Windy’s right behind us. Her eyes are wet.
“You didn’t have to do that,” I say, and hand her a wrapped Clorox wipe because I don’t carry tissues.
“I know.” She sniffs hard and wipes her eyes on her sleeve.
“What do we do now?” I ask.
“I don’t know. I’ve never been in trouble,” Windy says, and more tears drop.
“I guess we should go to the main office,” Levi suggests.
We tell the secretary we’ve been kicked out of Ms. Fleming’s language arts class for not reading aloud. She tells us to take a seat. We wait the rest of the period for Dr. Cobb, but it turns out he doesn’t have time for us. When the bell rings, we’re sent on to 4th period.
The rest of the day continues without incident. But I notice that Windy keeps looking at the door like she expects security forces to come busting through. Even on the bus ride home, she’s still worried that her perfect record is tarnished.
“Thanks for, ya know…,” I tell her as she gets off.
Windy nods. It’s obvious she regrets the stand she took for me. Maybe there’s a way I can make it up to her. But Twizzlers and gummy bears don’t seem like enough of a gesture.
When I get home, Nana is waiting on the couch, and the TV isn’t on. Maybe the school called and told her that I got kicked out of language arts class.
“Hey. Is everything okay?” I ask as I help myself to hand sanitizer.
“Lucy, I’ve got some good news.”
I drop my backpack and sit, stand, sit, stand, sit on the living room chair. “What?”
“I was waiting on a family this morning, and the credit card machine was taking its sweet time. The son—he looked to be 16—wore a sweatshirt that said NCASME, and it had some math symbols on it and a microscope. I asked him what it stood for.”
She pauses like I should fill in this part of her story.
“North Carolina Academy of Science, Math, and Engineering,” she says. “It’s a special high school for juniors and seniors. They do all subjects, but the focus is math. And it’s free because it’s a public school. The students live in dorms and have meals in the cafeteria. It’s all free.”
“That’s cool.”
“And the boy. His name is Paul. Paul! This is a sign, Lucy.”
“It is? Just because this stranger shares a name with my uncle and goes to a math school, that doesn’t really feel like a major sign. Maybe if his name was Lucy.”
She ignored me. “And Paul said there is a girl at the school who is only 13. Isn’t that amazing?”
I nod. “Is her name Lucy?”
“I’ve no clue.” Nana throws up her hands.
“Because that would be more of a sign.”
“Stop being silly. This school is perfect. You can be around other smart kids. It’s not college, and it’s not middle school. I’ve called the admissions office to see how we can get you in.”
“Where is it?”
“Near Charlotte.”
“Charlotte’s almost 2 hours away.”
Nana tilts her head. She reminds me of Pi. “I thought you’d be more excited. I even got Paul’s email and phone number so you can ask him questions. You’re made for this school, Lucy.”
“Okay.”
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.”
Nana claps her hands once and stands up. “I’m going to call the admissions office again.”
It’s weird. Ms. Fleming’s class today was the 1st time I felt like I belonged at East Hamlin. And it wasn’t because of Ms. Fleming—that’s for sure. Windy and Levi made the difference. No one has ever helped me out like that before. I’ve never helped anyone else like that. It’s different from assisting with math homework online. They could have gotten in real trouble. They might still.
* * *
The next day, we return to Ms. Fleming’s class. There’s no mention of our revolt. No apologies from us or from her. It’s like everyone is trying to forget it happened. Except I know Ms. Fleming hasn’t forgotten, because she doesn’t ask me to read a single word. I guess I wasted 2 hours last night counting every word in that stupid anthology book.
“Looks like we got away with it,” Levi whispers.
“I hope so,” Windy says.
I smile but say nothing. I’m not sure how all this works. Do I thank them? Do I owe them? Words and favors don’t seem like enough. They saved me in more ways than 1.
Last week, Mr. Stoker liked our idea of writing a blog post about pets that need a home. He gave us a thumbs-up and an encouraging “I knew you’d come up with something smart.” On the 2nd Wednesday in October we get out of school 2 hours early for a teacher-work day, and Cherish drives us back to the Pet Hut to meet with Claire.
“This is a great idea,” Claire says for the 4th time. She probably would have been enthusiastic if we’d offered to make mittens for the animals. She’s good at making volunteers feel important.
“Thank you,” Windy says. “We’re soooo excited about this.”
“Are you going to do it on our website?” she asks.
“If that’s okay,” Levi says.
“Yeah. Sure, sure. This is really a great idea.” 5th time! “And I know exactly which animal you should feature 1st.”
“No, that’s Lucy’s job,” Windy says. “She has a theory.”
Claire raises her eyebrows. “Really?”
“Do you mind?” I ask.
“Not at all. I’ll take any help I can get.” She motions to the room of dog kennels.
Levi opens the door for me, probably just a habit. I take out my notebook with my formula. I know big dogs are harder to adopt (except for Chihuahuas), so I focus on the animals in the 8 kennels on the floor. My formula has variables for age, color, breed, and size.
I walk by each kennel and read the attached clipboard to get the information I need. Claire, Levi, and Windy follow me quietly, like they don’t want to break my concentration. But the math is actually very simple. I don’t even need to write anything down.
The average wait time to be adopted is 12 days. So my formula starts with that, and I add or subtract based on the data I’ve collected.
If the breed is pit bull, I add 7 to the 12 days; a shepherd gets plus 4 days, and a Chihuahua gets 2 extra days. No other breed falls outside the standard deviation. Basically, they all get a plus 0.
For weight, big dogs (over 60 pounds) get a 2-day add.
And 5 days are added for a black coat. No other coloring played a major factor in my calculations.
Age has 2 criteria: If the dog is between 3 and 7 years old, I add 3 days. And if the animal is over 8 years old, I add a whopping 10 days.
There’s only 1 situation where I need to subtract any days. A dog less than 1 year old gets minus 4 days.
“What is all that in your notebook?” Windy asks.
I close it. “Just some thoughts. Where’s Pi?” I ask, hoping Windy won’t ask more questions.
“He’s at the vet,” Claire says. “He needs exams and vaccinations before he’ll be ready for adoption.”
That makes sense. According to my calculations, Pi wouldn’t have been my chosen dog anyway. I walk back to the 2nd kennel.
“This dog.” I point at the 110-pound, 6-year-old shepherd mix with mostly black fur and mismatched eyes. I don’t have a variable for eye color, but I bet his uniqueness would scare some people.
12 days + 4 days (shepherd mix) + 2 days (weight) + 3 days (age) + 5 days (black) = 26 days
“He got here 2 days ago,” Claire says.
I shrug. “I have a feeling he’ll need help finding a home.” It’s not a feeling. It’s a calculation. According to my math model, he will take 24 to 28 days to be adopted. That’s longer than any other dog that is currently here. The Lab mix i
n kennel 8 has been at the shelter the longest, 18 days, but should be adopted between 16 and 20 days. Or any day now. Pi should be between 11 and 15.
“All right.” Claire shrugs. “Let’s take him to the play yard in the back. You can get to know Murphy.”
“This is going to be awesome,” Windy says. And Levi doesn’t even disagree with her.
The moment Claire opens the kennel door, Murphy transforms from quiet and still to loud and excited. She gives him an awkward bear hug while Levi slips a harness and leash on him.
“Thanks,” Claire says. “Wait. Y’all filled out your volunteer forms, right?” She laughs, but I think she’s being serious. This dog looks ready to maul someone.
“Yep,” Windy answers for all of us.
Murphy jumps up. His paws land on Claire’s shoulders. She nudges him off with an elbow and a knee. Maybe math shouldn’t be the only consideration when picking a dog to rescue.
“Lucy, you look nervous,” Claire says.
“I’m okay.” I fiddle with my lightning-bolt charm.
Murphy pulls against the leash. Claire has no choice but to follow him down the hall. Luckily, he’s heading in the right direction.
The play yard doesn’t have much to play with except a chewed tennis ball. It’s surrounded by a tall chain link fence. The ground is a concrete pad. A weatherworn wooden bench (that also has teeth marks notched out of the legs) sits along the side.
Claire closes the gate behind us. I feel trapped because I am. I tap my toe 3 times.
“Where did he come from?” Windy asks.
“He was surrendered. An older woman was raising him,” Claire answers. “She lived in an apartment, and her husband died suddenly. She couldn’t handle the dog on her own. Bless her heart.”
“You poor thing,” Windy says, nuzzling the dog.
“I’ll be right over there. Holler if you need me.” Claire locks us in.
“Maybe I should see if there are new adoption forms that need to be entered into the computer.” I turn to the gate, ready to run. Dogs are gross and coated in bacteria and parasites—so are humans. But dogs also bite and maul, and they sense fear. They’re practically mind readers. To Murphy, I probably appear to be a trembling chew toy.
“Stay,” Levi says. “He won’t hurt you. I won’t let him. I promise.”
Feeling wanted beats feeling safe. So I stay.
Levi takes off Murphy’s harness. The dog jumps from corner to corner, like he’s playing tag with invisible friends.
“I know what we need to write about this dog,” Windy says. “Brain-damaged.”
“He is not,” Levi says.
I try not to let the brain damage comment sting. But it does a little.
“He’s never going to sit still for a picture,” Windy says. She keeps patting her leg trying to get him to come to her.
“Murphy’s just excited. Give him a minute to calm down.” Levi hangs his backpack on the fence post. He takes out his camera and a bow tie and a fedora.
“Are we playing dress-up?” Windy asks.
The dog tries to snatch the hat from Levi’s hand. I gasp and jump on the bench. “Maybe I should go. I’m making him nervous.”
“Since you’re up there, you can hold the backdrop.” Levi hands me a blue-green sheet (the color of the number 15), and we all wait for Murphy to relax. He finally lets Windy pet his head.
“Good dog.” It takes Levi 3 tries to get the bow tie on. Murphy doesn’t care for the hat at all.
Windy backs out of the shot. Levi gets down on his knees to take the picture while I hold the sheet. The dog looks everywhere except at Levi until Windy picks up the ratty tennis ball. She bounces it once. Murphy is mesmerized. Then Windy holds the ball next to Levi’s head. I’m worried for Levi’s safety. I’m not a good judge of dogs, but based on Murphy’s drooling and intense focus, I’d guess he’d do anything—including decapitating my teammates—to get to that ball.
“Got it,” Levi says.
Murphy is rewarded with attention from Levi, who rubs his belly, and the tennis ball from Windy.
After Claire comes back to get Murphy, she lets us use the office to work on our 1st blog post. Windy does the typing. Eventually, we get down a description of Murphy, and Levi figures out how to upload the pictures. Claire reads the post and declares it perfect. Then she gives Windy and Levi a hug. I slide out of the way to avoid contact.
As we leave, I give Murphy a thumbs-up. “I hope the math is good to you, boy.”
Only 27 hours after our post about Murphy goes up, he’s adopted. Windy acts like we saved the last black rhino from extinction.
“Calm down,” Levi warns her before homeroom. “We’ve helped 1 dog find a home. And Murphy only got adopted so quick because my mom put links to the Pet Hut blog all over her social media.”
“We saved a life.” Windy sits on Levi’s desk, her legs swinging back and forth.
“It’s a no-kill shelter,” he reminds her.
Windy shrugs. “Still. Without us, who knows how long poor Murphy would have suffered in that place?”
“He wasn’t suffering,” Levi says.
“Ugh,” Maddie moans as she walks by. “We’re all suffering just listening to you 3.”
“Then don’t listen,” Levi shoots back.
“And I looked at your website,” Maddie says.
“It’s a blog,” Windy corrects her.
“Whatever,” Maddie continues. “You had about 100 spelling mistakes, and you also—”
“Cool!” Levi says. “I’m glad you checked it out. Nice to know you’re a fan.”
Maddie does an exaggerated shiver. “I’m not.” She hesitates like she has more to say, but she doesn’t. She rolls her eyes and walks over to Daniela.
“Anyway,” Windy says, “we need to go back tonight and pick another dog. I’ll get Cherish to drive us after school.” She pulls out her phone to text her sister.
“I can’t,” I tell her.
“Why?” Windy asks.
“I have an appointment.” An appointment I don’t want to go to. Nana’s arranged an interview and a tour of NCASME—the high school for supersmart math-and-science-loving students.
“What appointment? Doctor? Dentist? Ortho?” Windy asks. “Are you getting braces?”
“You don’t need to know everything,” Levi says. “If Lucy wants you to know, she’ll tell you.”
Windy sticks out her bottom lip. She’s pretending to be hurt. Or maybe she actually is a little bit hurt.
Mr. Stoker claps his hands twice. “You have less than a minute before the bell. Please find your seats.”
“Levi, you can still go, right?” Windy asks as she gets up.
“I guess. But I’m only doing it for the dogs. Not for you.”
Windy smiles. “Whatever.” She shrugs and walks off.
When I know she’s out of hearing range, I lean toward Levi. “Hey. Were you on MathWhiz last night?” I assume it was him. The username was Levi123.
He nods.
“Did you get all your questions answered?”
“Yeah, Lightning Girl. I did.” He takes out his homework and holds it up. “See.”
“Okay. Let me know if you need…” I don’t finish my sentence.
“I will.”
* * *
Nana and Uncle Paul pick me up at 12. He’s only in town for 2 days, and I can’t believe this is how he wants to spend his afternoon.
The ride to the academy takes 103 minutes, 14 left turns, 22 right turns, and 5 times of Nana telling me not to be nervous. After the 1st time, her words have the opposite effect.
“You got this, genius,” Uncle Paul says as we get out of the car.
We follow Nana into a pretty white house with blue shutters (like the number 7). I would t
hink it’s just a house except it has a sign in the yard that says ADMISSIONS.
“Don’t be nervous,” Nana says again.
We wait for our appointment in the living room. Uncle Paul points out all the science magazines perfectly arranged on the table. “They couldn’t throw in 1 Sports Illustrated. What do they have against basketball and football? And what about boxing? Did you know that’s called the sweet science?”
“Why?” I ask.
“I got no idea.”
A woman wearing gray pants (kind of like the number 99) and a sweater with the NCASME logo invites us into her office. She introduces herself as Cheryl McCleary, but she doesn’t say if I should call her Cheryl or Ms. McCleary.
“Have a seat,” she says.
I sit. And I don’t get up. Nana pats my knee like she’s impressed. It doesn’t last.
3.141592…
I stand. I sit. I stand. I sit. The numbers retreat.
Ms. McCleary doesn’t say anything about the OCD dance—most adults don’t—but she’s also good at hiding her surprise. Maybe she’s met kids like me before—other students who have obsessive routines and patterns. I want to ask her but can’t think of a polite way to do so.
“Lucy, thank you for coming to visit our school,” Ms. McCleary begins. “We’re honored to have you consider us for your education.”
“Thanks.” I wish I knew whether she says this to every student.
“I’ve reviewed your homeschool records and your achievement tests. They’re all very impressive. We don’t have any grades from East Hamlin Middle yet.” She pats the folder on her desk.
“Middle school has been a bit of an adjustment,” Nana says.
“Isn’t it for everybody?” Uncle Paul adds.
“It certainly can be. Students thrive in different environments. You can’t expect a rose to bloom in the desert. But put the rose in a greenhouse with sunlight and water, it will blossom.”
Ms. McCleary stares at us, hoping we get the point. I give a slight nod.
“I love roses,” Nana blurts out.
The Miscalculations of Lightning Girl Page 11
