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These digits repeat in my brain even when I don’t want them to. It’s like getting a song stuck in your head. Only for me, it’s always the same song. Incredibly annoying, but still beautiful.
If it were anyone else, I’d be insulted he thinks my math skills are some kind of party trick.
“You can’t stay holed up in this apartment. What about friends? What about fresh air?
This is actually a hard answer to calculate. What makes someone a friend? A shared interest? Is there a minimum amount of time you need to spend together? Does the other person need to call you a friend, too?
“Lucy needs to be around other kids. You can’t keep her locked away.”
Life is like an equation, and mine is perfectly balanced. Nana + Uncle Paul + Math = Happiness Other people might need to add in friends or sports or money or something else, but my equation is already solved.
it’s obvious that Nana hasn’t really thought this through. She hasn’t made an appointment, and she hasn’t brought along any of my records. Not like that’s going to stop Nana when she’s on a mission.
If I don’t do this routine, my brain will go into frantic-repeat mode. The digits of pi will take over like an infection. I won’t be able to concentrate on anything but the numbers.
Nana is forcing me to be part of this germ-infested community where the people are called my peers only because we are the same age. My real peers are creating algorithms and solving problems. They’ll be changing the world while I’ll be wasting time memorizing textbooks and ducking dodgeballs.
“Give it 1 year and really make a go of it. Make 1 friend. Do 1 thing outside of these walls. Read 1 book not written by an economist or a mathematician.”
“Don’t worry. I’m sure there are still some things they can teach you.”
Math can be cruel sometimes.
I take a breath and realize that hiding in the dumpster would have been a better way to spend the day.
Finding room 213 is easy. Getting in is impossible.
But he’s touched the hand of every kid who walked into the room. The exponential magnitude of germ growth is disgusting. I force myself not to estimate the number of bacteria being passed around.
MATH IS A JOURNEY, SO SHOW YOUR WORK.
I have no control over me.
Windy is in the front and misses it all, which is a relief because she would have said something or asked, What are you doing?
He stares as if he’s never seen anyone clean before. It’s not like I’m doing a magic trick or a dangerous science experiment.
I’m not sure whether the look is for the dirt or for me.
I wanted to hear him talk about math, even if it was only addition.
I’ve watched enough TV to know that cafeterias are rooms of torture and humiliation in both schools and prisons. But East Hamlin Middle is different from what I’d imagined. We don’t walk to lunch on our own. We go to 4th period, which for me is science. Then Ms. Bryson marches us to the cafeteria in a quiet single-file line. There’s no picking seats around the room. The entire class is forced to sit together at a giant table like we’re a big happy family.
The dirt and germs bother me more than the nasty comments.
Make me invisible. Make this all go away.
It won’t kill you to smile. I’m starting to think Nana never went to middle school.
“The right way is to not talk about people at all,” Levi says, staring at his carrot sticks.
I like to think I’m making a difference in the world.”
“Told you. I’m mostly ordinary.” At least that’s what I want everyone to think. Lightning Girl, your ordinary, everyday savant cleaning lady.
“If I tell you it was torture, that everyone thinks I’m a freak, that I probably caught a disease from accidentally touching the bus’s handrail, that the teachers act like prison guards, and that I hated all 400 minutes of it, will you still make me go back?”
It’s only 1 year, I repeat to myself. I can suffer through a year of middle school. But it still seems like a waste. I should be dedicating my life to solving the unsolvable problems of mathematics, like the Riemann hypothesis or the Hodge conjecture.
Not that I need the phone numbers saved. They’re all locked in my brain.
I want her to know I need more than her prayers. I need out of that school.
‘Fake it till you make it’?”
“It means you gotta act like you belong or act like you can do something, and eventually you’ll be able to.”
“Go to school tomorrow with a big smile on your face and act like you belong there.” Why do all adults think smiling is the answer?
act like you belong at the popular lunch table and on the chess or basketball team or whatever extracurricular you want to do. Eventually, you’ll go from faking it to making it. It’s all about confidence.
I’m basically giving you the secret to life,
You need to be yourself, Lucy.
Is it lying if I don’t correct him?
I won’t admit it to anyone, but I’m looking forward to math class. I’m sure Mr. Stoker will spend the year covering topics I mastered when I was 8. But to me, it’s like hearing a favorite band sing an old song or rewatching a favorite episode of Supernatural.
My mind floods with the possibilities. It could be something beautifully simple. Even finding the area of a circle (area = πr2) would be interesting. I love any formula that requires pi. If I ever got a tattoo, it would be π.
I can’t hide my need to sit-stand or tap my toe 3 times, or my obsession with de-germing any and all surfaces. But I can hide my superpower. They don’t need to know. I’m not hurting anyone. I can fake it till I make it. I can fake being normal, and eventually I will be.
I plan on getting an A in the class. I mean, I don’t want to ruin my chances of getting into college next year.
Nana wants 1 year, 1 friend, 1 book, and 1 activity. I calculate this will be easier to achieve without being a freaky genius. I can be normal smart. It’s only middle school. This is about survival.
“An 82 isn’t exactly a dive. And it’s not a secret cry for help. I don’t want to go to that school. You know that, Nana. But if I have to be there, I don’t want to be the savant or the genius.” I don’t want to be the cleaning lady, either.
SquareHead314: Aim a little lower. LightningGirl: that’s my new motto
“Mathematics is not only about getting the correct answer. It’s about being on the road to the correct answer. Knowing the path can be just as important as knowing the solution.”
Math is about right answers and proving the right answer.
“If you take each problem a step at a time,” he continues, “you’ll grow the answer organically. The process will take root in your brain. This is true learning.”
“It’s not a trap.” Not that I would know what a teacher’s trap would look like.
