Girl Wonder

• Prologue
  
• Part One Fall
  
• 1
  
• 2
  
• 3
  
• 4
  
• 5
  
• 6
  
• 7
  
• 8
  
• 9
  
• 10
  
• 11
  
• 12
  
• 13
  
• Part Two Winter
  
• 14
  
• 15
  
• 16
  
• 17
  
• 18
  
• Part Three Spring
  
• 19
  
• 20
  
• 21
  
• 22
  
• 23
  
• 24
  
• Epilogue
  
• Acknowledgments
  

For Connie Martin, the best mother and cheerleader a girl could ever have. You taught me the importance of having dreams. Thanks for never letting me quit, and for carrying me through the hardest parts.

And for Larry Martin, my father, a brilliant story- teller who read to me often when I was a little girl. Your Oscar-worthy character voices helped me to internalize the rhythm of language, and when I started to read, the words became movies in my mind.

M
y best friend Kara and I were at the top of an old oak, scouting the land for intruders (intruders being our fellow classmates or teachers who would nail us for breaking the no-tree-climbing rule). We were playing our favorite game, Sarah and Jessie. Sarah and Jessie were two little orphan girls who lived out in the wilderness. They were tough and self-sufficient and knew the ways of the woods and the mountains. They could make fire from rocks and twigs. They knew which plants to eat and which ones had medicinal properties. They understood the language of animals.

Sarah and Jessie didn't need adults. They didn't need anyone because they had each other. Theirs was a friendship that could overcome any odds.

Kara and I had invented the game in the first grade, after our teacher had read us
The Boxcar Children
, a book about four kids who run away from an orphanage and end up living in an abandoned train car.

“We're getting too old for this,” we told each other every time we played Sarah and Jessie. We were ten years old, after all. Make-believe was for babies. But it was simply too exhilarating to quit.

“Incoming!” Kara (Sarah) shouted. “Abandon ship!”

A teacher's aide was walking briskly toward us. We scrambled down quickly—we knew every branch of this tree by heart. Our feet touched the ground just in time.

“Your mother's here, Charlotte,” the teacher's aide said to me (Jessie).

Kara frowned and brushed her bangs out of her face. “Where are you going?”

“Doctor's appointment,” I muttered.

This wasn't exactly a lie. The school psychologist's name was Dr. Lattimer. My mom was waiting for me by the jungle gym. She told me my dad was on his way. Because of the lump in my throat, I could only nod.

The waiting room of the psychologist's office was cold and silent, save for the soft burble of a fish aquarium. The receptionist glanced up. “Have a seat. She'll be just a minute.”

Mom and I sat down. Listlessly, I flipped through a
National Geographic
, looking at pictures of exotic moths. Mom patted my knee reassuringly. “You have nothing to be worried about.”

“Then why am I here?” I blurted.

At that moment, the psychologist called us into her office. “Hello, Charlotte,” she said, motioning for me to sit down. “It's nice to see you again.”

I didn't return the compliment. The week before, because of some
inconsistencies
on my fourth grade standardized test scores, I'd had to spend an entire day with this woman. She'd run me through a bunch of tests, many of which seemed random and weird, most of which made my head spin—especially the math parts.

“Just answer as best you can,” she told me repeatedly throughout the day. “This isn't something you're being graded on. We're using the tests to gather information so that we can better help you.”

I needed
help
?

Today we were going to go over the psychologist's findings.

There was a knock on the door. It was my dad.

“Sorry I'm late,” he said, taking a seat on the couch next to my mom. “What have I missed?”

“We were just getting started,” the psychologist said, leafing through a stack of papers on her desk. She glanced up and smiled kindly at me. “Charlotte—let me start out by saying that you're a very bright girl. Your reading scores are very advanced. You have a lot of strength at writing.”

“What's wrong with me?” I asked.

“Charlotte,” my dad said. “Please don't interrupt.”

“Have you ever heard of
dyscalculia
?” the psychologist asked my parents.

Their expressions grew tense. They shook their heads.

“Dyscalculia affects how a person sees and processes numbers. It's the reason Charlotte's math test scores have been so low.”

My dad sat up straighter. “You're saying Charlotte has a learning disability?”

“I have a learning disability?”

“Look at me, Charlotte.” The psychologist leaned over her desk. “You need to know this has nothing to do with how smart you are. Nothing. In most areas you score in a very high percentile. But yes,” she continued, “I'm afraid dyscalculia
is
a type of learning disability.”

Learning disability
. The words broke over me like icy waves.

“What do we do now?” my mom asked quietly.

The psychologist glanced down at my chart. “I've spoken to Mrs. Sterling, the resource specialist. She has some ideas that I think might really help Charlotte see numbers in a different light. She's been a great help to a couple of other students in Charlotte's grade.”

“Norman and Cassie?” I yelped. “You're saying I'm like
them
?”

Norman Wyatt and Cassie Mistros were in my class. Because of their problems, Mrs. Sterling was constantly pulling them out of class for extra help. We weren't supposed to tease them about their problems, but some of the meaner boys and girls called them
retards
behind their backs.

The psychologist folded her hands. “You're at a very different level than those two. You're fortunate that way. But you do need some extra help with numbers.”

“Am I going to have to be pulled out of class?” I whispered.

“That's generally how the resource specialist works,” the psychologist said matter-of-factly.

The following Monday, I started seeing Mrs. Sterling. On the bus ride home from school I asked Kara if anyone had called me a
retard
. The look she gave me told me everything I didn't want to know. “You just have to ignore those kids,” Kara said. “They're the stupid ones.”

We never played Sarah and Jessie again. We never even acknowledged that we quit. Overnight, it seemed, we left childhood behind, little guessing that the door into the great wide world only swung one way.

“Y
ou kids are lucky,” my father said, putting on his blinker and turning down the lane to the Barclay School. “Moving isn't easy, but it sure gives you a real jump start on life.”

Jump start?

Closing my eyes, I imagined those ski jumpers from the Olympics bulleting down an icy ramp, shoving upward to launch, the loud whack their skis made when they hit the ground.

As I recalled, a lot of them fell when they finally landed.

My dad rolled down his window. “You smell that?”

“The pine trees, you mean?” James Henry asked.

My father chuckled. “That's the smell of money, son. They don't cut corners at a place like this.” The Barclay School was spectacular. If you didn't know any better, you might think it was a resort. The buildings were made of wood and stone and had enormous glass windows. There were tennis courts. The lawns of the athletic fields were immaculately groomed and bordered by giant cedar trees. According to the glossy admissions catalog, the school's sports and academic teams were respected nationwide.

A pack of guys jogged by us, headed in the opposite direction. They wore silver and navy tracksuits and looked as sleek as thoroughbred racehorses.

One of them waved at us. He was tall and muscular, and looked like he might be cute. “That's Milton!” James Henry exclaimed.

I flipped around in my seat to look at my brother, lowering my sunglasses over my nose. “We've lived out here all of three days. How can you possibly know anyone yet? And what kind of name is Milton?”

“Why are you wearing sunglasses?” he asked. “It's not even sunny.”

My dad pointed. “Hey. Check out that sign.”

CAUTION: FUTURE LEADERS OF AMERICA AT PLAY!

Crossing my arms, I sank down in my seat. Unlike my brother—who'd been offered a scholarship to every private school in Seattle—I was not a future leader of America. Because of my math scores, the Barclay School had rejected me.

After dozens of arguments, I'd finally convinced my parents to let me go to a public school. I was ready for a change. I was ready for boys. And, quite frankly, I didn't want to deal with the anguish of another rejection letter.

“Know where you're going?” Dad asked my brother as we pulled up to the main middle-school building.

James Henry grinned. “I memorized the map.”

“Of course you did,” I muttered.

“Good luck today, Charlotte,” he said, scrambling out of the car.

“Yeah, yeah.” Smiling weakly, I waved him away.

James Henry. Boy genius. At the tender age of almost twelve, he understood calculus. Teachers were always talking about what a
privilege
it was to teach him. I'd probably hate the kid if it weren't for the fact of his size. There were eight-year-olds who were bigger than my brother. To compensate for his smallness, he spiked his hair with gel, wore lug-soled hiking boots, rode a skateboard, and played the drums.

Still, in spite of his best efforts, I suspected James Henry was no stranger to bullying. Back in Florida, he'd get these texts sometimes that would make his face turn green. He never told us what they said, but you could tell they weren't of the warm-and-fuzzy variety. More than once in our old neighborhood I'd overheard some kids calling my brother a fag.

A horn honked. My dad moved the car forward, then stopped.

“Are we waiting for something?” I asked.

“How about you drive?”

My stomach sank. “Or how about
not
?”

Ignoring me, he got out and walked around to the passenger side. Reluctantly, I traded places with him, convinced that everyone was staring. “You remember the basics, right?” He made this motion with his hands—the right representing the gas pedal, the left representing the clutch. “It's all about finding the sweet spot.”

“Now's not really a good time,” I mumbled.

“There's never going to be a perfect time, Charlotte,” he said. “You've got to learn.”

It was no use arguing with my dad. Now that he was a published author, he thought he was the authority on everything. Just being around him lately gave me an eye twitch. I swallowed a couple of times, cracked my neck to loosen up, and positioned my feet.

“You'll want to look at the road, not at your shoes,” he said.

Letting off the clutch, I gave the car gas. The Audi—his new I'm-an-important-person-now-and-I-deserve-nice-things purchase —shot forward…and died.

“Jesus, Charlotte, you've got to be more careful. How many times have I told you—gas first, clutch second.”

“I told you,” I snapped. “I can't do this!”

Without speaking, we traded places again. A wad of bird crap splattered the windshield as we left the Barclay School. The day could only get better. Right?

A short while later, we turned into the entrance of Shady Grove High School. The building was gritty and its façade was crumbling. The students I saw walking around had angry looks on their faces. My stomach dropped. Instantly I felt like “other.”

“Let me out here,” I told my dad.

“Don't be ridiculous,” he said. “We're almost to the front door.”

I slid my sunglasses down over my eyes. On second thought, the day could get worse in a hurry.

* * *

“There must be some kind of mistake,” I said, sliding my class schedule across the desk to the guidance counselor. “I'm supposed to be in the gifted and talented program.”

The woman—one of those ageless types with dusty gray-brown hair—pursed her lips and plugged something into her computer. Then she shook her head. “I'm sorry, but there's no mistake. Your math scores didn't qualify—”

“Oh. That. I have a learning disability. It affects how I see numbers. I explained that in my application.”

“You're a special-needs student?”

“No!” I took a deep breath to calm myself. “Look—I talked to this guy on the phone? He said it was fine about the math, that I could at least take gifted and talented English and History.”

She seemed taken aback. “To whom did you talk to? Mike Burke?” When I nodded, she said, “He no longer works here. The gifted and talented educational program is a school within a school. Students are either in all of those classes or none of those classes.”

“I'll take them all. I can get a math tutor,” I said, trying to keep the panic out of my voice.

“There's a long waiting list for GATE.”

“GATE?”

“That's short for gifted and talented education,” she said, making me feel very ungifted and untalented for asking.

The guidance counselor beckoned suddenly to someone behind me. Turning around, I saw a girl about my age. She was rail thin with limp brown hair, braces, and clothes that looked downright cultish. “Hello, Mimi,” the guidance counselor said. “I hope you had a nice summer.”

“I had to work,” the girl replied. “Welcome to Shady Grove,” she said to me, her voice entirely too cheerful and bright.

“Charlotte—I'd like you to meet Mimi Zupinski. She's one of our student ambassadors. She'll be showing you around today.” She rose from her seat. “You'll have to excuse me now—my next appointment is here. For the time being, I'd suggest you give your schedule a few days. And if the math feels too challenging, I'd be more than happy to arrange a meeting with our special-needs coordinator.”

“That won't be necessary,” I said quickly.

Mimi gave me a pitying look.

A bell rang. The meeting was over. I'd now, officially, missed the smart boat.

“Where are you from?” Mimi asked as we walked out of the office. “You have an accent.”

“We just moved here from Tallahassee,” I said, feeling like a lemming in the all-too-narrow hallway. “But I'm not really from the South. We lived in Boston before that.”

“Are you a military brat?”

“My mom's a professor. She got this teaching job at Seattle University. We just found out a month ago.”

Mimi made a sympathetic clucking sound. “Pretty sudden.”

“Yeah. I kind of feel like I got kidnapped by my own two parents.”

Right then we walked out into the main corridor.

The noise was deafening. Students scurried in every direction, like ants whose hill has just been kicked. It was impossible to see which way to go, but you'd be trampled if you stopped moving. Maybe I just wasn't used to going to school with boys, but the kids here seemed spectacularly enormous to me, like some mutant species of teen. Whether from body odor or some foul thing the cafeteria workers were preparing for lunch, the entire place reeked of raw onions.

“You okay?” Mimi shouted over her shoulder. “You look a little pale.”

“Can we stop at the bathroom?” I asked.

She pointed across the hall and raised an eyebrow. “Want me to wait?”

I nodded. This place was a war zone. What had I done? Trying to think, I pushed my way into the girls' lavatory. As I stood in line, I studied the graffiti scribbled all over the plaster walls.

For a good time call Jonas Atkins.

Missy Valone sucks ASS.

Drugs, not hugs.

Some of the writing described sexual acts I'd never even heard of.

A toilet flushed. A girl burst out, reeking of cigarettes. “It's all yours,” she said.

Covering the seat with toilet paper, I sat down and held my head in my hands. Soiled maxi-pads sprouted from an overflowing sanitary bin like bouquets straight from hell. There was some kind of syringe in the wastebasket.

Someone started pounding on the door. “This ain't free real estate!”

Too tense to pee, I flushed the toilet for show.

As I washed my hands, I studied the cluster of girls gathered around the sink. Everything about them was calloused, from the way they talked and laughed and teased one another, to the look of their tattooed and overly pierced bodies. One of them had a nasty bruise on her cheekbone.

She caught me staring, and her eyes narrowed. Then she backed me into a corner. “You got some problem?”

Rendered mute, I shook my head and tried not to stare at her boobs. Which was no easy feat since they were practically mashed into my face. The girl looked me up and down, checking out my dark jeans, red sandals, and sailor shirt. It was an outfit, I realized all too late, that was entirely too preppy for Shady Grove.

“Nice outfit.” She laughed harshly. “Stupid bitch.”

A moment later, she and her posse left in a cloud of hairspray and smoke.

Mimi was there when I emerged. Though it crossed my mind briefly that maybe she'd set me up, I glommed on to her like a stalker.

“What happened?” she asked.

“I pissed off some girls.”

“I know the ones you're talking about,” she said. “If I were you I'd try to stay out of their way.”

Looking around, I saw that the halls were finally clearing out. Teachers stood at the doors yelling at students to sit their butts down.

Mimi sensed my discomfort. “Guess you're not in Tallahassee anymore, huh?”

“Yeah—well this place ain't exactly the Emerald City,” I muttered, staring at a poster across the hall that said
STOP THE VIOLETS
. I really hoped it wasn't a misspelling.

“My old school,” I began. “It was the all-girls parochial kind. Not that my parents are religious. And they're definitely not rich or anything. But the school was a bargain and way better than the public high school.”

“Sounds unreal,” she said.

I didn't tell Mimi that none of my old friends even drank. The only peer pressure I ever got in Florida was to “accept Jesus into my heart.” I imagined Mimi would scoff at this.

“There's a nicer bathroom upstairs,” Mimi said. “In the GATE wing. I'll show you later.”

As the final bell rang, I stumbled into my first class, feeling as if I'd just been banished to the ninth circle of hell.