The Clueless Girl's Guide to Being a Genius (7 page)

 

The teachers' lounge was located beside the adult restrooms and as far away from the band room as possible. There were three unwritten rules: don't hang your coat on a more senior teacher's hook; don't compare salaries; and (for reasons that would later become clear) don't allow your pet tarantulas to run loose.

Mr. Ripple took a huge bite out of his baloney sandwich and talked as he chewed. He had tight skin and a pencil-thin mustache that wiggled as he ate. “Only the gifted and academic math classes enter the Great Math Showdown,” he said. “There are advanced problems, so there's no way your students could win.”

“But no rule prohibits my students from entering, right?”

Mr. Ripple bit off another chunk of sandwich, while the handful of other teachers present listened. “Little lady, you'd be setting them up for failure. Why would you want to embarrass them like that? Remedial math students should focus on remedial math and leave the showdown to the other classes.”

I peeled my orange and gave him a sour look. He opened a bag of potato chips and crunched loudly. Once, while I attended Carnegie Middle School, Mr. Ripple briefly had been my math teacher. He didn't seem to like me then, and he didn't seem to like me now. It was not my wish to embarrass my students, but how else could I get the rest of the school to stop treating them like boneheads?

“It's a self-fulfilling prophecy,” I mumbled.

“What's that?” asked Mr. Ripple, brushing crumbs off his shirt.

“Nothing.”

He bit another chip.

I said, “It's just that, if we expect my students to fail, they will expect themselves to fail. If everyone expects failure, that's the result.”

Mrs. Underwood, the district's reading specialist, chimed in. “Really, sweetie, you're not suggesting intelligence is irrelevant? You of all people should realize that some students are born with more upstairs.”

“Know what they call my students?” I asked.

Silence.

Finally, Mr. Ripple responded. “Everybody knows. Boneheads.”

“Do you know how that makes them feel?” I asked.

“Probably like boneheads.”

“That's the problem,” I said.

Mr. Ripple crunched another chip.

“Intelligence isn't as much about ability as it is about the time required to learn something,” I continued. “Success requires confidence and effort. The students in my class simply aren't used to exploiting their full potential.”

“If you say so, sweetie,” said Mrs. Underwood.

“Sweetie” and “little lady” were words adults often used to suggest I should shut up, but I would not be deterred. “How can I ask my students to believe in themselves if we don't believe in them? Winning the Great Math Showdown is exactly what my students need to prove they, too, can be math wizzes.”

“And losing the competition is exactly what those poor students don't need.” Mr. Ripple dropped his baloney sandwich. He wagged his finger at me like he was scolding a puppy. “You're expecting too much. Assuming they can beat the gifted and academic classes.”

“I believe,” I told him, “that given sufficient instruction and motivation, almost anyone can be a math wiz.”

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

It was the same thing Principal DeGuy had once said. The other teachers were nodding madly. They were so set in their ways, they weren't even listening. If only they realized how much progress my students had already made. They were doing the harder work and doing it well. But if the rest of the world still treated them like boneheads, they might lose confidence and stop trying. I could never prove my theory if that happened.

I gathered my orange peels and placed them in my brown bag. From the corner of my eye, I caught a movement. Something was scurrying across the floor, something fist-sized and hairy.

“Tarantula!” Mrs. Underwood screamed.

Mr. Green, the biology teacher, dropped on all fours and followed the spider. “Romeo, or Juliet, whichever one you are, I've got you this time.”

In the end, things were just as they had been before I went to the lounge. Mr. Green's pet tarantulas (which I later learned were mascots for the Carnegie Spiders wrestling team) remained on the loose, and, to the other teachers, my students remained boneheads. But things were about to change.

I
decided to put it to a class vote,” Professor Wigglesmith told us the next day. She was wearing another one of her boring gray suits, and it made me think:
If a yawn had a color it would probably be gray.
Anyway, she told us all about the Great Math Showdown and said winning it would prove to everyone we weren't hopeless dolts. A lot of the kids seemed to be buying it, but I happen to be a little more careful about what I put in my shopping cart.

“The competition will require practice, but you'll get extra credit, and that will go a long way toward helping you pass class,” she said. “Those who think we should enter the competition?” Adam, Keisha, Eugenia, Salvador, Hunter, LeeAnn, and Roland raised their hands. “That makes seven. Anyone else?” She turned to put the number on the board, writing it low, probably to avoid having to use the dreaded stool.

While her back was turned, Roland held up a paper that said
Vote for the competition or I'll breathe on you.

Bobby raised his hand. “Me too,” he said. “I'll vote for it.”

Professor Wigglesmith changed the number to eight. “Those who don't want to compete?” Eight other kids raised their hands. “We can't make a decision with a tie. Who didn't vote?”

“Mindy didn't vote,” said Roland.

“Shut up and mind your own business,” I said, slumping down in my chair. Getting my math grade up was one thing; wasting my time on some lame math contest was another. There were two good reasons not to do it. First, I had to stay focused on getting ready for the Twirlcrazy Grand Championship, which was coming up and might be my last chance to compete, since the Baton Barn was closing. Second, I might have been stupid, but not stupid enough to believe I was smarter than the smart kids.

“Mindy? What about you? I know you could use the extra credit. If we set the practices later in the evening, you would still have time for your baton.”

I leaned back in my seat. “Sorry, I don't think so.” Professor Wigglesmith was wasting her time. I already had a solid C, and between class and after-school tutoring, I spent enough time on math. Nothing could make me give up free time to crunch more numbers.

“Come on,” said Adam. “Give us your vote.” From the tone in his voice, he was practically begging.

He locked eyes with me, and a tingle crept up my spine. Adam's smile was so sweet I gained two pounds. After all the new lip gloss and cute outfits I had tried, I finally had his attention. “Okay,” I said. “As a favor for you, Adam.”

Cheers and boos followed, but I kept my gaze on Adam. Call me crazy, but when he mouthed the words “Thank you,” I swear my chair lifted six inches off the ground.

“I will advise Mr. Ripple to include us in the Great Math Showdown,” Professor Wigglesmith said. “For those who raised their hands, six will be on the class team and the other three will be alternates. After class, we'll meet to set a team practice schedule. The competition is in only nine weeks, so we begin practicing immediately.”

“What? You mean we have to practice for nine whole weeks?” asked Roland.

“We must work hard if we want to win,” Professor Wigglesmith said. “Now, who wants to be team captain?”

Timothy raised his hand.

“You have to be on the team to be the captain,” said Professor Wigglesmith, smiling.

Adam raised his hand. “I volunteer,” he said.

Professor Wigglesmith blushed.
She's got a crush on him,
I thought.
Like every other thirteen-year-old girl
. But the idea of Professor Wigglesmith with Adam was so ridiculous it was hard to take seriously.

 

We practiced three evenings a week at the Carnegie Diner. So that I could make it on time, Professor Wigglesmith's dad would drive me to my class at the Baton Barn and then drop us both off at the diner afterwards. That was fine by me, since it beat the icicle ears I got when I biked there.

We were usually the first to arrive at the diner, and would take the two tables in the back and push them together. Today, just to shake things up, we ordered for each other. I ordered her cheese fries and a killer burger. She ordered me some stupid salad with gross little chunks of chicken and this runny low-fat dressing. That shook me up, all right!

It had rained earlier in the day and the slippery streets were slowing traffic, so it was taking longer than usual for the rest of the math team to show. I dropped my straw, and when I bent down to pick it up, I noticed Professor Wigglesmith's feet dangling. “You don't even touch the floor when you sit,” I observed.

“We're all on the short side in my family. I'm only four feet, six inches,” she admitted. “It's a genetic predisposition. My father says we're remotely descended from General Napoleon, although my history professor at Harvard said Napoleon's stature was grossly underestimated.”

At five feet, six inches, I was a solid foot taller than Professor Wigglesworth. “Doesn't it bother you to be so short?” I asked.

“Sometimes,” she said, pushing bangs out of her eyes. “Like when I want to write high on the board and I have to pull up that awful stool.”

She shuddered, and I could almost hear it fart. Half of me wanted to tell her about the hidden whoopee cushion so she could stop embarrassing herself, but the other half didn't want to go to detention for not telling her sooner.

“Does it ever bother you to be so tall?” she asked.

“When I was in elementary school I got called ‘Jolly Green Giant' so many times, I banished the color from my wardrobe. I still won't wear green.”

“I've worn something pink every day since I was four,” she replied.

“Really?” I asked skeptically. I mean, after that day she came to my house in the bright pink pants and pastel pink jacket, I hadn't seen her wear pink once.

“Even at Harvard, when I went to a Mensa meeting, I would wear a black or gray suit, but secretly wear something pink where nobody could see. Are you aware how many shades of pink there are?”

“Three?” I guessed.

“There's amaranth pink, bubblegum pink, carnation pink, cerise pink, cherry blossom, coral pink, dark pink, deep pink, French rose, fuchsia—”

“I get the idea.”

“Hot pink, Japanese pink, lavender pink, pink magenta, Persian pink, Pink Panther pink, salmon, shocking pink, tea rose, and thulium pink, just to name a few. Flamingo is my favorite.” She lifted the bottom of her black pants and showed me her flamingo pink socks.

“Can I ask a question? I mean, if you like pink so much, why don't you just wear it without worrying about if people can see it?”

“Last time I did that, someone said I looked like a piece of bubblegum stuck in a cotton candy machine.” The words I had spoken sounded a lot meaner when she repeated them back to me. She added, “I assumed you were suggesting I not dress that way again.”

“Do you always do things just because other people tell you to?” I asked. It was meant as one of those questions that you aren't really supposed to answer, but she paused as if giving it deep thought.

“Usually,” she said. “Do you think I should I stop?”

I tried to match the insecure girl sipping root beer with my self-confident math teacher. “Can I ask you a question? Why do you act so different after school?”

“I'm supposed to act like a teacher when I'm in class. I'm not supposed to act like me.”

At first, that sounded pretty weird, but then when I thought about it, I realized what she meant. “Like when I'm at a baton competition,” I said. “I'm supposed to act like I'm having a great time, even if I have to do a split when I really need to pee, or if I accidentally send a hoop baton sailing into the crowd.”

“Sort of like that,” she said.

We talked a while about how people expect you to act one way when you feel like acting another, and then I told her about the Baton Barn becoming a Cluck and Shuck, which she agreed was totally wrong. Then to blow some more time, I had her give me her hand so I could read her palm. Not that I was a real palm reader or anything, but since I did a lot of manicures Mom had shown me the location of the lines that were supposed to mean something. She said people would give extra tips if I spotted a long fame or luck line.

“Here's something,” I told Professor Wigglesmith. “Look at all the distance between your life line and your love line.”

“Is that bad?” she asked.

“I don't know,” I answered. “This is usually when I try to make up something nice so I'll get a good tip. Like, if you were a customer, I might say: It means you will soon find a new love to fill the space.” Speaking of love . . . In anticipation of Adam's arrival, I got out my cherry-scented lip gloss and slathered it on. I also checked the polish on my nails.

As I spun my fork, Professor Wigglesmith counted out loud the number of spins. She was one strange cookie, that Professor Wigglesmith. Not the kind of person I would normally hang out with, yet we got along just fine, even if I had only joined the team to be with Adam.

“Have you ever wondered,” I asked, “what would have happened if you hadn't been so smart? I mean, if you were just regular. You'd be an eighth grader at Carnegie Middle School, just like me. We might have even been friends.”