The Clueless Girl's Guide to Being a Genius (3 page)

“It is with great pleasure,” said Principal DeGuy, “that I introduce your new teacher, Professor Aphrodite Wigglesmith.”

Miss Snipal ceremoniously handed me a bucket of Ping-Pong balls. “If anybody gives you trouble,” she said, “hit 'em with one of these.”

Then Principal DeGuy and Miss Snipal left, and I was alone with seventeen math-challenged teenagers. I coughed. They stared. I cleared my throat. They stared. I removed from my book bag the index cards that I had prepared, and wrote my name on the board. Immediately, a hand shot up.

“I can't see it from here,” said Salvador, a boy from the last row who wore thick, horn-rimmed glasses. “Can you put it higher?”

I erased my name. I had to stand on a nearby stool to get the wording high enough. It was an old metal stool, and when I stepped on it, the stool made a sound like an old woman passing wind. Students snickered and my face heated. I stretched my arm up to write high and the stool did it again. I wrote quickly and jumped off.

“Now the planets are in the way,” said LeeAnn, a girl with enormous hoop earrings who sat on the left side of the second to last row. She pointed to a solar system mobile hanging from the ceiling.

I erased my name and tried to find a new spot to the right.

“Over a bit,” said Roland.

“No, that's too far,” said Keisha.

A couple of students snickered.

“Oh, knock it off,” said Adam. “Stop picking on her.”

“What do you expect?” asked a voice that had to belong to Hunter, who, sitting behind a student so much bigger than him, was almost completely concealed. “They send us a kid for a teacher. It's a joke.”

The room exploded into a verbal riot.

“Give her a chance,” said Adam. “She's got a degree from Harvard. Do you have any idea how hard it is to get into that school?”

“But look at her,” said Mindy. “My aunt Peggy's Chihuahua is two inches taller.”

“And probably smarter,” added Roland. “I vote we give the job to the Chihuahua.”

I should have been insulted, but I guess I was in shock. Most of the students in the back rows, led by Roland, openly opposed me. They sprang up and down in their seats and used animated hand gestures to emphasize their sincerity. A sprinkling of students, popping up like gophers in a field, led by Adam, defended me just as robustly. The students already sleeping at their desks showed no preference.

I turned to the chalkboard to figure where to print my name for maximum visibility. It's not that I wasn't stinging from the insults. It's just that I was a problem solver. I may not have been able to figure out how to look smarter than a Chihuahua, but I could use my math skills to try to solve the problem that had set the whole thing in motion. I examined the angles of unobstructed space to the board, and the objects that were in the way. Then I created an algebraic formula using those things as the variables. The chalk slapped against the board, leaving fragments. When I got to the second row of the formula, the class began to quiet. When I reached the end, the only sound was the chalk.

“Based upon my calculations, the best viewing area is here,” I explained, drawing a line on the board and writing my name on it. My knees felt weak, but I kept my voice strong. “Any questions before I begin?”

Timothy raised his hand. “I have a question.”

“Excellent.” I said. “I would be happy to answer it.”

“What does a mermaid wear to math class? An algebra. Get it?” He laughed. “Algae-bra.”

The class groaned. I wanted to laugh, partly because I was still a little nervous and partly because I had never heard that math joke before, but I managed to control myself. Then I went into my prepared speech. “Mathematics,” I said, “is one of mankind's most basic sources of knowledge. Many of the greatest problems of mankind have been solved through its use. Humans have literally moved mountains because of mathematics.” They stared, as if momentarily fixed to their seats, and I continued. “Without it, there would be no bridges and no gasoline. Nobody could compensate for antigravity in outer space, or heat oil to the temperature that creates French fries. Without mathematics, life as we know it would cease to exist.”

I wasn't sure if they were interested or getting ready for another attack. Somewhere I had read that a pack of wolves won't pounce on anything that is taller than it, so I picked up a math book, held it high, and continued.

“Mathematics is finite and infinite. It forces us to ask why and how, which gives meaning and depth to our lives. It is the only learned discipline where one can achieve absolute truth.”

They stared.

“We'll begin with an analysis of Lakatos's philosophy of mathematics.” I lowered the book.

“All I want to know is enough to pass eighth grade,” said Roland. “You ever teach fractions?”

“Well, no,” I admitted.

“Square roots?”

“Actually, this will be the first time I've taught lower-grade math concepts.”

Grumbling sounded across the classroom.

“I told you,” said Roland. “They don't care about us. She doesn't know nothing about teaching.”

“At least she knows more than you,” said Adam.

Roland crumpled a paper from his notebook and threw it at Adam, who crumpled a paper and threw it at Roland in retaliation. Other students joined the fray, springing open their binders and using filler paper as ammunition. Mindy sat with her math book open, slowly ripping out pages and tearing them to shreds.

I thought about screaming, but I doubted anyone would hear me above the roar. Suddenly, Miss Snipal's Ping-Pong balls did not seem like such a bad idea.

“They're a rowdy bunch,” Principal DeGuy had warned me. “Some real underachievers.”

“Anyone can be a math wiz,” I had assured him.

“Maybe,” he said. “And maybe frogs can fly.”

A giant spitball zipped by, inches from my head, and splattered onto the chalkboard. I ducked behind my desk for safety. It didn't matter to me if Principal DeGuy had his doubts, or even if my students did. I was going to prove that they could be math wizzes. I would instill confidence and inspire effort.

This class riot had not been part of my calculations, but I would not let it deter me. As soon as the students ran out of spitball ammunition, I would crawl out from under my desk and get to work.

T
hat's just like Aphrodite to totally forget how she bashed into me and almost killed me and to instead talk about the first day in her classroom. This is how we met: I was dumping stuff in my locker, and I was ticked because Mr. Green, my biology teacher, had just yelled at me for something I didn't do—my homework. Suddenly, some dumb book sailed over my head, crashed, and flopped down in front of me

“I've got it,” this huge seventh grader cried as he scooped it up. He did a victory dance like a football player scoring a touchdown. “Oh, yeah.”

Bobby DeGuy, the principal's son, rushed him. Even though he had gotten held back in third grade, Bobby was still the smallest boy in the eighth grade, and whenever anyone wanted to play monkey in the middle, Bobby was always the monkey. “Give it back—or else,” he said.

“Whatcha gonna do?” the bigger boy teased. “Tell Daddy?” He sent the book sailing to another boy, whose left hook sent it crashing into the locker right at my feet.

If it had been something important to me at the time, I might have picked it up—but it was just a stupid math book, so I stepped over it and kept walking. I had a bigger concern, a chipped nail, and not just a chip in the glittery peach polish. The nail tip was a complete jagged mess. Naturally, I headed for the bathroom.

If I'm going to be late for class,
I thought,
I might as well take my time.
I used an emery board to smooth and shape it, and touched up the edge with my spare polish. The girls in my class always made a fuss about my nails being long and fancy, but they had no idea what a giant pain it was to keep them looking good. Since I never knew when Mom might ask me to help with a manicure customer, I was pretty much stuck keeping them “perfect” all the time. Miss Brenda said I should get extra points when I competed for not whacking them off with my baton. I pulled out the novelty folding baton I kept in my backpack and gave it a few spins, using the breeze to dry the nails, before checking my face in the mirror.

For my thirteenth birthday, Mom had bought me a makeup kit the size of Montana. She said applying blush under the cheekbones would make my face look thinner and using mascara would make my eyes look larger. Grandma Lucy always says you shouldn't judge a cover by its book, or was it a book by its cover? Anyway, Mom disagreed.

“Beauty is the family business,” Mom had explained to me. “When you look bad, Tiffany's House of Beauty and Nails looks bad.”

Beauty was easy for Mom because she had wavy auburn hair and was naturally glamorous. Even her name, Tiffany, was pretty. What kind of a boring name is Mindy? In addition to a totally dumb name, I got stuck with boring brown hair I have to wash every day, and, even worse, a nose that breaks out in stupid freckles if I forget to wear concealer and sunblock. No matter what you look like, Mom tells her customers, the trick is to act like you're pretty. If you think you are, you will be. So even though I felt like a total fake sometimes, that's what I tried to do.

I changed my eyelids from lilac to blue and rubbed strawberry lotion into my hands. I bent down, tossing my long hair over my head, and brushed fifty times. By the time I checked my watch, class was half over and, really, it's better not to go at all when you're that late. So I grabbed a fashion magazine from my backpack and read “How to Eat Yourself Slim with Chocolate Cupcakes.” When the bell rang, I hurried to my next class. I could always make up an excuse why I missed one class, but missing more and getting away with it was harder. I stormed up the crowded steps when—

I fell against the kids behind me like some dumb domino. My backpack went flying, and a foot smashed my hand. A shrimpy girl with black hair wearing a gray suit sprawled next to me. She pushed her bangs out of the way and rubbed a red spot on her forehead. The crowd kept coming, and kids stepped over us, complaining we were blocking the way.

“Omigosh!” said Timothy. He grabbed me by the arm to help me up. Timothy has had a “secret” crush on me since I was six, and for once I was grateful he followed me around. The boy who sometimes followed Timothy grabbed my other arm. “Are you all right?”

“That girl slammed into me,” I told them. “She didn't even say sorry. She just sat there as if she's never been knocked down before.”

Like that wasn't bad enough, then Principal DeGuy came rushing down the stairs two steps at a time to help the girl up. “Holy tumbleweeds! So sorry, Aphrodite. These stairwells can be dangerous with the students charging up and down. Let's go to my office.”

Of course, I had no idea at the time that the rag doll with the skinny limbs who Principal DeGuy was leading down the steps was my new math teacher. I figured she was just some dumb new kid. I even stuck my tongue out at her as she passed, although she didn't seem to notice.

“I'm okay, too,” I said to Principal DeGuy's back. “Thanks for asking.”

“You stampeding elephants should get to class,” he shouted, before dragging the girl out of view.

The rest of the crowd took his advice and rushed off, leaving me and Timothy alone. I plopped down on a step and reached for my backpack. Something was oozing from the front pocket. My tube of strawberry hand lotion must have exploded when it hit the ground.

“Ugghhh!” I pulled out a tissue and began wiping off the mess. My hand was still throbbing from the fall, and the nail I had fixed was totally snapped in half.

“Looks like you're in a jam,” said Timothy. “A strawberry jam. Get it?” (Did I mention he had an annoying habit of telling incredibly lame jokes?)

“Oh, can it,” I replied.

And that's how I met Aphrodite.

I
f you are ever on the receiving end of flying squash, do this. First, remain seated. Standing will just make you a bigger target. Second, dart your head to the left or right, but never duck. The curvature of the spoon tends to fling the squash low, so you will take it in the head if you duck. Third, try to remember that it's only squash, and it washes off with water.

That evening, the mashed squash hit my left eyebrow. “No, no,” I told my baby brother, Hermy, the food-flinging fanatic. “In the cave. Put the yummy in the cave. Just like me.” I demonstrated by scooping up a spoonful of peas, dumping them in my mouth, and chewing with exaggerated satisfaction.

Hermy pointed to his own mouth. “Cave,” he squealed.

I wiped off the squash. Dinners had lost all civility since my baby brother joined us at the table, and I couldn't have been happier. Hermy never criticized me for baby talk or acting silly. It's not that I didn't love my parents, but, like my professors, they made me feel like I had to act mature. My mother was an especially serious person. If she were a drink, it would be water. My father, Buster Wigglesmith, would be a cup of warm milk. Hermy would be a fizzy cherry soda with a scoop of piña colada ice cream and a slice of lime served in a Winnie-the-Pooh glass.

Hermy was twenty-one months old. He was born while I was at Harvard. My father, a mythology buff, named him Hermes after the Greek god who bridged the mortal and immortal worlds, just as he had named me Aphrodite after the Greek goddess of love and beauty. Hermy had a quick smile, and passed gas when he laughed too hard. His chubby face reminded me of the dolls that my grandmother gave me before my math professors said they would distract me from my intellectual development.