The Clueless Girl's Guide to Being a Genius (10 page)

I went out and got some more dresses for her to try on. Professor Wigglesmith pushed her bangs away from her eyes and sighed. “Maybe this was a bad idea,” she said.

I got a bobby pin out of my purse and pushed her bangs out of her eyes with it. Then I told her to try the next dress on wearing the cool three-inch sandals I'd found in the shoe department.

Meanwhile, I was having the opposite problem. Each of the dresses I had tried on fit perfectly and looked great, even the pink one that Professor Wigglesmith had picked for me to try on. So I chose the way I always had to on my stupid budget, checking price tags and keeping the one that cost the least. It was the sunflower yellow silky dress that I had tried on first. I held the dress against me and smiled. “Don't let it bother you,” I yelled over the dressing room wall to Professor Wigglesmith. “Lots of girls have trouble finding clothes.”

When I came out of my dressing room, I heard the clerk say, “Wow. That dress was made for you.” But she stared right past me. I turned and saw Professor Wigglesmith in a sleek black dress with pastel pink trim that I had picked for her. It had a wide square neck, short sleeves that fell just off the shoulders, and a huge pink bow in the back with long ribbons. The black fabric complemented her pale skin by making it look creamy soft, the pink trim gave it just the right contrast, and the shoes gave the dress the exact height it needed for the ribbons to brush the floor.

“Do you like it?” Professor Wigglesmith asked me.

I was startled at how good she looked. “I guess it's okay,” I said.

“It's more than okay,” said the attendant. “Honey, I have seen dozens of girls try that dress on, and none made it look that good.”

Professor Wigglesmith spun and smiled. “Really?” she asked.

I looked over at the reject rack where I had just hung the same dress.
That's so wrong,
I thought
. I could see getting one-upped in the dressing room by Veronica or Summer or even Jordeen, but Professor Wigglesmith? Wasn't it enough that she was so much smarter than me?

“Should I buy it?” she asked.

“Whatever,” I said. “I'm going to look in the shoe section.”

After a dozen pairs, I forgot I was mad at Professor Wigglesmith. The rest of the time we looked for jewelry for her and a new athletic bag that I could use for the Twirlcrazy Grand Championship.

“I've been working on a new two-baton routine,” I said. “Miss Brenda says with my flow and glow I have a real shot at first place.”

“Your what and who?”

“Flow and glow. It means, you know, my good rhythm and winning smile. Usually I just try my best and don't worry about where I place, but with the Baton Barn closing and this being my last chance I really want to win.”

“How about this one?” asked Professor Wigglesmith, holding up a plum purple bag.

I slid my baton into the long compartment at the bottom; it was a perfect fit. A huge brand name was written across the bag. “This would be great,” I said, “if it didn't cost a fortune.”

“Let me buy it for you,” she offered, “as a good luck present.”

“Can I ask a question? I mean, why would you do that?”

“Because we're friends,” she said.

I wanted to be straight with her and explain that we weren't officially friends. I wanted to tell her how social standing works in middle school and how guilt by association keeps popular girls like me from openly being close with nerdy girls like her. But the truth was, I wanted the bag more. “Are you sure you wouldn't mind? I could pay you back, Professor Wigglesmith.”

“I'll tell you how you could pay me back.” She scooped it up and took it to the cashier. “When we're not in school, you can stop calling me Professor Wigglesmith. Call me Aphrodite, or, better yet, by the nickname Hermy uses—Dytee.”

I thought that was pretty cool. Professor Wigglesmith—I mean Dytee—acted like she actually cared. I couldn't remember any of my so-called friends ever offering to buy me anything. My school friends never even came to my competitions. They pretended they had other things to do, and I pretended not to care. Sometimes it felt like they actually wanted me to fail so it would make them look better. But Dytee wasn't like that. She had my back. Even though we couldn't be real friends because of my reputation, there was no harm in us being secret after-school-only friends.

“Thanks,” I said.

We were supposed to meet her mom at the star court at 9:00 p.m. It was an open area showing off the mall's soaring ceiling. We were a little early, so I practiced my fujimi rolls, using my elbows to roll the baton from front to back.

“Look. There's one of those photo booths,” Dytee said, pointing to a Picture Perfect Photo Booth.

“Don't tell me you've never seen a photo booth?”

“Of course I've
seen
one. I've just never actually gone inside one.”

“Come on,” I said, pulling my last three dollars from my jeans. “I'll show you how it works. My treat.” We ducked into the booth and squeezed next to each other in the hard seat. “Do this,” I said, putting my arms over my head and forming my fingers into a halo. She got her arms halfway up when the flash went off. We both burst out laughing, and the camera caught it all.

As we waited for the photos to come out of the machine, I handed Dytee my baton to hold. She tried to do the fujimi roll, which was totally out of her league, and kept dropping the baton and chasing it around. The strip of photos was peeking out of the slot and I was careful to hold it on the edges so it wouldn't smudge. That's when I noticed Dytee looking up at the ceiling above the star court, then at the baton she was holding.

She spread her legs out for balance, just like she had when she broke the window in the alley outside of my mom's beauty shop. Then she lowered the baton and flung it in the air. It flew at the speed of the sound of my horrified scream, veered sideways, struck a beam, and shot through the front window of the Hip Dip clothing store.

“I'm afraid I failed to take that trajectory into account in my equation,” said Dytee. She slipped her hand in her pocket, pulled out her wad of Ben Franklins, and rushed toward the store.

A middle-aged woman in a flowered dress standing nearby had witnessed it all. “What kind of an idiot brings a baton to a mall?” she asked.

“People who live in glass stones shouldn't throw houses,” I reminded the woman, and went to help Dytee.

I
n many ways, people are like spiders. Not just because they both have hairy legs and can act creepy. Spiders are creatures of habit, but every now and then, one of them surprises you. Take Romeo and Juliet, for example. After we found Romeo sitting on Mr. Ripple's head, Mr. Green caught him and took him back to his tank in the biology room. I figured Juliet would sense danger and stay hidden. Instead, she played dead in the middle of the room, as if she wanted to be caught so she could be returned to the tank next to Romeo's. That was so unexpected.

Just like, when I approached Mindy in the hallway at school, I wasn't expecting her to ask me if I was going to the Spring Fling, and I certainly wasn't expecting her to agree to go dress shopping at the mall with me. I'd never had a friend my own age before. It was weird—good weird, but weird.

The teachers' lounge had become more relaxing (although less interesting) since the spiders had been caught. I unwrapped my tuna salad sandwich and was about to take a bite when the phone let out a shrill ring.

“It's for you,” Mr. Ripple said. “Probably another complaint about your field trip.”

Already, I had gotten three calls from parents who questioned why I took their children to a pool hall and demanded that I secure signed field-trip forms in the future. I braced myself to defend the field trip again.

“This is Jeffrey Paul Phillips, local-interest reporter for the
Pittsburgh Post-Gazette
newspaper. I read the article that was printed a few weeks back about you in the
Carnegie Signal Item
.”

I recalled my encounter with the
Signal Item
reporter, Stanley Butera. His article about me had focused on my E + C = MW teaching method for remedial students.

“I heard about what's been going on at Carnegie Middle School, and our readers are interested to know more.”

I sighed, expecting to be ridiculed in print for taking my students to the pool hall. “I realize my teaching methods may be unusual, but you don't give an antacid to a patient in cardiac arrest.”

“Great quote,” said the reporter. “I want to hear more about your new teaching method. But first, tell me, what was your reaction when you learned that there had been a forty-eight percent increase in math aptitude test scores among students in your classroom?”

“When did I learn what?” I asked.

“No need to be coy, Professor Wigglesmith. I'm talking about test scores that were released by the Department of Education this morning. Your class has achieved the single-highest increase among students in the state. How does that make you feel?”

My stunned silence answered his question. I knew my students were improving, but even I was dumbfounded by how much. Suddenly, Principal DeGuy appeared. “Aphrodite, you have a call on the line in my office. It's Channel Four news.” He took the phone from me. “She'll have to call you back.”

 

“Dytee!” Hermy screamed when my family watched the news that evening.

“Yes, your sister is on television,” said Mother.

“Pretty,” said Hermy. “Dytee pretty.”

“Thank you,” I said. Mindy had encouraged me to wear a soft pink blouse under my gray suit jacket for the interview. Mindy's mom had lent me a pair of sparkly clip-on earrings to match. They had tiny hair dryers on them and the phone number for her beauty salon.

“It takes one to know one. Or at least to know how to teach one,” said the television voice-over. “This thirteen-year-old has what it takes. Since wiz kid and Harvard graduate Professor Aphrodite Wigglesmith took over the eighth-grade remedial math class at Carnegie Middle School, aptitude scores have soared nearly fifty percent. That's the highest increase in the state.”

“They're exceptionally hardworking students,” my television self said. “They deserve all the credit.”

The camera cut to a classroom of excited students. Roland and LeeAnn pushed to be in the center of the shot.

“But her students say it's their gifted young teacher, Professor Wigglesmith, and her new teaching method that deserve the praise.”

A head shot of Adam appeared with a caption: “Adam Boyce, Captain of Mathematics Team.”

“Professor Wigglesmith really cares about us and she doesn't treat us like we're stupid,” said Adam. “Having someone believe in you makes you believe in yourself.”

“In other news . . .”

Mother snapped off the television. Father rushed through the kitchen door, carrying a gallon of milk. “Did I miss it?”

“Yes,” said Mother. “But we got it on videotape.”

“I'd have made it,” Father said, “but everyone at the supermarket wanted to pass on their congratulations.”

“Our Aphrodite is a big star,” said Mother.

Hermy pulled his thumb out of his mouth and pointed to the television. “Dytee?” he asked.

“It'll blow over in a week,” I said. “Celebrity doesn't last.”

The phone rang. I cringed, hoping I would not have to talk about myself anymore.

“It's Mindy,” Mother said.

I pounced on the phone. “Did you see it?”

“Of course. Everyone saw it,” said Mindy. “I was on TV. You could see me waving in the lower right part of the screen. It was beyond awesome.”

I smiled. “My mother recorded it. Do you want to come over tomorrow after math practice and watch?” Silence. “Mindy, are you there?”

“I can't. I've got an extra baton class.”

“We can give you a ride.”

More silence.

“No,” said Mindy. “I'd rather bike. Look, I've got to go.”

The line went dead.

T
he only reason I lied to Dytee was because telling her I was going shopping with the VJs might have hurt her feelings, and what she didn't know wouldn't. I figured if I saw a better dress than the one I had already bought during my secret shopping trip with Dytee, I could take the first back. As it turned out, I did find a better dress, one that looked so good on me it made the other girls turn “Jolly Green Giant” green. It was perfect.

The day of the dance, eighth-grade girls swarmed Tiffany's House of Beauty & Nails like it was a honeycomb. I wore my new short baby blue dress dotted with reflective sequins. I had dangly silver earrings and a small heart necklace with a matching bracelet. Oodles of ringlets spilled out from my updo and ran down my shoulders.

“You look like you stepped out of here,” said my mom, holding a fashion magazine.

The other girls shook their heads jealously, and I played along. “Don't hate me because I'm beautiful.”

“Too late,” said Summer.

I rubbed a smudge of lipstick off my teeth. “Wait until you see Professor Wigglesmith.”

“She showed you her dress?” asked Veronica. The girls looked at me like I was a funeral director at an amusement park.

“Maybe she mentioned it.”

The front door shot open and Dytee burst through. The girls turned and snickered, and I couldn't blame them. She was a mess. The beautiful dress I had helped her pick was half covered with an ugly brown shawl. She hadn't put on any of the makeup I had lent her, and she had her hair pulled back in the kind of ponytail you wear for gym class. I would say that her shoes looked like thrift shop specials, but I wouldn't want to insult the thrift shop.