The Miscalculations of Lightning Girl

by Stacy McAnulty

  “Math makes sense. So maybe we could use numbers to express our problem and even the solution.”

  “How?” Windy asks.

  “Like there are 1,000 animals put down in our county every month.” I make up that number, which is not something I usually do. It makes my stomach hurt.

  “Oh my god! There are?” Windy snaps forward in a panic.

  “I don’t know. I was trying to give an example. It’s probably much, much less.” I’ll have to look up the number when I get home. I hate imprecise descriptions like lots, few, and hardly any.

  “This is turning into a really morbid project,” Levi says. “Counting dead animals.”

  “How about this? Only x number of animals are adopted each month from the local shelter.”

  “Is that a problem?” Levi asks. “Sounds like a statement.” At least he doesn’t call me a bumper sticker.

  “It’s a problem if another 200 are waiting to be adopted.” Again, I’m making up numbers that I know nothing about. It feels like cheating.

  “I got it,” Windy says. She writes and talks at the same time. “On average, the Hamlin County Animal Control has 1,000 dogs and cats waiting to be adopted, and the shelter can only hold 500.” Now she’s making up numbers. I’m spreading a disease of inaccuracy.

  “I guess that works. I’ll look up the actual number tonight. It could be a good project.”

  “Levi?” Windy wants his input.

  “Whatever.” That counts as a yes from Levi.

  “And the solution is easy,” Windy adds. “We help the animals get adopted.” She smiles. I know she’s excited, and we don’t even need to go to Africa.

  “Or we help the county build a bigger animal prison,” Levi says, and Windy glares at him.

  “Shut up. We’re going to save thousands of animals. Like it or not. Right, Lucy?”

  “I guess.” I’m not sure what just happened. I never wanted to work with animals. I still don’t. I only wanted Windy and Levi not to kill each other. I guess I solved 1 problem.

  Finding the exact information I want about the animal shelter is impossible. On the Hamlin County Animal Control website, it says the department finds homes for 95 percent of the healthy dogs and 78 percent of the healthy cats. It doesn’t say what happens to the other 5 percent of dogs or 22 percent of cats. And it doesn’t explain what healthy means.

  So I call their office.

  “Hamlin County Animal Control,” a woman answers. “How may I help you?”

  “Hi, my name is Lucy Callahan, and I have some questions for a school project.”

  “What kind of questions?”

  “How many dogs can your shelter hold? How many dogs get adopted each month? How many cats can you hold? How many cats—”

  “All that information is available on the website.”

  “No, it’s not. I have the website open in front of me.”

  “Then it’s not public information. I’m sorry.” She doesn’t sound sorry.

  “You don’t know how many dogs you have there?” I ask. “You just have to count.”

  “That’s not my job. My job is to answer the phone. You’re welcome to visit and count the animals.” She’s ready to hang up.

  “Wait. What does the website mean by healthy?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Your website says that 95 percent of healthy dogs get adopted. What does that mean?”

  “Um…out of the healthy animals that we recover or are surrendered, we find homes for 95 percent of them.”

  “What happens to the sick animals?” I ask. “Like the animals with brain damage.”

  The woman is quiet. I want her to say that they go to special homes where they are cared for.

  “I don’t have an answer for that. I do know that our adoption hours are Tuesday through Saturday from 10 to 7, and Sundays noon to 5.”

  “We just want to help.”

  She lets out a noisy breath. “Volunteer information is also on the website. But you must be at least 16 years old or accompanied by a parent. Are you 16?”

  “No.”

  “Thank you for your call. Please spay or neuter your pets.” The line goes quiet.

  That was a waste of 4 minutes.

  Frustrated, I call Windy and tell her we can’t save the animals. We aren’t old enough. I’m kind of relieved.

  “I’ll fix this,” Windy says with complete confidence.

  “How?” I ask.

  “You’ll see. There are other animal shelters that would love to have us.”

  “If you say so.” I’m hoping she’s wrong.

  “Hey, have you checked out Levi’s page lately?”

  “What page?”

  “ArtBoom. It’s a website where people post paintings and pictures. It’s supposed to be like an online art gallery. I think it’s kind of dumb.”

  “Never heard of it.”

  “You should look at it. There are a lot of you.”

  “Really?” My stomach drops.

  “His user name is Levi123.”

  I say good-bye to Windy and find Levi’s page on ArtBoom. Windy may have exaggerated. There are only 3 pictures of me out of 45 (6.667 percent). Maybe it seems like a lot because there is only 1 of Windy (2.222 percent).

  His gallery is divided into 5 folders—bored, curious, angry, hurt, peaceful—and each has multiple black-and-white photos. I’m under curious twice and angry once. That’s the picture from Mr. Stoker’s room after I was accused of cheating. Windy’s picture is in the bored tab. Her chin is resting in her hand and she’s staring out the window instead of at the book in front of her.

  There’s a gold star in the corner of Levi’s page. It’s been selected as Best of the Month by the ArtBoom community.

  I click each picture to view it at full size. Even without the labels typed across the top of the page, I could’ve guessed the emotion for every picture. Levi sees things in an instant that I must miss every day.

  When I enlarge 1 of the pictures under the hurt tab, I’m surprised to see it’s Maddie. I almost didn’t recognize her. Her dark hair covers half her face, and her arms are wrapped around her chest like she’s cold. The other people in the background are out of focus, but I can tell she’s in the cafeteria. What was happening that day? There are no tears…yet. Levi’s captured that split second before her eyes fill. I can imagine that a moment later she was running off to the bathroom to be alone.

  Levi and I live in the same world, but we see things very differently. I guess it would be boring if we all had the same view.

  Later that night, when Nana and I are watching TV, my phone vibrates. I shouldn’t have doubted Windy. She’s pushing our project forward.

  Windy: The Pet Hut

  Windy: tomorrow after school

  Windy: my sister will drive us

  Levi: whatever

  Windy’s sister, Cherish, picks us up after school—as promised. Windy sits in the front of the car. Levi and I get in the back. Cherish watches through her rearview mirror as I sit, stand, sit, stand, sit. She raises her perfect eyebrows.

  “You’ve got 1 hour,” Cherish says to Windy as we pull out of the school parking lot.

  “2,” Windy insists.

  “No, 1,” Cherish says. “Mom said I had to drop you off and pick you up in an hour.”

  “We will call you when we’re done,” Windy says. She seems to argue with everyone but me.

  It only takes 11 minutes to drive to the Pet Hut. We pass 4 traffic lights, 147 telephone poles (out the right-hand window), and 17 fire hydrants. When we get out of the car, Cherish shouts to us, “1 hour!”

  We stand in the empty parking lot and stare at the single-story red building with windows across the front.

  “This used to be a Pizza Hut,
” Levi says, pulling a camera from his bag. “That’s disgusting.”

  “It’s not like it was an animal shelter and pizza place at the same time,” Windy says. “Come on.”

  We follow her to the side door, where the old logo still shows on the glass.

  I let Windy hold the door open for me. My plan is to touch nothing. But in case that doesn’t work, I have a new pack of Clorox wipes and some extra hand sanitizer in my bag.

  I tap my toe 3 times.

  The place smells of wet newspaper, and the entrance is crowded with bags of dog and cat food, old blankets folded and stacked, and empty animal crates of different sizes. Muffled barking echoes through the walls.

  “Can I help you?” a guy behind the counter asks. A menu over his head still has pictures of sodas and pizza, but the written information (all 11 words, 10 digits, and 3 dollar signs) is about pet pricing.

  ADOPTION FEES

  PUPPIES $200

  DOGS $175

  CATS $90

  APPLICATION REQUIRED. MUST BE AT LEAST 18.

  “Do you work here?” Windy sounds like she’s testing him.

  “I volunteer here.” His long dark hair looks knotted, and he has huge holes in his earlobes. His skin is white, and his nose is crooked and has a diamond stud. He’s older than we are—in high school at least.

  “Is Claire Barrington here?” Windy asks.

  “Yeah. Hang on.” He hops off his stool and opens the heavy metal door at the end of the counter.

  The barking grows louder. I step back. I’ve never been around dogs or any animals. Dogs aren’t clean and don’t respect personal space—from what I’ve seen on TV. Some people claim that dogs’ mouths are cleaner than humans’ mouths. That’s not true. Both are hot, wet, dark pools of bacteria. Dogs have as much bacteria, just different kinds.

  I suddenly feel like gargling.

  “Claire, you have visitors,” the guy yells over the barking.

  “Send them in.”

  “I’ll wait here,” I say.

  “No, you won’t.” Levi grabs my elbow. “You’re not leaving me alone with Windy.” We follow her through the doorway.

  A woman waves to us from the far end of the room. She’s leaning over a sink filled with bubbles and what seems to be a giant rat. She’s wearing scrubs like a nurse. The pants are a pretty sky blue (similar to the number 4), and the top is purple (like the number 3) with kittens. Her red hair is pulled into a sloppy ponytail. Her skin’s pale, but her cheeks are pink—I assume from fighting the giant rat in the sink.

  We walk past 8 large kennels on the right. Each has a wild-looking dog inside. On top of the big kennels are 10 smaller cages with smaller dogs. The size of the dog doesn’t matter. They all seem to be trying to break free. Like they want to chew my throat. I touch my lightning-bolt charm and keep my eyes forward.

  “Hi, gang,” she says. “I’m Claire. Owner, operator, CEO, and head shampooer of the Pet Hut. How can I help you?”

  I tap my toe 3 times and try to hold my breath. Wet dog—or rat—has to be 1 of the worst smells in the world.

  “We’re doing a service project for school,” Windy starts.

  “Let me guess,” Claire says. “East Hamlin Middle.”

  “How did you know?”

  “I had a group of kids in here earlier this week.”

  “So not only is our idea boring, it’s been done before,” Levi says.

  I roll my eyes. Like he doesn’t mind copying off of other people.

  “We will take all the help we can get,” Claire says. “Why don’t you tell me your names and what you have in mind?” She turns on the water and starts rinsing the small dog in the sink. Droplets land on my arm. My brain lets me see these perfect circles filled with triangles defined by the ratio pi. More beautiful math that surrounds me everywhere. Still, I’ll need to shower when I get home. Who knows what germs lurk in those circles?

  Windy takes care of the introductions. “That’s Levi. He doesn’t like anything. She’s Lucy, the quiet and thoughtful 1. I’m Windy. I’m the leader of the group. I mean, not officially, but unofficially.”

  “I’d vote for that dog as group leader before I’d vote for you.” Levi motions with his head toward a ceramic beagle that’s holding open a door.

  “See! He never says anything positive.”

  Claire forces a laugh. “Do you want to go to the office and I can answer your questions? Or we could start with a little tour, and I’ll tell you about our needs.”

  “I’ve got questions,” I say. It’s easier not to touch anything if we stand in 1 spot.

  “Tour,” Levi votes. And for once Windy agrees with him.

  “You can ask me questions while we walk,” Claire says.

  We wait for Claire to towel off the dog.

  “What kind of dog is that?” Windy asks.

  “He’s a mutt, but our vet thinks he’s part Chihuahua.”

  “And part shih tzu,” Levi adds.

  Claire nods. “That’s what I was thinking, too.”

  “Look at the face and the longer fur. That’s shih tzu,” Levi says. “I guess the skinny legs and tail make the vet think Chihuahua.”

  I stare at Levi.

  “What?” he says. “I like dogs.”

  “Do you have any pets?” Claire asks him.

  “2 dogs. Cocker spaniels that my moms rescued. Chase and Buttons.”

  Claire gives the wet dog a kiss on the nose and then puts him in an empty kennel. “Be good, Rex.”

  Gross.

  “So, this is the dog room. Obviously.” Claire holds out her arms. “The big boys and girls get those luxury apartments, and our smaller friends get the penthouses.”

  “How many dogs can you have in here at once?” I ask.

  “Depends,” she answers. “If everyone got their own space, 18. Sometimes we make them double-bunk. We also have a special room for puppies. Puppies don’t stay with us long. They’re usually adopted pretty quickly.”

  “How quick?” I ask.

  “As quick as our volunteers can finish reviewing the paperwork.” She smiles.

  “We don’t just want to volunteer,” Windy says. “We want to improve your shelter.”

  “Oh, really?” Claire puts a finger to her bottom lip.

  “Do you realize that everything that comes out of your mouth sounds like an insult?” Levi says to Windy.

  “Does not.”

  “Yes, it does.” He nods. “You’re really talented.”

  “Let’s continue the tour, gang,” Claire suggests. “I’ll show you the cat area.”

  The cat room is smaller than the dog room, but it has more occupants, and it smells worse. Even worse than wet Chihuahua–shih tzu. I count 22 cats and no kittens.

  “We don’t usually take in kittens,” Claire says, reading my mind. “There’s another shelter, Whiskers. They’re better equipped to handle them.”

  “How many animals get adopted every week?” I ask.

  “Depends. Can be anywhere from 1 to 20,” she says.

  “What’s the average?” I ask.

  Claire shrugs. “I’m not certain, sweetheart. 3 or 4?”

  “Is that the mean, median, or mode?” Most people use mean for average, but I want to be sure.

  “It’s a guess.” She laughs. “I can show you our records. And you can mean, media, and mole the data yourself.”

  “It’s mean, median, and mode,” I correct.

  Levi elbows me in the side and whispers, “She was joking with you.”

  “Oh.”

  “I don’t want to look at the records,” Windy says.

  “You can help me with the dogs,” Claire offers. “I still need to walk kennels 5 through 8.”

  Claire asks Noah, the guy with the h
oles in his ears, to show me to her office. It’s more of a closet with 3 huge filing cabinets, a desk, and an ancient computer.

  “Is all the adoption information on the computer?” I ask him.

  “Most of it. Well, some of it.” He scratches his knotted hair. “I’ve been volunteering here for 6 months. People fill out an adoption form. If I have time, I put it in the computer. But all the paperwork is filed by date in here.” He pulls open a drawer in the filing cabinet. The 1st folder is 4 months old.

  “All of it?”

  He points at a stack on the desk. “Except for that pile. They need to be filed.”

  The data is all here. Our problem and the solution for our project are buried in these papers. But none of it is usable yet.

  The front door chimes.

  “Have fun,” Noah says, and he leaves me alone with plenty to calculate. Which actually is fun to me.

  “Lucy!”

  “What?” I look up. Levi stands in the doorway, his camera hanging around his neck. “Did you take my picture?”

  “Maybe.” He steps inside. “Cherish will be here in a minute. Time to go.”

  “You shouldn’t take someone’s picture without asking.”

  He shrugs.

  “And you shouldn’t cheat!”

  “Seriously? You’re still upset that I copied off you on the 1st day of school?”

  “It was the 2nd day, and yes. Mr. Stoker will never know it wasn’t me. He’ll always think that I might be the cheater.”

  “He doesn’t think you’re the cheater.” Levi’s eyes focus on the floor. “I told him it was me.”

  I jerk back in the chair. “When?”

  “I don’t know. Sometime that week.”

  “Why? I mean, we kind of got away with it.” This doesn’t make sense. He didn’t have to say anything.

  Levi shrugs again. “Whatever. He was going to figure it out anyway. You get good grades. I’m the 1 failing his class.”

  “You are?” I try to sound surprised. I’ve seen all 7 of Levi’s grades. According to those, he’s got a 69 average. He’s not failing, yet.

  “Never mind.” He steps closer. “What are you doing?”