by Greg Pincus
Still, it wasn’t all math and pie as the days ticked by. April came, and that meant Mrs. Harris was teaching poetry. And if there was one area where Kelly and Gregory switched roles, it was when the poetry unit rolled around.
“You gotta admit this is pretty funny,” Gregory said between bites of a perfectly tart gooseberry pie. “It’s like my nightmare come true. Mrs. Harris gave us a formula to write a poem!”
“I don’t know if a haiku is a formula, exactly,” Kelly said, after a mouthful of gooseberry perfection. “It’s just five syllables, seven syllables, and five syllables. That’s not …”
“That’s a formula! And what about the cinquain?” Gregory was adamant.
“Same thing. One, two, three, four, one,” Kelly said, stabbing the pie for emphasis. “Just a pattern of numbers, not a formula.”
“I’m saying that this week, there’s a little bit of math in English class. Will you give me that? Because if not, I’m not helping you.”
“Whatever. I have to get used to you not helping me anyway.” Kelly ate her pie in silence after that. When his pie was done, Gregory gave in and agreed to help no matter what.
Kelly pushed a piece of paper over to him. On it was written:
Summer’s coming soon
Sun, fun, swimming pools, no schools.
Then she’d stopped.
“I don’t understand. You want me to come up with a final line for your haiku? How come you can’t finish it?” Gregory was confused, then momentarily more confused when Kelly started crying and ran away from the table. “Kelly?”
Kelly zoomed behind the counter of the Slice. Gregory jumped to his feet to give chase, but Kelly’s mom stopped him. “Employees and family only.”
“But …” Gregory started to protest. Kelly’s mom held up a hand to quiet him. She was as warm and comforting as the Slice itself, her long hair piled atop her head and her eyes always alive and calm. Gregory was never able to be upset with her, even when she was telling him something he didn’t want to hear.
“Go out the front door and go to our house. She’s either running home or she’s going somewhere we won’t find her until she’s ready to be found.”
Gregory sprinted out the front door and used every shortcut he knew to get to Kelly’s house. He was sitting on the porch breathing hard and hanging out alone on the big overstuffed swinging seat when she showed up.
“Why are you here?” Kelly asked as she sat down beside him.
“Because I’m a dummy. I know you can write the last line. I also know you just don’t want to. I don’t want to talk about summer either. So I’ve got twenty-five ideas for other haiku you can write instead,” Gregory said. He pushed off on the ground, and the swing began to move.
“I can’t write any other ones,” Kelly said.
“Fine, then. You can have mine,” Gregory said. He pumped his legs. The swinging seat moved a little more.
“Let me hear it,” Kelly said. “Maybe I’ll use it. But only maybe.”
“My English teacher / must talk to birds. She said to / write a ‘hi cuckoo’!” Gregory said. Kelly just shook her head.
“Mrs. Harris would know you wrote that. She’d nail me for cheating.” Now she pumped her legs too.
“No way,” Gregory said as the swing reached the apex of its move. He brought his legs back in. Kelly moved in sync with him.
“Gregory K.!” Kelly sounded frustrated rather than angry. “You don’t get it, do you? Everyone would know that was yours.”
“No, they wouldn’t. It’s just a haiku.”
“No, it’s not! Writing isn’t like math, G. Anyone can plug numbers into formulas and get the right answers.” Kelly pumped her legs with vigor. Gregory matched her.
“Oh, really? I wish.”
“Yes, even you can do it. And your brother can do amazing things with numbers, I know. But you and words …” Kelly shook her head. “That’s soooooo your poem. I wish I could’ve written it.”
“You can still turn it in as your homework. I don’t mind.”
“I know. But I do.” Kelly smiled. The two swung for a few moments in silence. Their legs moved in unison, perfectly connected with no communication needed.
“Fine. I’ll write you another haiku. I’ll make it lousy so Mrs. Harris will think it’s yours.” Gregory grinned. “I’m such a good friend, aren’t I?”
“I’m just gonna finish the one I started,” Kelly said. “I know how it ends.”
The two friends sat and watched the world pass by in silence. Before long, and without a word, both stopped pumping their legs. The swing moved slower and slower. Finally, as the movement nearly stopped, Gregory spoke again. “Want to come over for dinner? It’s Weird Wednesday, but …”
“I’d love to,” Kelly said.
It was between bites of minced portobello and prune in a balsamic reduction that Gregory’s mom asked Kelly what she was going to be doing this summer after she moved, and Kelly answered, “Going to Author’s Camp with Gregory!”
The world switched to slow motion for Gregory. He saw the confused looks form on his parents’ faces, brows crinkling and heads tilting. He watched Kelly’s eyes lose their luster as she realized that his mom and dad had never heard a word about Author’s Camp. He could see and hear O smacking his lips as if he were about to taste the delicious drama in the air. And he saw Kay shake her head sadly and look at him with great sympathy, as though she could sense exactly what had happened even though she had no details at all.
Then, Gregory watched as his parents and Kelly turned to look at him. His parents’ eyes said they were searching for clarification. Kelly’s eyes, however … he had to turn away because the hurt and the tears in them were not something he could deal with. He had to find a way to save the situation.
But words didn’t come. He stammered out something about there being confusion with Math Is Magic Camp, but the truth was, he wasn’t even sure exactly what he said.
Weird Wednesday had suddenly become the Wednesday of Woe, and Gregory sat in the awkward silence trying to will the world away.
Kelly swallowed down a few more bites of food and said her good-nights to everyone … except him. He saw the pain in her eyes now mixing with anger, and he shrunk down in his chair, feeling small and alone. His mother walked Kelly to the door, concern etched on her face too, but it was concern for Kelly, not for him.
Gregory banged his fork onto the table, got up, and ran down the hallway to his room. He slammed the door, hurried to his bed, dove in, and pulled the covers over his head.
He wasn’t sure how long he stayed in hiding, but eventually, he emerged from the bed and grabbed his phone. He dialed Kelly’s number.
By the time he went to bed that night, Gregory had dialed the number thirty-four times without getting an answer, ripped the poster of Albert Einstein off his wall, and thrown every one of his notebooks and loose pieces of paper in the trash.
“Fish sticks,” O said, and Gregory’s mother and Kay gasped in unison.
“Eighteen days of silence and that’s what you finally say?” Gregory shook his head. “How profound.”
But Mom immediately made fish sticks.
“Mom, it’s not like he just stopped fasting!” Gregory protested. “And besides, you promised me pancakes.”
Instead, Gregory had fish sticks with maple syrup for breakfast. It was not pancakes, though he had to admit it wasn’t horrible.
When he got to Kelly’s house for the morning walk to Lee Elementary, there was no sign of Kelly. She also wasn’t at school. When the final bell rang, Gregory grabbed his journal from Mr. Davis and hurried to the Slice without even peeking at his teacher’s comments. Kelly was not there either, and her mother said, “She’s not feeling well,” as an explanation.
Gregory could tell by the tone of her voice and the way Kelly’s mom stood stiffly in front of him that he was the reason Kelly wasn’t feeling well. It left him with an ugly feeling in his stomach that wouldn’t have gon
e away even if he had had a slice of pie.
Despite the April showers that sprinkled him as he walked, he took the long route home from the Slice. Mending things with Kelly would definitely take work and time, he could tell. He felt horrible and stupid and frustrated, yet there was nothing he could do today, and that just made it worse. So, he decided to focus on other problems. Luckily, he had lots of problems.
Because of how he’d arranged things, the path to Author’s Camp was through City Math. He had to pass class, yes, but the journal seemed to make that likely. Or at least possible. But now, flopping at City Math? Not going to do the trick. He had to have a breakthrough or his summer would be mathemagically miserable, even if Kelly somehow forgave him. There was slightly more than a month left until the big math day. Drastic action was required.
Back at home, he dried off, grabbed his library books and a notepad, and went to the end of the upstairs hall. He took a few deep, calming breaths and climbed the rickety stairs to the Lab. Much to his relief, he was alone.
Walking with a purpose, he went to the old rolltop desk and plopped his stuff down. He flipped open a math book, set up his pad, and poised his pen, ready for inspiration to strike.
One hour later, Gregory’s father came up into the Lab to find his son finishing off a second bag of cheesy-puffy-baked joy. One word was written on the pad: Fibonacci. But his dad didn’t see that. His dad only saw Gregory sitting at his desk.
“Gregory!” His father’s joy made his voice two octaves higher than normal. “What are you doing here? I mean, it’s great. I’m just … surprised.”
“I’m eating and … uh … mathing!” Gregory couldn’t match his father’s excitement, but he gave it a go.
“Isn’t it spectacular up here? You must have gotten so much done.” His father crossed the room, heading toward his son and the rolltop desk.
“More than I’ve gotten done in days, Dad,” Gregory said as he quickly closed his notebook.
“So … can I help somehow? Or should I leave you alone?” Dad’s tone made it clear that the latter choice was not the answer he was looking for.
“I think I’m good, and —” Gregory stopped to rub his suddenly sore calf. “Actually, Dad. What do you know about Fibonacci?”
It was as if he had given his father a full apple pie from the Slice. His dad strode to a bookcase and began searching … and talking.
“Leonardo Fibonacci was a mathematician in the twelfth century. He lived in Italy.”
“Right. Fibonacci’s not just a sequence but a real person. I guess that’s important.”
“Very much so, Gregory. The Fibonacci sequence is simply named for him, but Leonardo did so much for us.” His father ran his finger along the bookshelf until he finally found the volume he wanted and pulled it off the shelf.
“So is there like a Bob Algebra or a Joe Multiplication?”
“Let’s stay on topic, please. Leonardo Fibonacci lived in the city of Pisa. In fact, he was often known as Leonardo of Pisa. That’s back when mathematicians were treated with the respect they deserve!” His father stopped to take a breath and began flipping through the book. Immediately, Gregory could smell the staleness of a book that hadn’t been opened in too long.
“Hmm. So maybe I could be Gregory K. of the USA? I like that.” Gregory stifled a sneeze as the dank, dingy smell filled his nostrils. His father was oblivious to it all.
“Try a city before a country, son. Now, Leonardo was an all-around math whiz, but he’s best known for two things. One, he started using our numbers for math because it seemed so much simpler.” Gregory’s dad walked over to his desk and put the book down in front of him.
“Before him they did math without numbers?” Gregory asked, completely lost.
“No, before him, people in Europe used Roman numerals. So you’d say CXI times IX equals …” His father waited, and Gregory realized with dismay that he was expected to answer.
“Ummmm …” Gregory said.
“Close. It’s one less than M. CMXCIX to be exact. Anyway, Leonardo introduced our number system, the Hindu-Arabic system, to everyone else.”
His father pointed at the open page on the book on Gregory’s desk. Gregory saw a bunch of numbers and a picture of a marble statue of Fibonacci.
“Look at that!” his dad said excitedly. “Those were the days when mathematicians were loved. Of course, when you introduce something like lattice multiplication …”
“Oh, yeah,” Gregory said. “Lattice multiplication gets you a big statue any day.”
“But the other reason everyone knows Fibonacci is because of a sequence he worked with,” his father went on as he began pacing through Mathland again. “He didn’t even come up with it first, but it got named after him anyway.”
“That’s probably because of him bringing us new numbers, right?” Gregory hoped.
“Very likely. Anyway, you know the sequence, don’t you?” Gregory nodded. His father beamed. “It’s a pretty exciting thing. Did you know that …”
For the next ten minutes, the only phrase that even sounded like English to Gregory was “generating polynomial of the recursion” and he truly had no clue what that possibly meant. Eventually, he began to focus on the clip-clopping rhythm of his father walking and how it would make a good meter for some poetry.
Before long, his father was covering a second blackboard with equations and notes and endless lines of Fs with subscript numbers. Somewhere in there, Gregory recognized the sequence itself — 0, 1, 1, 2, 3, 5, 8, and so on. His father stopped that list at 10,946.
“That’s the twenty-first element of the Fibonacci sequence, and twenty-one is, in fact, a Fibonacci number.” His dad laughed. “Oh, I’m sorry. It’s a self-reflexive recursive moment. I shouldn’t laugh, but it tickles me.”
About twenty minutes in, Gregory experienced something else totally new — he was really excited to see his brother. His dad paused just a beat when O appeared at the top of the ladder, and Gregory quickly filled the gap.
“O! Well, that’s a sure sign for me to leave.” Gregory jumped to his feet. “Thanks, Dad. It was great.”
“But we haven’t even talked about the Liber Abaci yet!” his father protested, but Gregory was already on the top rung of the ladder.
O quickly sprinted to the window and peered outside. “You and Gregory were talking math, Dad,” O said, “so I figure this is the day I get to see pigs fly!”
“And I’ve always wanted to see you wear a pair of socks that actually match, but we’re probably both gonna wait a long time,” Gregory said as he clambered down to make his getaway.
O quickly checked his socks. One was yellow, one was greenish. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” O yelled after his brother. “They’re just like yesterday’s!”
Back in his room, Gregory looked inside his notebook again. There was still only one word: Fibonacci. Inspiration suddenly came — he grabbed a pen and added the word sequence. His pen hung ready for a bit longer … then he tossed it across the room.
Gregory grabbed the phone and dialed. “Hey, Alex.”
“Yo-yo, dude. How’s the math?” Alex replied.
“I’m really making progress now. Great progress,” Gregory said, looking down at his work. “But, uh, I wasn’t actually calling about math.”
“I’m not clueless like your brother, G. You looked like a duck out of water all day long, even though you didn’t quack or anything. You know what I mean?”
“Yeah. I …” Gregory took a deep breath to steel himself. “Do you know where Kelly was?”
“Sick at home. And tonight, she and her mom are going to see where they’re gonna live next year.” Alex said it matter-of-factly. “Kelly said they’ll be gone until late tomorrow night.”
“I see. Is that all she said?” Gregory asked. He absentmindedly riffled the pages of his notebook, unsure if he really wanted to know the answer to his question.
“There was something about breakfast potatoes,
” Alex said. “And something about how she was going to Author’s Camp this summer, and she wondered if she’d know anyone there.”
“Oh.”
“I thought you were going, dude. You totally should. You write like I divide and multiply, you know what I’m saying?” Alex’s enthusiasm was so real that Gregory was sure Kelly hadn’t told him the whole story. Somehow, it made him feel worse. He got off the bed and headed for his desk.
“You’re a better artist than mathematician, Alex. So please, compare me to that. And I want to go to camp. I do.” Gregory crawled under his desk and sat in the foot well, his back against the wall.
“G, in case you’re forgetting, Kelly’s moving. I know I’m gonna miss her, and I’ve only known her half as long as you.” Alex paused, and Gregory could imagine him shifting his legs around trying to get comfortable. “You gotta go to camp, you know? You write. Kelly writes. It just … dude, it makes sense, okay?”
Gregory and Alex talked for a long time, focusing on homework, friends, and pie. As they chatted, Gregory realized that this conversation was a great example of what they talked about a lot in Mrs. Harris’s English class: subtext. Yes, everything he and Alex said was about Kelly leaving even though they never specifically mentioned it again after talking about camp. When the call was done, Gregory knew he had something good for Mr. Davis. He got out from under the desk, grabbed his math journal, and started writing.
I am trying to see how math fits into my life, Mr. Davis. How math class helps me. You keep saying math’s important and that it’s the universal language everyone understands. Let’s just start with that.
Say I meet someone from the planet Gloptor. They don’t speak English, and I don’t speak Gloptorian, since we don’t even get Spanish class in school anymore. So I think, “Oh, math’s the universal language!” and I go up to the alien and say, “Square root of two?” Like what happens next?
Now, maybe you mean that I should type 0.7734 on my calculator and hold it up to them and everything’s gonna be all right.
