The Miscalculations of Lightning Girl

by Stacy McAnulty

  I nod, already agreeing with this girl’s sister, and the school day hasn’t officially started.

  “Are you a 6th grader?” she asks.

  “No. 7th.”

  “You must be new to EHMS. Or you’re superquiet, because I don’t remember you from last year.” She studies me closely.

  “I enrolled over the summer. I was supposed to go to another school.” Or college.

  “What school? John Glenn Middle? They had a kid bring a knife to school like 2 years ago, and now my mom thinks it’s a gang school.”

  “Not John Glenn.” I shake my head.

  “I’m in 7th grade, too. But a lot of people think I’m in high school. The lifeguard at the pool this summer thought I was in 10th grade.” She does look older, but 10th grade is a stretch. She has braces and brown hair that flips out at the ends in a spiky way. Hair doesn’t normally do that; at least I don’t think so. It’s definitely cooler than my braid. She has a cluster of pimples across her white forehead that are covered in makeup. She smells like vanilla perfume and wears shiny pink lip gloss.

  “What’s your name?” she asks.

  “What’s your name?” I ask back.

  “Okay. That’s weird.” She dramatically lifts her eyebrows.

  “Sorry. I’m Lucy.”

  “I’m Windy. Not Wendy, but Windy. With an i.” Then she blows in my face. I try not to breathe. I last 10 seconds.

  “Are you okay?” she asks.

  I suck in another breath. “That wasn’t very sanitary.”

  “Geez, relax. Do you think I’m diseased or something?” I can’t tell whether she’s trying to be mean or she’s just weird. She didn’t snarl like the other girl.

  “No. But…”

  “But what?” She glares at me and moves even closer.

  “We all carry germs and bacteria. They’re everywhere. We each have a cloud of microbes that swim around us. They’re called—”

  “Microbiomes!” she yells. “I did my science fair experiment last year on microbiomes.”

  I didn’t expect this girl with spiky hair and no concern for personal space to know about microbiomes. As a peace offering, I pull out my bottle of hand sanitizer and offer her a squirt.

  She holds out her palm and takes a glob. I use some, too.

  “Feel better?” she asks.

  I nod.

  “Did you know malaria kills 1 child every 30 seconds somewhere in the world?” She raises her eyebrows again. “Malaria is something to be afraid of. Not microbiomes.”

  That would be 1,051,200 dead children a year.

  “Last year I helped raise enough money to send 120 mosquito nets to a village in Ghana,” she brags.

  “Wow.” I don’t tell her that she only helped 0.01 percent of the possible malaria victims. Math can be cruel sometimes.

  “Who do you have for homeroom?” she asks, suddenly changing topics.

  “Room 213.” I remember the room number before the teacher’s name. “Mr. Stoker.”

  “Me too. We’re on the same team. That’s cool.”

  The bus parks in front of the school before Windy can ask anything else. When the doors open, she pushes into the aisle and disappears. I can’t make my way out. At least not without touching anyone. I get off the bus last. Windy’s gone, and I’m alone with hundreds of strangers. Someone knocks into me, and I bump into a kid whose microbiome is 90 percent body spray.

  “Watch it.” He throws his elbow to make space.

  I take a breath and realize that hiding in the dumpster would have been a better way to spend the day.

  Finding room 213 is easy. Getting in is impossible.

  From the hall, I tap my toe 3 times and watch 4 kids go to the door. Mr. Stoker shakes hands with each of them before he allows them into his class. He holds their hands for 3 seconds as he speaks to them. He smiles more than the kids do. I assume this is a 1st-day ritual and not something we have to go through each morning. Maybe I should try again tomorrow.

  Another student goes in. Then another. Each forced to shake hands with the teacher.

  “Hey!” Out of nowhere Windy jumps in front of me. “Sorry I ran off. Needed to use the bathroom before class. That’s what happens when you start the day with 3 cups of coffee.”

  “You drink coffee?”

  “When my mom’s not looking. Coffee isn’t bad for you. Some people say caffeine stunts your growth, but I’m fine with that. I’d like to stay this size. Plus, I needed a jolt. I stayed up all night listening to Hamilton.”

  “Okay?” I don’t mean for it to sound like a question.

  “The Tony Award–winning musical,” she says. “You know it, right?”

  I shake my head. “I’m not into music.”

  “You should listen to it. Life-changing!”

  A bell rings.

  “Come on.” Windy and her massive backpack head toward Mr. Stoker. I watch her shake the man’s hand. It looks so simple, and he appears to be a clean guy. He’s tall, with cropped black hair, a thin mustache, and dark brown skin. He wears a bright white shirt with a narrow green tie (the color of the number 38). His dark blue pants (the color of 62) look brand-new. He probably washes regularly. But he’s touched the hand of every kid who walked into the room. The exponential magnitude of germ growth is disgusting. I force myself not to estimate the number of bacteria being passed around.

  I feel dizzy.

  As the hallway clears out, Mr. Stoker notices me.

  “Do you need some assistance?” he asks in a friendly store-clerk way.

  “No.”

  “Are you supposed to be in my homeroom?” he asks, still smiling.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Are you Lucille Callahan?”

  I nod. We’ve never met before. I know that much. Maybe the principal warned him about me. Maybe if I’m late, they’ll kick me out of school.

  “Your grandmother sent me an email. She said you hadn’t been to middle school before. But don’t worry; it’s a new year for everyone. Except me. This is my 15th year in 7th grade.” He motions to the door and then puts his hands in his pockets.

  I wonder what else Nana told him. Obviously, she mentioned my phobia.

  I slowly walk to the door. I keep my eyes on Mr. Stoker to see if he takes out his germy hands. But he just rocks back and forth like he’s listening to music.

  “Welcome. I’m Mr. Stoker, your homeroom and 1st-period math teacher. Please find your seat. They’re labeled. I have 1 question for you. Do you prefer to be called Lucille or Lucy?”

  “Lucy.”

  The moment I step into room 213, I fall in love. Mr. Stoker has a banner that wraps around all 4 walls with the value of pi to the 280th place. (By the way, it’s 2.) And he has posters with equations, and 1 with the Fibonacci sequence. If I had to pick a favorite math sequence, it would be Fibonacci.

  0, 1, 1, 2, 3, 5, 8, 13, 21.

  Mr. Stoker also has some funny posters. 5 OUT OF 4 PEOPLE DON’T UNDERSTAND FRACTIONS. And another: MATH IS A JOURNEY, SO SHOW YOUR WORK.

  “Lucy,” Windy half yells, half whispers, and everyone turns to look at me. “That’s your seat.” She points to a desk in the 2nd row that has a paper with my name written on it.

  I try to smile in thanks. And I tap my toe 3 times to keep the numbers quiet and to keep from running out the door.

  When I get to my seat, I put my backpack on the floor. Mr. Stoker’s at the front of the room, introducing himself again. I don’t know what to do 1st, sit down or clean my desk.

  “The warning bell rings at 7:25. The 2nd bell at 7:30.” Mr. Stoker speaks in a low voice that can only be heard if everyone is quiet. “You’re expected to be in your seat, ready to start the day, at 7:30.”

  I don’t think Mr. Stoker’s picking on me specifically. But
I’m the only person not sitting. I take a breath and sit.

  Stay, Lucy.

  But I can’t. Numbers invade my head.

  3.14159…

  Ignore them!

  26535897932384626…

  Mr. Stoker keeps talking, but I can’t make out the words.

  433832795028841971693993751058209…

  The numbers get louder. Bigger. And brighter.

  74944­59230­78164­062862­08998­62803­48253­421170…

  I stand up. All the way up. I only meant to come up an inch. I have no control over me. The kid next to me—his name is Levi, according to the paper on his desk—turns his head real quick like I’ve scared him.

  I sit again.

  I stand again.

  I sit. Finally. My face heats up like I have the worst case of sunburn. No one says anything, but I’m in the 2nd row, and I know the 18 kids who are not in the front row all noticed my weirdness. Windy is in the front and misses it all, which is a relief because she would have said something or asked, What are you doing?

  Announcements come over the classroom speaker. The principal welcomes us all to another great school year. While he reads an inspirational quote, I slip an individually wrapped Clorox wipe from my backpack and clean my desk.

  Levi watches me with his mouth open. He has dark eyes (that I wish would stop looking at me), brown skin, and black curly hair that’s thick on top of his head and shaved to almost nothing on the sides. He stares as if he’s never seen anyone clean before. It’s not like I’m doing a magic trick or a dangerous science experiment. When I finish wiping the top, I show him the cloth. It’s black with grime.

  He wrinkles his face in disgust. I’m not sure whether the look is for the dirt or for me.

  I slip the dirty wipe into a sandwich bag to throw away later. I’ll probably collect 15 to 20 wipes during the day.

  Homeroom lasts for 10 minutes. Afterward, we stay in our seats, and Mr. Stoker starts his class. I’m disappointed because he spends his 50 minutes going over rules and policy. I wanted to hear him talk about math, even if it was only addition.

  When the bell rings, I get up slowly. I don’t want to bump into kids in the doorway.

  “What do you have next?” Windy asks.

  “Room 304. Spanish.” I’ve already finished 6 semesters of high school Spanish online. I can’t speak it well, but I’m great at memorizing words.

  “I have technology. Then language arts 3rd. You do, too, right? We should have all our core classes together. That’s how it works.”

  “Yeah.” I nod.

  “Well, then I’ll see you in 50 minutes.”

  If I survive that long.

  I’ve watched enough TV to know that cafeterias are rooms of torture and humiliation in both schools and prisons. But East Hamlin Middle is different from what I’d imagined. We don’t walk to lunch on our own. We go to 4th period, which for me is science. Then Ms. Bryson marches us to the cafeteria in a quiet single-file line. There’s no picking seats around the room. The entire class is forced to sit together at a giant table like we’re a big happy family.

  “Take any empty seat,” Ms. Bryson says. “You have 25 minutes. That’s it.”

  The stools are attached to the tables. We can’t move our seats closer to the table or farther from our classmates.

  “Be right back. Save me a seat,” Windy says. She joins the end of the food line.

  I take an empty stool 1 seat away from Levi. I sit, stand, sit, stand, sit. He groans.

  “Is this seat taken?” I ask. I really don’t want to start over.

  “Looks like you took it 3 times already.”

  The table reeks of cleaning stuff. I still don’t trust it. I take out my 5th wipe of the day.

  “Hey, cleaning lady,” a girl farther down the table calls out. “Will you wipe my spot, too?”

  I offer her an extra individually wrapped Clorox wipe. This makes her and the girls on each side of her fall over laughing.

  “You’re such a freak.” She rolls her eyes.

  I use my wipe. The dirt and germs bother me more than the nasty comments.

  “You’re really good at that,” the girl says. “Do you do toilets, too?”

  I try to avoid public restrooms except in emergencies, but if I do need to go, I disinfect the toilet seat. Then I put down a layer of toilet paper for protection. I also clean the faucet handles and the paper-towel dispenser. And then I wash my hands for a minimum of 2 minutes in the hottest water available. In my opinion, it’s never hot enough. But I don’t explain any of this to the girl. I’m pretty sure she doesn’t want me to answer her question.

  Levi grabs the used wipe out of my hand. He holds it up to show the girl and her friends.

  “How do you like this, Maddie?”

  She wrinkles her lips and scrunches her nose. “This place is so disgusting.” Then she stands up. “Let’s move.”

  “Sit down,” Ms. Bryson barks from the staff table next to ours. “Lunch isn’t over.”

  “We need to move.” Maddie says we, but she’s the only 1 who stood up.

  “Sit! Down!”

  Maddie slowly sinks back into her seat. Her eyes narrow at me. Suddenly, she stands back up like something pinched her butt. The entire class turns her direction. It’s quiet for the 1st time. Maddie slowly sits again.

  I know what’s coming.

  Please don’t.

  She stands again. Sits. Stands. Everyone laughs.

  “Enough!” Ms. Bryson yells. Her mouth is full of salad, and her voice doesn’t have the force she probably intended.

  “Sorry, I’m done,” Maddie says sweetly.

  I use hand sanitizer (approximately 3 times the recommended amount) and then focus on my lunch. Nana packed me a ham sandwich on white bread, a bag of plain potato chips, a peanut butter granola bar, and a fruit punch juice box. I wonder what would be the easiest to choke on.

  “That was a good impression, Maddie,” a boy at the end of the table says over the laughing. “Y’all even look alike.”

  “Who?” Maddie shrieks.

  “You and the cleaning lady.”

  “Ick! No! Way!” Maddie says it like she’s being compared to a llama. I don’t like it, either. But I’m not making gagging noises. We both have long brown hair pulled into a braid. But mine falls halfway down my back, the style similar to what I wore in elementary school. Maddie’s is a trendy side braid pulled over her right shoulder. We have white skin and brown eyes. At least I think her eyes are brown. I haven’t looked at her long enough to know for certain. And thanks to the school’s SMOD policy, we’re dressed like twins in white polo shirts and navy-blue shorts (like the number 7).

  I play with my lightning-bolt necklace and make a wish. Make me invisible. Make this all go away. But Uncle Paul said the charm was lucky, not magical.

  Nana has included a note on my napkin: It won’t kill you to smile. I’m starting to think Nana never went to middle school.

  Windy sits down next to me. “What did I miss?”

  “Nothing.” I don’t have the energy to tell her.

  “I’m starving, but I’m not sure any of this is actually food,” she says. Her tray has yellowy chicken strips (the color of the number 102), an apple, mashed potatoes, and chocolate milk.

  Windy takes a bite of chicken, chews twice, and then starts talking.

  “So, Lucy,” she says, “tell us your story.”

  “There’s nothing to tell. Nothing interesting, anyway.” I take a drink from my juice box.

  “You’re new. New is always interesting.”

  “Not this time.”

  “Fine, I get it,” Windy says. “You’re shy. Why don’t I tell you something about everyone else, and then you’ll feel more comfortable.”

  “You
don’t have to.” I look at the clock. We still have 17 minutes left of this torture called lunch.

  “Don’t worry. I’ll tell you something good and not so good. That’s the only right way to do it.”

  “The right way is to not talk about people at all,” Levi says, staring at his carrot sticks.

  “Oh, look,” Windy says. “A volunteer. That’s Levi Boyd. He has 2 moms—”

  “Hey!”

  “That’s your good trait. I’ve met his moms. I volunteered with them at a soup kitchen last Thanksgiving. They’re awesome people.” Windy taps her heart. “Now his flaws. Do I really need to pick just 1?”

  “Stop talking.” Levi pulls the hood of his East Hamlin sweatshirt over his head, covering his curly black hair.

  “Levi thinks he’s part of the paparazzi. He’s always taking pictures, and not on his phone. It’s weird.” She pauses like she’s waiting for Levi to fire back. But he ignores her. No one else seems to be paying any attention to Windy and me, either. Maybe the necklace is magical.

  “Moving on. That’s Lincoln Chandler,” Windy continues. Her voice is softer. “He’s an awesome soccer player and he has a severe Brazil nut allergy. Do you have any Brazil nuts in your lunch? Because they could literally kill him.”

  I shake my head and hold up my granola bar. “It’s peanut butter.”

  The rest of Windy’s lunch lies untouched as she goes around the table, giving me the details about everyone. They all start to blend together. Good at baseball, spelling, musical theater, drawing manga. She doesn’t mention anyone being good at math. As for the negatives, she talks a lot about allergies and weird hobbies, like the kid who collects movie ticket stubs. And not just for movies he’s gone to.

  “He’ll buy your used tickets for a quarter,” she says.

  “He hasn’t done that since 4th grade,” Levi says.

  “Whatever. Where was I?” Windy pauses. There are only 2 people she hasn’t summed up yet: herself and Maddie, the girl who called me the cleaning lady. “I guess that leaves me.”

  “Let me,” Levi jumps in. “Windy Sitton loves a charity case.” His brown eyes focus on mine for a second, and it feels like a warning. “Lives for it.”