The Miscalculations of Lightning Girl

by Stacy McAnulty

  “Good-bye,” I say through gritted teeth. I love Nana, but sometimes I’d like a more normal, plain, boring grandmother.

  As Nana walks out the door of room 213, Maddie walks in. They practically knock each other over.

  “Oh, excuse me,” Nana says. She steps aside and lets Maddie in.

  “Sorry, ma’am.”

  Please don’t call me the cleaning lady. Not in front of Nana.

  “Have a great day, Lucy.” Nana waves and leaves.

  I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding. Maddie rolls her eyes and walks over to me. She never talks to me unless there’s someone else around to hear her hilarious insults.

  “Are you going to this?” She slaps down Windy’s birthday invitation on the desk.

  “Yeah.”

  “Don’t take this the wrong way, but don’t you think Windy would have a better time if you didn’t go?”

  I blink over and over. How can I not take that the wrong way? “Um, are you going?”

  “Of course.” She shakes her head like I’ve asked a stupid question. “I’ve been to every 1 of Windy’s parties. Every single 1. I wasn’t going to go if she had it someplace stupid again, though. Like at 1 of her mother’s spas. That’s where we went the last 2 years. But this place is actually cool.”

  I shrug.

  She picks up her invitation and sighs. “At least we’ll have someone to clean the bathroom.”

  It’s been 6 days since we posted about Pi, and he still hasn’t found a home. Flint was adopted over the weekend, and even Marty, the yippy Chihuahua, had a few phone calls.

  “What are we going to do?” I ask Levi at our lockers before homeroom. “Claire’s not going to let him stay at the Pet Hut forever.”

  “I don’t know. We can share his pictures again.” We’ve already put Pi all over social media. Levi’s moms have helped, and so have Ms. Sitton and Cherish. Nana wanted to help, too, but she couldn’t remember her password.

  “We need to do more.”

  “We need to go to class,” Windy says, coming up behind me. “But I’ll write up a new blog post later. Something with more excitement. More adjectives.”

  We take our seats—me 3 times. We listen to morning announcements. Then Mr. Stoker starts math class.

  “I’m not a fan of pop quizzes,” he says. “But sometimes they are a necessary evil.” He goes to his desk and grabs a stack of papers.

  Groans fill the room. I add a heavy sigh. I don’t mind a math test, but I’d rather listen to Mr. Stoker talk and explain mathematics in his simple 7th-grade way.

  “It would be faster if he just wrote F on the top of the paper,” Levi says under his breath.

  “I bet you get at least a C,” I whisper.

  “Gee, thanks.”

  “Think of it this way,” Mr. Stoker continues. “It’s more a test of my teaching skills than a test of your competence.” He hands out the papers facedown.

  “Does that mean you get the grade?” Derek asks.

  “Nope. Sorry. The grade is all yours. If I told you it wasn’t for a grade, you wouldn’t try your best. A grade is your motivation.”

  “Pizza’s my only motivation,” Derek says.

  Mr. Stoker places a test on Levi’s desk and then on mine. When all the papers have been handed out, he tells us to start and turns on some classical music.

  I expect the test to be a review of perimeter, area, and volume. And the 1st page is. But the 2nd page is a complex word problem. I glance at Levi’s test.

  “Eyes on your own paper,” Mr. Stoker says, obviously watching me.

  The problem in front of me is hard. Really hard.

  The octagon P1 P2 P3 P4 P5 P6 P7 P8 is inscribed in a circle, with the vertices around the circumference in the given order. Given that the polygon P1 P3 P5 P7 is a square of area 5, and the polygon P2 P4 P6 P8 is a rectangle of area 4, find the maximum possible area of the octagon.

  Immediately, I know that the diameter of the circle is . But that’s all I can do in my head.

  There’s no way anyone else has the same test. This is not middle school math. Maybe not even high school. I try to work and rework the problem in my brain—never write anything down—until Mr. Stoker collects the papers. He spends the rest of the class going over the answers. He does perimeter, area, and volume. He doesn’t mention the special problem on my page 2. I can’t concentrate. My brain is stuck trying to find the area of the octagon.

  I tap my toe 3 times under my desk. But I’m still focused on the problem.

  When the bell rings, I’m slow to get up on purpose. I tell Windy I’ll see her later, and I approach Mr. Stoker.

  “You didn’t give me the same test as everyone else,” I say, staring at the floor.

  “Every student is unique,” he says. “Sometimes I create unique tests.” He goes to his desk and picks up the pile of quizzes.

  “That’s not fair.”

  “It’s certainly fair. It’s not equal. That’s the word you were looking for. Equal.” He pulls my paper out and turns to the 2nd page.

  “You didn’t teach us this.”

  He shrugs and points at 1 of his posters. “The Pythagorean theorem has been on the wall since the 1st day of school. You know how to calculate area. You know an octagon has 8 sides. You know the angles—”

  “You didn’t teach this!” I say again. But he’s right, and that makes me angry. I know all the elements needed to solve this. Why can’t I solve it?

  “You didn’t even try it.” He taps the sheet.

  “I can’t do it.”

  “Maybe not.” He actually smiles. “I haven’t solved it myself yet. It’s from an old Putnam Competition. That’s the major collegiate mathematics contest.”

  He stares at me, waiting for a reaction. I don’t move. I don’t blink. I don’t say anything.

  “Well,” he continues, “I’ll let you know if I come up with the solution.”

  What kind of teacher gives out a problem he doesn’t have the answer to? My cheeks feel hot, and I’m not sure whether it’s from frustration or excitement.

  Mr. Stoker tears the 2nd page off and gives it to me. “In case you want to work on it at home.”

  I shove the paper into a notebook and leave. The problem gnaws at my brain during Spanish. I scribble on an imaginary whiteboard in my head. I plug in the numbers. Their colors and shapes get messy, like I’m forcing them to play along when they don’t want to. I erase the mess in my brain and restart again and again.

  I can’t take it anymore. I raise my hand and ask Señora Hubbell if I may use the bathroom. She says sí and doesn’t question me when I take my notebook and pencil along.

  As I run down the hall, I pull out a Clorox wipe. I use it to push open the door to the bathroom and again on the stall handle. Standing over the toilet, I write down the 1st half of the answer. The easy part. It takes me 9 minutes to work out the rest of the problem.

  I got it! It actually wasn’t that hard once I put pencil to paper.

  I want to show Mr. Stoker that I figured it out. Maybe leave it on his desk. But I can’t. I stare at my solution, lost in the beauty of it. The way an art lover would look at a painting in a museum. Then I tear it into little pieces and flush it down the toilet. Unlike an original artistic masterpiece, I can do the problem again, and it will be just as beautiful.

  Windy’s birthday is Saturday, and Pi still hasn’t found a home. His blog has 17 comments—all different ways of saying poor puppy. I don’t want to go to the party. I want to go back to the Pet Hut. But Nana knows about the sleepover—and how excited Windy is—and she won’t let me skip.

  Windy invited every girl in our homeroom class to her celebration at the water park, and 9 said yes, including Windy. Nana takes me to Target to buy a new bathing suit for the occasion. It isn’t th
e right season for swimming, but we find a pretty 1-piece that is a size too big on a clearance rack. We buy it anyway. I can’t find any water shoes on the shelves, so my old pair will have to do.

  “We need to get Windy a gift,” Nana says, admiring a tie-dye craft kit also in the clearance section.

  “I’m making her gift.”

  “Oh. Great.”

  I hope so. Maybe only grandparents like homemade gifts.

  With so many girls going, Ms. Sitton takes 5 in her SUV, and Maddie’s mom drives the other 4. I can’t believe I’ll be spending 32 hours with Maddie.

  I text Levi from the car.

  Me: let me know if Pi gets adopted

  Levi: don’t get your hopes up

  Hope is all I have.

  Me: you should adopt him

  Levi: I can’t

  Me: did you even ask your moms

  Levi: 1000 times

  Me: stop being inaccurate

  Levi: I asked at least 5 times

  Levi: I’ll ask 1 more

  Me: THANKS!

  Levi: try not to drown

  Levi: and try not to drown Maddie

  * * *

  We get to the water park at 1:58. The place is bigger than an airport. While Ms. Sitton and Mrs. Thornton check us into the hotel room, all the girls use their cell phones to take selfies and post them on the Internet. Windy makes sure I get in a few of the pictures. I try to smile as big as everyone else as I tap my toe 3 times.

  “When can we go on the rides?” Maddie asks.

  Ms. Sitton hands out the bracelets that are our tickets.

  “Let’s drop our stuff in the room 1st. Then we can all change into swimsuits.” Ms. Sitton is talking about me. All the other girls wore their swimsuits under their clothes. They need to strip off their T-shirts and pants, and they’ll be ready to dive in. I wish someone had told me to layer up.

  We shove into the elevator with our 17 bags. Even the elevator smells of chlorine and has a wet floor. Windy smiles at me and squeezes my hand. She’s so happy; I feel guilty for dreading every minute of this.

  The room—a suite—is huge. It’s bigger than the apartment I live in. Someone has hung streamers and tied up balloons. I count 30 of them.

  “Awesome,” Daniela says, admiring a basket of snacks on the table.

  “We’re sleeping in here.” Windy points to a room that looks like an old log cabin.

  Everyone runs to pick a bed. I get there last, and Maddie has already taken the bunk with Windy. For someone who usually can’t stand breathing the same air as Windy and me, Maddie suddenly can’t get close enough to Windy.

  “Are you okay with the cot?” Windy asks. A rollaway sits in the middle of the room.

  “It’s fine,” I lie. I want 1 of the cool bunk beds. They look like canoes, and each has a TV mounted on a swivel arm. But it’s not my birthday. This is all for Windy.

  I don’t carry my Clorox wipes down to the water park. I tell myself that the chlorine in the water will be enough to kill the germs.

  We show the employee at the door our wristbands as we go inside.

  “He’s cute,” Maddie whispers to Windy. “And he was checking you out.”

  “Really?”

  The guy has to be at least 18. Still, Windy giggles and kind of dances as she walks. I pull my bathing suit straps tighter so I don’t have such a big gap in the front. My lightning-bolt charm swings from my neck. I should have taken it off, but I’d feel even more naked without it.

  “Girls!” Ms. Sitton has to yell to talk to us over the sound of rushing water. “We need to find a central spot, and then we’ll go over rules.”

  Maddie’s mom points to some free lounge chairs. We throw our towels and beach bags down. The other girls kick off their flip-flops. I keep my too-tight water shoes on.

  “This place is so cool,” Maddie says. She looks different when she’s happy and not scowling at me.

  “Madison,” her mom says, “will you please stand up straight? And…” She pats her own stomach.

  Maddie stops smiling. She pulls her shoulders back and sucks in her stomach. Mrs. Thornton gives her a little nod before turning to help Ms. Sitton. Maddie doesn’t move. I’m not even sure she’s breathing. It’s like all the excitement and happiness drained out of her in that moment of good posture. Then she catches me watching and gives me her death stare.

  “What are you looking at?”

  I don’t answer. Instead, I focus on rebraiding my hair.

  “We’re going to use a buddy system,” Ms. Sitton says. “No one goes off by themselves. Got it, girls?”

  Immediately, everyone starts grabbing hands. This buddy-system business is serious. Windy gets pulled at from 2 directions—Maddie on her left and Daniela on her right.

  “We’re an odd number,” Kaitlyn points out.

  “We’ll have 1 group of 3 girls,” Ms. Sitton says.

  “We’ll be the truddy,” Maddie says. She takes Daniela’s other hand, and suddenly they are a circle-like shape. (But they don’t have a true radius.)

  This forces the other group of 3—Jennifer, Jasmine, and Kaitlyn—to break up.

  “Jennifer, why don’t you be a buddy with Lucy,” Ms. Sitton suggests.

  Jennifer puffs out a loud breath and takes a step toward me. I put my hands behind my back, but she doesn’t try to grab them anyway.

  “We can switch partners in a few hours,” Ms. Sitton adds.

  “We can be buddies later,” Windy says to me. “Okay?”

  Then Ms. Sitton tells us her other rules: No leaving the water park area. The arcade and ice-cream shop are off-limits. We need to check in every 30 minutes at this spot. None of us have watches, and I don’t see a clock, so I don’t know how she expects us to keep time. I’m tempted to count seconds in my head.

  “Stay with your buddy at all times. And have fun.”

  “What do you want—” I try to ask Jennifer.

  “Come on,” she says, following the truddy toward a staircase. It rises 4 stories high and is crowded with people.

  “What is this ride?” I ask. They move too fast to answer me.

  We climb 20 steps and join the back of the line. I manage not to touch anything, especially the metal handrail. I tap my toe 3 times.

  We move slowly up the steps. More people crush in behind us. There’s hardly room to breathe. Jennifer and the truddy form a small huddle, and I hang to the outside.

  “This is the best ride,” Maddie says. “I rode it like 1,000 times when I was here over the summer.”

  Not possible. Even with no line, I estimate it would take her at least 50 hours to ride it 1,000 times.

  “I heard a 10-year-old died on this ride last week,” Jennifer adds.

  “It wasn’t last week,” Maddie says. “It was over a year ago. If it was last week, the ride wouldn’t be open now.”

  My stomach flips. I’m not afraid of heights or going fast. I don’t think anyone actually died on the ride. It’s the used Band-Aid on the next step that makes me ill. This place is very unclean. It’s disgusting.

  “Are you okay?” Windy asks me.

  I force myself to nod (and not throw up). I’m not going to ruin Windy’s birthday.

  “Good,” she says. “I just want everyone to get along.” Then she whispers to me, “Maddie is being so nice. I bet she’s only doing it because her mom warned her or something.”

  I want to say, And that’s okay with you? She’s being forced to be your friend for the day. Instead, I shrug.

  “We’re almost there,” Daniela says. We still have 2 flights to go, but we are close enough to read the warning sign. No pregnant women. No heart patients. You must be 48 inches tall to ride.

  “4 people ride in 1 tube,” Jennifer points out. “W
e can go together.” She still has her back to me.

  “But we’re 5 people,” Windy says. “Maddie, Daniela, and I will go together, and you go with Lucy. She’s your buddy.”

  “But if Lucy and I go together, then we are going to have to ride with them.” With her thumb, she points to the father and son in line behind us. “I don’t want to go with strangers.”

  As we travel up the next flight, they debate who should ride with whom. Windy’s the only 1 who thinks 4 is the wrong answer. I don’t say anything.

  “I’ll go with Lucy,” Windy says, but Maddie makes a pouty face.

  “It’s your birthday. I want to go on the 1st ride with you. We used to ride carousels together. It’s like tradition.”

  Windy bites her lip, like she can’t decide.

  “You don’t care, do you, Lucy?” Maddie finally asks me. “I promise we’ll wait for you at the bottom.”

  I shrug.

  “Really?” Windy asks.

  We are next in line.

  “We’ll take turns,” Jennifer says. “Next time, someone else will ride alone.” I don’t think she’s volunteering.

  I watch as the 4 friends get into the clover leaf–shaped inner tube. Windy waves good-bye to me as the guy working the ride pushes them into a dark tunnel. The echo of their laughs and screams lasts long after they’ve disappeared.

  “How many?” asks the guy, holding the next empty tube.

  I hold up 1 finger. He points to a spot and asks the man behind me the same question.

  I don’t move. The father and son climb in, followed by a lady who’s wearing long shorts and a T-shirt instead of a bathing suit.

  “Come on,” the employee says. “You’re holding up the line.”

  “I’m not ready.”

  When the light on the wall changes to green, he sends the tube forward into the tunnel.

  The next group is 4 teenage guys. They get in without hesitation. The light changes. The ride starts.

  I watch another group of 4 and then 2 doubles, another set of doubles, another group of 4. When a group of 3 steps up—a mom and her 2 daughters, who are barely 48 inches tall—the worker gives me a choice.