“I’ll show my work from now on,” I say, staring at the non-clean desk.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Levi nod.
“Good. But that’s not the only issue here. You had similar answers. Only 2 were actually different, and considering that most of your incorrect answers were identical, you can understand why I needed to speak with you.”
What?
He holds up the tests. Levi wrote down the same answers as I did for 8 of the 10 questions on the 1st page. Sure, I’d copied the wrong answer for question number 1. Now I realize how stupid that was. Major miscalculation.
Mr. Stoker stays very calm, which makes me both nervous and sad. I’ve already decided he’s my favorite teacher. He did a nice job today reviewing how to add, subtract, multiply, and divide exponents. Not hard concepts, but he got really excited, and he gave us M&M’s.
“So who borrowed answers from whom and why?” he asks. “This was not for a grade. The motive for cheating on the 2nd day of school is unclear to me, especially when we’d reviewed the class policy and school honor code the day before. This is serious.”
I want to shout, Levi copied! Levi cheated! Because it’s mostly true. He did most of the cheating. Instead, I look over at him, hoping that he’ll confess and we can leave. He keeps his chin down and his arms crossed over his chest. He looks like he’s asleep.
“Middle school is tough. There’s a lot of pressure coming at you from every angle. I think we can work this out and avoid any severe punishment. I’m not condoning cheating. And if it happens again, I will use the highest penalty in my power.”
I don’t know what the highest penalty is.
“So, does anyone want to confess?”
I watch 15 seconds tick by on the clock. Plenty of time for Levi to be brave and own up.
He doesn’t.
“I didn’t cheat,” I whisper.
Levi looks up. “I didn’t cheat.” He says it louder than I did.
“What? Yes, you did.” I’m not whispering anymore.
Mr. Stoker takes a deep breath. “I’m going to step into the hall so you can talk for a minute.” He grabs a water bottle off his desk and leaves us alone.
“Why are you doing this?” I ask as soon as Mr. Stoker closes the door.
Levi shrugs.
“You’re the 1 who cheated.”
“I know.”
“Tell him,” I say. “You won’t get in trouble.”
“You believe him?” Levi looks at me for the 1st time. “He’s setting us up. It’s a trap.”
“It’s not a trap.” Not that I would know what a teacher’s trap would look like.
Levi shrugs. “If we both stay quiet, what can he do?”
I don’t want to think about what he can do. Maybe I’ll get kicked out of middle school in my 1st week.
Maybe that isn’t a bad thing.
Then Levi says, “You didn’t cover your answers. You put them right out where I could see them. And when you were done, you didn’t even turn the test over on your desk. I thought you were sharing.”
“What? Why would I share?” I definitely wasn’t sharing. I have a pain in my head thinking this could all have been avoided if I’d flipped my paper over.
“And I thought you were good at math.” He doesn’t say this like it’s a compliment.
“Why would you think that?” I don’t like touching people, not even shaking hands, but I want to slap Levi at this moment. I can’t believe I’m having violent thoughts. Middle school is turning me into a monster.
“You said it at lunch the 1st day.”
“I didn’t mean…whatever. Please, tell him the truth.” Math class is the only not-awful part of my day. If Mr. Stoker thinks I’m a cheat, it could ruin those 50 minutes.
Levi leans over and pulls something from his backpack. It’s a camera. He aims it at me and takes a picture. I throw my hands over my face a second too late.
“What are you doing? Don’t take my picture.”
“It’s for my angry collection.”
What? “Stop.”
He puts the camera back, but not before taking another picture of me, with my mouth hanging open.
“What’s with the lightning bolt?” He points at my necklace. “Is it a Harry Potter thing?”
Mr. Stoker knocks loudly and opens the door.
“Just tell him you cheated,” I whisper-yell at Levi.
“No.”
“Why?”
He doesn’t get a chance to answer. Mr. Stoker stands in front of us with his hands on his hips and his foot tapping.
“So?” That’s all he says.
“I didn’t cheat,” Levi says superquick.
“I didn’t cheat, either.” I ball my hands into fists. Why did I say either?
For the next 15 minutes, Mr. Stoker lectures us on being honest and working hard and having principles. But Levi and I never confess. Not that I have anything to confess to—other than borrowing 1 wrong answer.
When we are finally allowed to leave, Levi and I walk out together. I’m mad. The only thing I’ve ever plotted before is graph points. But now I’m plotting revenge.
My revenge tactic has mostly been not talking to Levi for the last 45 hours. But I’m not sure he noticed, so I’m extending it to at least a week. He sits to my left during lunch, keeping his head down like his cheese sandwich is the most interesting thing in the room. Maybe the silent treatment isn’t the right way to get back at Levi.
I twist in my seat to face Windy and put my back toward Levi. I wonder if he notices my rudeness. Windy does most of the talking, here at lunch and on the bus. I’m learning a lot about the similarities between the musicals Les Misérables and Hamilton.
“You can listen to them online. I know you’ll love them,” she says between spoonfuls of yogurt. “So, will you listen to them?”
“Sure.”
“Awesome. I’ll listen with you. Can I come over to your house today?” Windy asks. “I’ll text my mom later, but I’m sure it’s okay.”
I close my eyes and picture our apartment and my room. Is there anything that might give away my secret? My walls are decorated with images of the Fibonacci spiral in nature: flower petals, pinecones, nautilus shells, far-off galaxies. But Windy would probably assume I love nature, not numbers. I have a collection of math and engineering textbooks on the top shelf of my desk. Nana buys them at garage sales, and most were printed in the 1950s and ’60s. They’d be harder to explain.
“I guess, but I don’t have a house. We live in an apartment.” I tug on my lightning-bolt necklace. Part of me is hoping that this is not okay and she won’t be able to come over.
“Cool.” She puts her arm out like she’s going to hug me or high-five me, and I jump back in my seat. My elbow knocks into something. I turn to see Levi’s chocolate milk puddling across the table.
He groans.
“I’m sorry,” I mumble. His sandwich and chips are already soggy. I drop 4 Clorox wipes onto the table and struggle to open a 5th individual packet. This cuts into my daily supply, but I still have enough for the rest of my classes.
Other kids, including Maddie and Jennifer, hand Levi their napkins. I do the same.
Levi picks up his ruined lunch and carries it to the garbage can. Other kids move their trays away from the puddle. Levi comes back with a roll of paper towels to mop up the mess. My mess.
Serves you right for cheating. I only say this in my head, and it doesn’t make me feel any better.
“Sorry,” I whisper again.
“It was an accident,” Levi replies. The brown paper towels aren’t exactly superabsorbent. He needs half a roll to soak up the milk.
When the table is finally clean, Levi sits down. Then he pretends to bite into an invisible sandwich. The kid across from
him laughs. Then Levi peels an invisible banana and pretends to eat it. More kids are laughing.
“Enough of the mime act,” Maddie says, but not in a mean way. She’s laughing, too. Then she reaches into the small handbag that she carries cross-body.
“Here!” She holds out a couple of $1 bills to Levi. “Go buy some more chips or an ice cream.”
Levi looks at the money. “No thanks.”
“I’ll take it,” another kid says.
“No,” Maddie says. She shoves the bills into Levi’s hand. “Just take it.” Then she turns to Jasmine, who is on the other side of her.
Levi stares at the money for a second, then shrugs and walks to the food line. A minute later, he’s back with Doritos and more chocolate milk. When he walks past Maddie, he says a quiet thank-you. He doesn’t even look my direction.
* * *
Windy follows me off the bus and to my apartment. As she’d predicted, her mom agreed to the visit. I offer Windy a squirt of hand sanitizer when we get inside. Nana isn’t home. She’s working the day shift at Cracker Barrel.
“Do you want a snack?” I ask as I clean the kitchen table with a Clorox wipe.
“Yes. Please tell me you have something other than fruit or nonfat yogurt. That’s all we have at home.”
“We’ve got Twizzlers.”
“Yes!”
I move a box of oatmeal and a carton of bread crumbs to get to the candy stash. Nana and I both know where the candy is hidden. I’m not sure who we are hiding it from. Robbers or the landlord, I guess.
I offer Windy the open bag. She takes 3. I bite off the end of a Twizzler. And then I sit, stand, sit, stand, sit at the kitchen table. It’s easier to keep secrets if we stay out of my room.
“I don’t get why you do that,” Windy says through a mouthful. She takes a seat next to me.
I shrug. “I don’t know, either.”
“Then just stop.”
“I can’t.”
“It’s an OCD thing, right? Obsessive-compulsive disorder.”
“Yeah. I guess.” Nana took me to a psychologist 3 years ago. Dr. Walsh set up a treatment plan and said that with some mild medication and “gradual exposure to your triggers,” we could control my OCD. I asked her if that meant the digits of pi would go away. She answered, “Yes, with some work.” And with that, I refused to go back. I wouldn’t mind losing my sit-stand routine or not worrying about germs. But no one was taking away pi.
“I have an aunt with OCD,” Windy says. “She has to touch both sides of the doorframe like 10 times before she can walk through the door. She says if she doesn’t touch it, something horrible will happen to her kids.” She explains her aunt like she’s giving me the instructions for a board game.
“It’s not exactly like that for me.” I bite off another piece of candy.
“Then, what’s it like?”
“If I don’t do my routine…if I don’t sit-stand 3 times, or I don’t tap my toe 3 times when I stop walking, stuff messes with my head.”
“What kind of stuff? Demons?” She opens her eyes wide.
“No. Just numbers.” I hold open the bag of Twizzlers. She takes another 3. I wonder if she’s taking 3 at a time on purpose.
“Thanks.”
“This string of numbers takes over my brain if I don’t follow my pattern. It’s like an alien invasion in my head. The digits are loud and bright, and I can’t do anything else. I can’t even think about anything else, because they block everything.” I don’t tell her the numbers are digits of pi. That’s an unnecessary detail.
“That’s weird, but at least you have a way to stop it. You have the secret antidote or the weapon that stops the aliens. Sit 3 times or tap your foot 3 times and you’re fine.”
“Yep. My magic formula that freaks people out.”
“Imagine if you couldn’t stop the number invasion. That would be worse.”
“I guess that’s true.”
We finish the 1-pound bag of Twizzlers. I grab 2 Sprites and a sleeve of Chips Ahoy! cookies, and we go into the living room to watch TV. Windy seems to have forgotten she wanted me to listen to Broadway musicals this afternoon, and I’m not going to remind her.
“You have endless supplies of sugar here. I may never leave,” Windy says.
I let Windy have the remote. She flips channels until she comes to a commercial.
“Oooh, oooh,” she grunts at the TV. Cookie crumbs fly from her mouth.
“What’s wrong?” I know she’s not choking, because she’s making too much noise.
She points at the screen. It’s a commercial for Rocky Mountain Lodge. I’ve seen it before, and it’s not that exciting. A family enjoys a day of water rides, followed by a meal and a hug from a raccoon mascot, and then the kids are tucked into bed by very happy parents.
“My mom says I can have my birthday party there,” Windy says when the commercial is over.
“Cool.”
She doesn’t seem impressed by my reaction. “Have you ever been?”
“No.”
“It’s going to be awesome.” She holds out her hands like awesome can be measured as a distance. “We’re going to stay overnight in a suite, and we’re going to go on every ride. That’s assuming I get all A’s 1st quarter. But that shouldn’t be a problem.”
“When’s your birthday?” I ask.
“November 10th.”
“That’s not for 71 days.”
Windy opens her mouth dramatically like a cartoon character. “What the what?”
“I think it’s 71 days.” I laugh and rub my palms on my khaki shorts.
Windy pulls out her cell phone. She taps the screen. Then she shrugs. “You’re right.”
“I’m good with dates. It’s a game I play with my grandmother. We call it countdown. It’s really not hard. We know how many days are in each month. Right?”
“I guess.”
We watch TV and finish our snack. I actually like having Windy over, but I’m dying to know if anyone solved my epic problem in the math forums. I wrote it so that it seemed supersimple, but there was a twist. I bet 90 percent of people miss it.
“I’ll be right back.” I get up. Windy doesn’t ask me where I’m going. She’s focused on a show about children’s working conditions in Bangladesh.
I boot up the computer and log on to MathWhiz. 41 people have tried to solve my problem. I scroll through the solutions. Wrong. Wrong. Wrong.
But then I see it. The right answer. It was posted by MathMaster.
I write in the comments: Awesome. You got it. I don’t admit that part of me is disappointed that the 4th person figured it out. The next 37 posts are all arguments about whether MathMaster was right.
“Lucy!” Windy calls from the living room. “My sister is here.”
“Coming.” I turn off the computer, saying good-bye to my e-friends, and go back to the actual human in my living room. Not that my online buddies aren’t actually humans.
“I gotta go.” She walks over and gives me a 1-armed hug around the shoulders. I don’t move. I don’t breathe. I don’t approve. “Next time, you can come to my house. But you’ll have to smuggle in the good food.”
Nana told me to make 1 friend. And I guess I have. She may be using me for a sugar rush, but that’s okay.
On Tuesday, all 7th graders have to miss part of 1st period for an assembly. My 1st-period class is math, the only part of my day that I like. I would rather have the assembly during language arts or gym or lunch. But no one asked me.
Mr. Stoker hands back our homework—I got a 92, on purpose—and says to the class, “Let’s go, ladies and gentlemen. Dr. Cobb doesn’t like to wait.”
Levi and I stand up at the same time. I want to say, Done any cheating lately? But then I see his homework grade. He got a 45. I decide to
continue giving him the silent treatment.
Our class sits in the 4th and 5th rows of the auditorium. I’m able to sit—doing my usual 3rd-time’s-a-charm routine—without touching the armrest, so I don’t need my Clorox wipes. Windy is on my left. Maddie is supposed to take the seat to my right, but she leaves it empty and takes the next chair over. This makes Mr. Stoker upset.
“Move all the way over, Maddie.” He points to the empty seat next to me.
She does what he says. And then the 11 kids to her right have to slide over so that no seat is left empty.
Mr. Stoker smiles at me like he’s done me a favor. He hasn’t.
“Don’t look at me. Don’t breathe on me,” Maddie whispers. We both lean in opposite directions.
After all the classes arrive, the principal gets on the stage.
“Good morning, East Hamlin Cougars,” Dr. Cobb begins.
Some people mumble a reply of Good morning—mostly the teachers.
“By all accounts, we seem to be off to a great school year. Teachers are already handing out piles of homework, and the cafeteria is serving veggie sloppy joes. It makes a principal proud.” He pauses, maybe waiting for a laugh. “But let’s be serious. It’s now time to lay a strong foundation for your education and your future. At East Hamlin Middle, we expect our students to flourish not only in the classroom but also in the community.
“This year, like every year, you will be required to complete a service project. Last year, your projects were class-wide. As 7th graders, you will work in teams of 3 or 4 students to identify a need in your community and a solution. This is your chance to make a difference. You can change the world for the better.”
Dr. Cobb uses his hands a lot when he talks. He seems to be counting off items on his fingers, but I can’t imagine what.
“Mrs. Jensen runs the program and will give you more information.” Dr. Cobb claps as Mrs. Jensen steps forward. The students clap, too—sort of.
The screen at the back of the stage flitters with color. A PowerPoint presentation pops onto it. I count the words before I read them (9 words, 50 letters, 1 colon): COUGARS CARE PROJECTS: MAKING A DIFFERENCE IN OUR COMMUNITY.
The Miscalculations of Lightning Girl Page 5
