Ungifted (12 page)

He was wonderful. But was he gifted?

I wanted to believe it. I tried
so hard
. Yet in my heart of hearts, I knew the answer.

Back to the matter at hand: What to wear? The only guidelines from the school stated that attire couldn't be “inappropriate.” That meant no T-shirts with bad language, torn jeans, or miniskirts that could double as headbands. One look in my closet told me that my entire wardrobe was inappropriate. There was nothing that would get me in trouble with the teachers, but everything was so drab. My shirts were all plaid, which doesn't exactly scream party, unless there's a lumberjack theme.

I finally settled on the dress I had worn to my aunt Julie's wedding. It was definitely over the top for a school dance, so I made it more casual by adding a plain black cardigan. I considered wearing sneakers instead of the fancy shoes that went with the outfit, but I couldn't tell if the combination would be funky or just plain stupid. I went to the Academy for Scholastic Distinction, not the one for Fashion Sense.

Makeup was the next hurdle. I thought back to those girls in the mall—the ones hanging out with Donovan and the two boys named Daniel. They'd been wearing tons of makeup. It looked great on them, but if I tried it, for sure I'd paint myself up like Bozo the clown. In the end, I opted for light mascara and a hint of blush—my complexion can be a little pale from too much time in the library.

“You look beautiful!” my dad declared emotionally.

<<
Hypothesis: The compliment loses credibility in direct proportion to how closely related you are to the speaker
.>>

We headed for school. There was a traffic jam on the circular drive. Kids were swarming from all directions, alone and in groups, arriving by car, bike, skateboard, scooter, and on foot. The Academy was small, but Hardcastle Middle had nine hundred students, and it looked like this was going to be a huge turnout. I felt a renewed buzz of excitement, followed by a severe bout of anxiety. By the time we got to the front door, I already knew that my outfit was totally wrong. Most of the girls were wearing either jeans or short skirts, with sneakers or sandals despite the cold weather.

In the end, though, nothing could overpower my exhilaration. Now, barely a few months shy of eighth-grade graduation, I was attending my first middle school dance. I finally had an answer for all those people who said, “Get a life.” I was getting one.

Amazingly, I made it into the gym attracting only a few strange looks, so I guess I wasn't as overdressed as I'd feared. The place was about a third full, and kids were pouring in, chattering happily, ready for a good time. The decorations caught the eye first. I don't want to be unkind, but they were really lame—hearts and cupids, lots of streamers, pink, red, and silver everywhere. Hardcastle had done the whole setup—if they'd put us in charge of it, I'm sure we could have come up with something a little more creative. But maybe that was the point.

<<
Hypothesis: Not everything needs to be measured by gifted standards
.>>

Tonight was supposed to be about kicking back and cutting loose a little. Too bad I was doing it in a dorky party dress.

The music was loud—really loud. Feel-it-in-your-molars loud. People were already dancing. Another problem: I didn't know how to do
that
either—not the way they were doing it, anyway.

<<
Hypothesis: The scientific method applies to everything, dancing included
.>>

In other words, if I studied it hard enough, I could catch up.

I only saw a few kids from the Academy, mostly because they seemed to be hiding. They lurked in corners, or in the shadow of the deejay booth. The way they goggled at our guests, you'd think we'd been invaded by Huns who were presently sacking the school. The Hardcastle kids were brasher than us, wilder, and more confident. The boys were a lot more physical—at any given time, 40 percent of them were engaged in shoving one another. And they outnumbered us ten-to-one.

I spotted Oz right away. He wasn't with the other chaperones. He circulated among his own students, urging them to mingle. He would have had a better chance getting Abigail to impale herself on a fence post. I caught her attention, and she gave me a beseeching look—the kind you turn on the helicopter pilot who's coming to save you from drowning. Trying to set a positive example of the sort of hosts Oz expected us to be, I turned to the boy standing next to me and said, “Great turnout. Are all the Hardcastle parties this crowded?”

He didn't hear me. The pounding beat was so loud that my words died less than an inch from my lips. I repeated it, shouting this time.

He shot me a smirk and I leaned in to catch his reply.

“You getting married in that dress?”

And before I could answer, he was yanked away through the crowd by a group of friends.

“Hi, Chloe!”

The voice wasn't any louder than mine, but its piercing quality cut through the music like a fire siren.

If I was worried about being improperly dressed, Noah took all that pressure onto his slender shoulders. His outfit defied description, but in the gifted program we're encouraged to try. He was shirtless, his upper body covered only by a sparkling sequined vest. His pants were black tights, which made his skinny legs even skinnier. You couldn't see much of them, though, because he had on knee-high red leather boots that must have weighed thirty pounds each. It was a miracle he could even walk. Mirrored sunglasses concealed his eyes, and his unstylish brush cut was covered with a red do-rag.

I was horrified. “Noah, what are you wearing?”

“I borrowed the boots and the vest from my mom,” he enthused. “When the Angel of Death fought Kid Nitro at the Royal Rumble, this is just like what he wore.”

“Yeah, but this is a dance, not a wrestling match.”

He shrugged. “Oz said we had to dress up.”

I had no answer to that. But I sure wanted to be there when Oz got a gander at what Noah thought “dress up” looked like.

<<
Hypothesis: As a space fills with people, the air inside warms, approaching 98.6 degrees Fahrenheit, the body temperature of the crowd
.>>

I began to regret my cardigan. I was going to be sweaty, not just overdressed. It was getting really packed, to the point where glimpses of the floor were rare.

Lost in the wall-to-wall students, I was no longer able to survey the entire party. Instead, I'd catch the occasional familiar face amid the forest of heads and shoulders. I located Latrell by the back wall—it seemed like Oz was working on him to ask someone to dance. Kevin and Jacey were hanging together for mutual support in this alien environment. I thought I saw Donovan once, but it turned out to be somebody else. Maybe he wasn't going to show up.

All my nervousness returned in any icy wave. There was something isolating about being smothered by strangers, even in a familiar setting like your own school gym.

As the crush tightened around me, I felt myself swept along with the movement of the crowd. I was afraid at first, until I recognized the strange combination of motions that pushed me back and forth.

Dancing! As far as I could see in every direction, bodies gyrated, heads were thrown back, hands swayed through the air. I tried to bulldoze my way out of the group, but flailing arms and swinging hips jostled me. I kept stumbling—but there was more to it than that. I was stumbling
in perfect time to the music!

I raised my hands and moved my feet, following the pounding bass.

<<
Hypothesis: Intentional or not, movement to a beat = dancing
.>>

I risked a furtive glance at my neighbors. No
What-do-you-think-you're-doing?
glares; no gathering lynch mob. I cranked up the energy level, rollicking at light speed.

I—Chloe Garfinkle of the Academy for Scholastic Distinction—was one of the crowd, letting it all hang out at a major middle school bash.

This was the greatest night of my life!

T
his was the worst night of my life.

Bad enough to be banished to the Island of Misfit Toys without having everybody you know come and visit you there. I'd have given anything to take a pass on this dance. I'd even offered to do an extra-credit project for Oz. He'd just regarded me sadly, as if to say, what could I possibly deliver that would be good enough? Showing up was the only thing I could do every bit as well as Abigail or Noah.

Speaking of Noah, he looked like—holy hamburgers, what
did
he look like? It was almost comforting that I had no idea. If I understood his getup, it might have meant part of me was inside that bizarro world.

I saw the smirks and overheard some of the nasty remarks directed toward kids like Noah and Abigail, who was dressed for the National Spelling Bee. Or Latrell, who had asked at least half a dozen girls to dance, and had been shot down by all of them. If Oz thought this would be confidence building, he was nuts!

“Pa-a-arty!!!”

It wasn't easy to drown out the sound system, but Sanderson bellowed it right in my ear.

Nussbaum was beside him. It was a bad omen. “What a night, huh, Donovan? Lot of hotties in this crowd! Her, for instance.”

I followed his pointing finger, expecting to see Heather or Deirdre. No, it was Abigail in the crosshairs. Oz had her dancing, which she was accomplishing with two locked knee joints. I've seen heads of lettuce with more rhythm. She moved like a stilt walker. The things some people do for their straight A's!

“Cut it out,” I growled.

“This party rocks!” Sanderson declared. “You can feel the brainpower buzzing around like radio waves. I'm getting smarter just standing here.”

“That's not how it works,” Nussbaum scoffed. “The higher up you wear your belt, that's your genius level. If I buckle mine around my forehead, do you think I could go to school here just like the great Donovan Curtis?”

I groaned. “Hilarious, guys. Now, go find—”

My voice trailed off. Mr. Osborne had left Abigail, and was venturing on in search of somebody else to annoy. Now the Daniels were pushing through the crowd, heading right for her.

“Come back here!” Who was I kidding? I'd never make myself heard over the music. And if they did hear me, would they listen? Fat chance.

There were only two Daniels, yet they seemed to swarm Abigail, surrounding her, smiling, being charming, all the while smirking and rolling their eyes. Their audience was everybody—the Hardcastle kids, anyway. The Daniels got her dancing again, comically stiff-legged.

I should have been laughing myself. What did I care about Abigail Lee? The girl hated me, and I wasn't too fond of her, either. But the whole attitude—the idea that the gifted kids were here for the entertainment of the cool people—made me sick. It was bad enough now, with Abigail treating the Daniels like muggers. But if they managed to win her over, convince her that they liked her—
that
would be major-league humiliation.

I blasted through the gathering crowd, outflanked the Daniels, and grabbed Abigail's wrist with a grip that must have hurt at least a little. I don't even know what I said. Something like, “You're dancing with
me
now.”

If she viewed the Daniels as muggers, the look she gave me was Voldemort-worthy. I didn't care. She had to be saved, undeserving as she was.

Nussbaum got in my face. “What's your problem, Donovan?”

“She's in my homeroom,” I replied through clenched teeth. “I get first dibs.”

“Manners, dude! We're guests!”

Abigail was watching all this through her thick round glasses, her uncomfortable expression turning to bewilderment. She was brilliant, but all the IQ points in the world wouldn't help her in a situation like this. It must have seemed like three guys fighting over her—something I guarantee had never happened before. Not on this planet.

She tried to sidestep me and return to the Daniels. Talk about a blow to your self-esteem—I was being
dumped
by Abigail! That had to be an all-time low! I stuck with the plan, though, taking her hand and twirling her around—a maneuver she executed with the grace of someone who was being handcuffed by police.