“How many?” Nana asks.
“Vitamins?”
“Friends?”
“Um…” This is actually a hard answer to calculate. What makes someone a friend? A shared interest? Is there a minimum amount of time you need to spend together? Does the other person need to call you a friend, too?
Nana rubs the back of her neck. “I think this is the real—”
“4!” I shout. “I have 4 friends.”
“Who?” Nana asks.
“SquareHead314, HipHypotenuse, Numberlicious, and GregS77.”
“What?” Nana laughs, but I’m not joking. “Are those people?”
“Yes, they’re online friends. I know them from the math forums and the tutoring websites.”
“Do you know anything about them?” Uncle Paul asks, shaking his head. My family is ganging up on me.
“I know SquareHead314 is a whiz with differential equations. He…or she…can explain things in the simplest terms.”
“He or she?” Uncle Paul asks.
“Don’t be sexist. Girls are as good at math as boys are. I can’t assume SquareHead314 is a boy.” Now it’s my turn to shake my head.
“SquareHead is not your friend if you don’t even know his…her…gender.” Uncle Paul runs his hands over his microshort (maybe ⅛ inch) hair.
“What do you want me to do? Nana told me to be careful on the Internet. I try not to ask personal questions.”
“Lucy, you don’t know these people. You’ve never met them. They’re not your friends,” Nana says.
“Do you want me to invite them over?”
“No!” Nana snaps. “These people could be murderers. Especially Greg77. He obviously has no imagination.”
“It’s Greg-S-77. And he’s an expert in string theory.”
“What is that?” She holds up a hand. “Never mind.”
“Ma, how did you let this happen?” Uncle Paul asks. “Lucy needs to be around other kids. You can’t keep her locked away.”
“That’s right. I have her locked in a tower and never let her out. She’ll have to grow her hair and escape through the window if she ever wants to leave. Please, Paul.”
This would be a good time for me to say, Don’t blame Nana. Sure, she is the 1 who pulled me out of elementary school after 2nd grade. But I’ve never wanted to go back. Nana tried. She forced me to go to the homeschool gym class at the Y last year. I hated it. The other kids hated it, too. I only like to bounce a basketball 3 times. Or jump rope 3 times. Or run around the track 3 times. Actually, I hate running around the track any number of times. People don’t get me, and I don’t really need the distractions.
Instead, I say, “Nana hasn’t been to her doctor in over 2 years. 741 days exactly.”
“What!” Paul says.
“What does that have to do with anything?”
“Ma, you have to take care of yourself.”
Nana and Uncle Paul go back and forth. I quietly excuse myself and carry Uncle Paul’s duffel bag to my bedroom. I’m letting him sleep there for the weekend.
I log on to my computer.
LightningGirl: Hey, friends. I’m back.
SquareHead314: Great. We’re talking fractal geometry.
Maybe SquareHead and the others aren’t friend friends. But we’ve got a shared love of math. Maybe that’s enough.
Life is like an equation, and mine is perfectly balanced.
Nana + Uncle Paul + Math = Happiness
Other people might need to add in friends or sports or money or something else, but my equation is already solved.
Uncle Paul stays with us for 3 nights. I hate that he’s about to leave—even though he forced me out of the apartment every day while he was here. We’ve gone for ice cream, gone to the movies, bought groceries, and gone bowling. He bowled. I watched.
I give Uncle Paul a hug in the parking lot. Nana and I don’t know when we’ll see him again. But I am happy to get my room back, and my bed. Nana kicks in her sleep. It’s like she’s on a treadmill.
“I’m going to miss you, genius.” He kisses my cheek. “Be good for the old lady.”
“Who are you calling old?” Nana gives him a hug, then a kiss, then another hug and another kiss.
“Okay, okay, Ma. You’re turning into Lucy.”
“Very funny,” I say.
Nana and I watch Uncle Paul get into his Jeep and drive off. He waves an arm through the open window. Nana wipes her eye with her thumb.
I turn to go back inside, but she grabs my elbow.
“Get in the car,” she says.
“What? Why?” I notice that Nana has her purse.
“Just get in.”
“I don’t have my wipes or hand sanitizer.”
She pats her bag. “Get in.”
I sit, stand, sit, stand, sit in the front seat, which is harder to do in the car than in the living room. When I close the door, Nana presses the door-lock button.
“Where are we going?”
“You’ll see,” she says.
The car radio plays country music. Nana sings along, even though she doesn’t seem to know any of the words. I stare out the window and count the telephone poles.
We drive past BI-LO and Cracker Barrel, where Nana works, and the Route 68 Diner (my favorite place to eat because it has a great name and great curly fries).
I’ve counted 117 telephone poles and 3 traffic lights when Nana turns on her blinker, and I see the sign.
EAST HAMLIN MIDDLE SCHOOL.
“Why are we here?”
She parks in a lot that has only 7 cars.
“Let’s go,” Nana says.
I can’t move. Nana gets out and walks around to my side. She yanks open my door, reaches across me, and takes off my seat belt.
“I will carry you,” she threatens.
I know she can’t lift me with her bad back, and I’m already taller than she is. I also know that we aren’t leaving until she gets what she wants.
“Tell me why we are here,” I say without looking at her.
She sighs. “My darling genius granddaughter…don’t play dumb with me.”
“I’m not.”
“You’re going to middle school,” she says.
“I should be going to college,” I snap. Or at least high school.
“I don’t think so. You need to work on some of your soft skills before I send you off to MIT. You need to be around your peers. Now, come on.” She kisses her palm and pats it to my forehead. Then she starts walking toward the 2-story building. I have no choice but to follow. She’s going to sign me up even if I stay in the car.
The best decision Nana ever made was taking me out of public school. Now she wants to send me back. Obviously, her judgment is deteriorating.
After I was diagnosed as a savant, school got really hard for me. Not the work. I basically bothered my 2nd-grade teacher all day long asking for more math problems. She gave me an old high school textbook and sat me in the back of the classroom. That worked for a while. Until the day we celebrated her 60th birthday in class.
“You’re 21,915 days old,” I shouted after she blew out the candle on her cupcake.
“Wow,” Mrs. Chew said. “That’s a lot of days.” She was used to me throwing out numbers and calculating everything. She was no longer impressed.
“And if you die when you’re 80, that’s in 7,305 days. And it’ll be a Sunday.”
“That’s enough of that talk,” Mrs. Chew warned. Then she went to the supply closet to get paper towels because Carter Harrison got frosting in his hair.
“Hey, Lucy, how many days until I die?” Rachel McKey asked.
I looked at the wall where all our birthdays were written on cake-slice cutouts.
“If you die when you’re 80,
you have 26,405 days to go,” I explained.
“What about me?” Carter asked.
I did a quick calculation. “You’ll die in 26,202 days.”
Then I had to tell everyone exactly how long I expected them to live. Really, I was just calculating the days until they turned 80. (Some of them would probably die before 80.) But Rachel started crying when she heard her best friend, Sofia Garcia, would outlive her by 172 days.
“What’s going on?” Mrs. Chew demanded.
“Lucy’s telling us when we’re going to die,” Rachel said. Her eyes were red, and her nose was running.
“You asked.”
Mrs. Chew sent me to the main office. And that wasn’t the 1st time. By the end of the year, Nana had had enough. “She spends more time with the principal than in the classroom!” she yelled. If Nana had bothered to do the math, she’d have found that, technically, that wasn’t true. Still, she pulled me out of school and didn’t make me go back. I got to stay in our apartment all day, learning some stuff from Nana and then mostly from my computer. 1,508 days of studying from the comfort of my bedroom. Looks like those days are over.
When we get to the main office of East Hamlin Middle, it’s obvious that Nana hasn’t really thought this through. She hasn’t made an appointment, and she hasn’t brought along any of my records. Not like that’s going to stop Nana when she’s on a mission.
A secretary gives us a little tour while we wait for the principal. I count the lockers, the stairs, the doors, everything.
“This hallway is mainly 8th grade, but it also has the music rooms. We have band, orchestra, and chorus. Would you like to see the music rooms?” the secretary asks, sounding bored.
“No thank you.” I want this to be over.
The cafeteria doors are propped open. We follow the lady inside. It’s the biggest room I’ve ever seen. We could have fit 6 of my elementary school cafeterias in here. Sunlight shines through the wall of windows, and the dust in the air twinkles. The air-conditioning pushes these particles around, creating a beautiful fractal pattern. I wish I could take a picture of it, but it can only be seen clearly in my brain.
“It’s a nice school,” Nana says.
“I guess.” I tap my toe 3 times.
When the tour’s done, Nana and I meet with the principal in his office. On his messy desk is a crystal plaque that says DISTRICT PRINCIPAL OF THE YEAR. He shakes Nana’s hand and tells us to have a seat.
I sit, stand, sit, stand, sit in a wooden chair.
Dr. Cobb stares but doesn’t say anything.
I wish I could explain it to him. If I don’t do this routine, my brain will go into frantic-repeat mode. The digits of pi will take over like an infection. I won’t be able to concentrate on anything but the numbers.
Nana pulls out an old receipt from her purse and helps herself to a pen from the principal’s desk.
“When’s the 1st day of school?” she asks.
“1st day for students is August 27th.”
“And what time do classes start?”
“Homeroom begins at 7:30. But let’s—”
“School ends at what time?” Nana doesn’t let the man talk.
“10 after 2.”
“And what grade will Lucy be in?”
“We need to slow down here.” Dr. Cobb holds up his hands. “Please, Mrs. Callahan. May I ask a few questions?”
“I’m not going to stop you.” She leans back in her chair.
“Great.” He smiles wide. “Lucy has been homeschooled for how long?”
1,508 days.
“Since 3rd grade,” Nana says.
“And you’ve been her primary educator?” he asks.
“For the most part. We use a lot of computer resources.” Nana smooths my hair. I push her hand away.
“Do you have her records?” he asks. “The state requires attendance, grades, and end-of-year—”
“All A’s,” Nana interrupts again. “Lucy’s very smart. Very, very smart.” She doesn’t say genius, or savant, or prodigy. She doesn’t mention the lightning strike.
“Do you have any records?” He folds his hands and puts them on his desk. It’s like he already knows the answer.
“I’ll email them to you,” she says.
Nana hasn’t kept any records, but I have. All my grades are neatly organized in a spreadsheet, and I have copies of every test, project, and paper stored in folders.
“We will also need immunization records.”
She writes that down. “Anything else?”
“Joyce is getting the rest of the paperwork. You’ll find everything in there.”
“Good.” Nana clicks the pen closed and gives it back to Dr. Cobb.
He looks at me again. “You’re 12?”
I nod.
“Well, Lucy, welcome to East Hamlin Middle and to 7th grade.” He offers me his hand. I don’t shake it.
“Lucy doesn’t shake hands,” Nana explains. “She’s afraid of germs.”
That’s true. And Nana is forcing me to be part of this germ-infested community where the people are called my peers only because we are the same age. My real peers are creating algorithms and solving problems. They’ll be changing the world while I’ll be wasting time memorizing textbooks and ducking dodgeballs.
Nana insists on taking a picture on my 1st day of school.
“Why are you doing this to me?” I ask, refusing to smile.
“It’s only a picture.” She holds up her cell phone.
“That’s not what I mean.” I’d been hoping that Nana would change her mind about middle school. I refused to give her my records of classes and grades. But she figured out my password (lucy31415; I need to think of something harder) and printed my files. She only took the records through 6th grade, nothing higher.
“Lucy, we’ve been over this. Give it a year. You can always start college when you’re 13. That’s still 5 years earlier than most people.”
“There’s a 12-year-old boy starting at Cornell this month!”
“Well, he obviously has a nicer grandmother than you do. College can wait.”
“It can wait 1 year? That’s it, right? Can I get that in writing?” I slide my lightning-bolt necklace under my shirt.
“I promise.” She says it too easily. “Give it 1 year and really make a go of it. Make 1 friend. Do 1 thing outside of these walls. Read 1 book not written by an economist or a mathematician.”
“1 year, 1 friend, 1 activity, 1 book. This year is brought to you by the number 1.” I try to sound like the Count from Sesame Street.
“Yes, now smile. You’re such a beautiful girl when you smile.”
I roll my eyes and stick out my tongue. Nana can’t control everything.
She sighs. “I’m going to say an extra prayer for you.”
“Thanks. I’m going to need it.”
East Hamlin Middle School has SMOD—standard mode of dress. It’s not a uniform, just superstrict rules for clothes. Our shirts can only be red, white, or blue. Shorts and pants need to be khaki or dark blue, no jeans. Nana had to go to Walmart to buy me a whole new set of itchy, stiff clothes.
“Why didn’t you tell the principal that I’m a genius?” I ask as I put my new lunch bag into my new backpack.
“I told him you were really smart. And they’ll figure it out soon enough. In the beginning, I thought you might want to be treated like any other kid.” She gives me a hug. “Don’t worry. I’m sure there are still some things they can teach you.”
Nana offers to wait with me at the bus stop. I want to go alone. I know she’s watching from the window. She’s making sure I don’t hide inside the dumpster or something. Like that would happen.
There are 7 kids at the bus stop in front of our apartment. A prime number. A good sign if you believe in
that kind of thing. I recognize them but don’t know any of them. All of them play on their phones or wear headphones and stare off into space.
I have a phone, too—a back-to-school gift from Nana—but it’s just a phone. It can only text and call.
I hear the bus a long time before I see it. When it screeches to a stop, we walk up the 3 steps in a quiet, orderly fashion. The bus driver, a lady about Nana’s age, stares straight ahead and doesn’t say anything.
I take the 1st open seat I find. I sit. I stand. I sit. I stand.
“Sit down!” the bus driver yells.
I sit, relieved that I don’t need to do my routine 5 times. That might have landed me in detention or gotten me suspended or something. I don’t know a lot about the school district’s system of punishment.
I slide over to the window. The bus makes another stop, and 4 kids get on. I watch each of them pass by. The last girl meets my eyes and snarls. She’s a pretty girl with long blond hair and blue eyes covered in black eye shadow, but when she snarls, she looks like a rabid raccoon. We had 1 of those once behind our apartment.
I decide to keep my gaze down.
Tomorrow, I’ll bring a book or something. Maybe a sudoku puzzle. But they don’t take me much time. As fast as I can move the pen, I can fill them in. I even did the 1 created by a mathematician from Finland. He called it the hardest sudoku ever made, with only 23 of the 81 squares filled in at the start. I still finished it in less than 5 minutes.
Everything changes at the 4th stop when a girl falls into the seat next to me. She falls partly on me, too. I push her off as politely as I can.
“Sorry about that,” she says.
“It’s okay.”
She adjusts her glasses up on her face and swings her backpack onto her lap. It’s army green (like the number 20) and covered with patches. SAVE THE POLAR BEARS. EQUAL PAY FOR EQUAL WORK. RESPECT MOTHER EARTH.
“I can’t believe I used to love the 1st day of school,” she says. “Like when I was in elementary school. But my sister was right—middle school is…” She stops and looks around, then she whispers a word Uncle Paul would use to describe a bad night in Afghanistan.
The Miscalculations of Lightning Girl Page 2
