Sophie Simon Solves Them All (2 page)

Sophie puffed out her cheeks.

Other children were beginning to join them at the bus stop.

“But calculus is interesting,” she tried to explain.

Sophie's father pointed an angry finger at her. “Don't you tell me calculus is interesting, young lady. I happen to know that calculus is
not
interesting. Calculus is
math.
”

Sophie's father was right about one thing. Calculus
was
math. A very complicated kind of math. It involved long equations with letters and numbers and symbols so confusing that most people avoided looking at them directly, in case their brains turned to mush. There were graphs and charts and formulas and silly words like
tangent.

Sophie loved it. She loved it more than any subject she'd ever studied before. Sophie loved calculus the way other children love roller coasters and trips to Disneyland.

She stayed up past midnight studying under the covers.

She thought about equations while her parents made her watch TV.

She even dreamed about calculus.

But there was one problem.

If Sophie
really
wanted to study calculus, really and truly, she needed a special kind of calculator.

“Mom? Dad?” Sophie asked as the Number 17 bus appeared over the hill in the distance. “Will you buy me a graphing calculator? I want the Pembo Q-60. It's the latest model. It costs one hundred dollars.”

There was a pause.

A very short pause.

And in that pause, Sophie imagined what it might be like to have parents who understood her.

Parents who said, “Yes, dear, of
course
you may have a graphing calculator. Would you like a new set of notebooks and some fresh pencils to go along with it?”

Parents who let her study in peace and stopped bothering her about pointless things, like making friends.

But then the pause ended.

“Oh, Maxwell!” Sophie's mother sobbed. “What would Doctor Wanda say?”

Sophie's father shook his head. “You try so hard to be a good parent,” he said with a sniffle. “And then your eight-year-old daughter tells you she wants a
calculator
.”

Sophie heaved a deep sigh.

“So you won't buy me a Pembo Q-60 then?” she asked.

“No,” said her mother.

“Absolutely not,” said her father.

The bus slowed to a stop at the corner.

“May I at least have my book back?” Sophie wondered.

“No,” said her mother.

“Absolutely not,” said her father.

“But it's from the library!” Sophie protested. “I have to return it.”

“Oh, Maxwell!” Sophie's mother wailed. “Our little girl's been visiting the
library
!”

Sophie's father shook his head. “You try so hard to be a good parent…” he began.

But Sophie didn't hear the rest. The second the bus doors squeaked open, she leaped up the steps and plopped herself into the first empty seat.

As the bus pulled away from the corner, Sophie watched her parents' faces grow smaller and smaller, weeping as they clutched her calculus book. When they had finally become specks in the distance and then disappeared, she turned around and thought.

There had to be
some
way to get that calculator.

But how?

*   *   *

Sophie Simon didn't know it, but at that very moment, there were three other third-graders on the Number 17 bus who were puzzling over problems of their own.

Doozies.

Dilemmas.

Submarine-size pickles.

It would have taken a
genius
to solve all four problems.

Too bad Sophie Simon only cared about one of them.

Check Marks and Squeegees

Daisy Pete sat at her desk in Mr. St. Cupid's third-grade class, tapping her pencil and staring at the list of rules on the wall.

There were lots of rules in Mr. St. Cupid's class.

There were normal ones.

No pushing

No hitting

No chewing gum

And strange ones.

No choking

No wearing orange socks

No talking about fungus

Whenever anybody did something Mr. St. Cupid didn't like, the teacher would add a new rule to his list.

So far the list of rules covered nineteen sheets of poster board and spread across three walls.

As Daisy stared at the list, the pencil she was tapping on her desk flew out of her hand and straight up into the air.

It landed—
ker-PLUNK!
—on the head of the girl who sat in front of her.

Sophie Simon.

Sophie was so busy reading the book she had hidden under her desk, she didn't even notice the pencil sticking out of her blond ponytail.

Daisy thought Sophie Simon was a little odd. All she ever did was read. And trying to talk to her was like riding a bicycle upside down.

It didn't make any sense.

No wonder Sophie Simon didn't have any friends.

Daisy leaned forward and plucked her pencil out of Sophie's hair. Luckily, Mr. St. Cupid didn't notice. If he had, she would have gotten in trouble for breaking Rule number 138:

No pulling objects out of other students' heads

Daisy did not want to get in trouble.

Every time you broke a rule in Mr. St. Cupid's class, you got a check mark next to your name on the board.

If you got three check marks, you had to stay inside for final recess and clean the windows.

Daisy hadn't been outside for final recess once all year.

Daisy never broke rules on purpose. But she seemed to be especially good at getting into trouble in Mr. St. Cupid's class.

In fact, Daisy was responsible for creating thirty-six of the rules on Mr. St. Cupid's wall, including:

No spilling glitter on the rug

No falling over in your desk

No dropping your science book on your foot

No tripping over your science book

No tripping over your backpack

No tripping over your shoelaces

   NO TRIPPING

Daisy Pete had a lot of problems when it came to tripping.

But somehow, that Friday afternoon, Daisy only had two check marks next to her name. If she could make it through the rest of math time without breaking any more rules, she would finally get to go outside for final recess.

Daisy wondered what it was like out there. She'd heard rumors there were ice cream sundaes and dodgeball.

She was pretty sure the dodgeball part was true, at least.

“If I had
five
onions,” Mr. St. Cupid bellowed at the class, “and I ate
three
, what would I be
left
with?”

No one raised a hand.

No one ever raised a hand in Mr. St. Cupid's class.

Daisy thought this was because Rule number 3 on the wall was

No moving your arms

Most days, Daisy thought Mr. St. Cupid's rules were pretty stupid. But today, having rules didn't seem like such a bad idea. Daisy could think of some good ones for her parents.

No yelling

No lecturing

And, most important,

No forcing your daughter to dance in a ballet recital

Daisy had been trying to get out of her ballet recital for weeks.

She told her parents that she hated ballet, and that her dance teacher was meaner than an angry werewolf.

She told them that the thought of falling over in front of hundreds of people at a dance recital made her want to spew her lunch all over her frilly pink tutu.

She told them that if they forced her to dance in the recital at the Middlebury Performing Arts Center on Saturday, it would be
utterly unfair.

But did Daisy's parents pay any attention when she told them those things?

They did not.

Daisy's parents told her that she probably just had stage fright.

They told her that, when she got up onstage, she'd be a star.

They told her that, once she was a star, the world would be her oyster, and she wouldn't be stuck working in a pet store all her life like they were.

Well, Daisy didn't want any oysters. And she loved Petes' Pet Store. She couldn't imagine anything better than working there forever.

But when it came to ballet class, Daisy's parents didn't hear a single thing she said. It made Daisy feel
absolutely powerless
.

Sometimes Daisy wondered if maybe her parents weren't really her parents. Maybe, Daisy thought, her real parents had been abducted by aliens just after she was born, and replaced with androids who didn't understand that going to ballet class was worse than having your nose hairs yanked out with pliers. Maybe her real parents were up in a spaceship right now, watching their daughter as they orbited the earth, cringing every time she had to put on a leotard.

But really, Daisy knew that the people who bought her dance shoes and picked her up from class every Tuesday after school
were
her real parents. Because Daisy had seen lots of movies about aliens, and her parents didn't do anything weird and alieny like drink mountains of sugar water or shoot lasers out of their eyeballs. So they most definitely had not been abducted.

Too bad.

Daisy was snapped out of her thoughts by something poking into her left elbow. She turned to look.

At the desk next to her, Julia McGreevy was holding a folded-up square of paper.

“For Owen,” Julia whispered.

Julia McGreevy and Owen Luu were best friends. Julia sat at the desk to Daisy's left, and Owen sat at the desk to Daisy's right.

Daisy passed a lot of notes.

Today, though, Daisy thought about ignoring Julia. Note passing was against the rules. If Daisy got caught, it would mean no final recess for sure.

“Please?” Julia begged.

Daisy sighed and took the note.

But just as she was about to place it on Owen's desk, Daisy sneezed.

When Daisy sneezed, she dropped things.

Daisy dropped the note.

Owen stuck his leg out to the side like a stretched-out dish towel, trying to cover up the note. But it was too late.

“
Mister
Luu!” Mr. St. Cupid shouted. “
What
are you doing?”

“I-I'm not d-doing anything,” Owen stuttered.

“Stop stuttering!”
yelled Mr. St. Cupid. “Stuttering is not allowed in my class! New rule!”

Daisy gulped.

Mr. St. Cupid walked over to Owen's desk and glared down at him. “
Why
is your
leg
stuck out like that?”

“Um…” Owen said. “I'm, um, stretching?”

“Well, it's
distracting
!” Mr. St. Cupid bellowed. “From now on,
stretching
is not allowed in my class!
New rule!
”

Daisy grimaced.

“But I had a leg cramp,” Owen said.

“
Leg cramps
aren't allowed in my class,
either
! That's
three
checks for you, Mr. Luu! No final recess!”

Daisy gargled.

“O-okay,” Owen said. He slowly brought his leg back under his desk, pressing the note down hard into the carpet.

“Now,”
Mr. St. Cupid said. He returned to the front of the classroom. “If I had
five
onions, and I ate
three
, what would—
Mister
Luu!” He pointed to Owen's foot. “Is that a
note
?”

Daisy sucked in all her breath and puffed out her cheeks.

Owen's face was red as a rib of rhubarb. “M-maybe?” he said.

“Hand it over!”

Daisy crossed her fingers.

Owen scooped the note off the floor. “I didn't, um, write it,” he said as he gave it to the teacher.