Counting by 7s(7)
The average teenager was willing to wear very uncomfortable attire.
From my observation, the older you get, the more you like the word cozy.
That’s why most of the elderly wear pants with elastic waistbands. If they wear pants at all. This may explain why grandparents are in love with buying grandkids pajamas and bathrobes.
The outfits worn by my fellow students were, in my opinion, either way too tight or way too loose.
Apparently having something that actually fits was not acceptable.
Haircuts and accessories were defining.
The color black was very popular.
Some of the students worked very hard to stand out.
Others put as much effort into blending in.
Music was some kind of religion.
It seemed to bring people together, and tear them apart. It identified a group, and apparently it prescribed ways to behave and react.
Interaction between the male species and the female species was varied and intense and highly unpredictable.
There was more touching than I thought there would be.
Some students had no inhibitions whatsoever.
No attention was paid to nutrition.
The word deodorant was not yet understood by over half of the boys.
And the word awesome was overused.
I was only 7 days into my latest educational misadventure when I walked into English class to find Mrs. Kleinsasser making an announcement: “This morning everyone will be taking a standardized test administered to all students in the state of California. On your desk you have a booklet and a number two pencil. Do not open the booklets until I give you instructions to do so.”
Mrs. Kleinsasser signaled that she was ready and she started a clock.
And suddenly I decided to pay attention.
I took the pencil and began filling in the ovals with the answers.
In 17 minutes and 47 seconds I got up from my seat and walked to the front of the room, where I handed the answer form and the booklet to the teacher.
I slipped out the door and I thought it was possible that I heard the whole classroom whispering.
I received a perfect score.
I headed into Mrs. Kleinsasser’s class a week later and she was waiting for me. She said: “Willow Chance. Principal Rudin needs to see you.”
My fellow middle schoolers buzzed at this news like pollen-soaked worker bees.
I went for the door, but at the last minute, I turned back.
It must have been obvious that I wanted to say something, because the room went quiet as I faced my classmates.
I found my voice and said:
“The human corpse flower has blossomed.”
I’m almost certain no one got it.
I took a seat in Principal Rudin’s office, which was much less impressive than I had hoped.
The anxious woman leaned on her desk, and her brow knitted into a strange pattern of angled, intersecting lines.
I felt certain that if I stared long enough, I would find a math theory in the woman’s forehead.
But the lines rearranged themselves before I could work out the dynamic, and the principal said: “Willow, do you know why you’re here?”
I made the decision not to answer, hoping that might cause the skin above her eyes to again knit up.
The administrator didn’t blink as she stared right at me.
“You cheated.”
I found myself answering:
“I didn’t cheat at anything.”
Principal Rudin exhaled.
“Your file shows that you were identified several years ago as having high aptitude. Your teachers report no evidence of that. No one in the state got a perfect test score.”
I could feel my face grow warm. I said:
“Really?”
But what I wanted to do was shout out:
“Your left elbow displays the fifth form of psoriasis—an erythrodermic condition characterized by intense redness in large patches. A course of 2.5% cortisone cream application combined with regulated exposure to sunlight—without sunburn, of course—would be my recommendation for relief.”
But I didn’t.
I had very little experience with authority. And zero experience as a practicing physician.
So I didn’t defend myself.
I just clammed up.
What followed was a one-sided 47-minute-long interrogation.
The principal, unable to prove the deception, but certain that it had happened, finally let me go.
But not before she put in a formal request for me to see a behavioral counselor at the district main offices.
That’s where the real problem kids were sent.
My counselor’s name was Dell Duke.
Chapter 5
dell duke
An ignoramus shoots at the wrong thing, and hits it.
Dell Duke could not believe that he had ended up in the sprawling agricultural community.
He had daydreamed bigger than this.
Delwood was his mother’s last name and he’d been saddled with it as a first name at birth. But thankfully, no one had ever called him Delwood.
He was Dell from the start.
While Dell hated his first name, he took some measure of pride in Duke.
Only a few relatives knew that two generations before, the name had been Doufinakas, but his Greek ancestor George, as far as Dell was concerned, had done the right thing.