We Are All Made of Molecules (4 page)

I WAS SITTING IN
my room and kind of regretting that I'd run upstairs and slammed the door. Now I could hardly go back down and watch
America's Next Top Model
, which is only my favorite show of the week. If I did, it would be sending a message that I had cooled down, and I had not.

So I wasn't surprised when Mom knocked a few minutes later. I'd been pretty sure she would. Before I answered I dashed into my bathroom and dabbed my face with water to make it look like I'd been crying. Then I flung open the door.

But it wasn't Mom. It was Leonard.

“Hey, Ashley,” he said, his voice all tight and nervous.
“I asked your mom if I could come up and talk to you. I just wanted to say I know this must be really hard on you, and I realize it's going to take time for us to get to know each other. But if you ever need to talk—”

For the second time in one night I slammed my door.

WHEN I WAS FOUR
years old, I asked my parents one morning over breakfast, “What does
convicted of road rage
mean?”

Dad almost choked on his oatmeal. He showed Mom a headline on the newspaper he was reading:
MAN CONVICTED OF ROAD RAGE
.

On my fifth birthday, my parents gave me a Lego police car. They watched as I built it without using the instructions. When I was six, I could add up columns of numbers just by looking at them. I liked to take Mom's grocery bills, fold over the total on each so I couldn't see it, and then add the items up in my head.

When I was seven, Mom took me to see a nice lady who did a whole pile of tests. She told my parents I was gifted.

My parents shared what she'd said, and I got very excited for a moment because I honestly thought being gifted involved getting gifts.

“The gift is your mind,” my mom told me, which was a huge letdown at first. Still, my parents, Mom especially, seemed pretty pleased. Possibly even relieved. I think it explained a lot. Because being gifted can also mean that you excel in some areas while you stink in others. In my case, even though I scored well above average in intellectual skills, I scored well
below
average in social skills.

And this made a lot of sense.

Because socially speaking, I wasn't doing well at school. I didn't have many friends. The only birthday parties I went to were the ones where the whole class was invited. Looking back, I can see I wasn't being stimulated enough, and when I got bored, I would start to bark like a dog, or crawl under the desks, or eat chalk. (By the way, chalk tastes exactly like you would expect it to: chalky.)

So I already had a reputation as a weirdo, and it only got worse when Freddy Nguyen discovered my secret. Except I didn't know it should be a secret until it was too late.

We always had to go to the bathroom in pairs, and Freddy was partnered up with me one day. I thought I'd locked the stall door, but I clearly hadn't, because suddenly the door swung open and Freddy was staring at me, puzzled. “Is that a
diaper
?”

I didn't feel embarrassed. After all, there was a perfectly rational, scientific reason. “I have an immature bladder. It means my bladder doesn't always signal when I need to go. It's because I was a preemie. I was born six weeks early. The doctor says I'll grow out of it.”

The next day, every single kid in my second-grade class started calling me “Poo-art.” Not only was it hurtful, it was inaccurate. An immature bladder has nothing to do with excrement. “Poo comes from the colon, not the bladder,” I tried to explain to them. “My colon isn't immature!” Those details—even though they were grounded in biological fact—did not seem to matter.

Mom knew I wasn't fitting in very well, and now, armed with my test results, she had the ammunition she needed. She got me into a smaller school that was specifically designed for gifted kids and went all the way up to twelfth grade.

I loved it. I had friends there, like Alistair, who couldn't care less about my immature bladder (which I outgrew a long time ago, thank you very much).

So when we moved away from North Vancouver only six weeks after the school year started, I had a big decision to make: Stay at Little Genius Academy and commute at least two hours every day, or take the plunge and go to the local high school.

Dad told me he would support my decision, no matter what.

About a week before we moved, I said to him over a mac-and-cheese supper, “I think it's time for me to work on my
un
gifted parts.”

“What do you mean?”

“The world's a big place. I'm going to have to get along with all sorts of different people, not just people who are more or less like me. So I think I'll try the regular high school.”

My dad put down his fork. His eyes watered a little.
“Stewart,” he said, “that takes a lot of courage. Your mom would be proud.”

“Yes,” I replied. “I think she would.”

You see, my mom believed that every single person can improve him- or herself. So even though the scientific part of my brain tells me she probably isn't looking down on me from heaven, and that all that is left of her are random molecules, I feel a deep need to do this
for her
. After all, she helped me find a place where I was accepted and where I could thrive. She gave me that solid base. And now that I have it, maybe I need to build on it, and work on the stuff that doesn't come so easily to me. I've even made a list:

TO DO AT NEW SCHOOL

1) Join at least one club. Get involved!

2) Talk to people. Be bold. Make the first move.

3) Read the paper so you can be up on your current events and have interesting things to talk about.

4) Work on your repertoire of jokes—nothing breaks the ice like a good joke.

5) Smile.

6) Try not to make those grunting sounds you've been told you make when you get bored or stressed.

7) Don't get discouraged if following the first six rules doesn't yield big results right away.

I reread my list this morning as I ran a comb through my hair and slapped on an extra layer of deodorant. I held on to a sliver of hope that Ashley might walk to school with me, maybe even introduce me to some of her friends. But when I got downstairs, Caroline said, “Sorry, Stewart. Ashley's already left.” Both she and Dad were dressed for work and drinking coffee.

“Thank goodness,” my dad said, “because
I
really wanted to walk with you, and now I can!”

It is for reasons like this that I love my dad.

“You look handsome today,” Caroline said as she handed me a glass of orange juice. I was wearing jeans and a white button-up shirt and a tie with yellow smiley faces on it, because I hoped it might make me look approachable.

“Thank you.”

The microwave dinged and Caroline took out a bowl of porridge. She put it in front of me with a wink. “A little bird told me this was your favorite breakfast.”

I didn't have the heart to tell her that my mom always made her porridge from scratch, that she would never have used instant. I just smiled and ate.

Then Dad walked with me to Borden Secondary, which is only five blocks from our new house. We had driven past a couple of times, so I knew it was ten times bigger than Little Genius Academy, but when we arrived on foot, my bowels twisted into knots.

“I need to go back home,” I said to Dad. “It's urgent.”

Dad understood then, because I never poop in public bathrooms. It is just one of those things I am particular about. So we walked back home at a good clip.

“Back already?” asked Caroline as I tore up the stairs, clutching my stomach. I have never been so grateful for my own bathroom.

Luckily, we'd given ourselves a lot of time, so we were still at school well before the first bell rang. Dad came in with me because we had an appointment with the school counselor. Over the entrance, engraved in the stone, were the words
BORDEN SECONDARY SCHOOL, EST. 1927
.

The first thing I noticed when we walked through the front doors was the noise. The halls were filled with teenagers, and most of them towered over me. The second thing I noticed was the aroma. It smelled like a mixture of BO and French fries. I cannot tell a lie. I felt terrified.

We found the counselor's office. Her name is Ms. Woodbridge, but she insisted we call her Sylvia. She has a nice smile and very red lipstick. She had seen my school records from Little Genius Academy.

“Based on your academic performance, I've bumped you into ninth-grade courses, to keep you intellectually stimulated,” she said. “Unfortunately, it means I've had to put you into ninth-grade phys ed as well because it's the only way I could make the schedule work.”

“That's okay,” I said.

It was a quick meeting; I got the sense she was a very busy lady. “If you have any problems, or if you just need to talk,” she said as she led us back out into the hallway, “my door is always open.”

Then she went back inside and closed the door, which I found kind of ironic.

“Do you want me to walk you to your first class?” Dad
asked. Even though he was using his cheerful voice, I could see the little creases of worry in his forehead.

“No, I'm okay.” I looked at my schedule. “It should be just down the hall.”

“Call me at work when you get home,” he said. “I want to hear all about your first day.”

“I will.” I shook his hand. Then I started the long walk down the corridor toward Room 203. When I reached the door, I looked back. Dad was still standing there. I gave him a little wave. Then I took a deep breath and walked into the room.

At Little Genius Academy, we never had more than twenty students per class. I did a quick tally and counted thirty-three kids.

One of them was Ashley.

WHEN I SAW THE
midget freakazoid walk into my classroom, I honestly thought he was lost. I was at my desk and Lauren was sitting beside me, telling me about her weekend.

“So Claudia texted Amira, then Amira texted Lindsay, who texted Yoko, who texted me, and we all met up downtown on Saturday night to see a movie.”

“How come you didn't text
me
?” I asked.

She got all shifty-eyed. “Oh. Well. I thought you'd be busy. With your new, you know, brother.” She gave me a smug little grin.

“Lauren, if you call him my brother one more time, I'll tell everyone you stuff your bra.”

That wiped the smile off her face.

Claudia described Lauren best when she said to me last
year, “Lauren is like the poor man's version of you.” I didn't understand what she meant, till she continued. “You know, not quite as pretty, not quite as well-dressed, not quite as popular.”

If I am being totally one hundred percent honest, I would have to say that Claudia hit the snail on the head. My eyes are set perfectly apart; Lauren's are set just a tad too close together. Mine are a piercing blue; hers are mud-brown. My lips are naturally plump; hers are thin. Even though we both have long hair, mine is luxuriant and thick and chestnut brown, while hers is sandy and fine with split ends. I'm just a little bit taller, and a little bit thinner, so clothes hang better on me. Which is fair, since I'm the true
fashionista
—Lauren just buys what I buy (but never in the same color, because I totally forbid it).

It's these small differences that have made her such a good best friend over the years. First of all, she thinks I'm awesome. She always agrees with me. And from my perspective, being around her always makes me feel good about myself, because I'm always just a little bit better than her.

But lately, she's been testing our friendship. Talking back a bit more. Saying things that are kind of mean.

“Well, sure,” Claudia said when I mentioned this to her one day at our lockers. “You're like Dr. Frankenstein. You made her in your image. And we all know how that story ends.”

Actually, I had no idea. Books have never been my favorite.

“The creature becomes a murderous monster and ruins Dr. Frankenstein's life,” Claudia said when she saw the blank look on my face.

“I hardly think Lauren's going to murder anyone,” I told her. Claudia can be very dramatic.

“God, you're literal,” she replied.

“Not really,” I said. “I don't even like reading.”

“Not
literate. Literal
,” she said, rolling her eyes.

That's another reason why I can only be off-and-on friends with Claudia. Half the time she says the smartest things. And half the time I have no idea what she's talking about.

—

“GUESS WHO WAS THERE?”
Lauren said as the class started to fill up with kids.

My mind was drifting a bit as I checked out some of my classmates. I counted three cases of bedhead, one stained shirt, and two severe cases of eye snot.
Honestly, am I the only one who puts any time into personal grooming in the mornings?
I thought. Out loud, I said, “Who?”

“Guess.”

Lauren loves to do this. It makes me crazy. “No.”

“Jared!”

I tried really, really hard not to react. But it wasn't easy. Jared is only the hottest guy at our school. He transferred from St. Patrick's, a private school, this year. Rumor has it he was kicked out, which makes him even more intriguing; according to this article I read in one of my magazines, women like a hint of mystery and possibly danger in their men. Jared's athletic and tall and broad-shouldered and gorgeous, with wavy black hair and brooding brown eyes. And also, unlike most of the kids at this school, he cares about
his appearance. He smiles at me when we pass each other in the halls, but I can't tell if it's a casual smile, as in “I smile at everyone,” or a more serious smile, as in “I'd like to get to know you better.”

I tried to sound uninterested when I said, “Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah, and he was with some of his friends from his old school, and we all wound up seeing the same movie. And guess what, he sat right behind me and he kept blowing into my hair with his straw.” She giggled.

“I hope you didn't giggle like that when he did it,” I replied with an air of concern. “We've talked about your giggle. It can make you sound awfully needy.”

Lauren's face fell. And for a fraction of a second, I felt better than I had all morning.

But then I heard that voice. “Hi, Ashley,” it said, and when I looked up, I saw the nerd-bot in the doorway of
my
English class. And he started to make a beeline toward
me
. In a smiley-face tie!! Cue the horror movie music!!

I shot up from my desk and intercepted him. “What are you doing in here? This is ninth-grade English!”

“They bumped me up a year because I'm gifted.”

Oh. My. GOD!

My head was spinning.
This cannot be happening. This is a bad dream and I'm about to wake up
. “Get away from me,” I whispered. “Now.”

He started blinking a lot. His face went all splotchy and red. Then he scurried to the other side of the room.

I walked back to my desk. Lauren's eyes were wide. “No way,” she said. “Nowaynowaynowaynoway. Is that
him
?”

“Shut up, Lauren.”

And she did.

But I knew her silence wouldn't last. I knew word would leak out by lunchtime that this hideous creature was living in my house. And I knew who would be responsible for the leak.

But I also knew that by lunchtime, everyone would
also
know that the person responsible for the leak—the person who claims to be a 34C—is really a 32AA.