Ungifted (8 page)

T
he grade glowered at me off the cover sheet of my social studies paper: D-minus.

“Is that graded on a bell curve?” I asked Mrs. Shapiro.

She was almost sympathetic. “No, Donovan. It's just graded.”

“Oh.”

I wasn't normally grade-obsessed, but this really threw me. The thing is, I had no chance with the kind of math and science they taught in this place. If I was going to have any prayer at all of hacking it in the Academy, I'd have to rock subjects like English and social studies. That's why I was so shocked about the D-minus. I'd worked really hard on this paper. Maybe I hadn't aced it by gifted standards. But I'd figured I'd get a least a B. I would have settled for a C!

The teacher sighed. “Is there anything you want to tell me? Is something wrong?”

Something was wrong, all right. When the biggest effort I'd put into a school project since kindergarten pulled a D-minus, yes, it was pretty fair to say that something was wrong.

She interpreted my silence as an invitation to probe further. “At home, perhaps?”

“Well, it's just that I have ADD.” That was pure blind inspiration. Sanderson had ADD, and occasionally he got cut a little extra slack because of it.

Mrs. Shapiro's expression softened immediately. “Why didn't you say so?”

“I guess I was too distracted by other things.” She looked a little suspicious, so I added, “I really wanted to make it on my own. ADD doesn't sound very gifted.”

“That's nonsense,” she reassured me. “You'd be astounded how often giftedness is accompanied by some sort of learning disability.” She handed the paper back to me. “Why don't you work on this for another week?”

I didn't like the sound of that. “Well …”

“And we'll see what we can do about raising your grade.”

Hmmm, maybe there was more to this learning disability racket than met the eye. After all, ADD was just the beginning. With a little bit of effort, I could work up a case of obsessive-compulsive disorder that would knock your socks off. And what about dyslexia? That could be just the ticket to ward off any D-minuses that might be coming down the pike in English.

I put my all into the social studies paper, and Mrs. Shapiro grudgingly upped me to a C. I fared no better in English class. Dyslexia or not, C-minus was the best I could come up with, and that was a stretch. Have you ever read
Beowulf
? Even the Cliff Notes could kill you.

I expanded my list of disorders. Restless leg syndrome was a good one. It explained all my fidgeting. And my nonspecific bladder issues allowed me to spend as much time in the bathroom as outside of it. I had this recurring nightmare that all my teachers got together and compared notes on my various illnesses, weaknesses, and diseases. At the end of the dream, an ambulance pulls up to the Academy to haul me off to intensive care. But when the attendant takes off his surgical mask, it isn't a paramedic; it's Dr. Schultz. Then I'd wake up, choking and spitting, because Beatrice was sleeping on my face.

Yes, the chow chow was still a fact of life—I should say a fact of
my
life, since she totally loved me. Props to Katie—she tried to help out. But every time she even got in the same room with her husband's dog, Beatrice growled her off. All the mutt wanted was me. She spent her nights in my bed and her days in my dresser drawer, because my scent was on my sheets and clothing—which meant I spent nights
and
days scratching at itchy dog hair. There wasn't a part of my body the chow chow hadn't napped on yet. I should open up for business as a parking lot. I'd make a fortune in dog biscuits.

I would have put a stop to it, except that I was beginning to think Brad's mother was right. Beatrice really
was
sick. Her energy level was absolute zero, and she ate nothing at all, which was amazing, because her stomach seemed fatter than ever. Nussbaum's pet snake had more get-up-and-go. When the cold-blooded animals are livelier than the warm-blooded ones, you know you've got a problem.

Katie was freaking out. “If anything happens to Beatrice, Brad's going to drive his M1 halfway around the world and run me over.”

“Not a good idea,” I told her. “You're a pretty big speed bump. We don't want to owe the Marines a new tank.”

Poor Katie: her belly was expanding, her butt was widening, her ankles were thickening, and her varicose veins looked more like a road map every day. She was almost as big a mess as Beatrice—except that Katie hadn't started peeing on the floor.

That unpleasant surprise came in the form of a warm puddle on the carpet as I made my way downstairs for breakfast.

“That mutt has got to go!” I howled, hopping on the steps, pulling off my soggy sock.

My dad grinned at me from the front hall. “Is that how you support our troops? By evicting their pets?”

“I don't want to live in a chow chow's toilet!” I complained.

He laughed appreciatively. “Good thing you went to charm school before you got picked for the Academy.” Even Dad cut me a little slack these days. No wonder the gifted kids were different. They lived in a bubble. “I'm going to pick up a carpet steamer on my way to work this morning. Change your socks. I'll give you a ride.”

Outside, my eyes were drawn to the new bumper sticker on Dad's car:

PROUD PARENT OF AN HONOR STUDENT

AT THE ACADEMY FOR SCHOLASTIC DISTINCTION

“I'm not an honor student,” I managed, understatement of the year. “I just go there.”

He was unperturbed. “Everybody's an honor student at that place. It's an honor just to walk in the door. We're all proud of you, Donnie. Your mother and me, Katie—”

“Right,” I snorted. “She said I'm dumber than her bladder-challenged dog.”

Dad started the car. “She may not say it in so many words, but don't think she isn't feeling it. These are tough times for our family, what with Brad deployed and the baby coming. And now Beatrice—like we don't have enough stress in our lives already. Then you step in and do something for everybody to feel good about. It's like it was sent from heaven.”

I felt as if I was losing my mind. Hiding out in the gifted program, and carrying the emotional well-being of my entire family. No pressure.

At the small appliance shop, I hung back while Dad spoke with the salesman. There was a copy of the town paper lying open on the cashier's desk. I nearly threw up my breakfast when I read the banner headline:

REPAIRS IN LIMBO THANKS TO “STATUE-GATE”

Physical Education classes at Hardcastle Middle and High Schools are being held outdoors despite the frigid winter temperatures. The glass double doors of the athletic facility are still boarded shut, and 25 percent of the floor is badly damaged. The school district is ready to roll on the repairs; a contractor has been hired
.

So what's the holdup?

The Parthenon Insurance Group is refusing to pay, arguing that the damage was caused by “engineering negligence” in the statue of Atlas, a portion of which rolled down the hill and smashed into the building. The offending object, Atlas's “globe of the world and heavens”—all 400 pounds of it—was affixed by a single bolt, which corroded over the years. This “design flaw,” Parthenon argues, is the responsibility of the statue's manufacturer. However, Classical Bronze Foundries, Inc., went bankrupt in 1998, leaving the school high and dry
.

The Hardcastle School District has filed suit against Parthenon, but the case is likely to drag on for years, according to Superintendent Alonzo Schultz. In the meantime, the physical education program is out in the cold. All varsity basketball home games have to be relocated, and even the middle school's annual Valentine Dance will take place elsewhere. Dr. Schultz holds out little hope for an early resolution unless he can track down a “person of interest” in the case....

Yikes! If the insurance company stiffed the school district, would this “person of interest” have to pick up the tab? It wasn't my fault Schultz cheaped out and bought a bum statue from a company that went bankrupt! Classical Bronze Foundries probably tried to save a few bucks on bolts and had to pay it all back a hundred times over in lawsuits.

But I'll bet our superintendent was the only genius who put
his
Atlas at the top of a hill overlooking a breakable gym!

With a sinking heart, I watched Dad haggling with the salesman, trying to save every penny. We weren't poor, but money was tight, especially with an extra mouth to feed—Katie—and a baby on the way. The one good thing about Beatrice's hunger strike was that we weren't blowing a fortune on dog food. There was no way we could afford to fix a busted gym. It didn't take Noah Youkilis or Abigail Lee to do
that
math.

I got to the Academy earlier than usual, which gave me some much-needed extra time to work on my science project. Abigail's was entitled “The Abiotic Synthesis of Organic Compounds”; Chloe's had something to do with the wave/particle duality of light, whatever that is; Noah's, “The Youkilis Constant,” was this number he'd developed that supposedly explained the expansion of the universe in the first few seconds following the Big Bang. Mine was called “Chow Chows: A Special Breed.” Obviously, it wasn't as impressive as the others, but I was really slaving over it. My plan was this: I was never going to outscience the Academy kids, but I could give it the personal touch. Hey, if I was stuck being hospice nurse to a dying dog, at least I should get a project out of it. I had photographs, and sound recordings of barking, and microscope slides of fur and drool samples. If I loaded up enough stuff, Mr. Holman would have to give me a decent grade on sheer volume. And if he turned out to be a dog lover, I'd be golden.

I stashed my coat in my locker, which was still basically empty. Lockers were huge at the Academy. I'd never seen it, but supposedly one kid kept a full tropical fish tank in his, plugged into the built-in power strip. Unlike Hardcastle Middle with its no-phones-during-school-hours rule, the Academy encouraged its gifted students to have laptops and smartphones charged up and available at all times. “You never know when the research bug might hit,” Mr. Osborne was fond of saying. It made me smile that Noah—apex of the IQ pyramid—now used his BlackBerry purely for watching YouTube.

The robotics lab was deserted when I got there. “Hey, Tin Man,” I said, greeting him in a low voice, bestowing a very gentle high-five on one of the lifting forks.

Call me crazy, but it sort of pleased me that the robot had a name thanks to me. Just like it pleased me that I was now Tin Man's first-string driver for the robotics meet. I know that must seem pretty stupid coming from someone who was in such big trouble in every other phase of his life.

Standing there next to Tin Man, I happened to glance over to the teacher's cluttered desk. There was an internal memo form on top of the mess. My eyes froze on the subject line: “SUMMER SCHOOL.”

It had to be about me. Who else in this class of brainiacs could possibly need summer school? In the interest of self-preservation, I had to read it.

Oz—as we feared, the district has been unable to find a certified teacher to offer Human Growth and Development to your students who have unfortunately missed it. Summer school appears to be their only option. The kids affected are Chloe Garfinkle, Abigail Lee, Noah Youkilis
…

That was as far as I got before Mr. Osborne came in and caught me snooping.

“Donovan—step away from my desk!”

I was too blown away to worry about whether or not he was mad. “Summer school!” I exclaimed. “For
those
guys?”

“It's none of your business,” the teacher interrupted sharply. “It doesn't affect you at all.”

“But why would the smartest kids in town need summer school?” I persisted, bewildered. “What's Human Growth and Development?”

“It's a health course required by the state,” he explained wearily. “You took it last year in seventh grade.”

Light dawned. “And you were so busy teaching them genius stuff that you missed it.” I mulled it over. “That's on you, not them.”

He looked like I'd slapped him. “I know.”

I would have bet money that I had absolutely nothing in common with my gifted classmates. But here they were just like me, getting jerked around because the school district had messed up. I was on the hook for the damage caused by Schultz's defective statue; they were on the hook for a required course nobody remembered they needed. And the cost was going to be one summer.

“So teach it to them,” I concluded. “Those guys, it won't take ten minutes before they know it better than you.”

He shook his head gravely. “The teacher has to be state certified. Or it has to come from hands-on experience.”

“Hands-on experience?” I repeated, startled. “They want that? Isn't it all about—well, you know?”

“Physiology,” he interjected. “Adolescence, body changes …”