“I like inhaler soup as much as the next guy,” Nussbaum said angrily. “But not when it interferes with my love life.”
“You don’t have a love life,” Noah pointed out helpfully.
Nussbaum was bitter. “Thanks to you.”
For all his brains, Noah didn’t pick up on their anger and impatience. He thought he was fitting in perfectly, and this was what regular school was like. Glasses down the toilet. Inhalers in the soup.
And that was how it was going—until the day the fire alarm went off.
The siren interrupted a social studies quiz, so it got a big cheer. We assumed it was a drill until we got out of the room to find the corridor filled with smoke. At that point, all our orderly filing turned into a mad scramble for the exit. My first whiff of the fumes nearly put me flat on the floor. It was rancid and spicy-sweet at the same time. What was on fire—the dumpster outside the cafeteria?
I was psyched. A nice unscheduled break from class and a little chaos besides. Chaos was kind of my specialty. It was usually pretty entertaining.
A flying figure came racing at me, knocking me into a bank of lockers. It was Sanderson, choking and gagging. Nussbaum was at his side, breathing into a paper towel.
“I quit!” Sanderson shouted over the clamor of the alarm. “It’s a lost cause!”
“What’s going on?” I demanded. “Where’s the smoke coming from?”
“Like you don’t know!” Nussbaum rasped.
“I don’t know!”
At that moment, an unmistakable voice cried, “That’s not just a soufflé—it’s next generation data analysis!”
The Home and Careers room emptied out in a flash, Noah in the lead. His white apron was black with soot, and his face hadn’t fared much better. His glasses were askew with one temple tangled in his hairnet as he ran down the hall, followed by an angry mob of classmates.
He slipped behind the three of us as his pursuers lost him in the smoke and thundered out the nearest exit.
It looked like the fun was ending already. “Jeez, Noah, what did you do?”
“Oh,” said Noah, as if surprised at being asked, “my program can sift through thousands of terabytes of information—”
Nussbaum was furious. “That’s not terabytes I smell—it’s sewer gas!”
“I devised an artificially intelligent program to scan every recipe on the internet to make a soufflé no one’s ever made before.”
“I wonder why!” Sanderson raged. “Because it explodes, maybe?”
“It didn’t explode,” said Noah with dignity. “It’s just on fire. And,” he added, dejected, “it fell.”
Nussbaum faced me. “Sorry, Donovan, but you’re on your own from now on. Yesterday somebody wrote ‘loser’ on my locker in Wite-Out. It means I’m getting blamed for him.”
“That’s totally unfair,” Noah complained. “I have a C average.”
Sanderson addressed Noah. “Sorry, kid. It’s nothing personal. You were okay at the Academy for Scholastic Dorkstinction, but around here, you’re a drag on our image. We can’t help you anymore.”
They headed out the door, bringing up the rear of Noah’s cooking class.
Noah seemed bewildered. “What’s that supposed to mean? I don’t need help. I’m doing amazing. Do you realize how much room for improvement this leaves?”
A platoon of uniformed firefighters swarmed past us in the direction of the Home and Careers room.
I sighed. “I’ll give you that, Noah. There’s definitely room for improvement.”
Noah glowed.
2
SUPERSTOKED
NOAH YOUKILIS
I used to go to the Academy for Scholastic Distinction, the top-rated gifted school in the state. According to Oz, my former homeroom teacher, I had the highest IQ any of the faculty had ever come across. They held weekly staff meetings on how to keep me stimulated and challenged. They even sent a group of teachers to a conference in Switzerland on how to motivate students at the highest rung of the intelligence ladder.
I was bored out of my mind.
I once saw this video on YouTube where a kid was complaining about a classmate being a know-it-all, and I was amazed at how insensitive that was. It’s no fun to be a know-it-all, because you know it all. You can never be surprised or shocked or scared or thrilled. Because whatever happens, you already saw it coming. Know-it-alls shouldn’t annoy people; everybody should feel sorry for us and relieved they don’t have this problem.
My teachers at the Academy threw the hardest stuff in the world at me, and I threw it right back at them. And none of it challenged me as much as one soufflé in Home and Careers at regular school.
My project was a triumph of data mining, distilling centuries of recipes into a list of ingredients no single chef could have come up with—things like cardamom and quail eggs, camel’s milk and finely ground roasted durian seed. Scientifically, this should have been the most magnificent soufflé in the history of cooking. Instead, it burned like chlorine trifluoride, a key ingredient in rocket fuel. The fire chief commented that he hadn’t smelled anything like that since the great fertilizer factory explosion of 2006.
My teacher, Mrs. Vezina, said, “You must be very disappointed, Noah.”
How could I ever explain it to her? I wasn’t disappointed; I was stoked! If I was bad at one thing, logic dictated that I could be bad at other things too. It was like discovering a whole new world.
There was an old song from the 1960s called “Be True to Your School” that always perplexed me. Why would anyone form a sentimental attachment to a building? There was nothing to be true to except bricks and mortar and glass and a few dozen other materials. But now I was starting to feel real affection for Hardcastle Middle School. It had to be the greatest school in the history of education. It was teaching me how to learn, when, before that, I didn’t need to because I already knew it all.
Some days, the learning started even before I arrived at school. Like this morning, I was on the bus, when, at the stop after mine, this big guy got on, lumbered down to me, and said, “Hey, kid. This seat’s taken.”
“Of course it’s taken,” I agreed. “I’m sitting in it. But there’s a vacant seat next to me. Feel free to use it.”
“Beat it, nerd!” He picked me up by the collar and tossed me across the aisle. A moment later, my book bag slammed into my chest.
I was about to protest the rough treatment when I realized something: In my old seat, the window was open, and it was quite chilly outside. It wasn’t a problem for him. He was a bigger, hardier person. So he wasn’t being mean. He was doing me a favor.
When we were getting off the bus at school, I thanked him for his thoughtfulness. He stared at me and then looked up at the sky. So it was about the weather, as I’d suspected.
The social world at real school could be tricky to navigate. But the people were really nice, if only you took the time to understand them.
I still went to the Academy part-time. Donovan and I traveled together by minibus for robotics. But I wasn’t that into it. Heavy Metal was a good robot, but any machine was, by definition, predictable. Every line of code in its computer software could be broken down; its hydraulic, pneumatic, and mechanical systems could be analyzed and understood. Any operation that didn’t go exactly according to design could be traced to a specific malfunction—one that could be corrected and repaired. It was the opposite of YouTube, where, if you clicked on a video, you might get a kid on a pogo stick or a rocket launch at Cape Canaveral or some guy playing the piccolo with his nose or anything at all.
The best part of Heavy Metal was on the lower portion of the main body, just below the left lifting arm. I put it there myself. It was a picture of Tina Patterson taken at the hospital when she was only three hours old. Normally, Donovan was in charge of decorating our robot with images downloaded from the internet. So far, he had the flag of Namibia, an image of Abraham Lincoln with shades on, and a small poster that said: PANDAS ARE PE
OPLE TOO. But my picture was better because nothing about Tina could ever be bad. And not even YouTube was as unpredictable as baby Tina. You never knew in advance if she was going to smile, scream, pass gas, gurgle, or spit up all over you. No one could be a know-it-all about Tina, not even me. She was a universal mystery, but that was okay. Whatever she did do, it was fine because her mom let me hold her. A lot.
In a way, Hardcastle Middle School was just as unpredictable as Tina, which was why I liked it so much. It was a lot more crowded than the Academy, so the hallways were chaotic, especially for a short person like me. That was another example of how the Academy, which was supposed to be so challenging, was much easier than here. Just getting from room to room without being elbowed, stepped on, or slammed into a wall was a learning experience. Sometimes Donovan or one of those two guys named Daniel would walk with me. That was something else I never had before—friends.
My favorite class—one that the Academy didn’t offer—was gym. Of all the subjects where I had room for improvement, it was number one—even more than cooking. All phys ed classes were held in the old cafeteria, since the gymnasium we shared with Hardcastle High was being renovated after part of a broken statue bowled into it.
Gym had to be the happiest class in the whole school, always ringing with laughter—mostly when I tried to perform some physical skill. Except Donovan, come to think of it. He was always arguing with one of the guys or jumping in front of me, especially when we played dodgeball. Donovan was a terrible dodgeball player. He was constantly getting hit. Even when he’d already been eliminated, he would hurl himself between the ball and me, getting yelled at by players and earning lots of detentions from Coach Franco.
“You know, Donovan,” I advised, trying to give back some of the loyalty and support I’d received from him since arriving here, “you really ought to chill out.” That was one of his expressions. “And maybe you should practice dodgeball skills in your spare time. You’re black-and-blue. Look at me. I didn’t get hit once.”
He clenched and unclenched his fists, which didn’t seem like chilling out as I understood the term. Or maybe he was focusing on searching for my pants, which was kind of a gym class tradition. Whoever was picked last when we chose up teams got his pants hidden. I was really looking forward to the time when I could be in on the hiding part and not the finding at the end.
People were definitely different here compared to the Academy kids—louder, rougher, sometimes meaner. But I preferred it. People lived their lives here, instead of obsessing over grades or prizes or internships or getting into Stanford or Yale. You heard the phrase “Who cares?” at least fifty times a day. And a lot of those “Who cares?” kids had better grades than I did. What a thrill that was.
I was getting so good at mediocre academic performance that I was called to see Mrs. Ibrahimovic, my guidance counselor. She launched into a speech about how I had to try harder and attend extra help sessions because I was on the verge of failing some of my classes.
I got so emotional that I teared up. In my wildest dreams I never could have hoped that I, Noah Youkilis, would one day be in danger of flunking a subject.
“There’s no need to cry,” Mrs. Ibrahimovic said quickly. “There’s still plenty of time before the end of the year. Don’t give up hope.”
I nodded, but I was still too emotional to manage any words.
“It’s going to be all right,” she soothed. “We’ll get you the support you need. Let me take a look at the transcripts from your last school.” She sifted through my folder and frowned at my records from the Academy, which told of my 206 IQ, my 100-percent average, and the scholarship offer I received from Princeton on my tenth birthday. “Well, this can’t be right,” she concluded, and put the file away. “Now listen, Noah, there’s nothing to be so upset about. We’ll put together a personalized study plan for you, and maybe consider some remedial classes.”
I walked out of that office feeling ten feet tall.
Humming “Be True to Your School” under my breath, I paused in front of the big bulletin board outside guidance. What an awesome place this was! At the Academy, there wasn’t a single extracurricular activity that I wouldn’t automatically have been number one at. Everything was different here. There was a golf team, a group that made quilts for residents of the local assisted living home, kids who volunteered at the animal shelter, a synchronized swimming club, rock climbers, coin collectors, a bluegrass band—it went on and on.
Giddy from my meeting with Mrs. Ibrahimovic, I felt an urge to join absolutely everything. But that was impossible. There weren’t enough hours in the day.
My eyes fell on the very last poster on the board.
CALLING ALL DANCERS
THE LACROSSE TEAM NEEDS CHEERLEADERS
CAN YOU BUST A MOVE AND RAISE THE ROOF?
SCHOOL SPIRIT! EXERCISE! FUN!
SUPPORT OUR HARDCASTLE HORNETS
SIGN UP HERE
As soon as I saw it, I knew it was tailor-made for me. It was the words school spirit that put it over the top. Be true to your school. That’s what I wanted to do—show this fantastic institution of learning how grateful I was for the opportunities it was giving me. And what better way to do that than by pledging my body and heart to supporting one of the sports teams.
As I signed my name on the dotted line, I’d never felt better about anything in my life.
Head held high, I started for the computer lab in the library. I didn’t know anything about being a cheerleader, but I was sure there was a lot about it on YouTube.
In the hall, I passed Donovan.
“Hi, Noah,” he said absently. Then he wheeled and grabbed my arm from behind. “Wait a minute—I don’t like that look on your face. What are you up to?”
“I thought this year couldn’t get any better,” I told him. “How wrong a guy can be.”
3
SUPERCHEERFUL
MEGAN MERCURY
Two, four, six, eight, who do we appreciate? The seasons!
Not fall, winter, spring, and summer. I meant football season, basketball season, and lacrosse season. The reason I left out soccer, wrestling, and baseball is that none of those sports had cheerleaders.
I was the head cheerleader of the Hardcastle squad—the only girl in school history ever to earn that position as a sixth grader and hold on to it for all three years. I wrote our cheers. I choreographed our routines. And when someone had to do a flip off the top of our human pyramid, that was me too.
I loved cheerleading because it was so positive. You cheer for something, not against it. We were even positive toward the opponents we were grinding into hamburger. Our squad always had a “Good effort!” or “We’re proud of you, too!” I made sure of that.
I was in charge of everything, including recruiting. It was easy to fill out the squad for football season. Who didn’t want to be a football cheerleader? It dropped off a little for basketball. But the season I really had to hold my breath for was lacrosse. It was an amazing sport, but it just didn’t get the kind of buzz the others did. And I had to admit the guys could look pretty strange with all that bulky padding up top and skinny bare legs sticking out on the bottom.
We had a great team, though. We went all the way to regional finals last year, and this year the guys were confident they could make it to state. They deserved our support. They deserved the best cheerleading squad our school could put together.
So I was relieved when I approached the guidance office and saw that the sign-up sheet was at least half full.
Way to go, ladies!
Hash Taggart, our star midfielder, was standing at the bulletin board, checking out the names.
I flashed him thumbs-up and he responded with a confused expression.
“The squad,” I said by way of explanation. “We must have at least nine or ten girls.”
“Yeah, but who’s”—Hashtag pointed to the last name on the list—“Noah Youkilis?”
I frowned. “Never heard of h
er. Maybe she’s new.”
“Isn’t Noah a boy’s name?”
“Not always,” I replied. “I went to camp with a girl named Noah. But come to think of it, she spelled it without the H. I’ll ask around. Somebody must know her.”
I turned out to be wrong about that. Nobody knew a girl named Noah Youkilis. I asked all the other cheerleaders on the sheet and came up empty. Whoever she was, she didn’t sign up with one of them.
I widened my search. There were nine hundred kids at our school, but I was pretty connected. If the head cheerleader wasn’t at the center of things, who would be?
Hashtag was asking too, and he knew everybody. Or so I thought. He reported back to me: None of the guys had gone out with a girl named Noah. She wasn’t anybody’s kid sister. We were beginning to think that someone had put that name on the sign-up sheet as a hoax.
I began mentally choreographing routines for a nine-person squad, confident that the tenth name on our list was a ghost. And then one day, Daniel Nussbaum approached me, a goofy grin on his face.
“I hear you’re looking for Noah Youkilis.”
This wasn’t a cheer-positive thought, but you didn’t stay popular for three years by hanging out with the likes of Daniel Nussbaum. Still, I was sucked in by the possibility that the Youkilis mystery might have an actual solution. “You know her?”
The grin widened. “Yes and no. Follow me.”
He led me to the old cafeteria, which we were using as a makeshift gym until the real gym was ready again. Coach Franco had set up an obstacle course, and there were kids all around the big room, tackling different athletic challenges.
Daniel elbowed me in the side and nodded in the direction of the vaulting horse, the first station in the course. This skinny, round-shouldered kid I didn’t recognize burst over the starting tape, hit the springboard, and launched himself into the air. He got about an inch and a half off the floor and slammed face-first into the obstacle. He tried two more times before the coach took pity on the poor guy and boosted him to the top. But as he was crawling across it, he over-balanced and slid down the side to the mat.