Millicent Min, Girl Genius Read online

  Despite my traffic woes, I was the first person to arrive in class. I tried out several seats before settling on one in the front row, middle. Then I waited. By 9:25 I had almost passed out in anticipation. I had been dreaming about this moment for practically my whole life.

  At 9:28 the door opened. I looked up, startled at the sight of someone balancing an overhead projector, a bonsai, and the biggest coffee mug I had ever seen. Professor Skylanski is everything I thought a college professor should be. She is smart and witty, and she dresses in a casual-chic way that seems thrown together, yet is immensely appropriate given the campus atmosphere. Even her glasses are professorial. We bonded instantly when we discovered we had the same briefcase.

  “Who is that?” I heard someone whisper while Professor Skylanski and I were comparing organizers.

  “A munchkin,” another student snorted.

  There are only ten people in our class. I would have thought there would be more since Classic and Contemporary Poetry is such an exciting subject. When Professor Skylanski surveyed the room, we found out that the other nine students are taking the class as a requirement and that I am the only one taking it for fun.

  “W. B. Yeats, Emily Dickinson, Maya Angelou, this is all so wonderful!” I enthused. “I see where we cover all the major poets,” I pointed out to Professor Skylanski. “But can we also squeeze in some minor ones, like Nicole Alexander or Ojo Kano? I know we only have class three days a week, but summer offers an ideal opportunity to concentrate on studies.”

  Upon hearing my suggestion, several students moaned until Professor Skylanski silenced them with a look worthy of my mother. She then informed everyone that the syllabus would remain as is, but anyone wishing additional work should stay after class. To my surprise, after we were dismissed I was the only student who stuck around.

  I love being on campus. The great green expanse of lawn dotted with trees, the stately buildings, and especially the campus bookstore crammed with texts, school supplies, and every form of junk food imaginable. I cannot wait to attend college full-time.

  Except for the apathy of the other students, my poetry class is everything I thought it would be. While I am eager to debate Professor Skylanski on the merits of iambic pentameter and the glorious nonsense of Jabberwocky, the rest of the room seems content to slouch and stare at the clock. It is their loss. That they appear to be fading into the bricks while I receive a private tutorial is fine with me.

  Okay, so maybe I had imagined I would have endless discussions on politics and poetry with my peers, culminating in lively arguments and an exchange of footnotes. It is with dismay I’ve learned that the others in my class are more eager to talk about their weekend plans than Wordsworth’s poems.

  Therefore, it was with great delight that last Wednesday I made my first friend on campus. Her name is Debbie and she is a psychology major. I met her at the library. (The college library has more than twenty times more books than our local public branch.)

  “Excuse me,” she said as we reached for Pride and Prejudice at the same time. “Did you want this book too?”

  “No, by all means go ahead,” I told her. “I’ve already read it. I was just going to read it again for fun.”

  Her eyes widened. “Um, you’ve read this book?” she asked. I nodded. “My name’s Debbie,” she said, looking around. “Are you here waiting for someone?”

  As I explained that I was officially enrolled in Rogers College and taking Classic and Contemporary Poetry over the summer, Debbie listened with rapt interest.

  “Wow,” she said. “That’s so cool that you’re so smart. I was supposed to read Pride and Prejudice, and this book too.” She held up The Psychology of Siblings. “I’ve got a paper due in two days, and I haven’t even started either book. Man, am I in trouble!”

  “Oh!” I exclaimed. “I’ve read The Psychology of Siblings. It’s fascinating.” Debbie’s jaw dropped. “I don’t have any siblings,” I explained. “But that doesn’t mean I’m not interested in them.”

  “Say,” she said, pushing her curly brown hair off her face and brightening considerably. “Can I buy you a milk shake or something? Maybe we could talk about these books.”

  “Sure!” I was so thrilled. Here it was, only my first week on campus and already I was hanging out with another college student. “I’ve got the whole afternoon open.”

  So that’s how it started. Debbie loves to talk about her psychology class. She even lets me borrow her textbooks. Debbie considers me a confidante, and I am eager to share my insights with her. Today we met at the cafeteria, and she emoted about this guy Craig who doesn’t appreciate her.

  I enjoy listening to Debbie and feel grown up when we are together. Our relationship is going so well that in a totally reckless moment, I ordered a decaf coffee with cream and sugar. (How can anything that smells so good taste so bad?) As I pretended to sip my coffee, I gave her my unbiased opinion on the Craig situation.

  “Gee, Millie, passive-aggressive behavior with undertones of narcissism?” Debbie echoed. “I just thought he was immature.” Then she got so upset that she couldn’t finish her chocolate mousse and she gave it to me.

  We are having so much fun. I hope they never get back together.

  When I suggested we take turns reading from my poetry book, Debbie suddenly remembered an important errand she had to run. Maddie had a hair appointment (she’s promised not to dye it any more unnatural colors), so, with no place else to go, I packed up my briefcase and headed home.

  Our house is small. “Cozy,” my mother likes to say. It has a small patch of yard my dad has been “meaning to get to,” a shower that mostly works, and a washer and dryer in my bedroom, since the only other alternative would be the front porch. Consequently, when I want to be alone I am forced to retreat to my tree.

  My grandmother has a kinship toward trees and claims to have passed it on to me. There’s a huge tree near the post office that’s nicknamed the Lee Tree after my grandparents. It’s a Ficus benghalensis, otherwise known as a banyan tree. In India they are considered sacred. When my mother was my age, my grandparents chained themselves to the tree to prevent it from being cut down and paved over. Now it’s a local landmark and the road winds around it.

  “Sometimes you have to work outside the system to effect change,” Maddie says.

  Mom still cringes every time we drive past it. “You don’t know what it’s like to have parents who embarrass you,” she confides.

  I always take the Fifth.

  My tree is a big oak in the backyard. Technically, it belongs to the neighbors, but it branches out over our house. The Sponslers say they don’t mind that I use it, as long as I continue to help them at tax time and promise not to fall out of the tree like I did once when I was five.

  This afternoon, I climbed up my deciduous friend and settled into the natural crook that forms a perfect reading chair. My oak has a substantial trunk, and my fingertips barely touch when I put my arms around it. Dad designed a series of shelves that are held up by the branches without the benefit of nails. Here, I keep a legal pad, a good supply of black ballpoint pens (medium tip), and camouflage binoculars.

  Perched in my tree with Debbie’s psychology books, I surveyed the neighborhood. I could see Max, my little neighbor from down the street, smearing grape jelly all over his father’s new white two-seater sports car. When his dad came storming out of the house, Max shrieked and threw the jelly jar over the fence. As I watched them run circles around the car, I marveled at how well my summer was progressing. A wonderful college class, a great friend, and access to thousands of books at the campus library. Nothing could dampen my spirits.

  Oh. My. God. My life is over. My mother has signed me up for team sports. Why does she hate me so much? Is she exacting revenge because I put her through thirty-six hours of labor before her C-section?

  I should report that Mom is athletic. Reedlike and quick, she was an alternate on the U.S. Women’s
Fencing Team. This contrasts with my father’s laid-back style. He likes to do one thing at a time and takes great pride on his ability to focus. Mom insists focusing is an excuse Dad uses when he wants to ignore her.

  Recently, Dad accused Mom of shrinking his pants. “It’s not that your pants are shrinking,” she parried. “But your waistline is expanding.” Then this morning, my mother announces that our lack of organized physical activity is a detriment to our health and “something ought to be done about it.”

  While I appreciate the intellectual strategies some games involve, slogging up and down a designated area, sweating and grunting, is not my idea of a pleasant way to while away an afternoon. Therefore, imagine my discomfort when I heard Mom signed me up for the Rancho Rosetta Girls Summer Volleyball League. In four short days, my carefree summer will cease and volleyball will commence. No amount of debate could change my mother’s mind. Besides, from the imposing way she held her fencing foil, I found it hard to argue.

  I immediately phoned Maddie for some sympathy and was stupefied to learn that she had conspired in this debacle with my mother. It seems that before school ended, Mom was called in front of Ms. Sorin, the JFK school psychologist, who encouraged her to “give Millicent a more normal and well-rounded childhood.”

  As I see it, my childhood is round enough. The only thing that’s wrong is that it’s taking far too long for me to grow up. Where exactly does volleyball lie in the realm of my intellectual pursuits? What could I possibly learn from volleyball, other than the fact that I am uncoordinated, unpopular, and unable to see any merit in the folly of it all?

  Since Maddie’s gone insane and sided with my mother, I approached my father to protest the unfairness of my plight. Dad gently explained that being in a family is not always akin to being in a democracy. Then he added, “If you think you have it bad, that woman’s signed me up for step aerobics.”

  I cannot believe my parents want me to have a “more normal childhood.” I do lots of normal kid things. For instance, some of my favorite reading material includes Archie comics. I even bet my dad that one day Betty will displace Veronica in Archie’s heart. As for other normal kid things, there are plenty of them. Like, well, I wear T-shirts and I enjoy potato chips, and I … well, I’m sure that if I set my mind to it, I could come up with a long list.

  Anyway, if my parents are implying that I am not “normal,” does that mean I am subnormal? And their brilliant solution is … volleyball? What is normal about forcing someone to move in rotation?

  I know they are anxious for me to make friends. When I was a sophomore my grandmother encouraged me to join more extracurricular activities. She’s always been a believer in groups. Maddie is a member of NOW, Greenpeace, MADD, and Costco.

  Already a member of the Math Team, I joined the Chess Club, then the Latin Club. Yet even though I’m the team captain, nobody on the Math Team talks to me. The Chess Club was fun, but one by one the kids refused to play me because I always won. And the Latin Club was all right, up until I was blamed for the unfortunate “Toga Caper” as it is known around school.

  It’s okay, though. I know it is all somehow related to my IQ. The complex inner workings of my brain probably scare people and repel any potential friends. I suppose my lack of a wide social circle is merely an occupational hazard of genius.

  That said, I am so pleased that Debbie is mature enough to see beyond my IQ and like me for myself. We are becoming so close. Just yesterday I was telling her all about the pressures of being a child genius. “The other kids think that I’m the enemy or something,” I confided.

  We were in the Rogers College library and Debbie’s books were strewn all over our table. “I can’t help it that my teachers read my papers aloud in class or point me out as having good study habits,” I continued. Debbie nodded as she examined her fingernails.

  “And then,” I said, lowering my voice, “there was the infamous ‘Toga Caper.’ I suggested to the Latin Club that we ought to wear togas during our annual ‘I Love Latin’ button sale. It took some convincing, but eventually I won everyone over. So on March fifteenth — that’s the ides of March — we all wore the togas we made out of sheets.” I took a deep breath, remembering that fateful day. “Was it my fault the French Club stole our school clothes? Was it my fault we had to wear togas for the entire day?” I looked at Debbie who was staring off into space. “Debbie?”

  “Oh, right. Togas? I wore a toga once to a party. It was really fun, even though my toga had a floral pattern on it.”

  “As I was saying,” I reminded her. “I really don’t think it was my fault that our clothes got stolen. But now the entire Latin Club hates me and I am considered a persona non grata.”

  Debbie looked at me sympathetically. “Man, that’s tough,” she said. “You know what you need?”

  I was hoping she’d say a chocolate milk shake.

  “You need to get your mind off of togas!” Debbie flashed me a bright smile.

  Or a strawberry shake, something cold would be good.

  “Here, I’m going to help you.” She reached for her psychology book. “Why don’t we talk about my psych homework? You know, to help erase those bad thoughts you have about being in the French Club.”

  “The Latin Club.”

  “Right. The Latin Club.” Debbie pointed to a passage she had highlighted in yellow. “This part here confuses me.”

  I didn’t get my chocolate shake, but I did feel better knowing that Debbie was concerned about my feelings. I took her book and looked it over. Then together we reviewed Dr. Kuglmeier’s highly regarded theory about abnormal child development.

  Mom appears pleased that Debbie and I are friends, and Maddie is happy about it too. My social life seems to be of the utmost interest to both of them. I think they need hobbies.

  “What do you and Debbie talk about?” Maddie asked.

  “Well, we talk a lot about psychology,” I said. “And Debbie’s boyfriend, and we talk about the weather.”

  “And this Debbie,” Mom inquired, “how old is she?”

  “I don’t know, twenty or twenty-one, I guess.”

  Normally, I don’t like it when my mom noses around. However, I was trying to get on her good side so that she’d let me off the hook with volleyball. Unfortunately, she saw right through my little charade.

  “So kind of you to do the dishes, Millicent,” she noted. “And I just love that you organized the medicine cabinet. But you still have to take volleyball.”

  So now, in a show of good sportsmanship, and because my mother ordered me to, I am preparing for my first day of volleyball. Mom suggested I try calisthenics, but I selected another course of action.

  I read up on the history of the sport, which was invented in 1895 by YMCA fitness director William G. Morgan. Then I memorized the various projections, calibrated my height against the height of the net, and even went so far as to diagram several scenarios that I thought I might share with the team.

  Luckily, the outfit I am required to wear is not as awful as I had anticipated. (Do I get extra points for trying very hard to exude a positive attitude?) However, this afternoon when Mom forced me to shop for new socks and athletic shoes, I did little to mask my boredom. I hate shopping. To me, malls are monolithic icons of mass consumption and capitalism. To my mother they are nirvana.

  As I laid out my uniform and reviewed tomorrow’s itinerary, I wondered what it would be like to be mistaken for a jock. I have always admired those who possess superior physical dexterity and power. Jackie Joyner-Kersee’s speed, strength, and stamina. Michelle Kwan’s triple-lutz triple-loop combinations. Shannon Miller’s full Yurchenko vaults. Perhaps I will discover my previously untapped athletic talent. After all, how hard can it be to whack a 3.759-ounce ball over the net?

  If I had expected a reasonable discussion of the history of volleyball and a debate on its merits, I was wrong. Imagine my surprise when the team gathered and Coach Henrietta Gowin’s f
irst words of inspiration were “Kill them at any cost.”

  “Excuse me?” I raised my hand. “But aren’t we here to develop camaraderie and to use the game of volleyball as a microcosm for society?”

  Everyone looked at me as if I were speaking in tongues. When I was younger and my brain was on display at school or some other academic function, people were constantly poking one another and pointing at me. But as I have gotten older, the stares have lessened. And whereas I used to be called brilliant, recently I thought I heard someone call me stuck up. I did not allow it to hurt my feelings though, for it is possible I was mistaken and they were talking about someone else entirely. Yes, I think that is possible.

  “Kill them at any cost,” Coach Gowin snarled again, ignoring me and my question. Her dark hair was tortured into curls so tightly wound you could shoot peas through them. “Now, ladies, shall we begin?”

  “Excuse me?” I ventured, raising my hand once more. I was glad I had had the foresight to bring my tape measure. “I calculated that the net is several centimeters too high, making the conditions for playing less than perfect.”

  Rather than thanking me, Coach Gowin, as they say in sports vernacular, “got in my face.” “Millicent, I calculate that you’re looking for an excuse not to play,” she volleyed back. “Now get out of the bleachers and onto the floor!”

  So there I was, minding my own business and wondering if I should at least pretend to be interested in the game, when the ball hit me firmly on the head. I was surprised by how much it hurt.

  “Millicent, this is volleyball, not soccer!” Coach Gowin hollered. Several girls tried to suppress their snickers as I gamely attempted to expel a laugh.

  As the hour plodded on, it became apparent that however precise my calculations were, the ball refused to cooperate. It didn’t help that Coach Gowin kept blowing her darn whistle and shouting, “Try, Millicent! You’re not even trying!”