The Clueless Girl's Guide to Being a Genius

by Janice Repka

  If the Baton Barn closed, my competitive twirling days would be over, and I’d be just another one of the dumb kids. Life was so unfair. Why did I always get the short end of the baton?

  3

  Aphrodite Describes Meeting Mindy for the First Time

  If you’re skinny and flat, like me, here’s a fun thing you can do. Stand in front of a full-length mirror. Turn your body sideways. Now stick out your tongue. Behold! You’re a zipper. I felt chipper as a zipper the morning I got dressed for my first day of teaching at Carnegie Middle School.

  I wore the gray suit I used for presentations at Harvard, but tucked a pink silk handkerchief way down low in the front pocket of the jacket where nobody but I could see it. Even though my professors at Harvard discouraged me from wearing pink because it was “too little-girly” and “suggested a failure to appreciate the importance of a professional appearance,” it was still my favorite color.

  How did I make the transition from brilliant math prodigy and Harvard graduate student to thirteen-year-old middle school remedial math teacher, you might be asking? More about that later. Suffice it to say that after my new-teacher orientation, I sat at the desk in front of my eighth-grade classroom waiting for the students to trickle in. I couldn’t remember if I had been in the same classroom when I had attended Carnegie Middle School as a student, since I had passed through so quickly. Boring describes that room: naked bulletin board, crooked rows of wooden student desks, and dingy white walls. My gray suit sure didn’t help to pep things up, so I pulled up the pink handkerchief till it peeked out of my breast pocket.

  I knew it might feel a bit awkward at first teaching students who were the same age as me. However, I was confident that my air of authority and superior mathematical skills would make it impossible for any of the thirteen-year-old students in my class to think of me in any way other than as the distinguished educator I intended to be.

  A boy wandered in and came over to my desk, leaning in close. He had a chubby face, yellow teeth, and the worst breath I had ever smelled. “Why are you sitting there?” he asked. He punctuated his consonants with big bursts of air. “Park your butt in the back.”

  Before I could think how to respond, Principal DeGuy came in. “That will be enough, Mr. Geruch.”

  Bad-breath boy backed off. “Anything you say, Mr. DeGuy.”

  Long-haired girls in wide-bottomed blue jeans and sparkly shirts wandered in, chatting and giggling. Noisy boys in straight-legged jeans and untied sneakers came in, punching one another’s arms. I had memorized the seating chart, after one quick glance, so as soon as they were seated, I knew who they were. The last student to enter was the girl who had knocked me over in the stairwell earlier that morning. She gave me a suspicious look and took her seat. She was Mindy Loft. Her name suited her: she towered over me by at least a foot. She was a pretty girl, with sandy brown hair down to her waist, a slightly freckled complexion, and a strawberry scent.

  Last, Miss Snipal blew in. Although she was the girls’ gym teacher (and a former state Ping-Pong champion), Miss Snipal had been substituting as the math teacher. I was told the previous math teacher had quit the position in frustration because, despite her best effort, the remedial students “still couldn’t tell an octagon from an octopus.” I wasn’t sure why the only substitute available was an expert at pushups rather than add-ups, but I didn’t want to seem nosy. I was just glad they were willing to hire me and give me a chance to teach. Principal DeGuy had asked Miss Snipal to join us as he introduced me to the class.

  The bell rang, and my face heated. Since I’d turned thirteen, I had become more aware of my propensity to blush. It happened without warning, and at odd moments. I couldn’t let the students see how nervous I was. Something that had always been stressed to me by my professors was that I should act my brain age, not my body age.

  “Class,” said Principal DeGuy, “it is my pleasure to introduce a remarkable young lady. Aphrodite Wigglesmith was four years old when I myself recognized her mathematical intellect. She graduated from elementary school at age eight, completed middle school the following year, and graduated from high school at age eleven.”

  The professors at Harvard called this the “dog and pony show.” During the show, people would stare at me with widening mouths, and I would stare at something above their heads. They would see a petite girl, not especially pretty but no worse than plain-looking, slightly red in the face at the moment, with long bangs and dark shoulder-length hair pulled back efficiently with a barrette. I would see the dirty air vent, smudge, or similarly unremarkable feature on the spot of wall I was concentrating on. Today it was a spitball that had stuck and dried near the wall clock.

  Principal DeGuy pulled a paper from his pocket and read: “After a perfect mathematics score on her SAT and a demonstration of substantial progress on the Millennium Prize Problems, Aphrodite Wigglesmith was admitted under special privilege to Harvard. She is the recipient of the Strangefellow Mathematics Award and the Fellowhood of the Traveling Calculator Prize. She was awarded a bachelor of science in mathematics from Harvard, and recently completed the requirements for a master’s degree.”

  Principal DeGuy did not tell the class that while I was at Harvard I had to stay at the house of Harvard’s dean of mathematical studies, Dr. Goode, instead of the dorm, and that my only real friend there had been a squirrel named Bernie, which I fed marshmallows and Tootsie Rolls. He also didn’t tell how I came to be teaching remedial math to students in my hometown.

  You see, I had a theory that nearly anyone could learn to be a math wiz—well, maybe not a total wiz, but at least wizish. Some students might take longer to understand a math concept than others, but their instruction could be tailored to suit their time:learning ratio. Had I not been on my own individualized math path, I’d have never gotten this far. Why couldn’t other students benefit from the same approach? The key would be a healthy dose of confidence to deter quitting. If other students believed in their potential as much as my teachers had believed in mine, why shouldn’t they succeed?

  To put it simply: E + C = MW (Effort + Confidence = Math Wiz).

  In order to prove my theory, I needed to find a group of students who were as math challenged as possible. I’d sent out one hundred résumés to find a teaching job and received one hundred rejections. They all said the same thing: nobody would hire a thirteen-year-old math teacher. The solution to my problem came from a most unexpected place—a cafeteria bathroom.

  “Somebody stop it!” yelled a Harvard freshman fleeing from a toilet that had begun spouting dirty water.

  A pond formed around the stall and turned into a river.

  “Ugh! Disgusting,” said another girl as she, too, fled.

  I watched the water approach. It reminded me of Carnegie Middle School and the man with the polka-dot tie, Principal DeGuy. Could he use a mathematics teacher? I wondered.

  It was the second time a toilet changed my life.

  So there I was, about to launch my teaching career in front of a class of thirteen-year-olds who had mostly flunked their first two quarters of math and would not be able to graduate and move on to high school unless I could turn them into math wizzes this spring.

  “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 wa
s 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.

  4

  Mindy Describes Meeting Aphrodite for the First Time

  That’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 busines
s,” 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—

  Crash!

  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?”