by Greg Pincus
Personally, I think they’ll take their disintegrating ray gun and let me have it, because that’s what I’d do if an alien wanted to talk math with me. If I had a ray gun, of course. Anyway, with math maybe we can figure out the volume or the circumference of a toilet, but how will that let me ask that alien where the bathroom is? Now THAT is important.
So I don’t get the whole “universal” thing.
Then when you make it personal, well …
Here you go, Mr. Davis. Let’s do some math about Kelly moving away. She’s going one hundred forty-four miles away. That’s a Fibonacci number. Ooooh, math! One hundred forty-four › the three blocks she lives away now. Ooooh. More math! That stuff is easy, but I gotta tell you that I still don’t see how it helps me any. And now try this …
My Life − Kelly = x.
Can you solve for x?
Give me formulas that help me, Mr. Davis. Make math useful.
At least with writing there aren’t formulas. You find words, and you can use them however you want. You can write a poem and it can be long or short and say a lot or a little. You can make x equal anything you want.
I understand how that fits in anyone’s life. I understand why we have English class.
But math?
I’m really trying to solve for “why” …
When he was finished, Gregory reached for the phone to read his pages to Kelly, though he quickly realized there was no call to make. Still, he was pretty sure he knew what she’d say: “I like it. Now where’s that going to take you?” Gregory wasn’t sure, but at the moment, he hoped it would take him very far. Or maybe just where Kelly was, one hundred forty-four miles away.
Dropping the journal, Gregory threw himself onto his bed. As he did, the Albert Einstein poster tossed on the floor caught his eye. Immediately, his calf started to hurt. He massaged his leg, then walked over to the poster and picked it up. He smoothed out the wrinkles and brought it back to its old home. Even though he’d been sad and angry, he decided it wasn’t fair to take that out on Albert or his writing. He placed Einstein on the wall with the putty, making sure to cover the old fuse box perfectly.
Then Gregory went over to his trash can, ready to put his notebooks and pages back where they belonged.
There was only one problem with his plan.
The trash can was empty.
Gregory was not a star athlete, and no one had ever suggested that he begin Olympic training in, well, in anything. Still, he flew from his room, up the stairs, and down the hallway in his house at a speed that would have rivaled any gold medal winner.
His feet barely touched the ground as he sprinted to the refrigerator. There, he glared at his father’s intricately designed and accurately labeled Chore Wheel — a series of cut-out circles overlaid upon one another with color coding, interconnected grids, and a calendar all indicating which child was doing which chore on which day.
To outsiders, the wheel made no sense, but Gregory took one look at it and yelled …
“Trash day! It’s trash day!”
Moving even faster than before, he sprinted straight out of the house, heading at top speed to the trash cans right by the curb. It was a beautiful late April day, with a warm spring sun that baked the big plastic receptacles of garbage, but Gregory paid no attention to the weather.
“Yes!” Gregory said as he flung one can open and found it full of trash. “Yes!!!! The trash is still here! The trash is still here!”
It was only after he did a celebratory dance and shoved his hands deep into the trash can to rummage around that Gregory noticed his mom and Mrs. Willetski, their neighbor, standing nearby, staring right at him.
“Oh. Hi,” Gregory said. His mom and Mrs. Willetski waved. A wad of used paper towels came up attached to Gregory’s arm and fell back into the can with a resounding thud as he waved back.
“I’m just glad the trash is still here,” Gregory said happily and figured that would suffice. He returned to his rummaging and then almost fell over backward as the full stinky power of the overheated mess reached him.
“It will be here until tomorrow morning,” his mom replied, unsure of why this was such good news.
“Wow, this is … ugh.” Gregory turned his head away and searched for fresh air. Breathing again, he went back to work in the trash can. “You want to help me look through here? It’d sure speed things up….”
“What a kind offer, Gregory. But … no.” His mom paused for a moment, then cleared her throat overly loudly. “Gregory, why are you digging in our trash can?”
“I don’t think I’m really digging, am I? It’s more of a gentle search,” Gregory said while carefully avoiding inhaling.
“Gregory. Answer the question.”
Now gasping for air, Gregory pushed back from his digging. He took a few cleansing breaths.
“I threw out important papers in my room, Mom. And Kay had trash duty, not O, so they actually got picked up. I need them back.” Gregory looked at his mother with wide, anxious eyes. Finally, she nodded.
Relieved, Gregory gave his mom a huge thumbs up, unaware that his thumb was covered with the remains of Weird Wednesday’s dinner, now growing roots.
Back on task, Gregory kept digging and breathing. And digging and breathing. And digging and breathing until his smile faded — he’d found a lot of trash, but he hadn’t found a single piece of paper from the fuse box.
Filthy and frustrated, Gregory threw every piece of trash back into the black plastic cans and slammed the covers closed. He kicked one can hard for good measure, then went inside and took a blisteringly hot shower with all the soap his mother could find.
He put on clothes as fast as he could, and went dripping down the hall to his sister’s room. He knocked very loudly on her door.
“I’m not hard of hearing,” Kay said from within her room. “And as long as you promise not to speak to me as if I am, you can come in.”
“I promise,” Gregory said and pushed open the door. Every time he saw Kay’s room, he was struck by the same thought — how many other kids had bright pink walls with the periodic table of the elements painted on them? This time, though, Gregory had another thought too:
“You’re reading my trash!!!” Gregory said.
“You threw it away. That means you no longer want to own it. Maybe I do,” Kay explained as she looked up from one of Gregory’s notebooks.
“No way. I trashed it. I didn’t put it up for adoption!” Gregory strode into the room and started gathering up the papers and notebooks that surrounded Kay. “And now I’m saying it’s not trash at all.”
“I would’ve taken it out to the street, but one paper fell out and … and I read it and then I read more, and I’m sorry, but …”
“You shouldn’t have done that.” Gregory pulled a small stack of papers from Kay’s hands. His voice sounded angry, but his eyes showed embarrassment.
“But you threw it away!”
“That was a mistake.”
“I agree!” said Kay as she helped her brother pile up his writing. “You shouldn’t throw this out.”
Gregory grunted and kept gathering. But after juuuust enough time, he turned to his sister. “I shouldn’t throw it out? So, uh, do you think it’s good?”
“No, I wouldn’t say it’s good,” Kay said without hesitation.
“Whatever,” Gregory grumbled.
“I’d say it’s great, Gregory K. I know I’m your little sister so I should say it’s lousy and then chastise you for your efforts, but I actually deal in truth, and I love your poetry.”
“Thanks, Kay.” There was no mistaking the smile on Gregory’s face, even though he tried to hide it. But he couldn’t. It was too big. He struggled to recapture his gruff big-brotherness. “But you still shouldn’t have read it.”
“Then I take it back.” Kay neatened another small stack of papers and handed them to her brother.
“You don’t have to,” Gregory said, again losing his edge. “And I’m real
ly glad you didn’t throw it all out.”
“I promise I won’t throw any of your poetry out if you promise the same thing,” Kay said.
“Deal.” Gregory took the pile of work and started toward the door.
“Hey,” Kay called after him. “Have you ever shown Mom or Dad any of that?”
“Are you kidding me?” Gregory turned around to face his little sister, utterly incredulous.
“I think you should.”
“Well, you’re clearly not me,” Gregory said.
“I bet they’d like it,” Kay said as she lay down on the solar-system sheets on her bed.
Gregory patted the pile of paper and notebooks. “This goes back in my room. Maybe that’ll change after City Math.”
“That’s a waste. You should spend all that extra time writing poetry instead of coming up with math stuff you don’t care about,” Kay said.
“Dad cares about math. And maybe I do too,” Gregory protested.
“You even have math poems. I saw some in there. Show ’em those,” Kay said, tracing the orbits of Mercury and Venus on her sheets with her fingers.
“Yeah, well, it’s not like Dad wants to see a haiku or anything,” Gregory said.
“Okay, if you say so.” Kay smiled. “But thanks for letting me read your poetry.”
“Letting you???? Gah!” Gregory turned away and left the room, slamming the door behind him.
“Keep writing!” Kay shouted through the closed door. And for once, Gregory knew he needed to listen to his sister.
With his arms full of years of writing, Gregory hurried down to his basement room. He placed the pile carefully on the floor and collapsed on his bed, relieved and recovering all at once. Suddenly, his eyes opened wide and he sat up straight, as if he’d gotten an idea as good as the Slice’s apple pie.
He began leafing through the pages on the floor with a purpose. Finally, he found the sheet he was searching for deep inside a notebook — a page full of haiku. He studied them for a minute, then searched around for a blank piece of scrap paper and a pencil.
A half hour later, with a page full of scrawls, scribbles, and notes next to the haiku, Gregory pulled his math journal out of his backpack and opened it up to the next empty page. With a deep breath, he began writing in his journal.
The Fibonacci sequence shows up in nature, right? It’s a “rhythm,” you said, and you can find it all over. And I figure haiku is just a rhythm too. So …
One.
Two.
Three. Five.
This is great:
Lines of poetry
With syllables (ending with eight).
See what I did? Each line has the number of syllables of the Fibonacci sequence. I stopped after eight syllables because it starts to get really long really fast (Thirteen syllables was like a sentence and twenty-one was just long!).
If I stop after the eight, the whole poem has twenty syllables (if you’re counting along, a haiku has seventeen), and it has six lines. I think that makes a cool poem type.
I even tossed a rhyme in there (lines four and six if you missed ’em, Mr. Davis), not that that makes it poetry by itself. And I know that one maybe isn’t really a poem but just an example of the form or, what’s that word? Template. Yeah.
But what about …
Slam
Dunk
Soaring
I’m scoring
Crowd keeps on roaring
In my dreams I’m unstoppable
I like that one and hope you do too. But just so you know, I’ve never slam-dunked.
That’s the thing, though — I can make that up, but if I try to make up the answer to a long division problem, I don’t get a smiley face from you. This poetry based on the Fibonacci sequence might.
Right?
When Gregory got his journal back from Mr. Davis the next day there was a full-page smiley face and a big RIGHT!!!! scrawled beside it. Below that, though, was another comment that just had to be a trick question: Math = poetry, don’t you think?
As he met Alex to walk home after school, Gregory was still mulling over the question. He shoved the journal in front of Alex, holding it steady in the sunlight as the two walked side by side.
“Okay, Alex,” Gregory said as he pointed to Mr. Davis’s comment, “tell me what that means.”
Alex stopped to read, squinting in the bright light. “No hidden meaning there, G. It’s just a fact.” Alex started walking again. “Of course, the reverse has to be true too.”
“The reverse?” Gregory asked, hurrying to catch back up to his friend.
“If math equals poetry, then poetry equals math.” Alex looked at his friend’s confused expression. “Dude. One plus two equals three. Three equals one plus two. Get it?”
“Yes. I get that. But poetry doesn’t equal math. It just doesn’t.” Gregory kicked a small rock down the sidewalk. It skittered across the concrete until it took a big jump, flew in the air, and fell noiselessly to the grass.
The two friends walked on in silence for a moment. Finally, Alex shrugged. “Sorry, dude. Poetry equals math. That’s the rule of the equal sign.”
“Maybe that’s the rule in math, the universal language. But he wrote it in English, not Mathlish.”
“I don’t think my art is math, do you? Math is not equal to art. So my art is not equal to math,” Alex said.
“If my poetry is, then your art is too. And …” Gregory shook his head. “Sheesh. Why am I fighting with you?”
“Because you need fresh baked pie, dude,” Alex said.
It wasn’t really the pie, of course, though Gregory did have a banana cream craving. Still, he hadn’t seen Kelly in days, and he missed her. She was coming back tonight, and much to his dismay, he didn’t even know if she’d talk with him again after the Author’s Camp dinner fiasco. It was a crushing feeling.
“Pie,” Gregory said, half to himself. He stopped dead. “Pie. Pi. Pie. Pi! Math, Alex. Math can help me!”
“Uh, dude,” Alex asked as he put a hand on Gregory’s forehead, “you feeling all right?”
“I think I have an idea kinda thing. I mean … well … do you think Kelly would like the Fibonacci poetry if …” Gregory started.
“Yes, G. I’m sure she would,” Alex said. “Now, me equals going and going equals me. Enjoy the weekend, dude.”
As soon as Alex headed off, Gregory began a half sprint, half walk to Kelly’s house. He didn’t stop to enjoy the soft grass in the park or smell the fields of blooming flowers. He didn’t pet any of the dogs he saw as he ran, or chat with any of his classmates still on their way home. He was on a mission.
When he got to Kelly’s house, Gregory sat down on the porch swing as he’d done so many times before. Even now, here by himself, with Kelly and her mom out of town, the porch seemed as warm and safe as always. Maybe it was the quilted seat covers or the handmade dried flower arrangements or maybe it was only the memories, but whatever it was, it calmed Gregory. After a while, he grabbed his math journal and started writing.
I
Am
Sorry.
That’s no lie —
Not even a half
(So please, please, please don’t kick my calf!)
I never asked my parents about Author’s Camp. I’m sorry I told you I did. I’ve always wanted to go. I’ve always wanted to go WITH YOU. I’ve always wanted to ask them. I still do. I want to know if you’re still going, and I want your help on a plan. No, not my normal type of plan. This one is real. Or I think so, but I want you to think so too.
And I really am sorry.
Please call me when you get home.
Gregory K.
Gregory ripped the sheet from his notebook and slid it under Kelly’s front door, pushing it carefully beneath the chipped paint where the door met the frame. He watched the note disappear, then stood up and breathed in deeply. The air felt perfect, the light on the porch so crisp and clean. It took him a long time to leave Kelly’s house, but ev
entually, journal in hand, he went home.
That night, Gregory took an out from dinner and stayed in his room. He told his parents he didn’t feel well, and if they’d seen him, they probably would have agreed something was wrong: Gregory was in his room poring over books, reading about Fibonacci, then writing about it in his math journal.
Following Mr. Davis’s instructions about “noticing math in your life,” Gregory also kept count of how many times he looked at his cell phone during the course of the evening. When it finally rang — about as late as it had ever rung — he was in the triple digits.
He didn’t tell Kelly that, however. Instead, he listened to her describe her new school, talk about houses and apartments she’d looked at with her mom, and talk about the fact that she’d only be one hundred forty-four miles away and the trip didn’t take long and if he got his butt in gear they’d see each other at Author’s Camp anyway, right?
“Riiii …” Gregory said and trailed off. “Well, actually, Kelly, I can’t promise that right now.”
“You’re a big loser, G, since you might not go to camp,” Kelly said, “but at least you weren’t a superdoofus and lying about it again, so thanks.”
Gregory was pretty sure he finally understood the George Washington parable, though the way Parson Weems had written it, it sure sounded like he should feel a lot better right now.
Still, he and Kelly were okay again, and that, he had to admit, felt really good. She’d liked his plan, and he couldn’t wait to show Mr. Davis all he’d written about Fibonacci and math. For once, he knew he’d done his work well, and that had to be a positive.
Which was true.
But Mr. Davis was more like Kelly, always wondering, “Where’s this going to take you?” So even though Gregory thought his recent writing was definitely going to take him somewhere — to a higher grade, he hoped — he hadn’t considered that there were going to be a lot more steps he had to take on the path from F to B.
