I kick one of the pedals and it spins around. Am I doing this or not? It’s like there’s a cartoon angel and devil floating above my shoulders, except one is Erin, saying “You?” and the other side is Orville and Wilbur, saying “Why not you? Missing a wheels gene and you rode a bike, didn’t you?”
I stand there for a while, looking at the bike. Then something occurs to me. I bet people said mean things and laughed at O and W while they tried to fly their giant kite. Doubted they could do it. Said they’d never survive.
But they did.
And you know what? I also bet that the first model they made wasn’t all that amazing.
CHAPTER TEN
Shocks
ZOE
Mom’s standing at our front window, her arms crossed. “The woodpecker’s back.”
Hannah rushes toward her, doing a few off-balance leaps. “Where?”
I come over too, as Mom points. “Same spot on the mailbox. Why can’t he find a tree like other woodpeckers?”
A black-feathered woodpecker with a red crown has been hanging out on the side of our mailbox, pecking away for most of the weekend. He’s made a hole the size of a quarter. Our mailbox looks like a little house, with shingles and a roof. I think he’s claimed it as his home and is getting ready to move in.
Mom opens the front door and claps her hands loudly a few times. The bird pays no attention. “Should I tape up the hole? I don’t want him to nest in there.”
Hannah squeals as the woodpecker squeezes inside the mailbox. “Look! Too late! He went in!”
Mom closes the door. “Now what? Should I call an animal service?”
“No!” I cry. “Like many species, woodpeckers are losing their natural habitats. He’s adapting. We’re witnessing adaptation right in front of us! If he thinks our mailbox is a good home, what’s wrong with it?”
“We get our mail there, that’s what wrong with it,” Mom says. “It’ll be full of bird poop.”
Hannah flops onto Dad’s favorite chair, which is still here, next to the sofa. Mom won’t move it, but she won’t sit in it either.
“I bet he wants to find a girl woodpecker and then they’ll have baby woodpeckers,” Hannah says, swinging her legs and pulling a long string of gum out of her mouth.
Mom sinks onto the sofa. “Actually.”
I frown, sit next to her. “Actually, what?” Her face is so not good. Seems like every day she looks more tired than the day before.
“Your dad and . . . Dara are expecting a baby,” Mom says.
I clutch my heart. “How do you know? Did you talk to him?”
“He sent me an e-mail.”
Hannah jumps up. “I’m going to have a little sister?”
Mom closes her eyes for a second, then opens them. “Or a brother. He didn’t say much. Except that the baby’s due in June. And they’re . . . getting married.”
So Dad really is staying there. For good. Doesn’t he miss us? Has he forgotten about us? We were his family first.
“Did Dad ask about me?” I say. Mom shakes her head.
Hannah’s oblivious, chattering about names she’s going to suggest to Dad for the baby. She’s counting them off on her fingers. “Ava, Charlotte, Isabella . . .”
How can I bring up the camp now? I’ve been waiting for the right moment, when Mom isn’t tired or distracted, but that hasn’t happened. I need to ask anyway. It feels like this news is another reason to go, except it belongs on my list, not the list to persuade Mom.
She’s staring off into space. I clear my throat. “Mom, this might not be a good time, but what I needed to talk to you about the other night . . .”
“Yes, I forgot. What is it?”
“Well, amazing news, actually. I’ve been invited to a prestigious technology camp. Ms. Gilardi, the eighth-grade science teacher, nominated only five kids from McNutt, and I’m one of them. It’s very selective. You design something, make it yourself, then do a whole presentation on the last day. Erin was invited too. I really, really want to go. Can I?”
“It sounds great. When is it?”
“Over winter break.”
“When, exactly?”
“Um, that’s the thing. It’s the week we’re visiting Aunt Marci. But this is such a tremendous opportunity. Erin said I could stay at her house We could continue our plant research if they let us, and you could have some one-on-one time with Hannah.”
Hannah blows a giant bubble, then pops it on her nose. “Cool.”
Mom puts a hand on my knee. “Zoe, you can’t miss the visit.”
“But—”
“I’m sorry to disappoint you, but no. It’s out of the question.” She twists her mouth. “They’re the only family who care about us. You can go to the camp another time.”
“No, you don’t understand. It’s not like that. They don’t have them often and you—”
She gets up and walks into the kitchen, and I know that’s it. Hannah sings, “Too bad, you can’t go,” and I run into my room and slam the door. It feels like what Dad told me will never come true now. This was my chance. This was the first real step toward my dream. And it’s crushed, like bits of awful, landfilling Styrofoam.
I grab my phone and text Erin. My mom said no!!!
MAJORLY UPSET, she replies.
She won’t even consider the camp. I have to visit my aunt. My fingers can’t bear to type the other news, about Dad.
I’ll keep you in the loop remotely, Erin says. I’ll text you whenever I can. I’ll sneak into the bathroom if I have to. Even though I heard they’re super strict about texting.
This actually makes me smile. Erin Marcus? I say. Breaking a rule?
When necessary, yes.
Thanks.
Of course! We’re in this together, whether you’re there or not.
I type a few hearts and she responds with a smiley face.
My shade is pulled down. I can’t see the mailbox, but I can still hear the woodpecker. His taps sound like a tiny jackhammer. Did you know the woodpecker’s beak is designed to absorb the shock and protect its brain?
I wish people had something built-in like that to absorb shocks.
Because right now my brain feels sad and mushy all over.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The Countdown
BRIAN
I text Ethan on Sunday night: I’m out.
His reply: I figured.
I didn’t even tell my parents. I’m turning in my drill.
We never used a drill.
All the more reason. I might’ve had to. U going?
At least a full minute goes by; then he says, I think so.
I have no words. All I can type is: ?????!!!!!
I know.
U sure?
No.
Then why?
I don’t want to give up. I got inspired by something. Or someone. Two someones.
Who?
The Wright brothers.
The plane guys?
Yeah.
I’m not even gonna ask. But pleez tell me you’re not doing the DE again. You’re making something else, right?
I am.
Good.
The NEW AND IMPROVED DE.
What? R U CRAZY?
Probably.
Okay. Now that that’s cleared up. How u gonna make it new & improved?
Working on that part.
Sounds real solid so far.
Another pause, and then Ethan goes, Is it true people were saying mean things and laughing at us at ID? Erin said so.
It’s true.
Why didn’t you tell me?
Would you have told you?
Good point.
Well, here’s my advice, I say. If you insist on going ahead with your new and improved version, don’t use any materials from your kitchen.
Done.
Then best of luck, dude. You’re gonna need it.
Thanks.
No doubt in my mind. He’s gonna die there.
M.R.
>
No, I’ve never been bullied, if that’s what you’re wondering. Not in the traditional sense. But there’s something else that kids do, and it’s just as bad in a way. They look beyond you. Around you. Even through you, like you’re invisible.
That wasn’t the case all the time in every school. There were some polite kids, even nice ones. A few acquaintances who might’ve become friends. But then we moved.
When I arrived at McNutt last year, I started going to the media center after I finished my lunch. I like the quiet, neat rows of books. In alphabetical order, and protected with plastic. Usually no one else is there.
I told Dad my friends were going to the innovation camp and they were regular kids, not geniuses. He sent in the registration and check the next day.
“Try not to say things that put the other kids off,” he told me. “It’s easy. Be one of the guys. Smile a lot; shake hands; talk about sports. Or the weather, that’s always a good topic.”
Like he does.
Mom says gifted people have trouble with “social cues” and “nuances.” She’s been trying to help me learn to detect them, when she has time and isn’t hosting a dinner for Dad’s important clients.
She explained that people don’t usually say exactly what they’re thinking, and you have to watch their gestures and expressions.
I described to Mom what happened at last year’s Invention Day, when I told Erin Marcus that men were better than girls at science. It was a logical fact. All three of the winners were boys, including me, who placed first.
“Why was she mad?” I asked.
“That wasn’t a nice thing to say. You insulted her. She’s a girl.”
“But it was true.”
“It doesn’t matter if it was true. She felt offended.”
“Why?”
“You hurt her feelings, most likely.”
“But how?”
Mom sighed. “Just don’t say things like that.”
You know what my first idea is for an invention at ZCIC? Something for kids like me to detect nuances and social cues.
How could I even make something like that? It would have to be magic.
Even if you’re gifted, you’re not magic.
ERIN
Monday morning before the bell rings, I’m at my locker. It’s right next to Ethan’s. He’s leafing through papers in a folder, and Brian’s leaning against the opposite wall, staring at every girl who walks by.
Ethan groans. “No, not again. I forgot my social studies homework. For the third time this year. Just send me to Reflection right now.”
Brian laughs. “You know what you need? A homework alarm. No, more like a freakin’ siren attached to your head.”
Ethan slams his locker door. “Very funny. What excuse do I come up with this time? I already used ‘my mom accidentally threw it away’ and ‘my computer crashed.’ ”
Brian goes, “How about your dog peed on it? Oh yeah, you don’t have a dog.” They walk off together, Brian continuing to laugh and Ethan continuing to groan.
Typical. And I can tell you exactly where his homework is. One of two places: on the beanbag in his room or on the kitchen counter, right by where he drops his backpack on the floor every day after school. He’s visually challenged in the morning, I think.
I grab my stuff and hurry to my first class. Brian’s right—my brother does need a homework alarm. Ugh, did I just think that Brian’s right about something? That’s a first. Suddenly I stop in the middle of the hall. Wait, wait, wait. Forgetting homework . . . excuses . . . an alarm . . . Is it actually possible that Brian “everything’s a joke” Kowalski just gave me an idea for ZCIC?
I duck into science, find my seat, and flip open my spiral. This is not at all Erin-style, but I scribble notes for the entire class period instead of paying attention.
Forgetting homework. Missed assignments. Being unprepared for tests. Lower grades. Failure! A vicious circle! But what if you had something that wouldn’t let you forget your homework! Real-time. Virtual. A constant reminder. Fun to use.
By the end of fourth period I’ve got several pages of notes to myself. And that’s just what I’ll call my invention: Note to Self. Or NTS.
OMG! TIG! (This Is Good!)
I grab Zoe’s arm as she’s heading into the cafeteria for lunch. “Media center, you and me,” I say. “Right now.”
She looks worried. “What’s the matter?”
“I’ll tell you when we get there.”
You’re allowed to eat lunch in the media center if you (1) are quiet and (2) have work to do. Both rules apply.
We sit at a table and spread out our lunches. “Zoe, first, I’m really sorry you can’t go to the camp,” I say.
“Yeah. Me too. This’ll take a while to get over.”
“I know, and that’s why I want to keep you involved. I had a lightning bolt of an idea this morning, and you’re the first person I’m going to tell. Lightning bolt—did you see how I worked in Z’s logo?”
She nods, then looks down. “Invasive plants?”
“No. I would never go ahead without you!”
She smiles, peels open her yogurt. “Okay, tell me everything.”
“So, Ethan forgot his homework again today, and Brian made a joke about Ethan needing a homework alarm, and it hit me. What if kids really did have some sort of reminder alarm?”
“Makes sense. Go on.”
“Enter the NTS. Note to Self. The all-in-one homework reminder, assignment tracker, and anti-failure guarantee.” I flip through my pages of notes. “Still fleshing out the details, but it would be like a bracelet or something that’s synched to your teachers’ web pages. A wearable device that would buzz with reminders of when things are due and provide links, even video, always keeping you on track so you never miss anything. Ding, do your math homework. Ding, study for that LA test. Ding, you’re in the honor society.” I let out a long breath. “What do you think?”
Her eyes get a little teary. “I think it’s great! You’d just have to make sure that kids couldn’t disable it.”
“You’re right!” I jot that down.
“And maybe you could build in some sort of reward system? Like in a video game? Earn gold coins or candy?”
“Another excellent point. See, you can be a part of this.”
Zoe blinks and sniffles a little. “Thanks.”
The door swings open and guess who walks in? Marlon. He goes over to the farthest table, sits down, and opens that huge book he always has at lunch. I push up the lead on my mechanical pencil. Just ignore him, I tell myself.
INE. It’s Not Easy. But I do my best.
Later, when I get home, I get right to work. I make a poster to count down the days leading up to ZCIC. I’ve called it Z Minus, paying homage to the term “T minus,” which is used for the time prior to a rocket launch. Clever, don’t you think?
There’s so much to do! I’ll need to research coding, electronic devices, microcontrollers, and existing homework/study apps to see how they can be improved. Plus there’s the whole business side of things. And logos! Design! This is for sure big. My device could be used in schools everywhere.
Much to my concern, my brother has announced he’s definitely going. I advised him to take this seriously, but as I said before, he’s him.
A few days later, our information packets arrive. Except they’re called Zackets. Inside there’s a welcome letter from Z, signed “Zincerely yours,” with a big, scrawled gold Z. Don’t you love that? They’ve really got their brand down.
I read everything thoroughly, including Z’s bio. It’s even more amazing than I thought! He’s got several “groundbreaking initiatives” in the works, including a lotion that will be able to detect when a mole turns suspicious and could become skin cancer. Z has received millions in start-up funding for the project. But still he gives his time to mentor the future generation. Wow, just wow.
You will not be surprised when I tell you that Ethan’s Zacket has remaine
d on the kitchen counter, untouched and unopened.
I make index cards with highlighted notes and arrange them neatly around my room, keeping my door closed at all times. I don’t need any leaks to you-know-who, in case Ethan decides to ask for advice, like he did with the desk-evator.
I decide to wear my black holiday skirt and a light blue sweater on the first day so I look polished and professional but not like I’m trying too hard to impress. I’ll have to borrow Mom’s black heels, even though they’re a little big on me.
My hair is the issue. But by experimenting with a combination of gels, creams, and mousses, I’m able to get it to stay down and neat, held back into a bun at the nape of my neck.
Everything is lining up perfectly.
I’ve got it this time, Marlon.
ETHAN
The Orville and Wilbur side won. I tried the bike again, and rode it around the block! The crazy-good feeling came back, and this time it was all good, minus the crazy.
I hope the crazy part doesn’t resurface, because I’m going. I am going. I’m doing this.
I know, for starters, I need to open the packet. And as I figured, there’s way too much to go through. What to bring, how to get there, what to expect, how to prepare. Tons of paper, including a whole page on a one-minute introductory speech you have to do on the first day, talking about yourself, your goals, and your accomplishments “thus far.”
One minute? I could cover that in ten seconds.
Ethan Marcus, seventh grader. Decent at volleyball. I forget my homework and get fidgety sitting in school. I’m here because I made a desk-evator out of spatulas and a cutting board. Don’t laugh.
Erin comes into the kitchen. “Oh, good, you’re finally going through the packet.” She grabs a mini box of raisins from the pantry. “Listen, I’ve been meaning to tell you. You should borrow Dad’s dress shoes. I’m going to wear Mom’s heels so I look professional.”
Ethan Marcus Makes His Mark Page 6
