Amy Laurens's Blog, page 113
May 31, 2012
L.A.O.S. Absolutely Ordinary: Ch 2B
Welcome to my experiment in public drafting, otherwise known as a serial novel! Find out more about the L.A.O.S. here, including ways to join in the fun, or start from the beginning. Please remember, this is copyrighted material; you may quote a couple of sentences in a review, but otherwise all rights are reserved.
Chapter 2 Part B
I did it. Holy crap, I did it. My hand is part of the desk. My hand is part of the desk. Sudden and irrational panic gripped my chest and I tried to jerk my hand away – and the desk jolted.
Megan cried out, closed her eyes briefly and extracted her own hand – but mine wouldn’t budge. I pulled again, breaths coming shallow and fast, but the desk moved too, wouldn’t separate. I was trapped, I couldn’t get away, and it was like primary school when they caught me in the finger trap that first time and wouldn’t let me out and they all crowded around and shoved, and it was gentle at first until they realised I couldn’t get away, and then it turned mean, and they sang ‘Chris-fit, Chris-fit, Chris-fit is a misfit!’ and I had to hide the bruises from my mother and I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think…
“Chris!”
Megan’s voice cut through the panic and I realised she’d called my name a couple of times, and that the hands on my shoulders weren’t hurting me, but were trying to catch me, trying to prevent me from thrashing. “Steady on, man.”
Greg. I stiffened, gulping in air.
“Chris, you have to calm down!” Megan’s voice was high-pitched, distressed, and she looked close to tears.
I closed my eyes, trying to ignore my hand, and drew in a deep, shaky breath. “I’m calm,” I said, forcing my shoulders to relax. “I’m calm.” I’m not Chris-fit anymore, I reminded myself.
Greg held me for another second, fingers digging into the soft skin between collar bone and shoulder, until I shrugged him away. “I’m calm.” I opened my eyes and sought out Megan’s. “Get me out of this?”
“I can’t,” she said, shaking her head.
Panic rose up again. Hell of a finger-trap. “What do you mean?”
“You have to do it yourself. It’s just the same as getting it in there. But you have to relax.”
I nodded, exhaling. I could do this. I got myself into it, I could get out again. It wasn’t a finger-trap. The shock of seeing my hand in the desk had set off the panic, nothing else. Anyone would freak out at the sight of half their hand missing. Anyone.
I took another deep breath to steady myself and closed my eyes. Once again, I imagined the miniscule structure of my hand, the electron links between atoms and the way the connections danced around the connections in the table. I could do this. And then, suddenly, I could; I was no longer just imagining the atomic structure of my hand, I could see it. And the table, too.
Slowly, slowly, I forced the table away from my hand, and my hand moved fractionally upwards. I resisted the temptation to jerk away all at once and moved steadily, atom by atom by atom. I opened my eyes and stole a glance, and relief flooded over me as I saw that my hand was almost free. I couldn’t help myself; I tore it away the last little bit, wincing as I broke some of the atomic bonds and left skin behind.
I sat still, nursing my hand, too stunned to process what had happened.
“You okay, man?” Greg said quietly, hand hovering like he wanted to put it on my shoulder again.
“Yeah,” I said, shrugging away. “I’m cool.”
Greg shrugged too and sat back on his desk.
I stared at mine, at the place where my hand had sunk.
“So you see it ispossible,” Megan said quietly.
My gaze flicked to her for a second, then back to my hand. “Yeah,” I said. “I guess so.”
“Are you in?” she said, voice still soft.
My brows twitched as I questioned her with my eyes. “I have a choice?”
“Of course you do.”
“You said I couldn’t walk away.” I searched her face.
“I lied.”
I clenched and unclenched my jaw, rubbing the spot where my fingertips lacked some of their skin. “Yeah,” I said at last. “Yeah, I’m in.”
The bubble of tension that had been building unnoticed in the room burst, and everyone leaned back in their chairs, breathing deeply. I felt like I’d passed some sort of critical test or something. I guess I had.
Megan smiled. “Welcome to the L.A.O.S.”
I wrinkled my brow. “L.A.O.S.?”
Her smile broke into a grin, but it was Pip that answered my question. “League of Absolutely Ordinary Superheros,” she said.
I got it. Grinning back, I repeated back the words she’d said earlier. “Saving the world through science.”
Pip nodded. “Saving the world through science.”
Feeling like my cheeks might crack from sudden elation, I leaned back and surveyed the group. “So. We’re superheros. We don’t wear spandex, do we?” I added, frowning. “’Cause spandex is just wrong on so many levels.”
Matt frowned. “Spandex is aerodynamic, flexible, flame resistant and helps maintain body temperature. In many ways, it’s the perfect hero fabric.”
Megan sniggered, probably at the horror on my face.
“However,” Matt continued, “for aesthetic reasons, no. We do not wear spandex.”
“Though for you, Chris, we’re always willing to make an exception,” Greg threw in. “Unless, you know, you have image issues.”
“Shut up,” I said. “So. Non-spandex-wearing superheros. Do we have, like, missions? Who are we rescuing next?”
The group exchanged glances and I narrowed my eyes in suspicion. “We do actually do stuff, right?”
“Well,” said Megan, with the air of someone carefully considering their words. “We do have somethingthat needs rescuing.”
“Yes?” I said, still suspicious.
“You know the E. James Downward Maths trophy?”
Dread bubbled up inside. “Yeah…”
“We have to rescue it from St. Joseph’s.”
I groaned, and the bubble burst. “You’re kidding, right?”
But of course, she wasn’t. In less than one hour, I’d blown my cover as a normal human being, discovered I had what basically equated to superpowers, and joined a superhero club – and my first mission was to win the fracking inter-school Maths competition.
Damn it all. Didn’t I say they’d be planning extra credit work before three?
Amy Laurens (c) 2012
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L.A.O.S. Absolutely Ordinary: Ch 2A
Welcome to my experiment in public drafting, otherwise known as a serial novel! Find out more about the L.A.O.S. here, including ways to join in the fun, or start from the beginning. Please remember, this is copyrighted material; you may quote a couple of sentences in a review, but otherwise all rights are reserved.
Chapter 2 Part A
“Right,” she said. “So it’s like this. Hand.” She held her hand up between us. I’d never noticed how long and slender her fingers were before – not that I’d had the excuse or opportunity. “Desk.” She laid her hand on the smooth surface of the desk. “Both made of atoms packed together in a dense but regular structure, right?”
I shrugged. “Yeah. And?”
“In theory,” she said, stressing the word far more than normal, “if you aligned the atoms perfectly and were able to make sure that you didn’t lose electrons in the process, and could account for the electro-magnetics going on, you could pass one through the other. Right?”
“Yeah,” I said warily. “I suppose. In theory.”
“So do it,” she said, leaning back.
My eyebrows knitted together. “But I can’t. It’s impossible.”
“No. you just said yourself, it’s theoretically possible.”
“Yeah, but—“
“So do it.”
I stared at her for a long moment. “You’re crazy, right? That’s what this is actually all about. Either this is the Insanity Club, or you’re all having a big joke at my expense.” I glanced around the room. Matt and Pip seemed pretty incapable of having a joke full stop, so they were obviously the insanity contingent. Greg and Megan, though? They were capable of anything, and the way Greg was peering intently at me, arms folded over his chest and lips pressed so tight you could barely see them, did nothing to allay my suspicions.
Megan gave an explosive sigh. “Look, I really want you to figure this out on your own. Heaven knows, you’re smart enough. But being smart isn’t enough; you have to believe things are possible, too.” She caught my eye and held it. “You saw me walk through the door.”
Her face gave nothing away, but my stomach flip-flopped. “What do you mean?” I said, unwilling to admit to anything.
“You know what I mean.” Face impassive, gaze unwavering.
I held my own for a second longer, then screwed up my nose. “Oh, all right. I give in. You win. Yes, it’s theoretically possible. No, I seriously doubt anyone can do it. Yes, I’ll try anyway, and if I find out any of you have a video camera hidden somewhere in the room, I swear, I will make your life a misery.” I pressed my hand against the surface of the desk. “Here goes nothing.” I pressed against the shiny melamine-coated wood, heart racing nine to the dozen.
Nothing. I exhaled the breath I hadn’t realised I’d been holding. “There. See? Nothing. It’s just not possible.”
Megan huffed. “Idiot. You’re not really trying.”
“I am!” I protested. “See?” I pressed my hand against the very solid desk until the tips of my fingers went white.
“I don’t mean physically,” she said. “I mean mentally. Up here.” She tapped her temple.
Behind me, Greg snorted. “Oh, just give up, Meegs. He’s not going to get it. He’s been hanging out with the cool kids for five years; he might have some intelligence left in there somewhere, if you say so, but there’s too much attitude in the way.”
Says he, king of arrogance. “Look, shut up, all right? I’ll get it. Just tell me what I’m supposed to be getting.”
Megan studied me, eyes wide. “Are you really sure about this?” she asked eventually. “Because once you’re committed, there’s no going back. This isn’t the kind of thing you can un-do, or un-see.”
Nerves and frustration and anger and impatience warred for control. “Look, I can handle it, okay? I’m not stupid, and my attitude” – I glanced at Greg – “is fine. Just tell me what I’m trying to do, or how it is I’m supposed to do the impossible, or whatever.”
Megan placed her hand on the table next to mine and contemplated it. “It’s about belief, you see,” she said slowly. “Knowing something in your head and knowing it are different.” Her eyes flicked up and found mine. “Sometimes it helps to see it first.”
I was too busy staring into her ocean-blue eyes to notice at first that her hand was disappearing into the desk – and then I noticed, and flinched away.
“Anything’s possible, if you can just figure out how,” she said, still staring wide-eyed at me, almost like she was begging me to believe her.
Slowly, I moved my hand back onto the table next to hers. I swallowed. “I… I believe,” I whispered. I closed my eyes and imagined the atoms in my hand aligning perfectly with the atoms of the desk, imagined the dense structures relaxing and expanding, sinking and meshing into one another until the two were interlocked, meshed – but still separate, still different structures.
My eyes fluttered open and my gaze rested on my hand, only half visible, fingertips fully integrated with the desk. A smile softened the tension in my jaw. I did it.
Amy Laurens (c) 2012
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L.A.O.S. Absolutely Ordinary: Ch 1B
Welcome to my experiment in public drafting, otherwise known as a serial novel! Find out more about the L.A.O.S. here, including ways to join in the fun, or start from the beginning. Please remember, this is copyrighted material; you may quote a couple of sentences in a review, but otherwise all rights are reserved.
Chapter 1 Part B
Rolling her eyes, Megan pushed the door open and walked into the room. I hung back, not quite sure what I was expecting. A fanfare, maybe. Rabid applause. Maybe rotten fruit. But when nothing especially unusual was forthcoming, I stuck my head warily around the corner and peered into the room.
Four kids, two pretty normal looking and two looking like the King and Queen of the Geeks – glasses, ties, the pale, washed-out, pasty skin of people who spent too much time indoors, you know, the works – perched variously on chairs and desks, deep in conversation.
I stepped into the doorway, and they all completely ignored me. I forced my fists to unclench, shoving aside memories of my Chris-fit days, and cleared my throat. Nada. I cleared it again, louder this time.
The normal-looking guy lounging on one of the desks turned and nearly lost his eyebrows as they shot upwards. “What the hell?” he said, turning to Megan. (The other normal-looking kid. Not that anything about Megan is normal. It’s not normal to be super smart and wicked hot, is it? I mean, it’s just not fair on the rest of the gene pool. Never tell Megan I said that. Ever.)
“Easy there, mate,” I said, grinning my trademark bad-boy grin and raising my hands. “We’ll find your eyebrows again, don’t stress.”
“Greg.” Megan shot him a warning glare, which he kindly returned. She turned to me. “Guys, this is Chris. I told you he was one of us. Chris, this is Matt, Pip and Greg.”
The geeky guy and girl, who now I looked past the apparel were clearly related, nodded in a nonchalant sort of way. Greg, on the other hand, looked like he might fall off the desk. “What the hell, Megan?” he said. “You invited Chris? Are you insane? The guy’s fifty kinds of dick just on Mondays!”
“Thanks,” I said, shoving my hands into my pockets. “Nice to know my reputation precedes me.”
Megan rolled her eyes. “Seriously, can we put the testosterone away for like five second please? Greg, you should have heard the circles he ran Mr Hang-me in just now in maths. It was awesome.”
I totally didn’t glow at that. Totally.
Greg eyed me suspiciously. “He could’ve memorised it, or something.”
I raised an eyebrow, but Megan came gallantly to my rescue, shaking her head. “Nuh uh, he knew what he was talking about. He’s the real deal, Greg.”
Okay, I confess: I grinned. “Real deal, huh, Greg. She ever called you that?” I bounced on my toes.
Greg made to scramble off the desk, settling for killing me with his scary, scary eyes when Megan laid a restraining hand on his arm. I snickered.
“Oh, go wank yourself,” Greg muttered, and turned away.
I figured that was as good an invitation as I was going to get, so I strode into the room and pulled up a chair, flipping it around so I could lean on the back. “So,” I said. “What’s the deal?”
“Nothing,” Greg muttered again, but this time I had the distinct impression the angst wasn’t directed at me.
Sure enough, Megan shot him a filthy look before turning to me. “Officially or unofficially?”
I shrugged. “Whatever. Both.” I wouldn’t have admitted it for fifty bucks, but my heart began to pound. I was about to learn their big secret, and despite the fact that they were geeks to the max and the secret was probably about how they planned to finish extra credit homework before three pm, I was curious. And I hadn’t been curious about anything in a long time.
Megan’s lips twitched. “Officially,” she said carefully, “Greg is right. Nothing. Yet,” she stressed, shooting Greg another Look.
“And unofficially?” My palms itched and I rubbed them against my thighs.
Matt shifted in his chair. “Unofficially, we’re investigating the real-world effects of extreme scientific theory with the aim of utilising these theories to create an environment more conducive to justice, equity, and compassion.”
“We’re saving the world through science,” Pip added, smiling. She actually managed to be kind of pretty when she smiled – it was the contagious kind of smile that had me smiling back before I even realised what she’d said.
I shook my head. “Hang on, wait. What?” Again with the Confused Brethren act. Would I ever feel in control of a situation again?
“Justice, equity and compassion, dimwit,” Greg said helpfully. “Surely even your old band of miscreant friends have heard of the concepts?”
“Piss off, numbskull,” I countered, drawing on my superior wit and intelligence. Greg’s like that; he brings out the best in everyone.
Megan made a grumbling, growling sort of noise and tossed her hair. “This is going to be impossible if you two can’t get over yourselves.”
“Hey, you invited him,” Greg said, holding his hands up in defence.
“And it’s not my fault Greg’s insecure about having another male around,” I added, lifting an eyebrow. “Um, no offence,” I said quickly, nodding at Matt, who just shrugged.
“Oh, would you shut up,” Megan said, voice full of exasperation. “Do you want an explanation or not?”
I hesitated for just a second, then swallowed the bickering and nodded. “Yes.”
Amy Laurens (c) 2012
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L.A.O.S. - From the Top (Ch1A)
So, back to the beginning to start over, as it was SUPPOSED to start. Thanks to all of you who helped me nut this out *cookies*. To save posting an epic-length post to get you back up to speed, I'll post the proper version of the three bits you've seen, PLUS a new bit all in fairly quick succession. Then we're back to regular scheduling (i.e. Fridays). Rah!
Welcome to my experiment in public drafting, otherwise known as a serial novel! Find out more about the L.A.O.S. here, including ways to join in the fun, or start from the beginning. Please remember, this is copyrighted material; you may quote a couple of sentences in a review, but otherwise all rights are reserved.
Chapter 1 Part A
When your IQ is so far off the scale that scientists are lining up to create new tests to measure it and Mensa is knocking on your door, there are only two ways to go in life. You can embrace your nerdly glory and live a life condemned to exist on the fringes, without any real human contact, or you can pretend. Or you can be an arrogant jerk like Greg, but he’s practically an entire category to himself no matter which way you slice it.
Like any other normal teenager, I just wanted to belong. Okay, at first it was frustrating that the rest of the class would take hours to understand what I’d figured out in three seconds, but that was easily dealt with: I just ignored school altogether. My real education happened in my spare time anyway; school was just somewhere I had to be, with people who I desperately wanted to like me.
They didn’t, of course. I mean, to begin with they accepted me and all, but there was always this vague sense of unease, like they knew I was hiding something, but couldn’t figure out what. And then bloody Mr Hangley had to perform what was tantamount to abuse on that poor, unsuspecting tangent secant theorem, and I couldn’t help myself: before I knew what I was doing, I’d opened my big gob and corrected him, and once the words started they just kept pouring out, a torrent I’d been hiding inside for so many years that when they finally spilled over, they flooded everyone within a five mile radius.
Actually, I can only vouch for the fact that they drowned my classmates, and very nearly Mr Hangley, who stood staring at me like I’d grown horns and started tap-dancing naked on the desk. Which, thinking back, may have been the smarter thing to do.
After that, there was no going back.
Megan cornered me right after class, fists on hips and eyes flashing. “What was that, then?” she demanded.
I did my best to shrink, to blend back into the crowd – but the crowd was no longer there. Instead, guys I’d just half an hour ago called mates were edging away from me, pointing and whispering, and I stood out like I’d always known I’d eventually have to, raw and naked and alone. So, eloquently, I shrugged and tried to pretend like I had no idea what she was talking about. Like lecturing your maths teacher on the subtleties of advanced trig was normal.
“I’m serious,” she said, tossing her hair. Man, you do not want to get Megan riled up. I swear, she’s part terrier or something, because once she’s latched onto something she does not let go, and she is scary. “What was up with that?”
“With what?” I snapped, shoving midgety year sevens aside so I could stomp away. Sure, that’s right, I thought. It’s not enough that my cover’s blown and I’m back to being Chris-fit again, bloody brunette Barbie has to come and rub it in, just to make sure I got the point.
“Your dazzling display of brilliance,” Megan said archly, tagging along at my shoulder.
I ground my teeth, staring fixedly at the far corner of the building, around which ladies never durst trod.
“Come off it, Chris,” she said, doing that hair-toss thing again. How do girls do that while they’re walking? How do they not lose their balance? I’ve seen even the most uncoordinated of girls manage the hair-toss feat without a problem. It must be another one of those mysterious things they get taught at Girl School.
“That was no act,” Megan continued. “You can’t possibly have made that up on the spot. I mean, anyone who knows anything at all about geometry could see Mr Hang-me was wrong from a mile away, but the cross products? Even I hadn’t thought about how that connected.”
Somewhere in all of that, I’d trailed to a halt, eyes wide and mouth gaping, frozen halfway through a step. Quickly, I wiped my mouth on the back of my sleeve and quit the zombie impersonation. “What the hell?” I said. “You understood that?”
Megan shot me a scathing look that left me cowering. “Just because you’ve been too busy trying to be a dick to notice the rest of us.” She did that ‘tsh’ thing that girls do when they’re exasperated and stalked away, leaving me once again doing my zombie act at her back.
“Wait, what?” I said, hurrying to catch up. “The rest of us? The rest of us what?”
Megan pressed her lips together and glanced sideways at me. “You’re not the only smart kid in the school, you know.”
“I…” I trailed off. I’d been going to say that I knew that, of course – only clearly I didn’t. All this time I’d thought I was the only freakazoid hiding out in this teenage shark pit, alone and misunderstood, when really… I shook my head like a dog twitching away a fly. “How many?” I asked as I tagged along at Megan’s shoulder. I had no idea where she was going, but she hadn’t told me to get lost yet, and that was something.
Megan murmured something too soft to catch, then stopped, hands fisted at her sides, staring at me.I caught myself shrinking away from her again and forced myself to straighten. Geez, I was twice her height, and even if she was smart enough to understand what I’d said back in maths, I was still arrogant enough to know I was smarter than her. I didn’t need to shrink from her.
“Four,” she said, laser-sights blazing. “Five, if we’ll have you.”
“If you’ll… have me?” Once more, I found myself wrong-footed and gaping. I should have realised then what that meant, but no guy jumps to the conclusion that a tidgey girl half his size could whip him arse over nostrils with his own intelligence and then run three times around the metaphorical block before he’d even got his feet under him again. I’m not saying it can’t happen – bloody hell, Megan is a monster– I’m just saying it’s not expected, all right? I’m not sexist. Megan’d eat me alive if I was.
“Yes, if we’ll have you. And just because you’re smart, don’t think we will. You’ve been enough of a dickhead the last three years that Greg’ll blow his nut when he sees you tagging along.” She spun around and marched off again.
“Wait, what?” I said, beginning to feel that that might be a fairly standard comeback to any conversation Megan was in charge of. “Tagging along to what?”
“You’ll see,” she said primly, turning a corner and shouldering her way through a glass door.
For a millisecond, I froze, mouth open like some gobbing goldfish, staring at the door. She had notjust gone through that door without opening it. No way. I blinked. No, of course she hadn’t; there she was, holding the door open for me, impatience clearer than daylight. Of course she hadn’t gone through the door. Dimwit.
“Come on,” she said, continuing her march down the corridor. Before I could open my mouth and make an idiot of myself yet again – which would be what, like ten times in as many minutes? Dude, seriously: what was going on with the world? – she stopped outside a classroom door and took a deep breath. Her commando-queen façade slipped for a moment and she shot me a nervous glance. “Ready?”
I shrugged. “As I’ll ever be.”
Amy Laurens (c) 2012
Return to table of contents >> Next
Welcome to my experiment in public drafting, otherwise known as a serial novel! Find out more about the L.A.O.S. here, including ways to join in the fun, or start from the beginning. Please remember, this is copyrighted material; you may quote a couple of sentences in a review, but otherwise all rights are reserved.
Chapter 1 Part A
When your IQ is so far off the scale that scientists are lining up to create new tests to measure it and Mensa is knocking on your door, there are only two ways to go in life. You can embrace your nerdly glory and live a life condemned to exist on the fringes, without any real human contact, or you can pretend. Or you can be an arrogant jerk like Greg, but he’s practically an entire category to himself no matter which way you slice it.
Like any other normal teenager, I just wanted to belong. Okay, at first it was frustrating that the rest of the class would take hours to understand what I’d figured out in three seconds, but that was easily dealt with: I just ignored school altogether. My real education happened in my spare time anyway; school was just somewhere I had to be, with people who I desperately wanted to like me.
They didn’t, of course. I mean, to begin with they accepted me and all, but there was always this vague sense of unease, like they knew I was hiding something, but couldn’t figure out what. And then bloody Mr Hangley had to perform what was tantamount to abuse on that poor, unsuspecting tangent secant theorem, and I couldn’t help myself: before I knew what I was doing, I’d opened my big gob and corrected him, and once the words started they just kept pouring out, a torrent I’d been hiding inside for so many years that when they finally spilled over, they flooded everyone within a five mile radius.
Actually, I can only vouch for the fact that they drowned my classmates, and very nearly Mr Hangley, who stood staring at me like I’d grown horns and started tap-dancing naked on the desk. Which, thinking back, may have been the smarter thing to do.
After that, there was no going back.
Megan cornered me right after class, fists on hips and eyes flashing. “What was that, then?” she demanded.
I did my best to shrink, to blend back into the crowd – but the crowd was no longer there. Instead, guys I’d just half an hour ago called mates were edging away from me, pointing and whispering, and I stood out like I’d always known I’d eventually have to, raw and naked and alone. So, eloquently, I shrugged and tried to pretend like I had no idea what she was talking about. Like lecturing your maths teacher on the subtleties of advanced trig was normal.
“I’m serious,” she said, tossing her hair. Man, you do not want to get Megan riled up. I swear, she’s part terrier or something, because once she’s latched onto something she does not let go, and she is scary. “What was up with that?”
“With what?” I snapped, shoving midgety year sevens aside so I could stomp away. Sure, that’s right, I thought. It’s not enough that my cover’s blown and I’m back to being Chris-fit again, bloody brunette Barbie has to come and rub it in, just to make sure I got the point.
“Your dazzling display of brilliance,” Megan said archly, tagging along at my shoulder.
I ground my teeth, staring fixedly at the far corner of the building, around which ladies never durst trod.
“Come off it, Chris,” she said, doing that hair-toss thing again. How do girls do that while they’re walking? How do they not lose their balance? I’ve seen even the most uncoordinated of girls manage the hair-toss feat without a problem. It must be another one of those mysterious things they get taught at Girl School.
“That was no act,” Megan continued. “You can’t possibly have made that up on the spot. I mean, anyone who knows anything at all about geometry could see Mr Hang-me was wrong from a mile away, but the cross products? Even I hadn’t thought about how that connected.”
Somewhere in all of that, I’d trailed to a halt, eyes wide and mouth gaping, frozen halfway through a step. Quickly, I wiped my mouth on the back of my sleeve and quit the zombie impersonation. “What the hell?” I said. “You understood that?”
Megan shot me a scathing look that left me cowering. “Just because you’ve been too busy trying to be a dick to notice the rest of us.” She did that ‘tsh’ thing that girls do when they’re exasperated and stalked away, leaving me once again doing my zombie act at her back.
“Wait, what?” I said, hurrying to catch up. “The rest of us? The rest of us what?”
Megan pressed her lips together and glanced sideways at me. “You’re not the only smart kid in the school, you know.”
“I…” I trailed off. I’d been going to say that I knew that, of course – only clearly I didn’t. All this time I’d thought I was the only freakazoid hiding out in this teenage shark pit, alone and misunderstood, when really… I shook my head like a dog twitching away a fly. “How many?” I asked as I tagged along at Megan’s shoulder. I had no idea where she was going, but she hadn’t told me to get lost yet, and that was something.
Megan murmured something too soft to catch, then stopped, hands fisted at her sides, staring at me.I caught myself shrinking away from her again and forced myself to straighten. Geez, I was twice her height, and even if she was smart enough to understand what I’d said back in maths, I was still arrogant enough to know I was smarter than her. I didn’t need to shrink from her.
“Four,” she said, laser-sights blazing. “Five, if we’ll have you.”
“If you’ll… have me?” Once more, I found myself wrong-footed and gaping. I should have realised then what that meant, but no guy jumps to the conclusion that a tidgey girl half his size could whip him arse over nostrils with his own intelligence and then run three times around the metaphorical block before he’d even got his feet under him again. I’m not saying it can’t happen – bloody hell, Megan is a monster– I’m just saying it’s not expected, all right? I’m not sexist. Megan’d eat me alive if I was.
“Yes, if we’ll have you. And just because you’re smart, don’t think we will. You’ve been enough of a dickhead the last three years that Greg’ll blow his nut when he sees you tagging along.” She spun around and marched off again.
“Wait, what?” I said, beginning to feel that that might be a fairly standard comeback to any conversation Megan was in charge of. “Tagging along to what?”
“You’ll see,” she said primly, turning a corner and shouldering her way through a glass door.
For a millisecond, I froze, mouth open like some gobbing goldfish, staring at the door. She had notjust gone through that door without opening it. No way. I blinked. No, of course she hadn’t; there she was, holding the door open for me, impatience clearer than daylight. Of course she hadn’t gone through the door. Dimwit.
“Come on,” she said, continuing her march down the corridor. Before I could open my mouth and make an idiot of myself yet again – which would be what, like ten times in as many minutes? Dude, seriously: what was going on with the world? – she stopped outside a classroom door and took a deep breath. Her commando-queen façade slipped for a moment and she shot me a nervous glance. “Ready?”
I shrugged. “As I’ll ever be.”
Amy Laurens (c) 2012
Return to table of contents >> Next
May 28, 2012
Warning, warning! Crisis Incoming!
So, I'm having a crisis here. The next part of LAOS is nearly ready to go up - only, in a way, it's been ready to go up before I even started this venture. Because you see, the version you guys are reading is not the original version. I have about 5k worth of story that I wrote a year or so ago, and it's different, and I'm frustrated.
See, in the original version, instead of getting a Ping Pong ball in an improbably-placed cup, Chris puts his hand through a desk. Much more exciting, makes the point much more clearly, and is just... more fun. Only problem is, no matter how many impossible things these guys can do, even the LAOS can't actually put their hand through a desk. *sigh*
So I'm rewriting that section to the Ping Pong ball event - only, as I said, it's frustrating me. The original had a spark that this version is just... missing. *more sighs*
I'm stuck. On the one hand, I think you guys would like the original a lot more (I do). On the other hand... It's really truly not plausible, and I wanted LAOS to remain at least theoretically possible. And as one beta-reader pointed out, if they can phaze through solids by manipulating atomic structure, there is technically no limit to what they can do - and magic (scientifically explained or not) without limits is not great fiction.
What do I do???
See, in the original version, instead of getting a Ping Pong ball in an improbably-placed cup, Chris puts his hand through a desk. Much more exciting, makes the point much more clearly, and is just... more fun. Only problem is, no matter how many impossible things these guys can do, even the LAOS can't actually put their hand through a desk. *sigh*
So I'm rewriting that section to the Ping Pong ball event - only, as I said, it's frustrating me. The original had a spark that this version is just... missing. *more sighs*
I'm stuck. On the one hand, I think you guys would like the original a lot more (I do). On the other hand... It's really truly not plausible, and I wanted LAOS to remain at least theoretically possible. And as one beta-reader pointed out, if they can phaze through solids by manipulating atomic structure, there is technically no limit to what they can do - and magic (scientifically explained or not) without limits is not great fiction.
What do I do???
May 22, 2012
Linkabet Soup
Haven't done a linky post for a while, and I'm currently hunting through my archives of starrred/favourited posts in preparation for teaching creative writing again next semester - this time I'm going to be ORGANISED and have BOOKLETS! Woohoo!
So anyway, a few fun things I've found around the nets of late:
How To Secretly Work On Your Novel While At Your Day Job - priceless information for those of us who aren't lucky enough to be able to lock everyone out of the house and write all day (includes a section fo SAHMs)
What My Job Is... - Yeah, I have to say I agree with Liana on this one: sure writers need to work at representing reality, but I don't think that means they're bound and required to reflect the crappy parts of life just because it happens.
And speaking of The Job, editing. (Yeah, that was an awkward segue. The Minion is crying because He's Not Tired, Mum, No He's Not!, so you'll have to forgive my brain). But anyway, Maggie Stiefvater managed to convince a whole bunch of published authors to dissect some pages from their own novels to provide some excellent insight into the editing process.
For something a little more lighthearted, Ilona Andrews has collected all the various incarnations of rules for mystery writers. Some of the historical ones are somewhat o.0.
Also in the o.0 realm, Jim C. Hines did a follow-up to his January post about female cover poses on Posing Like a Man. Also amusing, and equally illuminating.
And now that you've had fun with those links (don't tell me you didn't at least consider trying one of those poses), something a little heavier. The King Of Elfland's Second Cousin has done a marvellous job of differentiating between voice and style. It's a long one, but worthwhile.
In order to make it through, it might be useful to know How To Be As Energetic As Your Kids.
And of course, no post is complete without the obligatory tasty food - and for that, I shall just direct you to my Pinterest board O:)
Any exciting links you guys have found of late that I need to read?
So anyway, a few fun things I've found around the nets of late:
How To Secretly Work On Your Novel While At Your Day Job - priceless information for those of us who aren't lucky enough to be able to lock everyone out of the house and write all day (includes a section fo SAHMs)
What My Job Is... - Yeah, I have to say I agree with Liana on this one: sure writers need to work at representing reality, but I don't think that means they're bound and required to reflect the crappy parts of life just because it happens.
And speaking of The Job, editing. (Yeah, that was an awkward segue. The Minion is crying because He's Not Tired, Mum, No He's Not!, so you'll have to forgive my brain). But anyway, Maggie Stiefvater managed to convince a whole bunch of published authors to dissect some pages from their own novels to provide some excellent insight into the editing process.
For something a little more lighthearted, Ilona Andrews has collected all the various incarnations of rules for mystery writers. Some of the historical ones are somewhat o.0.
Also in the o.0 realm, Jim C. Hines did a follow-up to his January post about female cover poses on Posing Like a Man. Also amusing, and equally illuminating.
And now that you've had fun with those links (don't tell me you didn't at least consider trying one of those poses), something a little heavier. The King Of Elfland's Second Cousin has done a marvellous job of differentiating between voice and style. It's a long one, but worthwhile.
In order to make it through, it might be useful to know How To Be As Energetic As Your Kids.
And of course, no post is complete without the obligatory tasty food - and for that, I shall just direct you to my Pinterest board O:)
Any exciting links you guys have found of late that I need to read?
May 17, 2012
L.A.O.S. Absolutely Ordinary: Chapter 2A
Welcome to my experiment in public drafting, otherwise known as a serial novel! Find out more about the L.A.O.S. here, including ways to join in the fun, or start from the beginning. Please remember, this is copyrighted material; you may quote a couple of sentences in a review, but otherwise all rights are reserved.
Chapter 2 Part A
“Right,” she said. “So it’s like this. Brain.” She swiped a sheet of paper off Pip’s desk – a printout showing the various areas of the brain. I’d never noticed how long and slender Megan’s fingers were before – not that I’d had the excuse or opportunity. “Comprised of different, specialised areas that in and of themselves are pretty darn clever – but the sum is greater than the parts.”
I shrugged. “Right. And?”
She glanced around at the others. “There’s a theory that people who are extra smart have hyper-developed brains. Obviously,” she said, cutting over me, “something about a super intelligent brain is more efficient, allowing it to work better, but I mean more than that. There’s a hypothesis” – she glanced meaningfully at Matt and Pip – “that super intelligence requires an enlargement of the relevant area of the brain.”
“And?” I interrupted, impatient. I hadn’t come here for a biology lecture.
“And,” she said, raising an eyebrow, “logically that implies that all functions relating to that area of the brain would be boosted. It’s a little iffy, neuroplasticity and all that, but the general concepts seem to hold.
“You’re good at trig. I’d guess that means that your parietal lobe is enlarged. Your visio-spatial processing and mapping is probably pretty good.”
I snorted. “This room is one-hundred and eighty-three steps from our Maths room. At a guess I’d say it’s six-point-seven metres wide, a few centimetres under eight metres deep, and” – I glanced upwards – “three-point-two-oh metres high at the apex of the ceiling.” I gestured to a metre ruler lying on the teacher’s desk. “Wanna check?”
Megan grinned. “No, I trust you. Here.” She held out her hand.
Warily, I placed mine underneath it, and she passed me a Ping-Pong ball. “It’s a ball,” I said flatly.
“Yup,” she said happily. “See that cup up there?”
She pointed, and I looked up to see a paper cup balanced precariously on the rafters. “Yeah…”
“In theory, you should be able to bounce that ball on the floor at the right angle and with the right velocity that it would hit the blackboard, bounce up to the roof, then ricochet off and land in the cup, right?”
I shrugged. “I suppose. In theory.”
“So do it,” she said, and leaned back.
My eyebrows knitted together. “Really?” I stared at the cup, a good metre and a quarter over my head, then considered the blackboard. I shook my head. “No one can actually do that, it’s impossible.”
“No. You just said yourself, it’s theoretically possible.”
“Yeah, but—“
“So do it.”
I stared at her for a long moment. “You’re crazy, right? That’s what this is actually all about. Either this is the Insanity Club, or you’re all having a big joke at my expense.” I glanced around the room. Matt and Pip seemed pretty incapable of having a joke full stop, so they were obviously the insanity contingent. Greg and Megan, though? They were capable of anything, and the way Greg was peering intently at me, arms folded over his chest and lips pressed so tight you could barely see them, did nothing to allay my suspicions.
Megan gave an explosive sigh. “Look, I really want you to figure this out on your own. Heaven knows, you’re smart enough. But being smart isn’t enough; you have to believe things are possible, too.” She caught my eye and held it. “This isn’t like primary school.”
Her face gave nothing away, but my stomach flip-flopped. How the hell did she know about my Chris-fit days? “What do you mean?” I said, unwilling to admit to anything.
“You know what I mean.” Face impassive, gaze unwavering.
I held my own for a second longer, then screwed up my nose. “Oh, all right. I give in. You win. Yes, it’s theoretically possible. No, I seriously doubt anyone can do it. Yes, I’ll try anyway, and if I find out any of you are filming this with the sole intent of making me the laughing stock of the school, I swear, I will make your life a misery.” I squeezed the ball in my hand. “Here goes nothing.”
I stared at the blackboard, lips moving as I tried to think about where I would have to hit it to get it to bounce to the angled ceiling. And where should I hit that? If I got it right where it peaked in the middle of the room, it might drop close enough to straight down into the cup, but getting it there from the blackboard would be almost impossible.
I shook my head. What was I thinking? The whole thing was impossible.
Jaw clenched, I traced the necessary path of the ball backwards, aimed at the spot on the floor I’d picked, and threw.
The ball bounced into the blackboard, ricocheted off to the ceiling, then promptly spun out of control and flew into a window.
I swallowed and released the breath I hadn’t realised I’d been holding. “There. See? Nothing. It’s just not possible.”
Megan snorted. “Idiot. You’re not really trying.”
“I am so!” I clenched my fists. “I’m trying as hard as I bloody well can, alright?”
“No, you’re not,” she said. “You’re getting in your own way. Up here.” She tapped her temple. “Stop thinking so hard and just do it.”
Behind me, Greg snorted. “Oh, just give up, Meegs. He’s not going to get it. He’s been hanging out with the cool kids for five years; he might have some intelligence left in there somewhere, if you say so, but there’s too much attitude in the way.”
Says he, king of arrogance. “Look, shut up, all right? I’ll get it. Just tell me what I’m supposed to be getting.”
Megan studied me, eyes wide. “Are you really sure about this?” she asked eventually. “Because once you’re committed, there’s no going back. This isn’t the kind of thing you can un-do, or un-see.”
Nerves and frustration and anger and impatience warred for control. “Look, I can handle it, okay? I’m not stupid, and my attitude” – I glanced at Greg – “is fine. Just tell me what I’m trying to do, or how it is I’m supposed to do the impossible, or whatever.”
Megan stared at Greg contemplatively. “It’s about belief, you see,” she said slowly. “Knowing something in your head and knowing it are different.” Her eyes flicked up and found mine. “Sometimes it helps to see it first.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Greg give an imperceptible nod and hold his hand up between us. I tore my eyes away from Megan's ocean-blue ones and stared at him. He grinned wickedly. “Anything’s possible, if you can just figure out how.”
It took me a second to see what was happening – and the moisture fled from my mouth. “Is that… is that supposed to be happening?” I asked as I stared at Greg’s hand and took an involuntary step closer. His nails had turned white, and the longer I looked, the whiter his hand became. It really did look like... “No blood?” I whispered, tilting my head.
“Yup.” His grin broadened. “Complete physical control,” he said, then lowered his hand and shook it. It turned purple, then red, then gradually flesh-coloured as the blood rushed back into it.
I swallowed. “That’s not possible.”
Megan handed me the Ping-Pong ball. “Theoretically, it is. You just have to believe hard enough, and get out of your own way.”
Slowly, I reached out and took the ball. “I… I believe,” I whispered. I stared up at the paper cup and tried to relax, to force my mind to stop chittering and calculating, and just let it do its thing – the same way it did when I knew exactly how big a room was without trying, or how I knew I’d walked four thousand, three hundred and ninety-two steps since I woke up this morning.
And then I felt it: something clicked in my head and the room went quiet. It wasn’t just sound that drained from the room, but colour, movement – anything that might distract me and that wasn’t completely relevant to getting that ball into the cup.
There. My gaze landed on a patch of carpet ever so slightly to the left of where I’d thrown the ball originally, and I knew exactly how hard I’d have to pitch it for this to work.
I breathed in, and as I exhaled, I released the ball. One bounce on the carpet, a second on the board – it almost seemed to be flying of its own accord, bouncing off one side of the roof, then the other – then straight into the paper cup.
A smile softened the tension in my jaw. I did it.
Amy Laurens (c) 2012
Chapter 2 Part A
“Right,” she said. “So it’s like this. Brain.” She swiped a sheet of paper off Pip’s desk – a printout showing the various areas of the brain. I’d never noticed how long and slender Megan’s fingers were before – not that I’d had the excuse or opportunity. “Comprised of different, specialised areas that in and of themselves are pretty darn clever – but the sum is greater than the parts.”
I shrugged. “Right. And?”
She glanced around at the others. “There’s a theory that people who are extra smart have hyper-developed brains. Obviously,” she said, cutting over me, “something about a super intelligent brain is more efficient, allowing it to work better, but I mean more than that. There’s a hypothesis” – she glanced meaningfully at Matt and Pip – “that super intelligence requires an enlargement of the relevant area of the brain.”
“And?” I interrupted, impatient. I hadn’t come here for a biology lecture.
“And,” she said, raising an eyebrow, “logically that implies that all functions relating to that area of the brain would be boosted. It’s a little iffy, neuroplasticity and all that, but the general concepts seem to hold.
“You’re good at trig. I’d guess that means that your parietal lobe is enlarged. Your visio-spatial processing and mapping is probably pretty good.”
I snorted. “This room is one-hundred and eighty-three steps from our Maths room. At a guess I’d say it’s six-point-seven metres wide, a few centimetres under eight metres deep, and” – I glanced upwards – “three-point-two-oh metres high at the apex of the ceiling.” I gestured to a metre ruler lying on the teacher’s desk. “Wanna check?”
Megan grinned. “No, I trust you. Here.” She held out her hand.
Warily, I placed mine underneath it, and she passed me a Ping-Pong ball. “It’s a ball,” I said flatly.
“Yup,” she said happily. “See that cup up there?”
She pointed, and I looked up to see a paper cup balanced precariously on the rafters. “Yeah…”
“In theory, you should be able to bounce that ball on the floor at the right angle and with the right velocity that it would hit the blackboard, bounce up to the roof, then ricochet off and land in the cup, right?”
I shrugged. “I suppose. In theory.”
“So do it,” she said, and leaned back.
My eyebrows knitted together. “Really?” I stared at the cup, a good metre and a quarter over my head, then considered the blackboard. I shook my head. “No one can actually do that, it’s impossible.”
“No. You just said yourself, it’s theoretically possible.”
“Yeah, but—“
“So do it.”
I stared at her for a long moment. “You’re crazy, right? That’s what this is actually all about. Either this is the Insanity Club, or you’re all having a big joke at my expense.” I glanced around the room. Matt and Pip seemed pretty incapable of having a joke full stop, so they were obviously the insanity contingent. Greg and Megan, though? They were capable of anything, and the way Greg was peering intently at me, arms folded over his chest and lips pressed so tight you could barely see them, did nothing to allay my suspicions.
Megan gave an explosive sigh. “Look, I really want you to figure this out on your own. Heaven knows, you’re smart enough. But being smart isn’t enough; you have to believe things are possible, too.” She caught my eye and held it. “This isn’t like primary school.”
Her face gave nothing away, but my stomach flip-flopped. How the hell did she know about my Chris-fit days? “What do you mean?” I said, unwilling to admit to anything.
“You know what I mean.” Face impassive, gaze unwavering.
I held my own for a second longer, then screwed up my nose. “Oh, all right. I give in. You win. Yes, it’s theoretically possible. No, I seriously doubt anyone can do it. Yes, I’ll try anyway, and if I find out any of you are filming this with the sole intent of making me the laughing stock of the school, I swear, I will make your life a misery.” I squeezed the ball in my hand. “Here goes nothing.”
I stared at the blackboard, lips moving as I tried to think about where I would have to hit it to get it to bounce to the angled ceiling. And where should I hit that? If I got it right where it peaked in the middle of the room, it might drop close enough to straight down into the cup, but getting it there from the blackboard would be almost impossible.
I shook my head. What was I thinking? The whole thing was impossible.
Jaw clenched, I traced the necessary path of the ball backwards, aimed at the spot on the floor I’d picked, and threw.
The ball bounced into the blackboard, ricocheted off to the ceiling, then promptly spun out of control and flew into a window.
I swallowed and released the breath I hadn’t realised I’d been holding. “There. See? Nothing. It’s just not possible.”
Megan snorted. “Idiot. You’re not really trying.”
“I am so!” I clenched my fists. “I’m trying as hard as I bloody well can, alright?”
“No, you’re not,” she said. “You’re getting in your own way. Up here.” She tapped her temple. “Stop thinking so hard and just do it.”
Behind me, Greg snorted. “Oh, just give up, Meegs. He’s not going to get it. He’s been hanging out with the cool kids for five years; he might have some intelligence left in there somewhere, if you say so, but there’s too much attitude in the way.”
Says he, king of arrogance. “Look, shut up, all right? I’ll get it. Just tell me what I’m supposed to be getting.”
Megan studied me, eyes wide. “Are you really sure about this?” she asked eventually. “Because once you’re committed, there’s no going back. This isn’t the kind of thing you can un-do, or un-see.”
Nerves and frustration and anger and impatience warred for control. “Look, I can handle it, okay? I’m not stupid, and my attitude” – I glanced at Greg – “is fine. Just tell me what I’m trying to do, or how it is I’m supposed to do the impossible, or whatever.”
Megan stared at Greg contemplatively. “It’s about belief, you see,” she said slowly. “Knowing something in your head and knowing it are different.” Her eyes flicked up and found mine. “Sometimes it helps to see it first.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Greg give an imperceptible nod and hold his hand up between us. I tore my eyes away from Megan's ocean-blue ones and stared at him. He grinned wickedly. “Anything’s possible, if you can just figure out how.”
It took me a second to see what was happening – and the moisture fled from my mouth. “Is that… is that supposed to be happening?” I asked as I stared at Greg’s hand and took an involuntary step closer. His nails had turned white, and the longer I looked, the whiter his hand became. It really did look like... “No blood?” I whispered, tilting my head.
“Yup.” His grin broadened. “Complete physical control,” he said, then lowered his hand and shook it. It turned purple, then red, then gradually flesh-coloured as the blood rushed back into it.
I swallowed. “That’s not possible.”
Megan handed me the Ping-Pong ball. “Theoretically, it is. You just have to believe hard enough, and get out of your own way.”
Slowly, I reached out and took the ball. “I… I believe,” I whispered. I stared up at the paper cup and tried to relax, to force my mind to stop chittering and calculating, and just let it do its thing – the same way it did when I knew exactly how big a room was without trying, or how I knew I’d walked four thousand, three hundred and ninety-two steps since I woke up this morning.
And then I felt it: something clicked in my head and the room went quiet. It wasn’t just sound that drained from the room, but colour, movement – anything that might distract me and that wasn’t completely relevant to getting that ball into the cup.
There. My gaze landed on a patch of carpet ever so slightly to the left of where I’d thrown the ball originally, and I knew exactly how hard I’d have to pitch it for this to work.
I breathed in, and as I exhaled, I released the ball. One bounce on the carpet, a second on the board – it almost seemed to be flying of its own accord, bouncing off one side of the roof, then the other – then straight into the paper cup.
A smile softened the tension in my jaw. I did it.
Amy Laurens (c) 2012
L.A.O.S. Absolutely Ordinary: Chapter 1C
Welcome to my experiment in public drafting, otherwise known as a serial novel! Find out more about the L.A.O.S. here, including ways to join in the fun, or start from the beginning. Please remember, this is copyrighted material; you may quote a couple of sentences in a review, but otherwise all rights are reserved.
Chapter One Part C
“Right,” she said. “So it’s like this. Brain.” She swiped a sheet of paper off Pip’s desk – a printout showing the various areas of the brain. I’d never noticed how long and slender Megan’s fingers were before – not that I’d had the excuse or opportunity. “Comprised of different, specialised areas that in and of themselves are pretty darn clever – but the sum is greater than the parts.”
I shrugged. “Right. And?”
She glanced around at the others. “There’s a theory that people who are extra smart have hyper-developed brains. Obviously,” she said, cutting over me, “something about a super intelligent brain is more efficient, allowing it to work better, but I mean more than that. There’s a hypothesis” – she glanced meaningfully at Matt and Pip – “that super intelligence requires an enlargement of the relevant area of the brain.”
“And?” I interrupted, impatient. I hadn’t come here for a biology lecture.
“And,” she said, raising an eyebrow, “logically that implies that all functions relating to that area of the brain would be boosted. It’s a little iffy, neuroplasticity and all that, but the general concepts seem to hold.
“You’re good at trig. I’d guess that means that your parietal lobe is enlarged. Your visio-spatial processing and mapping is probably pretty good.”
I snorted. “This room is one-hundred and eighty-three steps from our Maths room. At a guess I’d say it’s six-point-seven metres wide, a few centimetres under eight metres deep, and” – I glanced upwards – “three-point-two-oh metres high at the apex of the ceiling.” I gestured to a metre ruler lying on the teacher’s desk. “Wanna check?”
Megan grinned. “No, I trust you. Here.” She held out her hand.
Warily, I placed mine underneath it, and she passed me a Ping-Pong ball. “It’s a ball,” I said flatly.
“Yup,” she said happily. “See that cup up there?”
She pointed, and I looked up to see a paper cup balanced precariously on the rafters. “Yeah…”
“In theory, you should be able to bounce that ball on the floor at the right angle and with the right velocity that it would hit the blackboard, bounce up to the roof, then ricochet off and land in the cup, right?”
I shrugged. “I suppose. In theory.”
“So do it,” she said, and leaned back.
My eyebrows knitted together. “Really?” I stared at the cup, a good metre and a quarter over my head, then considered the blackboard. I shook my head. “No one can actually do that, it’s impossible.”
“No. You just said yourself, it’s theoretically possible.”
“Yeah, but—“
“So do it.”
I stared at her for a long moment. “You’re crazy, right? That’s what this is actually all about. Either this is the Insanity Club, or you’re all having a big joke at my expense.” I glanced around the room. Matt and Pip seemed pretty incapable of having a joke full stop, so they were obviously the insanity contingent. Greg and Megan, though? They were capable of anything, and the way Greg was peering intently at me, arms folded over his chest and lips pressed so tight you could barely see them, did nothing to allay my suspicions.
Megan gave an explosive sigh. “Look, I really want you to figure this out on your own. Heaven knows, you’re smart enough. But being smart isn’t enough; you have to believe things are possible, too.” She caught my eye and held it. “This isn’t like primary school.”
Her face gave nothing away, but my stomach flip-flopped. How the hell did she know about my Chris-fit days? “What do you mean?” I said, unwilling to admit to anything.
“You know what I mean.” Face impassive, gaze unwavering.
I held my own for a second longer, then screwed up my nose. “Oh, all right. I give in. You win. Yes, it’s theoretically possible. No, I seriously doubt anyone can do it. Yes, I’ll try anyway, and if I find out any of you are filming this with the sole intent of making me the laughing stock of the school, I swear, I will make your life a misery.” I squeezed the ball in my hand. “Here goes nothing.”
I stared at the blackboard, lips moving as I tried to think about where I would have to hit it to get it to bounce to the angled ceiling. And where should I hit that? If I got it right where it peaked in the middle of the room, it might drop close enough to straight down into the cup, but getting it there from the blackboard would be almost impossible.
I shook my head. What was I thinking? The whole thing was impossible.
Jaw clenched, I traced the necessary path of the ball backwards, aimed at the spot on the floor I’d picked, and threw.
The ball bounced into the blackboard, ricocheted off to the ceiling, then promptly spun out of control and flew into a window.
I swallowed and released the breath I hadn’t realised I’d been holding. “There. See? Nothing. It’s just not possible.”
Megan snorted. “Idiot. You’re not really trying.”
“I am so!” I clenched my fists. “I’m trying as hard as I bloody well can, alright?”
“No, you’re not,” she said. “You’re getting in your own way. Up here.” She tapped her temple. “Stop thinking so hard and just do it.”
Behind me, Greg snorted. “Oh, just give up, Meegs. He’s not going to get it. He’s been hanging out with the cool kids for five years; he might have some intelligence left in there somewhere, if you say so, but there’s too much attitude in the way.”
Says he, king of arrogance. “Look, shut up, all right? I’ll get it. Just tell me what I’m supposed to be getting.”
Megan studied me, eyes wide. “Are you really sure about this?” she asked eventually. “Because once you’re committed, there’s no going back. This isn’t the kind of thing you can un-do, or un-see.”
Nerves and frustration and anger and impatience warred for control. “Look, I can handle it, okay? I’m not stupid, and my attitude” – I glanced at Greg – “is fine. Just tell me what I’m trying to do, or how it is I’m supposed to do the impossible, or whatever.”
Megan stared at Greg contemplatively. “It’s about belief, you see,” she said slowly. “Knowing something in your head and knowing it are different.” Her eyes flicked up and found mine. “Sometimes it helps to see it first.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Greg give an imperceptible nod and hold his hand up between us. I tore my eyes away from Megan's ocean-blue ones and stared at him. He grinned wickedly. “Anything’s possible, if you can just figure out how.”
It took me a second to see what was happening – and the moisture fled from my mouth. “Is that… is that supposed to be happening?” I asked as I stared at Greg’s hand and took an involuntary step closer. His nails had turned white, and the longer I looked, the whiter his hand became. It really did look like... “No blood?” I whispered, tilting my head.
“Yup.” His grin broadened. “Complete physical control,” he said, then lowered his hand and shook it. It turned purple, then red, then gradually flesh-coloured as the blood rushed back into it.
I swallowed. “That’s not possible.”
Megan handed me the Ping-Pong ball. “Theoretically, it is. You just have to believe hard enough, and get out of your own way.”
Slowly, I reached out and took the ball. “I… I believe,” I whispered. I stared up at the paper cup and tried to relax, to force my mind to stop chittering and calculating, and just let it do its thing – the same way it did when I knew exactly how big a room was without trying, or how I knew I’d walked four thousand, three hundred and ninety-two steps since I woke up this morning.
And then I felt it: something clicked in my head and the room went quiet. It wasn’t just sound that drained from the room, but colour, movement – anything that might distract me and that wasn’t completely relevant to getting that ball into the cup.
There. My gaze landed on a patch of carpet ever so slightly to the left of where I’d thrown the ball originally, and I knew exactly how hard I’d have to pitch it for this to work.
I breathed in, and as I exhaled, I released the ball. One bounce on the carpet, a second on the board – it almost seemed to be flying of its own accord, bouncing off one side of the roof, then the other – then straight into the paper cup.
A smile softened the tension in my jaw. I did it.
Amy Laurens (c) 2012
Chapter One Part C
“Right,” she said. “So it’s like this. Brain.” She swiped a sheet of paper off Pip’s desk – a printout showing the various areas of the brain. I’d never noticed how long and slender Megan’s fingers were before – not that I’d had the excuse or opportunity. “Comprised of different, specialised areas that in and of themselves are pretty darn clever – but the sum is greater than the parts.”
I shrugged. “Right. And?”
She glanced around at the others. “There’s a theory that people who are extra smart have hyper-developed brains. Obviously,” she said, cutting over me, “something about a super intelligent brain is more efficient, allowing it to work better, but I mean more than that. There’s a hypothesis” – she glanced meaningfully at Matt and Pip – “that super intelligence requires an enlargement of the relevant area of the brain.”
“And?” I interrupted, impatient. I hadn’t come here for a biology lecture.
“And,” she said, raising an eyebrow, “logically that implies that all functions relating to that area of the brain would be boosted. It’s a little iffy, neuroplasticity and all that, but the general concepts seem to hold.
“You’re good at trig. I’d guess that means that your parietal lobe is enlarged. Your visio-spatial processing and mapping is probably pretty good.”
I snorted. “This room is one-hundred and eighty-three steps from our Maths room. At a guess I’d say it’s six-point-seven metres wide, a few centimetres under eight metres deep, and” – I glanced upwards – “three-point-two-oh metres high at the apex of the ceiling.” I gestured to a metre ruler lying on the teacher’s desk. “Wanna check?”
Megan grinned. “No, I trust you. Here.” She held out her hand.
Warily, I placed mine underneath it, and she passed me a Ping-Pong ball. “It’s a ball,” I said flatly.
“Yup,” she said happily. “See that cup up there?”
She pointed, and I looked up to see a paper cup balanced precariously on the rafters. “Yeah…”
“In theory, you should be able to bounce that ball on the floor at the right angle and with the right velocity that it would hit the blackboard, bounce up to the roof, then ricochet off and land in the cup, right?”
I shrugged. “I suppose. In theory.”
“So do it,” she said, and leaned back.
My eyebrows knitted together. “Really?” I stared at the cup, a good metre and a quarter over my head, then considered the blackboard. I shook my head. “No one can actually do that, it’s impossible.”
“No. You just said yourself, it’s theoretically possible.”
“Yeah, but—“
“So do it.”
I stared at her for a long moment. “You’re crazy, right? That’s what this is actually all about. Either this is the Insanity Club, or you’re all having a big joke at my expense.” I glanced around the room. Matt and Pip seemed pretty incapable of having a joke full stop, so they were obviously the insanity contingent. Greg and Megan, though? They were capable of anything, and the way Greg was peering intently at me, arms folded over his chest and lips pressed so tight you could barely see them, did nothing to allay my suspicions.
Megan gave an explosive sigh. “Look, I really want you to figure this out on your own. Heaven knows, you’re smart enough. But being smart isn’t enough; you have to believe things are possible, too.” She caught my eye and held it. “This isn’t like primary school.”
Her face gave nothing away, but my stomach flip-flopped. How the hell did she know about my Chris-fit days? “What do you mean?” I said, unwilling to admit to anything.
“You know what I mean.” Face impassive, gaze unwavering.
I held my own for a second longer, then screwed up my nose. “Oh, all right. I give in. You win. Yes, it’s theoretically possible. No, I seriously doubt anyone can do it. Yes, I’ll try anyway, and if I find out any of you are filming this with the sole intent of making me the laughing stock of the school, I swear, I will make your life a misery.” I squeezed the ball in my hand. “Here goes nothing.”
I stared at the blackboard, lips moving as I tried to think about where I would have to hit it to get it to bounce to the angled ceiling. And where should I hit that? If I got it right where it peaked in the middle of the room, it might drop close enough to straight down into the cup, but getting it there from the blackboard would be almost impossible.
I shook my head. What was I thinking? The whole thing was impossible.
Jaw clenched, I traced the necessary path of the ball backwards, aimed at the spot on the floor I’d picked, and threw.
The ball bounced into the blackboard, ricocheted off to the ceiling, then promptly spun out of control and flew into a window.
I swallowed and released the breath I hadn’t realised I’d been holding. “There. See? Nothing. It’s just not possible.”
Megan snorted. “Idiot. You’re not really trying.”
“I am so!” I clenched my fists. “I’m trying as hard as I bloody well can, alright?”
“No, you’re not,” she said. “You’re getting in your own way. Up here.” She tapped her temple. “Stop thinking so hard and just do it.”
Behind me, Greg snorted. “Oh, just give up, Meegs. He’s not going to get it. He’s been hanging out with the cool kids for five years; he might have some intelligence left in there somewhere, if you say so, but there’s too much attitude in the way.”
Says he, king of arrogance. “Look, shut up, all right? I’ll get it. Just tell me what I’m supposed to be getting.”
Megan studied me, eyes wide. “Are you really sure about this?” she asked eventually. “Because once you’re committed, there’s no going back. This isn’t the kind of thing you can un-do, or un-see.”
Nerves and frustration and anger and impatience warred for control. “Look, I can handle it, okay? I’m not stupid, and my attitude” – I glanced at Greg – “is fine. Just tell me what I’m trying to do, or how it is I’m supposed to do the impossible, or whatever.”
Megan stared at Greg contemplatively. “It’s about belief, you see,” she said slowly. “Knowing something in your head and knowing it are different.” Her eyes flicked up and found mine. “Sometimes it helps to see it first.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Greg give an imperceptible nod and hold his hand up between us. I tore my eyes away from Megan's ocean-blue ones and stared at him. He grinned wickedly. “Anything’s possible, if you can just figure out how.”
It took me a second to see what was happening – and the moisture fled from my mouth. “Is that… is that supposed to be happening?” I asked as I stared at Greg’s hand and took an involuntary step closer. His nails had turned white, and the longer I looked, the whiter his hand became. It really did look like... “No blood?” I whispered, tilting my head.
“Yup.” His grin broadened. “Complete physical control,” he said, then lowered his hand and shook it. It turned purple, then red, then gradually flesh-coloured as the blood rushed back into it.
I swallowed. “That’s not possible.”
Megan handed me the Ping-Pong ball. “Theoretically, it is. You just have to believe hard enough, and get out of your own way.”
Slowly, I reached out and took the ball. “I… I believe,” I whispered. I stared up at the paper cup and tried to relax, to force my mind to stop chittering and calculating, and just let it do its thing – the same way it did when I knew exactly how big a room was without trying, or how I knew I’d walked four thousand, three hundred and ninety-two steps since I woke up this morning.
And then I felt it: something clicked in my head and the room went quiet. It wasn’t just sound that drained from the room, but colour, movement – anything that might distract me and that wasn’t completely relevant to getting that ball into the cup.
There. My gaze landed on a patch of carpet ever so slightly to the left of where I’d thrown the ball originally, and I knew exactly how hard I’d have to pitch it for this to work.
I breathed in, and as I exhaled, I released the ball. One bounce on the carpet, a second on the board – it almost seemed to be flying of its own accord, bouncing off one side of the roof, then the other – then straight into the paper cup.
A smile softened the tension in my jaw. I did it.
Amy Laurens (c) 2012
May 14, 2012
L.A.O.S. Absolutely Ordinary Chapter 1b
Welcome to my experiment in public drafting, otherwise known as a serial novel! Find out more about the L.A.O.S. here, including ways to join in the fun, or start from the beginning. Please remember, this is copyrighted material; you may quote a couple of sentences in a review, but otherwise all rights are reserved.
Chapter One Part B
Rolling her eyes, Megan pushed the door open and walked into the room. I hung back, not quite sure what I was expecting. A fanfare, maybe. Rabid applause. Rotten fruit. But when nothing especially unusual was forthcoming, I stuck my head warily around the corner and peered into the room.
Four kids, two pretty normal looking and two looking like the King and Queen of the Geeks – glasses, ties, the pale, washed-out, pasty skin of people who spend too much time indoors, you know, the works – perched variously on chairs and desks, deep in conversation.
I stepped into the doorway, and they all completely ignored me. I forced my fists to unclench, shoved aside memories of my Chris-fit days, and cleared my throat. Nada. I cleared it again, louder this time.
The normal-looking guy lounging on one of the desks turned and nearly lost his eyebrows as they shot upwards. “What the hell?” he said, turning to Megan. (The other normal-looking kid. Not that anything about Megan is normal. It’s not normal to be super smart and wicked hot, is it? I mean, it’s just not fair on the rest of the gene pool. Never tell Megan I said that. Ever.)
“Easy there, mate,” I said, grinning my trademark bad-boy grin and raising my hands. “We’ll find your eyebrows again, don’t stress.”
“Greg.” Megan shot him a warning glare, which he kindly returned. She turned to me. “Guys, this is Chris. I told you he was one of us. Chris, this is Matt, Pip and Greg.”
The geeky guy and girl, who now I looked past the apparel were clearly related, nodded in a nonchalant sort of way. Greg, on the other hand, looked like he might fall off the desk. “What the hell, Megan?” he said. “You invited Chris? Are you insane? The guy’s fifty kinds of dick just on Mondays!”
“Thanks,” I said, shoving my hands into my pockets. “Nice to know my reputation precedes me.”
Megan rolled her eyes. “Seriously, can we put the testosterone away for like, five second, please? Greg, you should have heard the circles he ran Mr Hang-me in just now in maths. It was awesome.”
I totally didn’t glow at that. Totally.
Greg eyes me suspiciously. “He could’ve memorised it, or something.”
I raised an eyebrow, but Megan came gallantly to my rescue, shaking her head. “Nuh uh, he knew what he was talking about. He’s the real deal, Greg.”
Okay, I confess: I grinned. “Real deal, huh, Greg. She ever called you that?” I bounced on my toes.
Greg made to scramble off the desk, settling for killing me with his scary, scary eyes when Megan laid a restraining hand on his arm. I snickered.
“Oh, go wank yourself,” Greg muttered, and turned away.
I figured that was as good an invitation as I was going to get, so I strode into the room and pulled up a chair, flipping it around so I could lean on the back. “So,” I said. “What’s the deal?”
“Nothing,” Greg muttered again, but this time I had the distinct impression the angst wasn’t directed at me.
Sure enough, Megan shot him a filthy look before turning to me. “Officially or unofficially?”
I shrugged. “Whatever. Both.” I wouldn’t have admitted it for fifty bucks, but my heart began to pound. I was about to learn their big secret, and despite the fact that they were geeks to the max and the secret was probably about how they planned to finish extra credit homework before three pm, I was curious.
Megan’s lips twitched. “Officially,” she said carefully, “Greg is right. Nothing. Yet,” she stressed, shooting Greg another Look.
“And unofficially?” My palms itched and I rubbed them against my thighs.
Matt shifted in his chair. “Unofficially, we’re investigating the real-world effects of extreme scientific theory with the aim of utilising these theories to create an environment more conducive to justice, equity, and compassion.”
“We’re saving the world through science,” Pip added, smiling. She actually managed to be kind of pretty when she smiled – it was the contagious kind of smile that had me smiling back before I even realised what she’d said.
I shook my head. “Hang on, wait. What?” Again with the Confused Brethren act. Would I ever feel in control of a situation again?
“Justice, equity and compassion, dimwit,” Greg said helpfully. “Surely even your old band of miscreant friends have heard of the concepts?”
“Piss off, numbskull,” I countered, drawing on my superior wit and intelligence. Greg’s like that; he brings out the best in everyone.
Megan made a grumbling, growling sort of noise and tossed her hair. “This is going to be impossible if you two can’t get over yourselves.”
“Hey, you invited him,” Greg said, holding his hands up in defence.
“And it’s not my fault Greg’s insecure about having another male around,” I added, lifting an eyebrow. “Um, no offence,” I added quickly, nodding at Matt, who just shrugged.
“Oh, would you shut up,” Megan said, voice full of exasperation. “Do you want an explanation or not?”
I hesitated for just a second, then swallowed the bickering and nodded. “Yes.”
Amy Laurens (c) 2012
Chapter One Part B
Rolling her eyes, Megan pushed the door open and walked into the room. I hung back, not quite sure what I was expecting. A fanfare, maybe. Rabid applause. Rotten fruit. But when nothing especially unusual was forthcoming, I stuck my head warily around the corner and peered into the room.
Four kids, two pretty normal looking and two looking like the King and Queen of the Geeks – glasses, ties, the pale, washed-out, pasty skin of people who spend too much time indoors, you know, the works – perched variously on chairs and desks, deep in conversation.
I stepped into the doorway, and they all completely ignored me. I forced my fists to unclench, shoved aside memories of my Chris-fit days, and cleared my throat. Nada. I cleared it again, louder this time.
The normal-looking guy lounging on one of the desks turned and nearly lost his eyebrows as they shot upwards. “What the hell?” he said, turning to Megan. (The other normal-looking kid. Not that anything about Megan is normal. It’s not normal to be super smart and wicked hot, is it? I mean, it’s just not fair on the rest of the gene pool. Never tell Megan I said that. Ever.)
“Easy there, mate,” I said, grinning my trademark bad-boy grin and raising my hands. “We’ll find your eyebrows again, don’t stress.”
“Greg.” Megan shot him a warning glare, which he kindly returned. She turned to me. “Guys, this is Chris. I told you he was one of us. Chris, this is Matt, Pip and Greg.”
The geeky guy and girl, who now I looked past the apparel were clearly related, nodded in a nonchalant sort of way. Greg, on the other hand, looked like he might fall off the desk. “What the hell, Megan?” he said. “You invited Chris? Are you insane? The guy’s fifty kinds of dick just on Mondays!”
“Thanks,” I said, shoving my hands into my pockets. “Nice to know my reputation precedes me.”
Megan rolled her eyes. “Seriously, can we put the testosterone away for like, five second, please? Greg, you should have heard the circles he ran Mr Hang-me in just now in maths. It was awesome.”
I totally didn’t glow at that. Totally.
Greg eyes me suspiciously. “He could’ve memorised it, or something.”
I raised an eyebrow, but Megan came gallantly to my rescue, shaking her head. “Nuh uh, he knew what he was talking about. He’s the real deal, Greg.”
Okay, I confess: I grinned. “Real deal, huh, Greg. She ever called you that?” I bounced on my toes.
Greg made to scramble off the desk, settling for killing me with his scary, scary eyes when Megan laid a restraining hand on his arm. I snickered.
“Oh, go wank yourself,” Greg muttered, and turned away.
I figured that was as good an invitation as I was going to get, so I strode into the room and pulled up a chair, flipping it around so I could lean on the back. “So,” I said. “What’s the deal?”
“Nothing,” Greg muttered again, but this time I had the distinct impression the angst wasn’t directed at me.
Sure enough, Megan shot him a filthy look before turning to me. “Officially or unofficially?”
I shrugged. “Whatever. Both.” I wouldn’t have admitted it for fifty bucks, but my heart began to pound. I was about to learn their big secret, and despite the fact that they were geeks to the max and the secret was probably about how they planned to finish extra credit homework before three pm, I was curious.
Megan’s lips twitched. “Officially,” she said carefully, “Greg is right. Nothing. Yet,” she stressed, shooting Greg another Look.
“And unofficially?” My palms itched and I rubbed them against my thighs.
Matt shifted in his chair. “Unofficially, we’re investigating the real-world effects of extreme scientific theory with the aim of utilising these theories to create an environment more conducive to justice, equity, and compassion.”
“We’re saving the world through science,” Pip added, smiling. She actually managed to be kind of pretty when she smiled – it was the contagious kind of smile that had me smiling back before I even realised what she’d said.
I shook my head. “Hang on, wait. What?” Again with the Confused Brethren act. Would I ever feel in control of a situation again?
“Justice, equity and compassion, dimwit,” Greg said helpfully. “Surely even your old band of miscreant friends have heard of the concepts?”
“Piss off, numbskull,” I countered, drawing on my superior wit and intelligence. Greg’s like that; he brings out the best in everyone.
Megan made a grumbling, growling sort of noise and tossed her hair. “This is going to be impossible if you two can’t get over yourselves.”
“Hey, you invited him,” Greg said, holding his hands up in defence.
“And it’s not my fault Greg’s insecure about having another male around,” I added, lifting an eyebrow. “Um, no offence,” I added quickly, nodding at Matt, who just shrugged.
“Oh, would you shut up,” Megan said, voice full of exasperation. “Do you want an explanation or not?”
I hesitated for just a second, then swallowed the bickering and nodded. “Yes.”
Amy Laurens (c) 2012
May 10, 2012
L.A.O.S. Absolutely Ordinary Ch1a
Welcome to my experiment in public drafting, otherwise known as a serial novel! Find out more about the L.A.O.S. here, including ways to join in the fun. Please remember, this is copyrighted material; you may quote a couple of sentences in a review, but otherwise all rights are reserved.
Chapter One Part A
When your IQ is so far off the scale that scientists are lining up to create new tests to measure it and Mensa is knocking on your door, there are only two ways to go in life. You can embrace your nerdly glory and live a life condemned to exist on the fringes, without any real human contact, or you can pretend. Or you can be an arrogant jerk like Greg, but he’s practically an entire category to himself no matter which way you slice it.
Like any other normal teenager, I just wanted to belong. Okay, yeah, at first it was frustrating that the rest of the class would take hours to understand what I’d figured out in three seconds, but that was easily dealt with: I just ignored school altogether. My real education happened in my spare time anyway; school was just somewhere I had to be, with people who I desperately wanted to like me.
They didn’t, of course. I mean, to begin with they accepted me and all, but there was always this vague sense of unease, like they knew I was hiding something, but couldn’t figure out what. And then bloody Mr Hangley had to perform what was tantamount to abuse on that poor, unsuspecting tangent secant theorem, and I couldn’t help myself: before I knew what I was doing, I’d opened my big gob and corrected him, and once the words started they just kept pouring out, a torrent I’d been hiding inside for so many years that when they finally spilled over, they flooded everyone within a five mile radius.
Actually, I can only vouch for the fact that they drowned my classmates, and very nearly Mr Hangley, who stood staring at me like I’d grown horns and started tap-dancing naked on the desk. Which, thinking back, may have been the smarter thing to do.
After that, there was no going back.
Megan cornered me right after class, fists on hips and eyes flashing. “What was that, then?” she demanded.
I did my best to shrink, to blend back into the crowd – but the crowd was no longer there. Instead, guys I’d just half an hour ago called mates were edging away from me, pointing and whispering, and I stood out like I’d always known I’d one day have to, raw and naked and alone. So, eloquently, I shrugged and tried to pretend like I had no idea what she was talking about. Like lecturing your maths teacher on the subtleties of trig was normal.
“I’m serious,” she said, tossing her hair. Man, you do not want to get Megan riled up. I swear, she’s part terrier or something, because once she’s latched onto something she does not let go, and she is scary. “What was up with that?”
“With what?” I snapped, shoving midgety year sevens aside so I could stomp away. Sure, that’s right, I thought. It’s not enough that my cover’s blown and I’m back to being Chris-fit again, bloody brunette Barbie has to come and rub it in, just to make sure I got the point.
“Your dazzling display of brilliance,” Megan said archly, tagging along at my shoulder.
I ground my teeth, staring fixedly at the far corner of the building, around which ladies never durst trod.
“Come off it, Chris,” she said, doing that hair-toss thing again. How do girls do that while they’re walking? How come they don’t lose their balance and fall? It must be another one of those mysterious things they get taught at Girl School. “That was no act,” Megan continued. “You can’t possibly have made that up on the spot. Anyone who knows anything at all about geometry could see Mr Hang-me was wrong from a mile away, but the cross products? Even I hadn’t thought about how that connected.”
Somewhere in all of that I’d trailed to a halt, eyes wide and mouth gaping, frozen halfway through a step. I wiped my mouth on the back of my sleeve and quit the zombie impersonation. “What the hell?” I said. “You understood that?”
Megan shot me a scathing look that left me cowering. “Just because you’ve been too busy trying to be a dick to notice the rest of us.” She did that ‘tsh’ thing that girls do when they’re exasperated and stalked away, leaving me once again doing my zombie act at her back.
“Wait, what?” I said, hurrying to catch up. “The rest of us? The rest of us what?”
Megan pressed her lips together and glanced sideways at me. “You’re not the only smart kid in the school, you know.”
“I, um…” I trailed off. I’d been going to say that I knew that, of course – only clearly I didn’t. All this time I’d thought I was the only freakazoid hiding out in this teenage shark pit, alone and misunderstood, when really… I shook my head like a dog twitching away a fly. “How many?” I asked as I tagged along at Megan’s shoulder. I had no idea where she was going, but she hadn’t told me to get lost yet, and that was something.
Megan murmured something too soft to catch, then stopped, hands fisted at her sides, staring at me.
I caught myself shrinking away from her again and forced myself to straighten. Geez, I was twice her height, and even if she was smart enough to understand what I’d said back in maths, I was still arrogant enough to know I was smarter than her.
“Four,” she said, laser-sights blazing. “Five, if we’ll have you.”
“If you’ll… have me?” Once more, I found myself wrong-footed and gaping. I should have realised then what that meant, but no guy jumps to the conclusion that a tidgey girl half his size could whip him arse over nostrils with his own intelligence and then run three times around the metaphorical block before he’d even got his feet under him again. I’m not saying it can’t happen – bloody hell, Megan is a monster – I’m just saying it’s not expected, all right? I’m not sexist. Megan’d eat me alive if I was.
“Yes, if we’ll have you. And just because you’re smart, don’t think we will. You’ve been enough of a dickhead the last three years that Greg’ll blow his nut when he sees you tagging along.” She spun around and marched off again.
“Wait, what?” I said, beginning to feel that that might be a fairly standard comeback to any conversation Megan was in charge of. “Tagging along to what?”
“You’ll see,” she said primly, turning a corner and shouldering her way through a glass door.
For a millisecond I froze, staring at the door with my mouth open like some gobbing goldfish. Megan had caught a glimpse of who I really was, and she wanted me to follow her. Year Three flashed before my eyes, the time when King Evil Brat, ruler of the playground, had lured me down to the back of the school property and tied me to a tree. I'd corrected my Maths teacher that day, too.
“Come on,” Megan said, continuing her march down the corridor. I shook my head and followed.
We walked deeper into the building, but just before I could open my mouth and make an idiot of myself yet again – what would that be, like ten times in as many minutes? Dude, seriously: what was going on with the world? – she stopped outside a classroom door and took a deep breath. Her commando-queen façade slipped for a moment and she shot me a nervous glance. “Ready?”
I shrugged. “As I’ll ever be.”
Amy Laurens (c) 2012
Chapter One Part A
When your IQ is so far off the scale that scientists are lining up to create new tests to measure it and Mensa is knocking on your door, there are only two ways to go in life. You can embrace your nerdly glory and live a life condemned to exist on the fringes, without any real human contact, or you can pretend. Or you can be an arrogant jerk like Greg, but he’s practically an entire category to himself no matter which way you slice it.
Like any other normal teenager, I just wanted to belong. Okay, yeah, at first it was frustrating that the rest of the class would take hours to understand what I’d figured out in three seconds, but that was easily dealt with: I just ignored school altogether. My real education happened in my spare time anyway; school was just somewhere I had to be, with people who I desperately wanted to like me.
They didn’t, of course. I mean, to begin with they accepted me and all, but there was always this vague sense of unease, like they knew I was hiding something, but couldn’t figure out what. And then bloody Mr Hangley had to perform what was tantamount to abuse on that poor, unsuspecting tangent secant theorem, and I couldn’t help myself: before I knew what I was doing, I’d opened my big gob and corrected him, and once the words started they just kept pouring out, a torrent I’d been hiding inside for so many years that when they finally spilled over, they flooded everyone within a five mile radius.
Actually, I can only vouch for the fact that they drowned my classmates, and very nearly Mr Hangley, who stood staring at me like I’d grown horns and started tap-dancing naked on the desk. Which, thinking back, may have been the smarter thing to do.
After that, there was no going back.
Megan cornered me right after class, fists on hips and eyes flashing. “What was that, then?” she demanded.
I did my best to shrink, to blend back into the crowd – but the crowd was no longer there. Instead, guys I’d just half an hour ago called mates were edging away from me, pointing and whispering, and I stood out like I’d always known I’d one day have to, raw and naked and alone. So, eloquently, I shrugged and tried to pretend like I had no idea what she was talking about. Like lecturing your maths teacher on the subtleties of trig was normal.
“I’m serious,” she said, tossing her hair. Man, you do not want to get Megan riled up. I swear, she’s part terrier or something, because once she’s latched onto something she does not let go, and she is scary. “What was up with that?”
“With what?” I snapped, shoving midgety year sevens aside so I could stomp away. Sure, that’s right, I thought. It’s not enough that my cover’s blown and I’m back to being Chris-fit again, bloody brunette Barbie has to come and rub it in, just to make sure I got the point.
“Your dazzling display of brilliance,” Megan said archly, tagging along at my shoulder.
I ground my teeth, staring fixedly at the far corner of the building, around which ladies never durst trod.
“Come off it, Chris,” she said, doing that hair-toss thing again. How do girls do that while they’re walking? How come they don’t lose their balance and fall? It must be another one of those mysterious things they get taught at Girl School. “That was no act,” Megan continued. “You can’t possibly have made that up on the spot. Anyone who knows anything at all about geometry could see Mr Hang-me was wrong from a mile away, but the cross products? Even I hadn’t thought about how that connected.”
Somewhere in all of that I’d trailed to a halt, eyes wide and mouth gaping, frozen halfway through a step. I wiped my mouth on the back of my sleeve and quit the zombie impersonation. “What the hell?” I said. “You understood that?”
Megan shot me a scathing look that left me cowering. “Just because you’ve been too busy trying to be a dick to notice the rest of us.” She did that ‘tsh’ thing that girls do when they’re exasperated and stalked away, leaving me once again doing my zombie act at her back.
“Wait, what?” I said, hurrying to catch up. “The rest of us? The rest of us what?”
Megan pressed her lips together and glanced sideways at me. “You’re not the only smart kid in the school, you know.”
“I, um…” I trailed off. I’d been going to say that I knew that, of course – only clearly I didn’t. All this time I’d thought I was the only freakazoid hiding out in this teenage shark pit, alone and misunderstood, when really… I shook my head like a dog twitching away a fly. “How many?” I asked as I tagged along at Megan’s shoulder. I had no idea where she was going, but she hadn’t told me to get lost yet, and that was something.
Megan murmured something too soft to catch, then stopped, hands fisted at her sides, staring at me.
I caught myself shrinking away from her again and forced myself to straighten. Geez, I was twice her height, and even if she was smart enough to understand what I’d said back in maths, I was still arrogant enough to know I was smarter than her.
“Four,” she said, laser-sights blazing. “Five, if we’ll have you.”
“If you’ll… have me?” Once more, I found myself wrong-footed and gaping. I should have realised then what that meant, but no guy jumps to the conclusion that a tidgey girl half his size could whip him arse over nostrils with his own intelligence and then run three times around the metaphorical block before he’d even got his feet under him again. I’m not saying it can’t happen – bloody hell, Megan is a monster – I’m just saying it’s not expected, all right? I’m not sexist. Megan’d eat me alive if I was.
“Yes, if we’ll have you. And just because you’re smart, don’t think we will. You’ve been enough of a dickhead the last three years that Greg’ll blow his nut when he sees you tagging along.” She spun around and marched off again.
“Wait, what?” I said, beginning to feel that that might be a fairly standard comeback to any conversation Megan was in charge of. “Tagging along to what?”
“You’ll see,” she said primly, turning a corner and shouldering her way through a glass door.
For a millisecond I froze, staring at the door with my mouth open like some gobbing goldfish. Megan had caught a glimpse of who I really was, and she wanted me to follow her. Year Three flashed before my eyes, the time when King Evil Brat, ruler of the playground, had lured me down to the back of the school property and tied me to a tree. I'd corrected my Maths teacher that day, too.
“Come on,” Megan said, continuing her march down the corridor. I shook my head and followed.
We walked deeper into the building, but just before I could open my mouth and make an idiot of myself yet again – what would that be, like ten times in as many minutes? Dude, seriously: what was going on with the world? – she stopped outside a classroom door and took a deep breath. Her commando-queen façade slipped for a moment and she shot me a nervous glance. “Ready?”
I shrugged. “As I’ll ever be.”
Amy Laurens (c) 2012
