Millicent Min, Girl Genius Page 4

  Four years ago I spoke at a conference on gifted children. My mother and I got to fly to Chicago, the Windy City. We stayed at a big, impressive hotel with full-grown trees in the lobby. There was only one other kid my age at the conference, so everyone kept pushing us at each other. The boy was really cocky, and he loved using big words to confound and impress the adults. I couldn’t stand him.

  Finally, I said, “You are so full of yourself, I’ll bet you don’t even have any friends.” To which he retorted, “I’ll bet you don’t have any friends!” Then we both stood there with our hands on our hips trying to come up with a witty reply. Because the truth was, neither of us had any friends.

  It’s not that I don’t try. Didn’t I make a valiant effort to befriend Debbie? Nonetheless, that friendship was probably doomed from the start due to 1) the interference of Craig, her moronic boyfriend; and 2) Debbie’s incapacity to see past my ability to do her psychology homework in record time.

  At the gifted children conference, I attempted a cartwheel in the hallway when no one was looking. I like to bring that up when people accuse me of not being fun and spontaneous.

  I looked over at Emily, who was grinning at me as if in anticipation of a witty remark. “I don’t have gym, I’m homeschooled,” I heard myself saying. “So my parents want me to get more exercise, even though I’m not really into sports.”

  “Me too!” Emily squealed. “I just hate organized sports, it’s so competitive.”

  Just then, Julie, the team captain, broke away from the pack and sauntered over. Or should I say “sashayed”? Well, whatever it was, it didn’t seem like normal walking, more like what the mean-faced models do on the catwalk. With her looks and the way she carried herself, Julie could have been a model. I knew that and so did she.

  Amazingly, as I shrank in her presence, Emily seemed to get taller. Julie checked us out and without hiding her disdain said, “I hope you two won’t hold the team back this year. Most of us played together last year, and we almost won first place.”

  I am used to this sort of talk. Just by looking at me you can see that I am not Olympic material. You know how they say, “Sticks and stones can break your bones, but words will never hurt you”? Well, it’s not true. Still, Emily brushed off Julie’s comment in a way I could not help but admire. I’m not sure if she even knew she was being slammed.

  “We’re going to try our best,” Emily said, smiling. “Right, Millie?” She nudged me in the ribs.

  “Uh, right,” I concurred.

  Julie stood with her hands on her bony hips, as if she could not decide what to make of Emily. “Good,” she finally said, faltering a bit. “We all really want to win, that’s all.”

  “We want to win too,” Emily said, wearing Julie down by the sheer force of her upbeat personality. “We’ll try hard, if you promise to try hard too.”

  “Uh … yeah, sure,” Julie said, looking confused. “I promise.”

  “Jules, come on,” one of the other girls huffed. “This is sooooo boring.”

  As Julie was once again enveloped by her clique, Emily and I were left alone. For a while we sat in silence. I wasn’t sure what I had just witnessed, but it was impressive. Then Emily spoke up.

  “Hey, do you mind if I ask you a personal question?”

  Okay, here it comes, I thought. She must have heard I was a genius. Well, so long potential friend, it was nice knowing you. “What?” I said, waiting for the inevitable.

  “Why are you sitting on your Cheetos?”

  Embarrassed, I started laughing and so did she. “I don’t know, sometimes I just do weird things,” I said, pulling the bag out from under me.

  “Me too.” Emily grinned. “Hey, wanna go get some ice cream? Or we could hang out at my house, my dad just bought me a new Be-Dazzler.”

  How could I tell her that I had to prepare my first lesson plan for stupid Stanford Wong? That I was a genius trapped in the body of an eleven-year-old? That I had no clue what a Be-Dazzler was?

  “Um, sorry. Not today,” I said. Emily looked dejected, like a puppy being sent away. “But how about some other time?” I asked.

  “Really?” she said instantly. “I’d love to!”

  “Me too,” I said, returning her smile.

  The prospect of having a friend my own age is quite thrilling. I hope Emily will not be put off by my credentials. After all, with Debbie my IQ clouded our friendship. I will tell Emily the truth the next time I see her. In the meantime, I have to deal with the Stanford Predicament.

  It isn’t just that Stanford is stupid, it’s that he’s spectacularly stupid. Words float in through one ear and out the other. Books go unread. And spelling is a total farce. Or as he would write, “farse.”

  We agreed to meet on common ground, the Bruggemeyer Public Library periodical section. I doubt if Stanford even knows what a periodical is. He probably thinks it’s what happens to girls when they reach a certain age.

  As expected, I was there first with twelve minutes to spare.

  “Millicent,” Mrs. Martinez looked up from the return desk. “I haven’t seen you for a while. I was getting worried.”

  With great pride I explained that I was now a student at Rogers College (I neglected to tell her it was only one class) and was frequenting the campus library. “I’m just meeting someone here,” I said, sounding vague, yet hoping I gave enough information so that she would not ask me any more questions. Luckily, a woman showed up with several overdue Tom Clancy books and I was able to escape.

  I selected an out-of-the-way table between the periodicals and 900 Geo-Hist and settled in, lining up my pens, notebook, clock, and lesson plan in front of me.

  Twenty-four minutes later, clomp, clomp, clomp. I could hear Stanford before I could see him. Even though I hid behind a Harry Houdini biography, Stanford spotted me.

  “Nerd.”

  “Geek.”

  “Imbecile.”

  “Freak.”

  After a few minutes of this, I realized that I was the tutor, the one in the position of authority, and I could not allow it to continue. Plus, I was being paid seven dollars an hour — the same rate as a baby-sitter — to make Stanford smarter. If Maddie ever finds out that I called him names, she won’t take me to R-rated movies anymore.

  “Stanford,” I said. “Let’s get past this and move on to the real reason you are here, shall we?”

  He slumped down in his chair as if his spine had suddenly collapsed. I don’t know what is more painful, tutoring Stanford or being whacked on the head with a volleyball.

  “Listen,” he said, finally sitting up and making furtive glances around the room. “You gotta promise me you won’t tell anyone about this.”

  “About this what?” I asked, annoyed. I noticed he hadn’t even brought a pen. The only thing he had with him was a basketball, like that was really going to help him here.

  “This tutoring business.”

  “Yeah, okay,” I said, opening my briefcase and pulling out my backup pens. I wasn’t about to let him use one of my good ones. “Now tell me, what is it about reading that you find so difficult?”

  “NO!” he shouted, startling both of us. Mrs. Martinez almost dropped an armload of books. “No,” he said more softly through gritted teeth. “You have to swear you won’t tell.”

  His request was ridiculous and so was he. As if I’d want anyone to know I tutor a monkey brain, or that I’d even have someone to tell. Suddenly, I thought of Emily. If Emily ever connects me to Stanford she might discover that I am a genius, albeit a tortured one. Tutoring Stanford is as close to torture as I have ever come.

  “All right. I won’t tell,” I finally said.

  “Cross your heart and hope to die, stick a needle in your eye,” he said solemnly.

  “This is ridiculous. Why don’t we just spit into our palms and rub them together?” I scoffed.

  “Oh, I hadn’t thought of that!” Stanford spit into his hands a
nd held them out to me.

  Horrified, I declared, “I’d rather eat worms!”

  Stanford’s eyes lit up, and he said in a rush, “I’ve eaten a worm before. I ate it on a dare, and it didn’t taste half bad. It wasn’t as chewy as I thought it would be….” Before he could finish his tale of culinary curiosity, I got up and did a slow lap around the periodicals. Tutoring was going to be a lot harder than I had anticipated. How could I possibly expect Stanford to write three book reports and pass a final exam?

  At last, we agreed to sign a document attesting to our secret. To show our sincerity, I swore on my mother’s life that I would not tell a soul, and Stanford promised to bring some paper and a decent pen to our next session. That done, we were finally free to begin.

  “Maddie says you goof off in class,” I told him, flipping to a blank page in my college-ruled spiral-bound notebook. I love blank pages, they hold so much promise. “She said your grandmother told her so.”

  “Great.” He slumped down. “My grandmother tells everyone my business. She expects me to be a scholar, and then to make things worse, I’m always being compared to you. You, of all people. Can you imagine the humiliation of that?” He raised his voice in what I could only hope was a bad imitation of his grandmother. “‘Why can’t you be more like Millicent Min, that nice, smart Chinese girl,’ she’s always saying. Well, excuse me for living!”

  “I’m trying to,” I muttered.

  As much as I hated Stanford, I could commiserate with being the victim of an unwarranted comparison. A lot of people expect that since I am Chinese I should behave in a certain way. Just today, when I ordered the huevos rancheros (yum) at the Rogers College cafeteria, the cashier looked at me and said, “I didn’t think you people liked that kind of food.”

  Nothing like being lumped in with a billion other people.

  So I said to her, “Well, we can’t eat rice all the time.” She thought a moment and said, “Yeah, I guess you’re right.”

  “What are you doing now?” I hissed to Stanford.

  “Eating a deviled-ham sandwich,” he said, oblivious to his surroundings and the glob of mystery meat on his chin. “I have to keep my energy up for basketball. I’m the league free-throw champion,” he said, like it was something I should already know.

  “Put that away right now!” I ordered. “Or we’ll get kicked out of here.”

  “Chill, Mill.” Stanford took another bite in slow motion to torture me. “You want a taste?” He dangled the offending object in front of my face.

  I would never consider eating deviled ham, much less anything Stanford offered me that hadn’t been tested in a laboratory.

  As Stanford munched and I stewed, I could not believe how out of control my summer had become. I had everything so well planned and now here I was, rejected by Debbie, the laughingstock of the volleyball league, and tutor to the unteachable.

  I stared at Stanford who, having consumed a bag of mesquite barbecue chips, was now draining a can of Mountain Dew. He grinned at me and then let out a huge belch. It was more than I could bear. I stood up and threw my organizer at him, but missed. “You pig,” I shouted. “You have no regard for anyone but yourself!”

  Stanford looked surprised. Mrs. Martinez sprinted over to me and laid her hand on my shoulder just as I was about to bean him over the head with my Webster’s.

  “Millicent,” she said, pausing to gasp for air, “please lower your voice. This is a library, not a playground.” She pried the dictionary from my hands and placed it on the table. “I expect better of you.”

  Stanford began to snicker until Mrs. Martinez began lecturing him on the evils of eating food in the library. Slowly, he started slouching in his chair, making his way toward the floor until all I could see of him was the top of his hollow head.

  The good news first or the bad news?

  I like to start with bad news because it leaves something to look forward to. I think Maddie’s under the negative influence of my parents. When I approached her about the absurdity of my continuing to tutor Stanford Wong, she refused even to consider my point of view. Maddie went so far as to report she heard that I had disrupted the quiet of the library and that Stanford felt I hadn’t taught him a thing. I can’t believe Maddie has turned into Benedict Arnold.

  Dejected, I sat in my tree with my Norton Anthology of Poetry. As I glanced across the street, I noticed something odd. Five-year-old Max was sneaking out onto the ledge of an upstairs window. I wondered what mischief he was up to this time and whether he has ever considered the consequences of his actions.

  With a great flourish, Max unfurled an oversize red umbrella and held it high above his head. Just as he was about to jump, his mother appeared at the window. She ordered him back inside and then slammed the window shut, letting the umbrella fall unaccompanied to the ground.

  I had just opened my book to Emily Brontë’s The Prisoner when my mother came outside, holding the phone aloft as if it were an Oscar. “Millie, it’s for you,” she shouted, looking pleased with herself. (I never get any phone calls.)

  Now the good news …

  “Hi, Millie. It’s me!” someone squealed. I held the receiver away from my ear and examined it to make sure I wasn’t hearing feedback.

  “Me who?” I asked politely. My mother and I have a policy never to accept phone solicitations. Dad bought our hot tub that way. It remains docked in the garage and doubles as storage vessel for the festive holiday decorations of which my mother is so fond.

  “It’s me, Emily. Wanna come over to my house for a sleepover on Tuesday?”

  A mixture of elation and panic swept over me.

  “Hello? Hello, Millie are you there?”

  A sleepover? I liked Emily well enough, and had even mused about what our friendship might entail. But what if she were some sort of juvenile delinquent or something? After all, Debbie had turned into an entirely different person once her true colors were revealed. Plus, how could I ever forget my pseudo-friendships at Star Brite?

  I attended Star Brite, the elite private school, soon after I was expelled from Rancho Rosetta Elementary. It was Boynton Wilson who fessed up. He was on the verge of being kicked out for throwing firecrackers into the girls’ bathroom. Boynton was always on the verge of something.

  Life at Star Brite was rosier than at public school. The bathrooms were cleaner, the teachers were calmer, and the lockers opened on the first try. And at lunchtime, there seemed to be no limit to the number of students who sought me out in the cafeteria. Sometimes they even fought over me saying, “Hey, today I’m supposed to sit next to Millicent.”

  This clamoring for my company made me feel good, even if we hardly spoke during lunch. I had observed other kids palling around with their friends and talking nonstop, but I assumed that my lunchtime friendships were on a much deeper level. So deep that words were not necessary.

  Over sandwiches one day, Boynton blurted out, “Why don’t you ever say anything? She said you were a good role model and that if maybe we spent some time with you, it’ll rub off.”

  He helped himself to my strawberries, even though I had not offered him any.

  “What are you blathering about?” I asked as I examined my peanut butter. Mom had bought the chunky kind because it was on sale. I prefer creamy.

  “Mrs. Murphy, the guidance counselor,” Boynton said with his mouth full. “She said we’d do well to hang out with you. That we might actually learn something and that our efforts would be noted on our permanent records.”

  “You were told to eat with me?” I asked.

  Boynton nodded and eyed the rest of my lunch. Although he was from one of the wealthiest families in Rancho Rosetta, Boynton had the manners and the scent of a goat. It was common knowledge that it was not his dedication to learning that kept Boynton at Star Brite, but his family’s money. It helped fund the new gymnasium and afforded scholarships to students like me.

  As I let the weight of Bo
ynton’s information sink in, I handed over my sandwich. The chunky peanut butter was upsetting my stomach anyway.

  “Are you there? Millie, are you still there?” someone yelled. “Hellooooo …?”

  I was surprised to find the phone in my hand. “I’m still here,” I said.

  “I’m afraid we might have a bad connection,” I heard Emily say.

  “No, no. The connection’s just fine,” I assured her.

  “Okay, then, as I was saying, if you don’t want to come to my house, maybe I can come to yours,” Emily offered.

  She has no idea how peculiar my parents are. “I don’t think that’s a good idea,” I started to say before she cut me off.

  “Then it’s settled, you’ll come here. Oh, wait!” Emily shouted. “My mom wants to talk to your mom….” Great. Now she was getting the moms involved. Once moms are involved there is no turning back.

  I must admit, I am intrigued by the thought of my first sleepover. And Emily seems like a decent person, albeit a little too enthusiastic. Still, she’s friendly, and the truth is I am curious as to what it would be like to have a friend in my age range.

  Yet what exactly does a sleepover involve? Of course, technically, I sleep over at Maddie’s all the time. Yet with Emily, I would be interjecting myself into a new environment and perhaps even setting myself up for disaster. For example, what if I was expected to sleep on the floor? I have observed that girls sleep on the floor at sleepovers, at least that’s what Jan, Marcia, and Cindy from The Brady Bunch do. Not that I ever watch the show, but it is a favorite of my parents’ since they are from that era.

  I really don’t want to sleep on the floor. I don’t think it would be good for my back. And what about towels? Should I bring my own? Do I bring my own shampoo and tartar-control toothpaste? There was so much to think about.