The Clueless Girl's Guide to Being a Genius

by Janice Repka

  As we waited for the photos to come out of the machine, I handed Dytee my baton to hold. She tried to do the fujimi roll, which was totally out of her league, and kept dropping the baton and chasing it around. The strip of photos was peeking out of the slot and I was careful to hold it on the edges so it wouldn’t smudge. That’s when I noticed Dytee looking up at the ceiling above the star court, then at the baton she was holding.

  She spread her legs out for balance, just like she had when she broke the window in the alley outside of my mom’s beauty shop. Then she lowered the baton and flung it in the air. It flew at the speed of the sound of my horrified scream, veered sideways, struck a beam, and shot through the front window of the Hip Dip clothing store.

  Crash!

  “I’m afraid I failed to take that trajectory into account in my equation,” said Dytee. She slipped her hand in her pocket, pulled out her wad of Ben Franklins, and rushed toward the store.

  A middle-aged woman in a flowered dress standing nearby had witnessed it all. “What kind of an idiot brings a baton to a mall?” she asked.

  “People who live in glass stones shouldn’t throw houses,” I reminded the woman, and went to help Dytee.

  13

  Aphrodite Dresses Up

  In many ways, people are like spiders. Not just because they both have hairy legs and can act creepy. Spiders are creatures of habit, but every now and then, one of them surprises you. Take Romeo and Juliet, for example. After we found Romeo sitting on Mr. Ripple’s head, Mr. Green caught him and took him back to his tank in the biology room. I figured Juliet would sense danger and stay hidden. Instead, she played dead in the middle of the room, as if she wanted to be caught so she could be returned to the tank next to Romeo’s. That was so unexpected.

  Just like, when I approached Mindy in the hallway at school, I wasn’t expecting her to ask me if I was going to the Spring Fling, and I certainly wasn’t expecting her to agree to go dress shopping at the mall with me. I’d never had a friend my own age before. It was weird—good weird, but weird.

  The teachers’ lounge had become more relaxing (although less interesting) since the spiders had been caught. I unwrapped my tuna salad sandwich and was about to take a bite when the phone let out a shrill ring.

  “It’s for you,” Mr. Ripple said. “Probably another complaint about your field trip.”

  Already, I had gotten three calls from parents who questioned why I took their children to a pool hall and demanded that I secure signed field-trip forms in the future. I braced myself to defend the field trip again.

  “This is Jeffrey Paul Phillips, local-interest reporter for the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette newspaper. I read the article that was printed a few weeks back about you in the Carnegie Signal Item.”

  I recalled my encounter with the Signal Item reporter, Stanley Butera. His article about me had focused on my E + C = MW teaching method for remedial students.

  “I heard about what’s been going on at Carnegie Middle School, and our readers are interested to know more.”

  I sighed, expecting to be ridiculed in print for taking my students to the pool hall. “I realize my teaching methods may be unusual, but you don’t give an antacid to a patient in cardiac arrest.”

  “Great quote,” said the reporter. “I want to hear more about your new teaching method. But first, tell me, what was your reaction when you learned that there had been a forty-eight percent increase in math aptitude test scores among students in your classroom?”

  “When did I learn what?” I asked.

  “No need to be coy, Professor Wigglesmith. I’m talking about test scores that were released by the Department of Education this morning. Your class has achieved the single-highest increase among students in the state. How does that make you feel?”

  My stunned silence answered his question. I knew my students were improving, but even I was dumbfounded by how much. Suddenly, Principal DeGuy appeared. “Aphrodite, you have a call on the line in my office. It’s Channel Four news.” He took the phone from me. “She’ll have to call you back.”

  “Dytee!” Hermy screamed when my family watched the news that evening.

  “Yes, your sister is on television,” said Mother.

  “Pretty,” said Hermy. “Dytee pretty.”

  “Thank you,” I said. Mindy had encouraged me to wear a soft pink blouse under my gray suit jacket for the interview. Mindy’s mom had lent me a pair of sparkly clip-on earrings to match. They had tiny hair dryers on them and the phone number for her beauty salon.

  “It takes one to know one. Or at least to know how to teach one,” said the television voice-over. “This thirteen-year-old has what it takes. Since wiz kid and Harvard graduate Professor Aphrodite Wigglesmith took over the eighth-grade remedial math class at Carnegie Middle School, aptitude scores have soared nearly fifty percent. That’s the highest increase in the state.”

  “They’re exceptionally hardworking students,” my television self said. “They deserve all the credit.”

  The camera cut to a classroom of excited students. Roland and LeeAnn pushed to be in the center of the shot.

  “But her students say it’s their gifted young teacher, Professor Wigglesmith, and her new teaching method that deserve the praise.”

  A head shot of Adam appeared with a caption: “Adam Boyce, Captain of Mathematics Team.”

  “Professor Wigglesmith really cares about us and she doesn’t treat us like we’re stupid,” said Adam. “Having someone believe in you makes you believe in yourself.”

  “In other news . . .”

  Mother snapped off the television. Father rushed through the kitchen door, carrying a gallon of milk. “Did I miss it?”

  “Yes,” said Mother. “But we got it on videotape.”

  “I’d have made it,” Father said, “but everyone at the supermarket wanted to pass on their congratulations.”

  “Our Aphrodite is a big star,” said Mother.

  Hermy pulled his thumb out of his mouth and pointed to the television. “Dytee?” he asked.

  “It’ll blow over in a week,” I said. “Celebrity doesn’t last.”

  The phone rang. I cringed, hoping I would not have to talk about myself anymore.

  “It’s Mindy,” Mother said.

  I pounced on the phone. “Did you see it?”

  “Of course. Everyone saw it,” said Mindy. “I was on TV. You could see me waving in the lower right part of the screen. It was beyond awesome.”

  I smiled. “My mother recorded it. Do you want to come over tomorrow after math practice and watch?” Silence. “Mindy, are you there?”

  “I can’t. I’ve got an extra baton class.”

  “We can give you a ride.”

  More silence.

  “No,” said Mindy. “I’d rather bike. Look, I’ve got to go.”

  The line went dead.

  14

  Mindy Fesses Up

  The only reason I lied to Dytee was because telling her I was going shopping with the VJs might have hurt her feelings, and what she didn’t know wouldn’t. I figured if I saw a better dress than the one I had already bought during my secret shopping trip with Dytee, I could take the first back. As it turned out, I did find a better dress, one that looked so good on me it made the other girls turn “Jolly Green Giant” green. It was perfect.

  The day of the dance, eighth-grade girls swarmed Tiffany’s House of Beauty & Nails like it was a honeycomb. I wore my new short baby blue dress dotted with reflective sequins. I had dangly silver earrings and a small heart necklace with a matching bracelet. Oodles of ringlets spilled out from my updo and ran down my shoulders.

  “You look like you stepped out of here,” said my mom, holding a fashion magazine.

  The other girls shook their heads jealously, and I played along. “Don’t hate me because I’m beautiful.”

  “Too late,” said Summer.

  I rubbed a smudge of lipstick off my teeth. “Wait until you see Professor Wigglesmith.”r />
  “She showed you her dress?” asked Veronica. The girls looked at me like I was a funeral director at an amusement park.

  “Maybe she mentioned it.”

  The front door shot open and Dytee burst through. The girls turned and snickered, and I couldn’t blame them. She was a mess. The beautiful dress I had helped her pick was half covered with an ugly brown shawl. She hadn’t put on any of the makeup I had lent her, and she had her hair pulled back in the kind of ponytail you wear for gym class. I would say that her shoes looked like thrift shop specials, but I wouldn’t want to insult the thrift shop.

  “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.

  15

  Aphrodite Makes Them Gush

  Put 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 d
iscover, 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.”