Millicent Min, Girl Genius Page 7

  I clamped my mouth shut as we gathered around Dad, who was still lying on the floor in the living room. He kept glaring at Maddie and muttering, but he couldn’t move. Maddie began, “You know, when I was younger I always wanted to join the Peace Corps….”

  “You’re joining the Peace Corps?” I yelped. Maddie cannot even stand it when bathrooms have those hand dryers instead of paper towels. How could she make it in the Peace Corps?

  “Millicent,” Maddie said sharply, “for once would you let someone finish their thought before analyzing it? I said I wanted to join the Peace Corps. Of course that would be silly now, but the urge to travel is still in my system….”

  Maddie has always been an armchair traveler. My grandparents had talked of going to Europe for their sapphire anniversary before Grandpa got sick. It’s amazing. One night you go to bed all happy because you just won an essay contest on global warming, then when you wake up in the morning, your mother’s sitting on the edge of your bed telling you that your grandfather is dying.

  “Grandpa and I always wanted to see the world.” Maddie continued to pace, careful not to step on Dad. “But we never took the time to do it. So now that’s what we’re going to do.”

  Mom and Dad looked at each other.

  “But Maddie,” I hastened to tell her, “Grandpa died, remember?” My mother bit her lip, and Dad gripped her hand.

  “Yes, gone,” she said, saddened for a moment. She quickly perked up and added, “But not forgotten.” Maddie held up a pendant she was wearing around her neck. It looked like a small vase. “His ashes,” she said reverently. “Some of his ashes are in here. Now we can travel two for the price of one!”

  Maddie has decided to enroll in the London branch of Fenwick & Feldie’s Feng Shui Academy. After that, she plans to tour Europe “until they kick me out or the money dries up, whatever comes first.”

  I must have looked stricken. “Oh, Millicent,” Maddie said, giving me a hug. “Sometimes I think you would really do yourself a favor if you learned not to take everything so seriously.”

  But this was serious business. My grandmother was taking my grandfather’s ashes on a tour of Europe? I’m afraid the rest of the world isn’t ready for Maddie.

  Stanford aside, everything was practically perfect until Maddie dropped her bombshell. My poetry class is humming along and so is my relationship with Emily. You couldn’t ask for a better friend. We see or phone each other daily and have never run out of things to say, except for that one time when Maddie forced her kiwi–peanut butter scones on us. I spit mine out, but Emily ate hers and somehow managed to smile at the same time. She’s really an amazing person.

  Oh sure, Emily has a few flaws. But don’t we all. For example, I am lax about cleaning out my three-hole punch. As for Emily, there are a few things about her that drive me nuts. Like the way she’s always feigning interest in whatever my dad’s latest hobby is. Or how she insists on helping my mom around the house, which is ludicrous since she never lifts a finger at her own house. And then there are the boys. Emily is boy crazy.

  I consider boys a huge waste of time. Emily argues that they are what life’s all about and is prone to swooning whenever she sees a cute one. I am far more interested in getting my degree than fawning over something as inconsequential as a boy. But I can’t tell her that. She still thinks I’m in middle school.

  Shortly after “The Incident,” as the Digger/Salt Shaker Debacle has come to be known in our family, we attempted homeschooling. Since my mother had a 9-to-5 job, or in her case an 8-to-6:30, the burden fell upon my father, who was in between contracts. We were both excited about the prospect of getting to know each other better and sharing our insights.

  That said, after many arguments, numerous threats from both sides of the table, and several genuine attempts at détente, Dad and I met my mother at the door. We did not even allow her the courtesy of putting the grocery bags down before we simultaneously launched into our separate versions of events.

  “I don’t understand,” Mom said, looking worried. “You quit? You both quit?” My father and I nodded. “But it’s only been one day,” she continued as we trailed her into the kitchen. “Don’t you think you ought to give it more of a chance?” In unison, Dad and I shook our heads.

  The next thing I know, I’m taking a tour of Star Brite.

  “If everyone here is so bright, why is the name spelled wrong?” I asked.

  “Shhhh,” Mom nudged me in the side. She’s always shushing or nudging my father and me. “There is such a thing as being too smart.”

  Star Brite was happy to take me. “It would be an honor,” Dr. Marks said, “to educate a young person as brilliant as Millicent.” He bent over so we were eye to eye and patted me on the head. “Millicent is exactly the sort of student who excels at Star Brite. I just know we are going to be pals, aren’t we, Millie?” I just stared at him until he sputtered, “Ahem, okay! Well then, let me give you a VIP tour of your new school.”

  That night I tried on my school uniform. It included a starched white shirt under a precision-pleated navy plaid jumper made of rash-inducing polyester. The hem of the jumper almost reached my ankles before Mom hemmed it up. Still, it was far too big and made me look as if I were shrinking.

  *

  Emily is excited about going to school in Rancho Rosetta. “I’ll bet the guys here are cuter than the ones in New Jersey,” she declared as she scoped out the boys at the mall.

  “I wouldn’t know,” I murmured. I was adding up our Taco Bell receipt to make sure we hadn’t been overcharged. Before I had a chance to tally the tax, Emily got up and pulled me over to the photo booth.

  “C’mon Millie, we gotta do this!” We crammed inside and took two series of photos, one for each of us. I don’t think I’ve ever laughed so hard when getting my picture taken. Most of the time Dad frowns and yells out, “Millicent, at least pretend to be having a good time.”

  All my life my parents have been obsessed with my having a good time. When I was younger, they enrolled me in Tumbling Tots, forced me to take finger-painting lessons, and even purchased an annual pass to the Rancho Rosetta Children’s Theater with the hopes that I might be smitten by the colorful costumed characters on the stage. Mom and Dad even bought me Sea Monkeys, a Mr. Potato Head, and a kite shaped like a butterfly. Luckily, my father likes all those toys, so they haven’t gone to waste.

  What my parents kept failing to understand was how happy I was when I was alone with my books. There was no pressure to perform or be cute, and books never disappoint — unless, of course, you’ve chosen a bad one. But then, you can always put it down and pick up another one without any repercussions.

  *

  Last Thursday, we had a close call. Stanford had been his usual goonie self during our tutoring/torture session. Oooh, he makes me so mad! Since he showed no interest in his mandatory book reports, Mrs. Martinez and I selected three novels for him.

  From the Mixed-up Files of Mrs. Basil E. Frankweiler is about two kids who hide out in a museum for several days and solve a mystery. I remembered reading it when I was three and wanting to do the same.

  Holes I chose because I like to imagine that Stanford is one of the boys at the hideous detention camp set out in the middle of nowhere.

  I thought Number the Stars would be good because it teaches history and questions the meaning of life. I first read it when I was five and reread it again recently. I like to reread books after letting a significant amount of time pass. You can’t imagine what went through my mind when I first read Truman Capote’s In Cold Blood when I was six. I couldn’t sleep for weeks. When I read it again last year, I couldn’t sleep for days. I take that as a sign that I’ve matured.

  “Wake up,” I hissed at Stanford. “We have to go over the parts of speech again. Here, I’ve made a list for you with examples. Plus, you should be up to at least chapter six in From the Mixed-up Files of Mrs. Basil E. Frankweiler and ready to
discuss it.”

  “No fair!” Stanford groaned. I don’t know what’s not fair about keeping up with homework assignments. Apparently, Stanford thinks that teachers and tutors were put on this Earth to antagonize him, when actually it is the other way around.

  “Sit up,” I ordered as I handed him the list. It included:

  NOUN: A person, place, thing, or idea. The brilliant tutor tried to teach the ignorant boy.

  ADJECTIVE: A word that describes a noun. The pea-brained basketball player did not even attempt to study.

  VERB: A word that expresses an action. The police arrested him and threw him in jail.

  ADVERB: A word used to describe a verb or adjective. The boy apologized profusely, but it was too late and he was fed to the wolves.

  I spent the rest of the session lecturing Stanford on proper study habits. When I was done, I was met with total silence.

  There are good silences, like the beat after a fabulous play has just ended and before the audience jumps to its feet applauding. Then there are bad silences, like after you’ve said, “Actually, the hypotenuse is 3.4 centimeters off” to your father’s supervisor. Stanford’s silence created a new category: the infinite silence of limbo where your words are released into the atmosphere but mysteriously disappear before they reach their target.

  As Stanford and I exited the library, we hit the invisible fork in the road. He went left, I went right, and neither of us said good-bye. I was eager to meet up with Emily since we both had errands to take care of. She was running dangerously low on Stellar Strawberry Bonne Bell LipSmackers, and I was in dire need of lead for my mechanical pencils.

  So there we were, waiting in line at the drugstore when Emily starts tugging on my T-shirt. It was really annoying because I had just ironed it that morning. “That boy’s looking at you, Millie,” she whispered as she brushed the cookie crumbs off the front of her dress.

  I looked up, and to my horror Stanford was in the next line gripping a tube of Clearasil. Upon making eye contact, we both quickly turned away.

  “Millie, you’re all red. Do you know him?” Emily asked. I could not believe she was smiling at him. “Is he from around here? Oh, he’s soooo dreamy.”

  “Looks like a nightmare to me,” I muttered as I watched Stanford ditch the pimple cream and scurry out the emergency exit.

  As we sat at the kitchen table, I watched my mother with morbid fascination as she ate an entire banana cream pie, minus my meager slice. I was telling her about Professor Skylanski’s insightful interpretation of Emerson’s “The Rhodora.” My account must have been so mesmerizing that she didn’t realize how much she had eaten. When finished, Mom looked down and said with surprise, “Oh my. Did I do that?”

  My poetry class is going exceedingly well, as is my camaraderie with Emily. To this day we both still wear the friendship necklaces we made at our first sleepover. She keeps hers on 24/7, and I only take mine off when I shower. I’ve even programmed her phone number into #4 on our speed dial. (#1 is Maddie, #2 is Mom’s office, #3 is Pizza Wheels.)

  At volleyball yesterday, Julie tried to be mean to us again, but Emily wouldn’t allow it.

  “… It’s not like jumping is such a hard thing to do,” Julie chided us. (Both Emily and I are earthbound when it comes to blocking the ball.) “Even a little kid knows how to jump.”

  “Well, maybe you could stay late and teach us how to jump,” Emily suggested, giving me a wink. I couldn’t help but add, “Yes, Julie, you say jump and we’ll ask ‘how high’ and then you can demonstrate for us.”

  Julie tried to figure out if we were making fun of her or actually asking for her help. Not that she’d give us any. With her, it’s like a battle, only no one has formally declared war.

  On the topic of war, here is my list for some of the greatest battles in recent history:

  1. Gary Kasparov vs. Deep Blue

  2. Muhammad Ali vs. Joe Frazier

  3. Millicent Min vs. Stanford Wong

  It is one thing to be against a worthy opponent where logic and wits prevail. But to be pitted against someone who is oblivious is maddening. It’s like trying to shoot a falling leaf with a cannon. Even though I bring years of literary insight, the patience of a paleontologist, and plenty of Peanut M&M’s to my task, Stanford adopts a defiant attitude that I cannot penetrate. “Just try,” I plead. “Just give the books a chance. Would that be so hard?”

  Mrs. Wong offered me a fifty-dollar bonus if Stanford passes his class. Not that I ever expect to see it. Stanford plows through a book about as fast as a cataract patient reading an eye chart. He claims that reading zaps his energy for important things like basketball.

  When people talk I can block them out. I let my mind go as their mouths move and their hands wave about. I can always tell when they are winding down because they look at me as if they expect me to agree with them. That’s when I tune back into the conversation and make the appropriate noises like “Yes, yes, I think you have a point there,” or “That sounds reasonable.” I have found that these two phrases work for most situations.

  With Stanford I have been forced to develop a third phrase: “I don’t believe you.” He comes up with the most elaborate excuses for not completing his assignments. One even involved a brown dog, a skateboard, and the FedEx man. I have never failed at anything academic before. However, Stanford Wong may break my record.

  Today he had his nose buried in Number the Stars. I heard him gurgle and gag, then realized he had fallen asleep and was drooling!

  “Who was that girl you were with?” he asked after I kicked him under the table several times in an effort to wake him.

  “What girl?”

  Stanford rubbed his leg. “At the drugstore the other day.”

  “No one you know.”

  “She seemed nice,” he mused. “What’s her name?”

  “Emily,” I said, revealing more than I wanted to.

  “Did she ask about me?” he asked, showing more interest in the chance encounter with Emily than in all of our tutoring sessions combined.

  “No,” I lied. “Though we did laugh when you set off the emergency alarm.”

  Stanford looked dejected, and for a moment I almost regretted what I had said. Still, he was taking an irritating interest in Emily, and she was my friend, not his.

  Suddenly, Stanford sat up, as if he had a great epiphany. “Hey, that Emily seemed pretty cool. What’s she doing hanging around with a nerdling like you?”

  “Better me than you,” I snapped.

  “Maybe you could introduce us,” he ventured.

  “Maybe not,” I told him.

  The thought of Stanford meeting Emily made me panic. If they ever met it was a sure thing he’d spill the beans about my academic status.

  I flashed back to the other day when I had been tempted to tell Emily the truth about my alter ego: Millicent L. Min, College Coed. However, I’m afraid that if she learns I went through middle school while she was still getting hooked on phonics, she might treat me differently. Not that she would ever call me a nerdling, like Stanford. Or use me like Debbie. Still, it could change everything. For her sake, I’m electing not to tell her the truth for a little while longer. What can it hurt?

  Stanford leaned forward. “Hey, Millicent,” he said in a whisper, only it was still pretty loud since his volume control is broken. “Remember, you promised not to tell anyone you’re tutoring me, right? I mean, if that girl or the guys at basketball ever find out, it could ruin my reputation.”

  I wondered what kind of reputation he had, and how much lower it could possibly go. “Well,” I said, pretending to think about it. “I guess if it’s so important to you then I won’t.”

  Stanford looked relieved. “Thanks, Millicent, that’s really decent of you.”

  My stomach felt funny as I gave him a weak smile and continued with the day’s lesson.

  Last night, Emily and I had a huge argument over the definiti
on of “attractive.” She seems to think it has a lot to do with good hair, sparkling eyes, and the ability to make a person melt. Me, I believe that it encompasses the ability to communicate (the written word, as well as spoken), high intelligence, and a firm grasp of current events.

  As I pulled out my Webster’s and proceeded to defend my position, Emily playfully grabbed it and tossed it across the room, hitting Mona Lisa on the face. “I want to know what you think, Millie,” she said. “Not some dumb dictionary.”

  I could not believe her nerve. Merriam-Webster’s Dictionary is a great reference, scholarly and highly entertaining. I have spent countless hours in my tree perusing it.

  “Hey! Watch where you throw that,” I said as I retrieved my dictionary and checked Mona Lisa for signs of injury. She was still smiling. “If you really want to know what I think attractive means, then I’ll make a list….”

  “A list!” she exclaimed. “Yes, let’s both make a list, but instead of ‘attractive,’ I’ve got a better idea.”

  TOP 10 LIST OF ATTRIBUTES FOR THE IDEAL HUSBAND

  Emily Millie

  1. Sparkling eyes 1. High IQ

  2. Good hair 2. Interest in world affairs

  3. Rich 3. Well read

  4. Nice car 4. Excellent domestic skills

  5. Fun 5. Appreciation of art

  6. Athletic 6. Nonsmoker

  7. Romantic 7. Good hygiene

  8. Loyal 8. Clean driving record

  9. Strong 9. Love of travel

  10. Good dancer 10. Graduate degree

  “Do you think I’m attractive?” I asked my mother after Emily went home. She was clipping coupons and then filing them into the accordion organizer that accompanies her to the grocery store.

  “Of course you are,” she said as she expertly trimmed a baking soda coupon. She believes that baking soda can clean practically anything. “You are very attractive.”