The Miscalculations of Lightning Girl

by Stacy McAnulty

  Windy’s eyebrows lift high on her face, and her lips turn down. “Lucy, I’m so sorry. You’re like an orphan.”

  I laugh. “Stop. Please. I’m not an orphan.” I’ve thought of myself as a genius, a savant, and a freak, but never an orphan. Nana has always been there, and Uncle Paul, too. “I’m fine. I don’t need you to collect canned goods for me or give me a coat for winter. I have a family. Don’t turn me into a Cougars Care Project.”

  Windy opens another bottle of nail polish. It’s bright yellow (like the number 2). “I guess we could help other less fortunate orphans. Unless you’ve had any ideas about our project?”

  “Not really. We still need another person in our group.” The school said we should be a team of 3 or 4. Obviously, I would vote for 3.

  “I’m still working on it. It’s hard to find the perfect candidate.”

  When Windy finishes, my hands look great. On top of each lime-green nail, she’s painted a yellow lightning bolt.

  “Like your necklace,” she says. “You always wear it.”

  “I am Lightning Girl.” The name slips out of my mouth before my brain thinks about what I’m saying.

  She tilts her head. “What does that mean?”

  “It’s a nickname my uncle Paul gave me,” I lie. He only calls me genius.

  “Why?”

  “When I was little, I ran around a lot. And I was fast.” The lies keep coming.

  Windy shrugs and checks out her own manicure. It looks like I put on her polish with an old toothbrush. But she doesn’t complain. “I know what we can do next.” She pulls out a book from a drawer in her desk. 101 Things You Never Knew About Your Best Friend. I know you’re not supposed to judge a book by its cover—and probably not by its title, either—but I instantly want to give it 2 thumbs up or 5 stars. (I’m not sure what scale is used to measure excellence in literature.) There’s a prime number in the title, and the words best friend. No one has ever called me a best friend. Windy hands me a purple pen (like the number 3)—which I wipe down—and she grabs an aqua pen (that’s similar to 75). And we get to work.

  I learn Windy wants to be an environmental lawyer, she’s afraid of hot-air balloons, and her favorite quote is not from a musical but from a movie. Dumbledore in Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets: “It is not our abilities that show what we truly are. It is our choices.” I worry she might know my ability and my secret, and quoting Einstein will only make her more suspicious. So I lie and say my favorite quote is Dory’s famous line from Finding Nemo: “Just keep swimming.” She nods like this makes complete sense.

  We finish the book. We eat gluten-free fake-cheese pizza. We watch 3 movies, including a horror flick, while munching on unbuttered popcorn and the gummy bears I brought from home. We sleep with the lights on. We make plans to do it all again next weekend.

  And I only think about my online math chat 3 times. That is about 80 percent less than I normally would in an 18-hour period.

  By Thursday, Windy has asked 7 girls to join our team. Each turned her down. Most said they were already on a team, and 1 said she wasn’t doing it. Her dad was a doctor, and he wrote an excuse. Such a big project would cause her anxiety.

  On the bus, Windy asks, “Did you come up with any ideas for our project?” Last night, she assigned me a task—come up with at least 20 possibilities.

  “Nothing good.” I had only 3, and I knew she wouldn’t like any of them.

  Unclean cafeteria tables

  Unclean desks

  Unclean doorknobs

  “That’s okay. I’ve got some great ideas. What do you think of starting an all-girls school in Zambia?” she asks, completely serious.

  I shrug. “I wouldn’t know how.”

  “I’m sure we could figure it out.” She opens her notebook. “But I have other ideas, too.” She reads me her list. Every suggestion is a huge project that would require a few million dollars and a team of experts. She wants to build a library in downtown Baltimore or open a women’s hospital in India or run a search-and-rescue team that would rush to victims of tsunamis.

  “Well, what do you think?” she asks.

  “I think we need something closer to home. My grandmother probably won’t let me leave the country. Maybe we could collect aluminum cans and recycle them.”

  Windy makes a gagging sound. “Picking up trash? Really? That’s not original at all.”

  “I wasn’t offering to pick up trash.” Now I make a gagging sound.

  “The only thing more unoriginal is helping puppies find homes.” She falls back in the seat and takes out a pen.

  “I wouldn’t want to do that, either. I don’t even like puppies. Except on calendars and coffee mugs.” Animals are unpredictable, and they can’t be wiped down with Clorox.

  She laughs. “Don’t worry. I’ll come up with something perfect.”

  “And realistic?”

  She shrugs. Windy likes to think big, and she needs someone else to pull her back to earth. I’m her gravity.

  In math, Mr. Stoker starts class not with a review of the homework, like he always does, but with a lecture on math in the real world. And it’s awesome.

  While he’s talking, I imagine showing him my world. He’d love to see math and numbers the way I do—in everything from the stars to building construction to ripples on a lake. Even water draining in the sink. I see circles and bisecting triangles that form equations in my brain. If only there were an easy way, like wearing special glasses; a lightning strike is too painful, and results aren’t guaranteed.

  “Engineering, science, finance, computer development, teaching, banking. These all require mathematics.” He leans forward on his stool. “But so do government, art, writing, love.”

  “Love?” Maddie asks.

  “Yes. There’s a mathematician named Hannah Fry. She’s created an equation for finding your soul mate.” Mr. Stoker does air quotes around soul mate. “She used the optimal stopping theory.”

  I know optimal stopping theory. It’s a way to calculate the best time to do something, to figure out the best odds. It’s usually used in finance or pricing, not romance.

  “Say, as an average adult, you date 20 people. And 1 of those 20 is your best fit for a spouse. Each time you date a person, you essentially must decide do I marry this guy, do I marry this gal, or do I move on. The next person could be better, or he or she could be worse. Optimal stopping theory proposes this solution….Get it? Proposes?”

  We give Mr. Stoker a few pity laughs.

  He continues explaining by drawing little stick men and women on the whiteboard. I don’t mean to judge my classmates, but if I had to guess, I think Mr. Stoker’s lesson goes over their heads.

  “No thanks,” Maddie says, and maybe she does get it. She’s actually pretty smart. Evil but smart. “I’d rather try online dating than leave it up to this math theory.”

  “This is not a guarantee. But it is a way to maximize your success. With optimal stopping theory, you’re 3 times more likely to pick your soul mate than if you were to randomly select 1 person from your field of 20 candidates.”

  “How romantic,” Jennifer says.

  “This country’s divorce rate is over 50 percent. Maybe OST could help.” Mr. Stoker continues talking about math as the basis of life. From cells to music. Numbers and patterns control our world and can make it better.

  “Mathematics is even being used in the courtroom. With enough data from similar cases, a verdict can be determined with amazing accuracy. Maybe lawyers will eventually be obsolete.”

  “My mom is a lawyer,” Maddie calls out. “I wouldn’t say that around her.”

  Mr. Stoker ignores the interruption. “Now, these concepts are big and complicated. But I encourage you to remember the power of mathematics as you work on your service projects. Don’t be afraid of numbers
. Use them to compute your solutions. Look at the world as it is intended.”

  He gives us the last 10 minutes of the period to work on our projects. Windy drags her chair over to my desk.

  “We need to use math,” I say as she sits down.

  “You want to save puppies and use math?” Windy asks.

  “I never said anything about puppies.” I shake my head. “But, yes, we definitely need to use math. And Mr. Stoker needs to be our faculty mentor.”

  “I have a math problem for you,” she says. “We are still a group of 2. And I think everyone already has a group.”

  We look around the room. It’s hard to tell whether everyone is already on a team; they could be working with someone in another class.

  “I’ve already asked Peyton, Margery, Kaitlyn, Sarah, and Maddie,” Windy says.

  And since Windy’s not good at whispering, Maddie looks up from her cell phone, which she’s playing with under her desk. She glares at us for even saying her name.

  “You asked Maddie? Did you really think she’d want to be on my team?” I’m sure Maddie would rather eat slugs than work with me. And I feel the same way, but I would never eat a slug. I don’t even like shrimp.

  Windy shrugs. “I think she would have joined us if she hadn’t already said yes to Daniela and Jasmine. They’ve started their project.”

  I stare at Windy to see if she’s joking. She doesn’t seem to be. I shake my head.

  “Actually, I’ve asked everyone.” She taps her fingers on my Clorox-cleaned desk.

  It would have been easier if the teachers assigned the teams, like Mrs. Shields did in social studies class for our Egypt project. But then I probably wouldn’t have been with Windy.

  Windy puts her hand in the air and waves Mr. Stoker over like he’s a waiter.

  “Yes, ladies?” Mr. Stoker says when he gets to my desk.

  “Will you be our mentor?” I speak before Windy does.

  He grins. “I thought you’d never ask. What are you considering as a—”

  “Mr. Stoker,” Windy says, “we can’t find another team member. I have asked literally every person in the 7th grade. So I think it is only fair if Lucy and I are a team of 2. Is that okay?”

  “You’ve asked literally everyone?” he says.

  “Yes.”

  Mr. Stoker clears his throat. “Excuse me, ladies and gentlemen. Does everyone have a service project team?”

  “See,” Windy says right away. “Everyone is—”

  “I need a team,” Levi interrupts. He doesn’t look up from the notebook he’s doodling in.

  “Great. You can join Lucy and Windy.” Mr. Stoker taps the project sheet that sits on my desk. “Add Levi’s name.”

  I hesitate. Levi’s a cheater, and I still haven’t gotten my revenge—other than not talking to him for 15 days. But Mr. Stoker stands over me, waiting. I cave and write Levi’s name in pencil. It can always be erased.

  “Good luck, team,” Mr. Stoker says, and then walks over to Ethan.

  “You have to actually do some work if you want to be on our team,” Windy orders Levi.

  He shrugs but says nothing.

  “Do you have any ideas?” she asks.

  “Nope.” He never looks up from his notebook. I guess it doesn’t matter. There are only 2 minutes left in class, and Windy will probably make all the decisions anyway.

  Windy has ordered that our group meet at lunch on Monday. She and I get permission to go straight to the media center from science. Levi tells us he’ll catch up. I wipe a small section of the table and then make the mistake of looking at the cloth. It’s grimier than when I clean my usual spot at lunch. I use extra hand sanitizer and make Windy take some, too. We share my sandwich, cookies, and chips, even though you’re not supposed to eat in here. We keep the food hidden behind a stack of books.

  “Would you still be my friend if I didn’t always have candy and cookies?” I ask her.

  “Of course,” she says. “But maybe not best friends.” I know she’s joking. Is that a sign of being real friends? When you know something they say should be followed by “JK.”

  After we finish our high-sugar foods, Windy starts to panic. I should carry extra Jolly Ranchers to keep her calm in situations like this.

  “He’s not coming. I knew it. I’m going to talk to Mr. Stoker and get Levi kicked off our team. It’s not fair that we have to do all the work.”

  We haven’t really done any work yet.

  “Lunch period isn’t over,” I say. “He could still come.” With only 8 minutes left, I’m starting to have my doubts, too.

  “I don’t know why we let him on our team.”

  “We didn’t have a choice,” I remind her. “And I didn’t want him, either. He’s a cheater.”

  “You make it sound like he’s your boyfriend and he kissed someone else.”

  “Gross.”

  Windy slumps back in her chair. “Maddie’s group has a great project. We need a great project.”

  “What’s theirs?” I ask, but I don’t really want to know.

  “Filling backpacks with school supplies for refugee families. They have a goal of 200 backpacks for kids in kindergarten all the way through high school. And they’re not just going to have notebooks and pencils and stuff like that. But also gift cards so kids can buy new shoes.”

  “That’s cool.”

  “Yeah, it is.” She stares off into space.

  I get the feeling Windy wants to be on Team Maddie. Maybe I should suggest it. Free her from our agreement to be partners. If Maddie is only working with Jasmine and Daniela, they have room for 1 more.

  “Windy, if you want to—”

  “Look who’s finally here.” Windy sits up and points toward the door.

  Levi slides 2 books into the return slot. Then he talks to the librarian for a minute before walking over to us and collapsing into the chair next to mine.

  “So, what are we doing for this project?” he asks.

  “Where have you been?” Windy asks.

  “A growing boy has got to eat.” He pats his stomach.

  Windy glares at him. “I can’t believe you are so—”

  “Let’s work on the project,” I interrupt. “Okay?”

  “Fine. Here are my suggestions.” Windy opens her notebook. She has 2 new pages of ideas, and she reads each outrageous proposal.

  Levi groans. “Do you have anything reasonable in there?”

  “With some work, they’re all reasonable.”

  Levi scans the list. “Protecting sea lions from motorboats. How is that reasonable?”

  “We could put up signs and warn boaters that they are killing sea lions.”

  “We live 3 hours from the ocean. I’ve never even seen a sea lion.”

  Windy shuts her notebook and slaps it on the table. “Lucy is the 1 who wants to save animals.”

  “What? No, I don’t. No animals, please.” I wave my hands like I’m stopping traffic. “I suggested picking up cans on the side of the road.” Assuming I can find industrial-grade rubber gloves.

  “Save the animals. That isn’t a problem,” Levi says. “It’s a bumper sticker.”

  “I don’t want to save animals,” I say again, but neither Windy nor Levi is listening to me.

  “Okay. How about this? Find animals loving, caring forever homes. Is that a bumper sticker?” she asks Levi.

  “A really crappy 1.”

  Windy rolls her eyes.

  “We still need to be more specific,” I say. “Like what kind of animals do you want to save, Windy?”

  “Dogs and cats,” she says. But I know she’d rather save black rhinos or narwhals.

  “Are you discriminating against snakes and turtles? Do they not need loving, caring forever homes?” Levi asks.


  Windy puts a finger in Levi’s face. “I think the problem is that you make fun of everything I say.”

  “Shhh!” Mrs. Wilson snaps at us from behind the checkout desk. “The media center is a privilege.”

  “Sorry,” Windy says.

  “Just write whatever you want,” Levi says with a fake smile, and I notice the gap between his front teeth. “This doesn’t count for anything. We’re still going to pass 7th grade even if we have a loser project.”

  “You’re giving up already?” Windy asks.

  “Not giving up. Giving in. There’s a difference.” Levi throws his backpack onto the table.

  Windy groans.

  I’m starting to think working on a team is a form of torture. The teachers are doing this as part of a weird social experiment to see if they can make students hate each other.

  Levi opens his backpack and pulls out his camera. He plays with the buttons, then aims it at Windy. Her scowl turns into a sweet smile, as if he has figured out how to tame her. When he points the camera in my direction, I hide behind a science textbook.

  “Is this for your site?” Windy asks, hopeful.

  Levi reviews Windy’s picture on the back of the camera. “Probably not.” He presses the red delete button.

  I have no idea what they’re talking about, but Windy looks ready to strangle Levi again.

  “You’re not allowed to take pictures during school,” she hisses. “It’s in the handbook. I could report you.”

  “Whatever. It’s for art class. And you’re not supposed to eat in here.” He holds up my empty potato chip bag.

  “Back to work,” I jump in. “We need to state our project as a problem. A problem with numbers.”

  “I hate math,” Levi mumbles.

  I jerk back like I’ve been slapped. “That’s the stupidest thing you’ve ever said.”

  He gives me a questioning look. “Sorry?”