The Clueless Girl's Guide to Being a Genius (16 page)

“Go, Frogs!” we yelled.

The Wolves at the academic team table huddled, and then jumped all at once. “Eat frogs!” they yelled.

Eugenia blew her nose. “
Do
wolves eat frogs?”

“If they're desperate,” said Salvador.

“What about lions?” she asked.

“Big cats don't waste time on amphibians,” he replied.

The Lions at the honors/gifted and talented team table let out a frog-curdling roar, and the kids who came to watch us get eaten alive beat their feet so hard against the bleachers the floor seemed to shake.

“But lions do prey on wolves,” said Keisha, raising her voice to be heard above the crowd. “So if wolves eat frogs and lions eat wolves, then technically, lions eat frogs.”

“Knock it off,” said Adam.

The Lions roared again.

It reminded me of the Muppet movie I had seen where Kermit the Frog was dressed like a gladiator. On one side of a fence was the frog; on the other were the lions. This is how Kermit must have felt right before the fence was raised and the big cats pounced.

B
efore you leave for an airport, always make sure to check that you are not still wearing your bunny slippers. This may seem obvious, but trust me, it's the kind of mistake you don't want to make twice.

I glanced down at my pink slippers, threw my bag in the trunk of the taxi, and hopped in. I could always change into the other shoes I'd packed when I got to the airport. “To Boston International,” I instructed.

The driver had a double chin and a thick Bean-town accent. He checked me out with a squinted eye. “Where are your parents?” he asked. “I don't give rides to runaways.”

I showed him a wad of cash. “Take the short route. There'll be a fifty-dollar tip if we make it by two o'clock.”

The driver flipped on his meter and pulled into traffic. He made his tip, and I raced to the ticket counter.

“Pittsburgh International Airport . . . next plane,” I gasped.

The woman punched keys and scrolled down a computer screen. “Sorry,” she said. “There's nothing until nine p.m.”

“No,” I said. “That will be too late.”

The woman scrolled again. “There is a flight at two forty-four, but the gate is on the other side of the terminal. I don't think you'll make it.”

“I'll make it,” I said, tossing hundred-dollar bills on the counter. “Just give me the ticket.”

By the time I got through security and found the gate, they were closing the door.

“Wait!” I shouted.

It was supposed to be a two-hour flight, but we got stuck behind air traffic and didn't land until 5:15 p.m. As the taxi pulled in front of my home, I sensed something was wrong. Mother's truck was gone, but the lights were on inside.

“Wait here,” I instructed the cab driver, handing him an extra twenty. “I may need you.”

The front door was locked. I peered through the glass and saw Summer talking on the hallway phone. I rang the bell, and she let me in.

“Hey, Professor Wigglesmith. What are you doing here?”

“A better question is, what are you doing here?”

“Babysitting your little brother. I just set him in his playpen. Your parents went to Carnegie Middle School to watch the Great Math Showdown. I wanted to go, but they're paying twice my normal rate. There's this pair of jeans and I'm dying . . .”

As she rambled, the taxi pulled away. “No!” I screamed.

“That's what I said,” Summer continued. “Last year's style isn't even worth it on clearance. Hello?”

“Could your parents come over and give me a lift?” I asked.

“They're at the math competition, too.” Summer checked her watch. “Everybody's probably there already.”

“But I need a ride!”

“Good luck with that,” said Summer. A voice came out of the telephone, and Summer put it back to her ear. “Sorry. It's nobody. Just Professor Wigglesmith.”

If I was going to make it to the math competition, I needed to be clever or lucky. I had run out of clever ideas. Where could I find luck at this time of night? I thought about the four-leaf clover tattoo on Mr. Finch's head.

“Everybody can do with a bit o' luck,” he had said.

Where was Mr. Finch when I needed him? Mr. Finch! That was it. The pool hall wasn't that far from my house. Maybe he could give me a ride. I borrowed the phone from Summer and called the Shoot-M-Up pool hall.

“Sure, we can take you over,” Mr. Finch said. “Give us your address.”

Ten minutes later, I heard a terrible roar. Four burly men on motorcycles were revving their motors in front of my house. Their bikes were extra-long chopper-style, with shiny metal wheels and black leather seats. Mr. Finch was perched on a massive bike with a frame on the back.

“Come!” he yelled to me. “Hop on.”

I strapped on a helmet and climbed behind Mr. Finch.

“Hold on good,” he said. “I don't want you falling off.”

I threw my arms around his stomach and held tight. As we raced for the middle school, the wind whipped my hair and stung my cheeks. Still, there was something exciting about the ride that made my whole body tingle. I clung tightly to Mr. Finch until we pulled in front of the middle school. The lot was so packed we parked on the grass. Inside, the bleachers were crammed full of spectators.

“Maybe we should stand in the back,” I said.

“Allow me,” said Snake. He smiled and his gold teeth sparkled. He went over to a group of middle schoolers sitting in the front row. The students got up and fled the gym. Snake waved us over.

“It's the smile,” he said as we took the empty seats. “All I ever have to do is ask.”

After we got settled, I explained the rules to Mr. Finch. Each team would be given a math problem and sixty seconds to solve it for five points. If one team missed a question, another team could steal their points with the correct answer.

I noticed Mrs. Underwood sitting behind me. “What's the score?” I asked her.

“If you're here to cheer for the remedial team, you'd better get started,” she said. She nodded toward Mindy, Adam, Salvador, Keisha, Eugenia, and Bobby, who were hunched together, quibbling furiously. “They're already behind: 10 to 10 to 0.”

T
hat's it,” Adam whispered. “The square root of 96,100 is 310.”

The Lions were getting close to the end of their time, and if they didn't answer soon, the Wolves could steal. Salvador was doing this weird fidgeting thing with his glasses; Bobby was fishing his fingers beneath his shirt collar, trying to loosen his necktie; and Eugenia was swaying blankly like she was focusing all her energy on not throwing up. “Are you okay?” I asked her.

Eugenia nodded weakly.

“Time's up,” said Mr. Ripple. “If the Wolves have the correct answer, they can steal.”

“Three thousand, one hundred,” answered the captain of the Wolves. His teammates gave him high fives.

“The answer is incorrect,” said Mr. Ripple. “Do the Frogs want to wager a guess?”

Adam cleared his throat. After flubbing our first two questions, we were really sweating.

“Three hundred ten?” he said.

“The answer is correct,” said Mr. Ripple. “Frogs get the steal for five points.”

Loud applause and whistles burst from the bleachers. “Go Frogs!” someone yelled.

Eugenia gasped. “Look!” she cried.

Nothing could have prepared me—there was Dytee, and the gang from the Shoot-M-Up pool hall.

“It can't be,” Keisha said.

Dytee smiled and waved. Mr. Finch bent his head down and pointed to his four-leaf clover.

“It's Professor Wigglesmith,” Adam said. “And she brought us a good-luck charm.”

Dytee had come back, but was it for good or just to watch the math competition? Was she still mad at me for what I said? Now was not the time to think about it. The Wolves looked rattled as they worked on their problem. We needed to concentrate to be ready in case we got a chance to steal. “Don't get distracted,” I said, repeating what Miss Brenda would tell me at my baton competitions.

“The answer is seventeen percent,” the captain of the Wolves told Mr. Ripple. “We are quite sure of it.”

“The answer is correct,” said Mr. Ripple. “Five more points puts the Wolves in the lead.”

Bobby groaned.

“Shhhh,” said Salvador.

“The next question is for the Frogs. When expressing algebraic expressions, what is the correct order of operatives?”

It was one of the things Dytee had taught us to remember by using a memorable phrase, in this case, “Please Excuse My Dad's Awful Skirt.” The first letter of each word—PEMDAS—was the sequence necessary to get the answer right.

“The order is parenthesis, exponents, multiplication, division, addition, and subtraction,” said Adam.

“The answer is correct,” Mr. Ripple said. “After two rounds, the score is as follows: Lions 10; Wolves 15; and Frogs 10.”

The audience clapped, whistled, and banged against the bleachers.

“The next question is for the Lions.”

Time raced by as we tackled harder and harder math questions. Sometimes my teammates came up with different answers and we had to guess which one of us was right. The Wolves got a question wrong, but nobody could steal. We were trapped in a three-way tie. Then we fell behind by five points.

“The score is: Lions 25; Wolves 25; and Frogs 20,” Mr. Ripple announced.

“We're gonna lose,” said Bobby.

“After all our work. It's not right,” said Keisha.

Eugenia blew her nose.

“Don't give up,” said Adam. “We've come this far. We can still win.”

“The next question,” said Mr. Ripple, “is for the Lions.”

Suddenly Eugenia's head disappeared below the table. She had it between her knees.

“I think I'm going to throw up,” Eugenia said.

“Don't,” I begged. “Hang on. We need you.”

“I'm going to be sick,” said Eugenia. “I'm not kidding.”

“You're just too hot because it's so stuffy in here. Let's get your sweater off,” I said, helping her remove it.

“Ready now?” asked Mr. Ripple.

I spread the sweater in Eugenia's lap. “If you get sick, vomit into your lap.”

Eugenia vomited into her lap. She regurgitated on command so quickly, I wondered if she had been a cow in a prior life. Why hadn't I thought to tell her
not
to vomit instead? The smell wafted up and assaulted the team.

“Oh, man,” cried Salvador. He jumped from his chair.

“Is there a problem?” asked Mr. Ripple.

I made the hand signal for a time-out.

“The Frogs have requested a time-out period,” announced Mr. Ripple. “According to the rules, each team is entitled to take only one five-minute time-out during the match, provided no question is pending. This will be the Frogs' only time-out.” He placed the microphone in its holder and left to talk to the scorekeeper.

“Now what do I do?” Eugenia asked me. Her face was still held over her lap. The pool of vomit was being absorbed into her sweater. I used a dry sleeve of the sweater to wipe her mouth.

“Roll up your sweater, throw it in the bathroom trash, and wash your face,” I said, helping her up. “If you're not back in five minutes, we forfeit. So hurry.”

“I'll try,” said Eugenia. She stumbled away, clutching her bunched-up sweater.

As the seconds passed, my heart was beating so hard I wondered if people could see my chest pounding.

Mr. Ripple came over. “One minute,” he warned. He looked at his watch as the time counted down with no sign of Eugenia.

So this was how it would end: defeat by forfeit.

Dytee got up from her seat and started walking toward Mr. Ripple, who was paying too much attention to his watch to even notice. “Excuse me,” she said when she was standing right beside him. Mr. Ripple's eyes bugged out like he had seen a ghost. “You! I thought you'd left.”

“May I inquire as to the nature of the problem?”

I was never so glad to see anyone. “Eugenia's sick,” I told her. “She puked and had to go wash her face. I don't think she's going to make it back in time.”

“Who are your alternates?” Dytee asked.

“Bobby, Mindy, and Hunter were the alternates,” said Adam, “but Mindy and Bobby are already filling in for Roland and LeeAnn, and Hunter didn't show.”

“No alternates?” said Mr. Ripple. “That's too bad. You'll have to forfeit.”

Dytee took a step back, and as bad as I felt for the team, I felt even worse for her. After all the effort she had put into us, her math wizzes were about to be math fizzes.

“I'd like to see the list of alternates,” Dytee said.

Adam stood. “But, I—”

“The list, please,” she said to Mr. Ripple. “The Frogs are entitled to call any alternate listed.”

“You want the list, fine,” said Mr. Ripple. “Call all of the missing teammates. Then the crowd can stare as nobody steps forward and you can further embarrass the poor students who did show. Maybe then you will be satisfied.” Mr. Ripple stormed over to the scorekeeper's table to get the list.

“He's right,” I said. “There's no point.”

“Trust me,” said Dytee.