The Clueless Girl's Guide to Being a Genius (13 page)

I let Dytee stew that night, but I never can stay mad long-term, because I always feel better after I tell someone off. By morning I had already decided to forgive her. I didn't really want to lose her friendship. Spending time with Dytee was different than with other girls. She was always willing to listen, didn't shy away from serious subjects, and helped me without expecting anything in return. Of course, she shouldn't have danced with Adam. A good friend would have realized I had a crush on him and encouraged him to dance with me instead. And, as much as it did sound like the weird kind of thing she might actually do, a good friend wouldn't stuff marshmallows in her ears when she knew her good friend was at the same dance and might want to talk to her.

Thinking about how a good friend should act made me realize why I had overreacted and turned into the creature from the whatever-color lagoon about the whole thing: I
did
consider Dytee a good friend, the first really good friend I had ever had. And when a good friend does something that disappoints you, it hurts. All of this occurred to me just as I was about to step into math class.

“Good morning,” said Miss Snipal. She was sitting with her rear leaned against Dytee's desk. She had her bucket of balls next to her and was tossing one up and down in her hand. I glanced around to make sure I was in the right room.

“Glad you could join us. As I've been telling your classmates, I will be filling in again until a new math teacher can be found.”

I took my seat. “Where's Professor Wigglesmith?”

“Did she catch the flu?” asked Keisha.

“Is she in trouble?” asked Adam.

“Did she get punched by the punch?” asked Timothy.

The room erupted in questions, and Miss Snipal had to throw a half-dozen Ping-Pong balls to shut us up. “Professor Wigglesmith has returned to Harvard,” she said. “It was never her intention to stay long-term. I suppose she had enough and left.”

“She wouldn't do that,” said Roland.

“But she has,” said Miss Snipal.

Bobby raised his hand. “What about us?” he asked. “How can we pass math without her? She's the only teacher who made it so I could understand.”

“And what about the Great Math Showdown?” asked Roland. “How are we supposed to win without her help?”

“We can't do it without her,” Hunter said.

“We're gonna get slaughtered,” said LeeAnn, “in front of the whole school.”

“My job is to take over this math class,” replied Miss Snipal. “Not to volunteer my after-school time for a math contest. Professor Wigglesmith should never have entered you in that competition if she didn't intend on sticking it through until the end.”

That's when it hit me, like a baton to the noggin. The last thing I had said to Dytee was that she should go back to Harvard. She
had
intended on sticking it through to the end—until I told her not to.

“I don't believe it,” Adam said. “She wouldn't walk out on us, not without even saying good-bye.”

“Do you see her here? No. She's gone. Kaput. Finished. Now, let's move on. Who can tell me where you left off in the book?”

Eugenia raised her hand. “But why?” she asked. “Why did Professor Wigglesmith go back to Harvard?”

“Really,” said Miss Snipal. “If you had a choice between spending your time with Ivy League brains or surrounded by boneheads, which would you choose?”

“She's not like that,” said Roland, “and we don't call ourselves boneheads anymore. Professor Wigglesmith says anyone can be a math wiz.” A Ping-Pong ball landed in his open mouth.

“Wizzes fizzes,” said Miss Snipal. “Why would she go around inflating expectations like that? Second strings are better off when they own up to their limitations. If Professor Wigglesmith led you to believe otherwise, she's a bonehead, too.”

After all Dytee had done to help us, hearing Miss Snipal say those rotten things about her made me want to throw something, too. A good friend would defend her friend's honor. A Ping-Pong ball rolled near my desk. I thought about the distance from Miss Snipal to me, how many desks were between us, and the probability that another student might stand or put a hand up. Then I checked out the wall to the side of the blackboard where Miss Snipal stood and thought about angles. “Professor Wigglesmith is not a bonehead,” I muttered, “and neither are we.” I grabbed the ball and pitched it against the side wall. The ball bounced against the blackboard, ricocheted off, and whacked Miss Snipal in the back of the head.

“Why you little . . . Who threw that ball?”

The kids in front of me ducked, and Miss Snipal lobbed a ball straight at me. But Roland reached over and caught it and fired it back at her. Suddenly, it was a Ping-Pong riot. Kids were scooping up the balls and throwing them back at Miss Snipal faster than she could return them. When her bucket was empty, Miss Snipal raced out the door and down the hall, fleeing a shower of bouncing white balls. We hooted and high-fived one another for what seemed like ten minutes, and then the room suddenly went silent.

“What do we do now?” asked Eugenia.

I tossed my tattered math book on my desk and cracked it open. “The best we can,” I said. Maybe it was because I didn't appreciate her like I should have when she was around, always worrying instead about what the other kids would think if we were caught being friends. Maybe it was because Dytee had made me realize that if I worked hard enough, even I could be a math wiz, or at least wizish. Or maybe it was because I knew I was responsible for making her feel like she wasn't welcome and sending her back to Harvard. Whatever the reason, I knew that it was up to me now to somehow try to keep the math team together. “We're going to that competition, with or without Professor Wigglesmith, and we're going to prove that we're not losers.”

“Do you think we still have a chance?” asked Eugenia.

“I know we do,” I said. “Professor Wigglesmith believed in us, and now it's time for us to believe in ourselves.”

I used my competition voice to make it extra-convincing. What else could I say? What I really felt—that without Dytee we were doomed? It was my fault she had left. The last thing I had said to her was “Why don't you go back to Harvard where you belong?” and she had. Because of me and my big mouth, she was gone. It was weird, because up until that moment I hadn't even realized I cared if we won the Great Math Showdown, but now it felt like it was the most important thing in my life.

When I really thought about it, everything I had been doing up until then, I had been doing for myself. The only reason I'd joined the math team was to try to get Adam to like me so I could have a cool boyfriend. The only reason I stayed with it was because I liked hanging out with Dytee, even if I pretended otherwise so I could stay popular. But now that I had made a mess of it, I didn't feel bad for myself. I felt bad for the other kids in the class, especially Adam, not because he was cute, but because I knew how much winning the Great Math Showdown meant to him. What else could I say? After what I had done, I owed it to them to try.

The next day, Miss Snipal did not show for class, but Principal DeGuy did. His arms were folded across his chest. “Because of your conduct, Miss Snipal refuses to return. Frankly, after what happened yesterday, I don't blame her.” He scanned the room accusingly. “There's not a substitute within a fifty-mile radius who will put up with this class.”

I imagined a dingy office somewhere where teachers stood in long lines applying for new jobs. The walls of the office were plastered with posters with our class photo on them. “Are those ‘Wanted' posters?” a math teacher asks. “Look closer,” another replies. “Those are ‘
Not
Wanted' posters.”

“Why can't we have Professor Wigglesmith?” asked Keisha as she tied her pigtails together in a knot.

“Nobody would love that more than me,” said Principal DeGuy, “but she's gone for good. Problem is, we can't have a class without a teacher. You may all have to take incompletes and finish up your math credit during summer school at a different middle school, unless you want to repeat the eighth grade.”

“You're joking,” cried Roland.

“Holy sardine and liverwurst sandwiches,” said Principal DeGuy. “Does it sound like I'm joking?”

“I don't want to repeat eighth grade,” said Salvador. He pulled off his eyeglasses and ran his arm across his eyes.

“You should have thought about that before pummeling Miss Snipal with Ping-Pong balls.”

Adam sat up. “How will I tell my parents?”

“That's called a consequence,” said Principal DeGuy, “and it's a direct result of your action.”

“Don't take it out on them,” I said. I stood and took a big gulp of breath. “It's not their fault she left. I'm the one who told Professor Wigglesmith to go back to Harvard.”

Principal DeGuy's mouth dropped open, then Roland's, then Hunter's. Then it spread all across the room like a game of dental dominoes. “But why?” Principal DeGuy asked.

I wanted to explain that I didn't think she would take me seriously, that I was mad at her because she danced with Adam, and I thought she knew I liked Adam, and that I had called dibs, but I forgot that she wasn't used to things like dibs. I wanted to explain that when I heard the music and saw them, I only thought about my own feelings, and then when she came to see me I was mean and hateful because I expected her to be a good friend to me even though I wasn't a good friend to her, and now I realized what a jerk I was. But if I did explain everything, maybe they would feel a tiny bit sorry for me and I didn't deserve that.

So, what I said was: “Because I'm a jerk.”

“I will deal with you after class, young lady,” said Principal DeGuy.

I plopped back into my seat and felt my skin burning with embarrassment.

“What if we stay here and keep working on our math?” asked Adam. “If we do the assignments and hold regular classes, why can't we get the credit?”

“Without a teacher?” asked Principal DeGuy.

Roland asked, “If we teach ourselves, and pass the test at the end, why not?”

“With no teacher, who's going to give you the test?”

“The Great Math Showdown,” I said. They looked at me like I was a monster, the ugly kind that crawls out of a swamp, not the cute kind that eats cookies, but what I had to say was too important to let that stop me. “That could be our test. If we were to win the math competition, it would prove we should pass.”

“She's right,” said Adam. “That could work.”

“I know you don't like the situation,” said Principal DeGuy, “but be realistic.”

Eugenia raised her hand. “If we went to the Great Math Showdown but we didn't win,” she said, “then we could still go to summer school. What's the harm in letting us try?”

“Holy pink slip! Losing my job, that's what the harm is. The school board does not allow students to teach themselves.”

“What the school board doesn't know can't hurt it,” said Roland.

“Please,” pleaded Eugenia, who was so determined, she forgot to raise her hand.

Principal DeGuy was weakening. “I admire your spunk. I wish I could say yes.”

A tiny voice from the back of the room spoke so softly you could hardly hear it. “We just want a chance.” It was Bobby DeGuy. The kids turned to look at him. “Please, Dad, just give us a chance.”

Principal DeGuy dropped his arms and arched his eyebrows. He went over to Bobby and put his hand on his shoulder.

“Listen, son. I'm proud you want to try. But even if I let you enter the competition, how can you beat the honors and academic math classes?”