Hypergifted, p.9
Hypergifted, page 9
I exchanged mumbled greetings with Noah, who was doing homework on his laptop, and let myself into the bathroom to check on our houseguest. The smell level was a little high, so I knew Noah must have been lost in thought on some project. Normally, he was pretty good about showering her off a couple of times while I was at work.
And then I saw it.
As usual, Porquette lay on her side in the tub, grunting quietly and nibbling at a few stray lettuce leaves. On the vast expanse of her flank someone had drawn a sweeping spiral shape in thick black Magic Marker.
“Noah! Noah, get in here!”
A second later, Noah was at my side. “What is it?”
“That’s my question!” I snapped. “What happened to the pig?”
“Oh, that. That’s a Fibonacci spiral.”
“A what?”
“Fibonacci was the most famous mathematician of his time,” Noah explained. “He created the Fibonacci sequence, where every number is the sum of the two numbers before it—one, two, three, five, eight, and so on. Graphing the sequence creates the Fibonacci spiral, an image renowned in the fields of science and mathematics . . .”
“Noah, you’re killing me!” I exclaimed. “Skip ahead to the important part. Like why is it on our pig?”
He seemed surprised by the question. “Because of you.”
“Me?” I was thunderstruck. “I told you to draw a Fibo-whosis on Porquette?”
“You correctly suggested that it might be time to doubt my path into the Society of the Gavel through Darius and Edward. And you further noted that the Gavelers, whoever they may be, are, in all likelihood, less special than me.”
I just stared at him. “So?”
“So the conclusion is obvious.”
“It isn’t obvious to me!” I sputtered.
“I’m creating my own secret society—the Fibonacci Society. I won’t have to worry about getting in. I’m already in. The Fibonacci spiral is our symbol.”
“Yeah, but why did you draw it on Porquette?” I asked.
“Pure logic. The Fibonacci Society is secret. If I drafted the symbol on paper, that paper could fall into the wrong hands. But since Porquette is also secret, it was clearly the safest place to put it.” He took out his phone and snapped a picture of the spiral design on the mascot’s flank. “Now I have a digital copy.”
“Aw, Noah,” I whined, “what is it with you and secret societies? You didn’t need the gavel guys and you don’t need this.”
Noah was deep in thought. “The challenge is going to be attracting new members without giving up the secrecy. How can I recruit people without telling them what they’re being recruited for? It’s a paradox. I’ve got AIDAN working on the problem, but so far, AI hasn’t provided a solution.”
“I can’t believe Porquette just lay there and let you draw a Fibo-whosis on her,” I commented resentfully. “Every time I go near her, she tries to headbutt me in the stomach.”
“I just talk to her,” Noah replied. “It sort of calms her down. And she’s a really good listener.”
“Come on,” I chided. “I hope your 206 IQ doesn’t honestly think it’s having a conversation with a pig.”
Noah fixed me with his sincere gaze. “Porquette may not understand my spoken language, but animals have a sort of emotional intelligence. They pick up on sensory cues, like body language, facial expressions, and tone of voice.”
Well, I guess Porquette and I had at least one thing in common: She didn’t understand a single word that came out of Noah’s mouth.
And neither did I.
16
Hypersecond-Banana
Dean Kendrick
To be the dean of an elite institution like Wilderton was an enormous responsibility. And this year, that burden was doubled because President Aberfoyle was away on sabbatical.
Twenty-two thousand students and all their complaints, requests, disappointments, challenges, and demands landed squarely on my desk. My days lasted until eight or nine o’clock at night, even during summer semester, with most of the campus in vacation mode. I was being worked half to death. Again and again I asked myself: Was it worth it?
The answer always came back yes. Yes, because higher education was in my blood. Yes, because I believed in the ideals of our beloved founder, Nicholas Wilderton. And mostly yes, because old man Aberfoyle was bound to retire pretty soon and I was next in line for the job of university president, with its generous salary and luxurious first-class travel. It was so close that I could almost feel the glove leather of Aberfoyle’s cushy office chair on my overworked backside. All I had to do was wait—and make sure nothing went wrong before then.
Which was why I had very little patience for Dean Kugelmas of Pershing Union when he called me that Saturday.
“Kendrick, I hate to tell you this, but a group of your students tried to kidnap our mascot, Hal, last week.”
At that moment, my secretary was showing C.T. Beldner, the student reporter, into my office. I held up one finger to C.T., indicating I’d be with him shortly. Into the phone, I said, “That’s interesting, Kugelmas, because our mascot went missing just about a week ago.”
“Well, I wouldn’t know anything about that,” Dean Kugelmas told me. “But my security people recovered fragments of a Wilderton hockey jersey. And they had a brief encounter with one of the culprits—a boy of about twelve or thirteen. Didn’t I read you had that young genius Noah Youkilis on campus this summer?”
It was the last thing I wanted to hear. Amid all this kerfuffle about Porquette’s disappearance, the one thing that had gone right this summer was Noah. According to Dr. Menzies, the boy’s AI research was nothing short of groundbreaking. If he could accomplish this much at age thirteen, the sky would be the limit for his future. And I would be the one who’d brought him to Wilderton.
But did this call mean he was nothing more than a juvenile delinquent, playing cruel pranks and risking his potential?
“I’m sure you’re mistaken, Kugelmas. There are a lot of thirteen-year-olds in the world. This could have been anyone. It could have been—” And there I drew a blank, because I didn’t know any other thirteen-year-olds. “Good day.”
I hung up and turned my attention to the journalism student. “Thanks for coming in, C.T. I have some ideas for future articles about Noah. I think you should focus on his work in AI.”
“Actually,” said C.T., flipping open a notebook, “I was hoping to get a comment from you on the Porquette situation. That’s what everybody on campus is talking about these days.”
Alarm bells went off in my head. Obviously, no reasonable person could blame me for Porquette’s disappearance. But when you were on the cusp of a major promotion, you wanted everything to run smoothly. And losing the school’s beloved mascot was not smooth. Especially this one. Fine swine, top of the line—it sounded great at a pep rally. But the truth is all that school spirit could turn sour in the blink of an eye.
“Let’s choose a different topic,” I suggested diplomatically. “I prefer to keep things light during summer semester before things get serious again in the fall.”
The young reporter didn’t appear happy. “It would be bad journalism to ignore it. Step into any classroom, any dorm, any lab, any food hall—you must hear what people are talking about!”
To be honest, he had just listed all the places I liked to stay away from. Mingling with students was bad for my blood pressure. “Enlighten me,” I said aloud.
“They’re trying to figure out what happened,” C.T. explained earnestly. “Did Porquette get out of her pen and wander off? Was she kidnapped by another school? Is this a prank gone wrong by some fraternity? Or even a secret group like the Society of the Gavel?”
“Absolutely not!” I said firmly. “I may not approve of the secrecy, but the Society of the Gavel has a record of support for the school that goes back more than a century!”
“That’s exactly the kind of thing our readers need to know,” C.T. approved, scribbling in his notebook. “Now, can you tell us about the search? How much progress has been made?”
I took a deep breath. What did he expect me to tell him? That the police were scouring back roads for a pig carrying a stick with a bundle of belongings on the end of it? That Interpol was monitoring the airports?
I tried to be tactful. “We’re still hopeful that we’ll get her back. If not, I’ll direct the Ag school to select a new Porquette—or Porky.”
C.T.’s eyes grew as wide as saucers. “You mean you’d give up on her?” In spite of his beard, at that moment, he looked like a heartbroken five-year-old. “What if we bring in a new mascot and the old one comes back?”
I leaped to my feet, suddenly unable to bear even another second of this conversation. I strolled to the window to take in the predictable sameness of my office view. The honeysuckle hedge. The white oak tree that was the oldest organism on campus. Beneath it sat a flat rock, painted with the well-known symbol of the Society of the Gavel.
I blinked. There was something else on the stone surface, drawn next to the gavel and stars. It was a black line, beginning in a tight spiral that quickly opened into a loose one. It was simple and, for some reason, hauntingly familiar—although I couldn’t remember ever seeing it before on campus.
What was that thing?
17
Hyperbatty
Noah Youkilis
“I have to confess something,” I whispered. “I’ve got my first date with Arlene today and I’m a little nervous.”
For major life events like this, it was important to have a close friend to confide in.
“You know how it is,” I went on. “I want everything to be perfect.”
The response was a low, rumbling oink. I patted Porquette on her peach-fuzz hide and she resettled in the bathtub, her cloven hooves scratching at the acrylic. The mascot was a good listener, but she could get restless when she wasn’t feeling well, which was always lately. The poison of the elderberries had to be gone from her body by now. But how come she wasn’t getting better?
There was a knock at the door. “Noah? You in there?” The door opened a crack and Donovan peered in. “JoJo says there’s a girl outside looking for you.”
I gave Porquette a farewell pat. “Gotta go. That’s my date.”
Donovan was amazed. “Date?”
“I have plans with Arlene,” I informed him. “We’re going out. And she needs my help with her biology project.” I squeezed past him out of the bathroom.
“How come the pig knows more about your love life than I do?” Donovan asked.
“Because she doesn’t judge,” I replied readily. “She just supplies support.”
He wrinkled his nose. “That’s not all she supplies. I think it might be time for another shower.”
Uh-oh. Porquette was a wonderful confidante, but she was also a source of unpleasant smells. That was not optimal for a dating situation. I made a mental note to air myself out before getting into the car. I picked up Arlene’s gift and placed the small package in the pocket of my cargo shorts.
“Well,” Donovan said dubiously, “have a good time.”
“Thanks.”
At the first sight of Arlene, standing by her little Mazda convertible, I thought I was going to faint. She looked so beautiful, so perfect, that the thought of doing something wrong and losing her was pure tragedy. Not that I necessarily had her in the first place. We were in class together every day and she never mentioned anything about breaking up with Gator.
“Hi, sweetie. Hop on in.”
She always called me sweetie. I called her Arlene. You’d think that a 206 IQ would have been able to come up with a better pet name than that. I was coming to learn that the world of dating had absolutely no relation whatsoever to the normal. It was a place where none of the other laws of science applied, so I was constantly lost at sea.
Not that I hadn’t prepared. Last night, I’d watched four hours of YouTube videos with dating in the title. But as soon as we started driving, my research deserted me and all I could see was her auburn hair dancing in the wind.
Since I was completely tongue-tied, it was a good thing Arlene was chatty. “Everybody’s talking about your AIDAN these days. I was telling Gator about it, and he seemed really impressed . . .”
I absorbed that like a physical blow. Obviously, Gator was still in the picture. I racked my brain for a way to change the subject. Maybe I should give Arlene her gift now. I even reached for the pocket of my cargo shorts where the pastry box was hidden before changing my mind. No, that made no sense. She was driving and in no position to appreciate a present so perfectly suited to her needs.
Later—when I was helping her with her biology project—would be the perfect time. I’d convinced the zoology lab to let me have a desiccated specimen of a vampire bat. The small body was dehydrated to preserve it. But when you spread out the papery wings, the entire physiology was visible, even organs as tiny as the brain and pancreas.
But that was later. Now we were going out for Froyo. I explained how this was an excellent idea because the live probiotic bacterial cultures in the yogurt supported gut health. She laughed and said I was hilarious. When Arlene smiled, it was like the sun breaking out from behind the moon after totality during a solar eclipse.
Then, when we were sitting outside Scoop Dreams with our desserts, I noticed a brownish splotch on the sleeve of my T-shirt—and my cone was vanilla!
Oh no! Was it pig poop? How could I have left myself open to this when I’d known I was going out with Arlene? I aimed a nonchalant sniff in the direction of the stain. I didn’t smell anything. But I’d been living with Porquette for so long that my nose might have become desensitized to pig smells.
I finished my cone, but I was unable to enjoy it or even taste it. I couldn’t get my mind off that terrible splotch on my shirt. Next we were heading to Arlene’s place to work on the project. If that blob was what I suspected it was, there’d be no way to mask the smell indoors!
As we walked back to the parking lot, my eyes locked on the decorative fountain in the courtyard of the plaza. It was my best hope to clean myself up before it was too late. Just a little splash was all I needed.
As we passed by, I tried to lean over the rail into the spray, but the droplets were hitting my arm just below the elbow, a few inches short of the stain. In a last-ditch effort, I pressed my hip against the lip of the fountain and heaved with all my might.
The next thing I knew, I was tumbling over the edge and into the fountain, sleeve and all. There was a cry of shock from Arlene. She reached over and hauled me out until I stood, dripping, beside her. In that instant, all those YouTube videos about dating came back to me. This wasn’t in any of them.
“Sweetie, what happened?”
I checked my sleeve. Clean!
“It must have been an inner-ear imbalance,” I explained. Donovan would have been proud of me. He was my role model at making excuses.
She took my hand and began pulling me toward the parking lot. “Let’s get to my place so we can dry you off!”
My wet shoes squished all the way to the car.
Arlene didn’t live in a dorm like me. She lived in a real apartment, off campus.
She introduced me to her roommate, Claudia. “This is Noah. Isn’t he adorable?” In a whisper, she added, “He’s a genius!”
Claudia looked pretty doubtful.
I had to put on Arlene’s floral bathrobe while she threw my wet stuff into the dryer. When I opened the bathroom door, the first thing I saw was Claudia picking something up off the carpet.
“What’s this?”
That was when I recognized the pastry box. It must have fallen out of my pocket when Arlene took my clothes down to the laundry room.
I shouted a warning: “Don’t open that!”
The screaming was like something from a horror movie—or at least from the trailers that were posted on YouTube.
Then Arlene came running in and, instead of calming Claudia down, she started screaming too, so it was coming in stereo.
“No, no, no!” I waded right in. “This is perfectly harmless and it’s an excellent specimen. It’s my gift to Arlene—for the project.”
Claudia’s eyes were wide. “You gave her a dead bat?”
“Well, it used to be dehydrated,” I explained, “but I fell in the fountain and it got hydrated again. It’s still dead, though. It can’t hurt you.”
Eventually, it all got straightened out and the screaming stopped. But Arlene couldn’t use the specimen now because it wasn’t preserved anymore. I offered to take it back to the lab and have it desiccated again, but she said no.
Arlene forgave me, but it was obvious to both of us that the mood had been blown. We were both pretty quiet on the ride back to Butternut Hall—and it had nothing to do with the wind in her hair.
I thought back to one of the videos I watched last night. It was called “Relationships Are Complicated.”
* * *
Donovan was out when I finally got back to room 115—another disappointment. I’d been looking forward to getting his opinion on how my date had gone. He was always a good sounding board for real-life events. And today had felt as real-life as anything I’d ever experienced.
I poked my head into the bathroom to check on Porquette. The sick mascot shifted her position in the bathtub to peer quizzically up at me.
“Thanks a lot,” I couldn’t resist saying, although I was pretty certain a pig wouldn’t know what to make of sarcasm. Porquette was perceptive and intelligent, but it would have been pointless to try to explain that her cleanliness habits had led me to distrust the stain on my T-shirt—which had prompted me to lean into the fountain, which had led to all the disasters that followed. That kind of cause-and-effect analysis would be out of reach for any animal, even a dolphin or a chimpanzee. They’d never be able to understand the shame of walking into the zoology lab and returning their vampire bat in a Ziploc sandwich baggie.
For me, there was only one antidote for this kind of dark mood—science. I had to throw myself into my work.
