The Clueless Girl's Guide to Being a Genius (11 page)

“OMG!” I said, leading Dytee to a chair. “You look like a baked potato wearing that thing.” She took the shawl off, and I dropped it on the counter.

Dytee sat and clutched at her bare shoulders. “I'm afraid I'm a little out of my comfort zone.”

“Now you know how Mindy feels in bonehead math,” said Veronica. Then she and Jordeen laughed as if their “joke” was actually funny. I ignored them.

“A rubber band for your hair?” I asked Dytee.

“I'm in charge of the punch table,” she replied. “I need to be hygienic.”

“Hygienic is not the look we're going for.” I worked the rubber band free and let Dytee's limp black hair fall just below her shoulders. “That's better,” I said. “Now the real work begins.”

I pumped the foot control and raised the chair. “Mom!” I yelled. “She's here.”

Mom came rushing over. “I'm so excited,” she gushed, as if she was about to open a Christmas present. She pulled a plastic covering from a drawer, shook it, and tossed it over Dytee, covering her from the neck down. “I've wanted to get my scissors on that mop since the moment I met you. What's your pleasure? A chic super-straight style? Romantic curls? Just name it.”

“Something easy to maintain,” said Dytee. “Normally, I don't have much time for things like fancy hairstyles. As a rule, I cut my own hair and keep it simple.”

Mom pulled at the ends of her uneven bangs. “Who'd have guessed?” she said. “But keeping it simple is not for Spring Flings. Leave it to me. We're going to make a new girl of you.” She spun Dytee around in the chair.

“And Mindy,” Mom said, turning to me, “we need to do something about those shoes. Get her that pair you wore to Grandma Lucy's party last year.”

By the time I returned, Dytee's face was bright red.

“Maybe she got confused and threw out the shoes and wore the shoe box,” said Veronica, holding up one of Dytee's boxy loafers.

“I'll have none of that attitude in my shop,” Mom scolded.

Veronica smirked. “Now this,” she said, slipping off a hip platform slingback, “is the perfect shoe.” She waved it in front of Dytee.

“Yes, quite perfect for you,” said Dytee. “A fat heel.”

Veronica's mouth dropped, and I burst into laughter.

“I think you've been dissed,” said Summer. She gave Dytee a high five.

Jordeen tried to hide a smile, and Veronica stomped over to the magazines and pretended not to care. My mom stared at Dytee.

“I've noticed that insult humor is used by girls my age to bond,” Dytee told her. “I hope it wasn't too over the top?”

“You go, girl,” Mom said.

Forty minutes later, we were done. Mom had given her the full works, hairstyling, makeup, and manicure. She led Dytee to a full-length mirror.

“Wait until you see,” said Summer. “You won't believe the difference.”

We stared at her reflection together. Her hair was layered and pinned up in an elaborate bun with two soft strands that spilled down like the cascading ribbon on the back of her dress. Her cheeks were pink, and glittery eye shadow accentuated her eyelids. Her lips and nails were done in a color called Drop Dead Red, and on the tip of each nail was a tiny heart in the exact shade of pastel pink as the trim on her sleek black dress.

“You're beautiful,” I said.

“Really?” Dytee asked.

“Not as beautiful as me, of course. But you clean up well.”

Mom looked like she might cry. “You're all so grown-up and gorgeous. Now give me hugs, everyone, and let's get you out of here.”

“Pictures!” yelled Veronica. “Who has the camera?” The girls vamped as Mom played photographer with their cell phones.

“Now a serious one,” said Mom. The girls formed a line in front of the washbasin. Dytee stood on the end next to me. I slipped one arm around Veronica's shoulder and the other around Dytee's. “Say cheese, Louise!”

After pictures, Mom told us to wait out front while she pulled her old Chevy Nova around. It was a real clunker that sometimes needed a push start, so I gave her time to get the car in place, and then we headed out to wait under the sign saying: “If the boss gives you the ax, cheer up with a bikini wax.”

But when we stepped outside, there was a stretch limousine in front of the shop. The limousine was white with a pink interior, which we could see through the door that the driver held open.

As he tipped his hat, the chauffeur said, “Ladies.”

“Where in blue blazes did that come from?” Mom shouted from the open window of her car.

She looked at me.

I looked at Summer,

Who looked at Veronica,

Who looked at Jordeen,

Who looked at Dytee, who said: “I wasn't sure how many of us there would be, so I requested their biggest car. I hope it's all right.”

Almost in unison, we darted for the door, screaming and giggling.

“My instructions,” said the driver as we piled in, “are to drive you to the Carnegie Middle School dance and wait.”

It was the most awesome thing that had ever happened to me, even including the beginning part of the walk home with Adam. On the ride over, I pretended that Adam had sent the limo and was waiting at the other end for me. I felt so good I might have burst my blue-sequined seams. We pulled in front of the Carnegie Middle School, and everyone strained to see who the limo was carrying.

“Wait,” said Veronica. “Let's keep 'em guessing a while.”

We watched a crowd gather.

“I can't stand it anymore!” Summer screamed, and she lunged for the door.

The chauffeur hopped out. He took each of our hands and escorted us to the front of the school like we were royalty. Dytee was the last to be walked over to our group. She looked so happy that it made me smile.

Inside, the gymnasium/auditorium was decorated with silver streamers and crepe-paper flowers. On the stage, a real DJ was spinning records, and a bunch of kids were already on the floor. A huge disco ball hung from the ceiling and shot tiny sparkles over everybody, just like you see in the movies.

“This one goes out to Bob from Cynthia,” said the DJ as he switched from hip-hop to an old slow song by some guy named Frank. It was “I've Got a Crush on You
.
” The lights dimmed and my heart soared. There was Adam, standing under the scoreboard, wearing black dress pants, a light blue dress shirt, and a silver necktie. He matched my outfit so perfectly it was as if we had planned it.

The girls and I had agreed to meet our dates at the dance, since we didn't think there would be room in Mom's car for everyone. After a few minutes, my date, Timothy, found me and asked if I wanted punch. I said yes, and he hit me on the arm, which was pretty lame, but I totally should have seen it coming. Then I told Timothy I really was thirsty and sent him off to get me punch, even though I only said it to get rid of him so I could stare at Adam. Ten minutes passed with no girl taking his arm. If only Adam asked me to dance.

P
ut sitting at home with your diary and teddy bear on one side. Put a school dance on the other. Then, if you have to choose between them, take the dance. Charles Darwin once said, “A mathematician is a blind man in a dark room looking for a black cat which isn't there.” In contrast, I was about to discover, a middle school dancer was like a wiggly person in a sparkly room drinking bubbly punch.

As soon as we arrived at the dance, the girls went off to gossip about who would dance with whom. I stared openmouthed as dots of light from the disco ball swept across my face. They were so delicious I could taste them. Miss Snipal waved me over to the refreshment table.

“What have you done to yourself?” she asked. “I almost didn't recognize you.”

Mrs. Underwood checked me out from head to toe. “You look radiant,” she said.

“Thank you. See how the pink is just in the trim? The black actually brings emphasis to it. In fashion, you can use one color to complement another,” I said, wanting to share Mindy's good advice.

“I'm sure you'll be the loveliest refreshment server at the dance,” said Mrs. Underwood. She showed me to the punch bowl. “You pour one part Hawaiian Punch, one part orange juice, and one part ginger ale. Don't let the students take more than two cups at a time, and wait until the level gets below this point before you mix a new batch.”

She lifted the tablecloth so I could see the supplies.

“What are the other things?” I asked.

She pointed to an array of industrial-sized glass jars. “This is Hershey's chocolate syrup, for the sundaes, but we only break out the ice cream toward the end of the dance. There's some Tabasco sauce, too, and salsa for the nacho dip in case that gets low, but you don't have to worry about that, since Mr. Green is in charge of snacks. Aphrodite? Are you listening?”

I couldn't get my gaze off the dance floor. The way the students were gliding around, it had to be covered with butter.

“You can't stand there,” said Mr. Ripple, who must have crept up from behind. “Go around to the other side if you'd like punch.” I smiled at him, and he looked surprised that it was me.

He turned to Miss Snipal. “Did you see the limousine? Eighth grade and someone sprang for a limo. It's crazy.”

“Look at that couple,” said Miss Snipal. “They're dancing too close.”

“Oh, come on,” said Mrs. Underwood. “I'll bet you were bumping it with the best of them at that age.”

“Never,” swore Miss Snipal.

“How about you, Aphrodite?” asked Mrs. Underwood. “You like to cut a rug? Surely there were dances at Harvard.”

I checked the level of the punch bowl. “I suppose. I never had time for much other than my studies. Equations were my friends.” Apart from Bernie the Squirrel and Alice, the cleaning lady, nobody ever came to visit me while I lived at Dr. Goode's house, and really, Bernie was in it for the Tootsie Rolls and Alice was there for the dirty sheets. Not that I wasn't invited to parties. There were lots of parties, big academic affairs where school officials in gray suits showed me off like I was the first loaf of sliced bread.

“Pooh pah! Look at those students,” said Mrs. Underwood. Summer, Jordeen, and two older boys were thumping to the beat and laughing under the disco ball. “Can equations cut loose and live it up like that?” She sighed. “You've missed out on so much.”

While Mrs. Underwood checked on the couples on the bleachers, I thought about what she'd said. All the time I was skipping grades so I could go to college early, it never occurred to me that I might have been missing out on something important in the process. Now I knew what I had given up: dress shopping, mugging for cameras, joking with girlfriends, and dancing with boys. It was a world I had never explored. But why shouldn't I? I decided to pretend I was a regular thirteen-year-old girl for the night and the students on the dance floor were my friends. I smiled until my lips began to ache.

The DJ put on a rock song that was so loud the refreshment table vibrated to the beat. I knew from a class I'd taken at Harvard that music played at such decibels could cause ear damage, and I wished I had anticipated the problem so I could have brought along some fitted earplugs. I looked under the table to see if there was anything I could use as a quick substitute. To my luck, there, right behind the chocolate syrup, was a large bag of miniature marshmallows. I used one of my manicured nails to poke a small hole in the bag and stuffed a mini-marshmallow in each ear.

Someone tapped me on the shoulder. “Professor Wigglesmith?” It was Adam.

“Would you like punch?” I asked, trying to be loud enough to be heard above the music. “It's got a bubbly kick.”

“Yes, please,” he said. I filled his cup and one for myself to propose a toast.

“To eighth-grade dances,” I said, tapping our plastic cups. I gulped down the entire sugary concoction, slammed the cup against the table, and wiped the remains off my lips with the back of my hand.

Adam put a finger under his shirt collar and pulled. “Professor Wigglesmith?” he said. He cleared his throat. “I was wondering if . . .”

“What?” I asked, deciding the marshmallows had been a bad idea, but not knowing how to discreetly remove them.

“If you would like to dance?” he shouted.

On the dance floor, laughing silhouettes hipped, hopped, shook, and boogied. How would it feel to be one of them? I had already poured a dozen cups of punch and arranged them in front of the bowl in case I got busy. Surely I wouldn't be missed for just a few minutes. “Yes,” I shouted back. “I would love to dance.”

The loud music cut off abruptly, and the DJ chirped, “All right you adolescent lovebirds, this slow one is coming at you from the hot new group, Once Bitten. It's ‘Don't Walk Away.' ”

I met Adam at the edge of the dance floor. He put a hand on the small of my back, and I reached up and perched both of my hands on his shoulders. He was so much taller than me that, with my arms stretched up, it must have looked like I was hanging on to the side of a mountain.

When the music started, we began to sway back and forth. I wasn't really sure how to dance, having only seen people do it on television, and I kept waiting for him to suddenly dip me or toss me up in the air. In reality, dancing for the first time is profoundly less dramatic. Basically, we wobbled like penguins as I stared at his shirt buttons and he gazed somewhere a foot over my head. Still, the rhythm of the music was quite mesmerizing. Once I closed my eyes, with the music muted by the marshmallows to a soft hum, it was enjoyable.