Breakthrough (3 page)

Sometimes when the water was too high, I walked along the banks with my dog, Casey, a golden retriever, and threw rocks and sticks in the river. I loved building miniature dams and rapids out of the river rocks. I pretended that small twigs were family members and released them down the “rapids,” narrating the results, to my parents' horror.

“There goes Mom over a treacherous waterfall!” I said.

“What about Dad?” she asked.

“Oh, Dad is safe. He made an eddy by the rock and he is going to run the Class V rapid,” I answered.

Years later, my mom still holds a grudge because she was the one who always came to the tragic end.

Me building a dam out of rocks

I was the only elementary school kid I knew who was obsessed with low head dams, which are places in a river where the current runs like a giant washing machine. Low head dams are also known as drowning machines because of the way the force of the water can keep swimmers pinned under. There happened to be this huge low head dam right above the campground where we often stayed. I always wanted to take a walk there and, of course, reenact all kinds of drama with twigs and rocks in the river. My mom, again, always met a cruel fate. Maybe she shouldn't have pushed me into tennis!

It wasn't long before I found another love—this time in math. Searching for subtle patterns and working out problems always made me excited. Not only did I enjoy it, but I was good at it too. Unfortunately, my elementary school didn't teach much math. In fifth grade, we were still learning to tell time!

I learned more about math at home than I did in school. My mom brought me home fun math packets to keep me challenged, but more than anything, it was Uncle Ted who introduced me to a new way of looking at numbers.

Whenever he saw me struggling, he picked up a pencil and offered me help.

“What's the problem?” he asked.

“Everything,” I replied.

His mind worked like a beautiful machine that connected everything into understandable patterns. By using visualization techniques, he could make my math problems leap off the page and come to life.

“Here, watch, I have a little trick to show you,” he said. “Give me seven numbers. Any numbers. It doesn't matter which ones.”

I spouted out the first seven random numbers that came to mind. I watched as he picked up the pencil and began furiously scribbling.

I couldn't believe my eyes. In under ten seconds, after writing down just a few numbers, he had divided a six-digit number by nine. It couldn't be possible.

“No way!” I said.

“Check me.”

I punched the numbers into my calculator.

“It's right,” I said in disbelief. “How did you . . .”

He looked down at me, smiling. It was the kind of smile that revealed he had a secret to share.

“Let me show you how,” he said.

He walked me through a process I never knew existed of making calculations mostly in my head. It was a superfast long-division trick that stayed with me. It was also my first introduction to mental math. Uncle Ted taught me math shortcuts; by estimating and quickly using math facts that are committed to memory, such as multiplication or division, I learned how to solve problems faster.

From that point forward, I began to see patterns in everything I did. With math, I no longer thought of what I was doing as educational or anything remotely associated with work, or school. I just thought of it as solving the mysteries of the universe. Some nights I hid under my covers studying math problems with a flashlight when I was supposed to be sleeping.

My newfound passion for math snowballed into the revelation that there was something else I enjoyed and seemed naturally good at—science.

I had always liked doing experiments. I started with basic ones like working out how many books I could rest on eggs before they
cracked, or making water boil at different temperatures using salt. By the time I entered fifth grade, my experimentation began to take on a life of its own. One day I decided to cultivate E. coli, a bacteria that can cause deadly infections, just for the fun of it—on the kitchen stove. That was the last day of science experiments in the kitchen. From that point on, my parents insisted that I use the basement as my lab.

In the darkness of the basement, I labored on an experiment in one corner while my brother, Luke, worked on much more serious experiments in the other. I didn't always know what he was doing, but I knew enough to be afraid. Sometimes, very afraid.

My brother and I were always pushing it. One day Luke had taken apart an old microwave he had found in someone's garbage and was making a ray gun that he was using to roast things. I was on the other side of the basement trying not to get too freaked out by what my brother was doing while I experimented with capacitors, which are like little sponges that quickly soak up electricity. I wanted to see what would happen if I supercharged some particles to create plasmas with aluminum foil.

That's when everything in the basement went black.

“We must have blown a fuse,” Luke said.

We didn't realize it, but we were using way too much energy. Our parents weren't home, so Luke walked to check the fuse box. A few minutes later, we heard a knock on the door. It was the power
company. We hadn't just knocked out the power to our own house. We had knocked out the power for the whole neighborhood! Whoops.

“Did either of you notice anything unusual?” the worker asked, looking suspiciously around the house.

Luke and I looked at each other nervously.

“No, sir,” I muttered.

There was nothing unusual, I told myself to justify the lie. In the Andraka house, at least, this was a normal afternoon.

When my parents got home from work that night we fessed up. Instead of getting angry and grounding us like we had expected, Mom and Dad looked both terrified and amused as they pleaded with us to be more careful and not blow the house up. Dad ended his speech with a warning.

“You are not to talk about what happened,” he said. “Ever.” (Sorry, Dad!)

My parents often found themselves in a difficult position. They didn't want anyone to get hurt, but at the same time, they felt it was important to let me and Luke experiment and learn on our own terms. And it was working. My mind was growing in ways I never knew were possible, and my parents had taken notice. When it became clear my elementary school wasn't challenging me, my mom went out and found a small charter school nearby that specialized in math and science, where I could progress at my own pace.

The difference between my charter school and my public school
was like night and day. The first thing I realized about my new school when I started sixth grade was that the students were hypercompetitive, especially when it came to the mandatory Hunger Games–style contest called the Anne Arundel County Regional Science and Engineering Fair.

Much like the actual Hunger Games, this contest was a complete bloodbath. Once a year, the entire student body assembled at the University of Maryland to duke it out, project versus project. The last student standing would receive bragging rights over the entire school, along with a cheap laptop. Every time I thought about winning the contest, I felt a shot of adrenaline. I love competition. I was all in.

The beginning of sixth grade was also when I met Logan.

I was sitting in Advanced Math class when I first laid eyes on her. She and I hit it off right away. Each time the teacher had his head turned to the board, we passed notes back and forth.

“Want to sit next to me at lunch?” I wrote.

“Yes,” she'd write back.

It didn't take long for the relationship to evolve out of the classroom. We spent as much time as possible hanging out. We had a natural, easy connection. Before long, people assumed we were an item, and we were both happy to go along with it.

“I guess we are boyfriend and girlfriend,” I said.

“Cool,” she answered.

That was that. My first girlfriend.

As a present, she bought me a stuffed brown bear and chocolates. Now that I was in middle school, I was beginning to notice the pressure to fit in. Being with Logan made me feel normal and accepted. And she was the perfect girl—beautiful, smart, and, above all else, fun to be around.

Our favorite thing to do was go to the movies together, then go back to her house, where we had noodle fights in her gigantic pool. We couldn't stop laughing. Everything was funny to us. It all seemed perfect.

A few weeks into our relationship, however, I began to feel that something was very wrong. I loved spending time with Logan. I liked the smiley faces she wrote on the notes that we passed back and forth in class and sitting across from her in the cafeteria, hearing her easy laugh. But there was something missing. I was supposed to be feeling something for Logan that I wasn't sure I was feeling. Specifically, I was supposed to want to kiss her. And the truth is . . . I didn't. After the first month of sixth grade had gone by without me making a move for that first kiss, I knew that Logan was beginning to wonder what was up too.

For the first time, a new question began swirling around my head, and this one had nothing to do with polynomials or water-saturation levels or choosing an extracurricular activity.

What is wrong with me?

As sixth grade progressed, I still wasn't feeling anything for Logan. I was very confused.

The question was always there.

She's perfect. Why aren't I attracted to her?

Fortunately, Logan hadn't brought it up. That was a relief.

I did everything I could to push thoughts like that to the furthest and darkest corners of my mind. I told myself that everything was great. And besides my confusion over Logan, my year was going well. I had made two new friends, Jake and Sam, and the three of us were inseparable. Jake was the kind of guy who would do almost anything if you dared him to. He had so much energy that he made me and Sam laugh all the time. Sam was a little calmer. He had a great sense of humor and was the kind of friend who was simply easy to be
around. On the weekends we had sleepovers together and stayed up all night playing World of Warcraft, listening intently to make sure that our unsuspecting parents didn't find out. Sometimes we'd take trips to Hershey Park to ride the roller coasters and eat junk food. More often than not, we made our own fun. Jake had a huge trampoline in his backyard, and we'd throw a black ball onto the top and all try to jump without touching the ball. Exhausted and sweaty, lying on my back on the trampoline, I didn't want to confront my confusion or think about serious things. I just wanted to have fun.

One day, I was sitting with Jake, Sam, and Logan for a game of Truth or Dare. My seat was located inside a large cardboard box, the result of a previous dare.

We were waiting to see who Jake would pick next. He turned to me.

“Jack,” he said. “Truth or dare?”

Everyone knows I always pick dare. I'm just that kind of guy.

“Dare.”

Jake flashed a mischievous smile.

“Kiss Logan,” he said.

“What?” I answered, even though I'd heard him perfectly.

“Kiss your
girlfriend
,” he said.

“Get some!” Sam said.

What Sam and Jake didn't know was that despite the fact that we had been going out for three months, Logan and I had never kissed.
Not so much as a peck. Now everyone was looking. I felt myself blush. All I wanted to do was disappear inside my box. Maybe seal it with a postage stamp and mail it to some other place.

“No problem,” I said. I tried to look confident as I lifted myself out of the box and strode over to Logan.

She could totally sense my nerves, which made her uncomfortable too. She squirmed in her seat. I just wanted to get it over with.

Act natural, Jack. Just act natural.

I planted a long, unnatural peck on her lips, acting like it was no big deal, before retreating back to my box.