl up and sleep.

  Maybe that’s why I was so picky with Lindsey. Maybe I was just too tired. All the Mathletes pressure, all the crazy late-night activities with Dad. I needed a normal life again.

  Besides, I hadn’t baby-sat in awhile. I’d lost touch with all my charges. I knew that if I’d stayed with tutoring, I’d have figured out how to reach Lindsey by now. I wouldn’t scare her off.