Impulse Page 6

  I stuck out my hand. “I’m Cent, ma’am. Like a penny.” I added the obligatory, “It’s short for Millicent.” If I didn’t explain, they always asked.

  “What nice manners. Very nice to meet you, Cent. Oh,” she said, gesturing at the basket Grant was carrying. “This is for y’all. You can’t have your kitchen set up yet. I hope you like chicken.”

  * * *

  Grant helped me carry in the two bedsteads we’d left outside while Mom set the food out. He was slightly taller than me, but younger, I thought.

  We took my bed around the outside, tromping through the snow, to get to the lower level, via the deck. Mom and Dad had the master suite, which was upstairs, as was the kitchen, formal dining room, and a formal living room. Downstairs were two more bedrooms opening onto a large family room.

  “The pool table came with the house,” I said as we took off our snow-packed boots just inside the sliding glass door to the deck.

  “I know,” said Grant.

  Of course he knew. His mother was the Realtor after all. “You’ve been here?”

  “Yeah. Naomi and I have been taking care of the grounds—sweeping the leaves off the deck and porch, keeping the weeds back from the house. It’s been on the market for over two years.” He looked toward the stairs. “If we finished early enough, we’d shoot some pool. Uh, I think Mom knew, but we didn’t exactly discuss it.”

  “Got it. Who’s Naomi?”

  “Big sister. She’s a senior at Beckwourth. Off to college next year.”

  “Only sister?”

  “Yeah.” We set the bedstead in my new bedroom, next to the box springs and mattress leaning against the wall.

  “Are you a junior?” Grant asked.

  “I don’t know,” I said.

  “Huh?”

  “I was homeschooled. We’ve been out of the country. I’ll be taking placement tests before school starts up again.”

  Grant nodded. “Next Tuesday.”

  It was Thursday.

  “The Gorgon,” Grant added.

  “Huh?”

  “The guidance counselor. She’ll be testing you. They call her Morgan the Gorgon.”

  “She turn somebody to stone?”

  “Dr. Morgan does have this stare. But it’s really the problem kids—the ones she sees for discipline problems. That’s what they call her.” He shrugged. “I got to test out of Algebra I so I like her.”

  * * *

  Dr. Morgan had a sense of humor but it was very dry. My first hint was a brooch of Medusa’s head dangling from Perseus’ hand, like the famous statue in Florence.

  The tests were computerized, given in the testing center, a small room lined with computers, connected to her office. She set me up for the science exam first, and twenty-eight minutes later I stuck my head back in her office.

  “Did you have a question, Millicent? Sometimes those stupid computers act up—did it freeze?”

  I shook my head. “No, ma’am. I’m finished.”

  “Dear, you have an hour and a half to take it. You don’t need to give up so soon.”

  I raised my eyebrows. “Give up? I answered every question, then went back and double-checked my answers.” Had I screwed up? Was I supposed to sit there for the whole time? I thought I was being careful as it was—I didn’t want to make another stupid mistake like failing to take altitude into consideration.

  Dr. Morgan rolled her chair over to her desk computer and moused through a couple of screens. “Oh.”

  “Did I do okay?”

  Dr. Morgan cleared her throat. “Well enough. I’ll set up the math assessment. Why don’t you go get a drink of water and, if you need to, use the restroom?”

  Mom had left me with the understanding that I’d be taking tests in the morning and afternoon, but when she showed up to take me to lunch, I was done.

  I did have trouble with the history assessment. I was so worried about the math and science and language arts that I thought my general reading in history would be good enough.

  We sat with Dr. Morgan and she analyzed my results. “I am not a fan of the state history requirement, but every state in the union does it and ours is no exception. You’re very strong in science and math. I can put you in precalculus immediately and Biology II. We can definitely place you out of composition one and two. My thoughts are to bring you in as a junior. I could see an argument for bringing you in as a senior, but you’re only just sixteen.… What do you think?”

  She looked at me, not Mom.

  Mom and I exchanged glances. We’d talked about this possibility. Softly, I said, “Sophomore, please.”

  Dr. Morgan’s eyebrows lifted.

  Mom spoke. “As you said, Dr. Morgan, Cent is only just sixteen. We’ve been out of the country most of her life but we’ve worked hard—she’s worked hard—to make sure her academics are up to par. But she’s…”

  “Really unsocialized,” I said.

  Dr. Morgan laughed outright, then put her hand to her mouth. She said, “You seem quite mature, actually.”

  Mom smiled. “Well, yes—with adults. But she hasn’t really had much interaction with teens or even children when she was younger. If we were just concerned about academics, we’d continue homeschooling.”

  I nodded firmly. “Right.”

  “Not my usual situation,” said Dr. Morgan. “I’m usually fighting with parents who want their kids to skip a grade or, worse, to avoid repeating a grade they’ve failed. You could be in college in one or two years, easily.”

  Mom touched her tongue to her lips then looked at me. “Could you give me a moment with Dr. Morgan, Cent?”

  I frowned. This wasn’t like Mom. “Uh, okay. I’ll go look around, right?”

  “Right.”

  As the door shut I looked both ways down the hall. Though school proper wouldn’t start for three more days, the teachers were back. But the only person in sight was at the far end of the hall walking in the other direction. I jumped back to the testing center, near the still-ajar connecting door to Dr. Morgan’s office.

  “—I’m no longer practicing,” Mom was saying, “but I was a family therapist for ten years before we went abroad. Cent is going to have a big enough problem learning how to interact with her peer group when they’re the same age. Put her in with kids one or two years older and it will make it harder.”

  Dr. Morgan was silent for a moment, then said, “I can see that but you do realize she’s academically ahead of most of the seniors at this school, not to mention the sophomores. There’s going to be friction there.”

  “Certainly. But look at it from the other side. If you had a classmate who was substantially brighter than you, wouldn’t it be more annoying if she was substantially younger, too? It’s Cent’s curse to be profoundly gifted. She’ll always have a good chance of being the smartest kid in the class.”

  “All the more reason to get her up to college where she can find that place where she isn’t the smartest kid.”

  “That will help with intellectual challenges but socially, it will be a disaster. I don’t want my daughter starting college as a lonely, estranged, unhappy young woman whose only point of esteem is her intellect.”

  “No,” Dr. Morgan said dryly. “That’s what high school’s for.”

  Mom laughed. “Precisely.”

  I jerked my head at that and my shoulder brushed against the wall, making a slight noise. I jumped back to the hallway.

  There was a gray-haired woman walking down the hall toward me, but luckily, her head was down, examining a clipboard she held in one hand. She nearly walked into me before noticing I was there.

  “Oh!” She glanced at the closed door to Dr. Morgan’s office. “What are you doing here?”

  “My mother is talking with Dr. Morgan.”

  She looked at me directly. “I don’t recognize you. Are you one of our students?”

  “I hope to be. I’ve been testing this morning. We just moved to town.” I held out my hand. “I’m Cent. Mill
icent Ross.”

  She stared at my hand, then shook it briefly, barely squeezing as if she was avoiding too much contact. “I’m Ms. McClaren, the assistant principal.”

  “Nice to meet you,” I said.

  The door opened. Mom and Dr. Morgan were still talking as they came out. “I don’t see any problem with that. I’ll arrange with … ah, Janet. Have you met our newest student?”

  “Yes. Where did she transfer from?”

  “Abroad. Where did you come from last, Ms. Ross?”

  “Most recently, Canada,” Mom said truthfully. That very morning, in fact. Dad was not letting us sleep in New Prospect, despite our supposed residency.

  “This is our assistant principal, Janet McClaren. Cent here was homeschooled, so we’ve been doing placement tests.”

  “Oh,” said Ms. McClaren. “Any, uh, deficits? Remedial requirements?” She looked at Mom. “We often have our work cut out for us, with homeschool transfers.”

  Mom raised her eyebrows.

  Dr. Morgan said irritably, “No more so than some of the kids coming out of our own middle school.”

  Mom said mildly. “I think Dr. Morgan is satisfied with Millicent’s test results.”

  Ms. McClaren raised her eyebrows and looked at Dr. Morgan. “No trouble entering as a freshman?”

  “Sophomore,” Dr. Morgan said firmly. “She’ll need the state history, but that’s it.”

  “She’ll be able to catch up in math, science?”

  “Advanced placement, Janet. You really need to trust me to do my job.”

  “We should go,” Mom said. “I’ll get the supply list off the school website and we’ll come back on Monday to talk with Mr. Kinlichee about Cent’s electives.”

  As we walked down the hall I heard Ms. McClaren say again, “Math and science?”

  “Yes, Janet. Math and science.”

  I waited until we were outside before I said, “I don’t think I like Ms. McClaren.”

  Mom made a noise in her throat. It wasn’t a yes or a no but I don’t think she liked Ms. McClaren, either.

  * * *

  I’ve been in crowds before, in all sorts of places: the Piazzo San Marco in Venice; Tokyo train stations where the attendants shove you through the doors to pack more in; and, once, Times Square, midnight, New Year’s Eve.

  But they were all strangers.

  Well, the kids at James Beckwourth High School were strangers but they were strangers that I had to get to know. I’d be seeing them every weekday for the rest of the school year.

  It didn’t help that I’d slept badly, waking several times from anxiety dreams where I was wearing just my underwear or said the wrong thing in front of large classrooms where the rows of desks went back and back and back until they disappeared into the distance. In that dream, guess where my seat was.

  Before school started I was breathing rapidly and my heart was pounding. I nearly jumped away, several times, just walking down the long hall to my first class.

  I felt like puking.

  It was an obstacle course. There were kids standing around, talking in pairs or groups. You could usually go around these. There were kids walking without looking where they were going, and there were kids who made room for you by swerving to let you by. These were in the minority.

  I did my eel thing, like when I was a child, chasing pigeons in the piazza, sliding sideways and turning my shoulders. My backpack was light—the school issued books for home and kept copies in the classroom, too. But things were so crowded that more than once I was clouted by someone’s shoulder or backpack. Once, one of them said, “Excuse me,” but mostly it was, “Hey!” and “Watch where you’re going!”

  By the time I’d dropped my coat in my locker and reached my first class, Mr. Hill’s Biology II, I felt like a rabbit with dogs on my tail, and I ducked through the door like the classroom was my burrow. There were only two students in the room and Mr. Hill, a thin man with long, gray hair braided down his back, who sat hunched over a laptop connected to a projector at the front of the class.

  I walked closer and he glanced up.

  “Yes? Oh.” He glanced down at a sheet of paper. “Millicent Ross, right?”

  “Yes, sir,” I said.

  “Welcome to Beckwourth. What do you like to be called? Millie?”

  “Cent, please. My mom is Millie. Her first name is Millicent, too.”

  “Cent, okay.” He wrote that down on the page. “We do assigned seating. You don’t have any vision or hearing issues, do you?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Okay, then. I’m going to put you back here.” He led me to a seat two thirds of the way to the rear, and at the wall farthest from the door. “Let me know if this causes any problems. Today we’re doing a review of cellular microstructures—from chapter sixteen. We covered it in December but a review is always a good idea after the break.” He pointed at a row of bookshelves between the two large windows. “You got your home copy already, right?”

  I nodded.

  “Great. Feel free to grab one for class but remember to put it back.” He sighed, “They’re not all so good about putting them back.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  I grabbed a book while a few more students filtered in, but the majority didn’t come until after the bell rang.

  Mr. Hill introduced me in class but, unlike every movie I’d seen about high school, he didn’t make me stand and say a few words. As part of the review, he did ask questions and, once, called on me. “What’s the purpose of the Golgi bodies?”

  I licked my lips. One of the things reading and movies had shown me was that kids don’t like a know-it-all. I tried to give a minimal answer. “It’s like a post office for the cell. It modifies, packages, and distributes macromolecules to be excreted or used inside the cell.”

  Mr. Hill smiled. “Exactly. What kind of macromolecules?”

  “Carbohydrates,” I said. “And proteoglycans.”

  He stared at me blankly and I thought I wasn’t being detailed enough. “And Golgi antiapoptotic protein.”

  He raised his eyebrows. “You had me at carbohydrates. What’s an antiapoptotic protein? That’s not in the textbook.”

  “It has some role in protecting the cell from apoptosis.”

  “Apoptosis is programmed cell death,” Mr. Hill added to the classroom at large. “I wasn’t aware of that protein. Where did you find that?”

  “On the internet,” I said.

  He raised his eyebrows and I added, “Public Library of Science. I forget the author.”

  They were all staring at me now, like I was an alien. “I can look it up.”

  He shook his head. “I’ll take a look for it.” Louder he said, “Pop quiz, ladies and germs. Shouldn’t be hard. We just went over the material.”

  I finished the sheet in three minutes but pretended to work at it until half the class had turned in theirs. When I went up to his desk to hand it in, Mr. Hill pointed to something on his screen. “Found it,” he said quietly. “Gubser, et al, in 2007. You learn something every day.”

  I blushed. “Sorry.”

  “I’m happy to learn new things. I’m more of a physical chemist by training—not so much cell biology.” He looked around and lowered his voice further, “Don’t be afraid to know the answer. Don’t be afraid to know more than the answer. Not in my class.”

  * * *

  In between periods I hit the bathroom, but my heart sunk when I saw the crowd of girls entering ahead of me. I doubted I’d have time to use the toilet before the next bell, but inside, the majority of them went straight to the mirrors and began working on their makeup or hair. Most of them stopped talking when they saw me. I smiled briefly and locked myself in the nearest stall.

  I couldn’t pee.

  It was weird. I knew they were out there and that they’d hear me and they’d laugh or look at me when I came out or say something. I needed to go. I just couldn’t.

  I gave up after a moment and flushed the toilet
.

  There were two other girls in precalculus and sixteen boys. The teacher, Ms. Hahn, moved one of the boys and put me in the front row, close to her desk.

  “I don’t mind sitting in the back,” I said.

  She pointed at the seat emphatically.

  I sat.

  Like Mr. Hill, she spent the class reviewing the preholiday material—in this case, logarithmic rules of exponents. During the review she asked me, “If I have the natural log of X over Y, how can I convert it to a nonfraction?”

  I glanced around, remembering the looks on my classmates’ faces in biology when I’d answered.

  Ms. Hahn snapped. “I’m asking you, not him.”

  I reddened. “It’s equivalent to the natural log of X minus the natural log of Y.”

  Ms. Hahn looked surprised. “Yes.”

  Later, after the bell rang, the older of the other two girls in class came up to me. “Hi. I’m Naomi—my mom was the Realtor on your house.”

  “Oh, you’re Grant’s sister.” She looked a bit like him.

  She grimaced. “Well, yeah.”

  We drifted into the hall. When we were away from the classroom door she said, “Ms. Hahn is, uh, complicated.”

  I raised my eyebrows.

  “She keeps pushing for girls to take higher math but once we do, she seems to think we’re only there for the boys. She’s moved me four times because she thinks I’m cheating off the boys.”

  “Why does she think that?”

  She laughed sourly. “Well, it couldn’t possibly be because I was helping them, could it?” She jerked her head at another classroom door. “I’m here. You need any help in math, let me know, okay?”

  “Thanks!” I felt ridiculously grateful. It wasn’t about the math, of course. It was about the offer itself.

  “Give me your cell number,” she said.

  “I don’t have one.”

  She looked at me, perplexed, like I’d said, “I don’t have a head.”

  Again I felt my ears go red. “Yet! We just moved here from out of the country and all.”

  “Oh. Okay. Write down mine, okay? And you can text yours to me when you get it.”

  * * *

  Lunch was an education, which is good, I guess. I mean school is supposed to be about education, right? But I never knew you could do that to chicken. Mom had warned me of the evils of institutional food, but told me to try it anyway. “You never know. This may be Le Cordon Bleu of school cafeterias.”