Counting by 7s (7 page)

That night at the dinner table, my mom and dad asked me how it was going at Sequoia.

I said:

“The experience is evolving.”

My parents both smiled, but their eyes were still anxious. My mom's voice was tighter than usual as she said:

“Is there anyone special who you've enjoyed meeting?”

For the briefest moment, I questioned whether they knew about the aptitude test.

I took a bite of my artichoke soufflé and finished chewing before answering.

“I met someone who interests me.”

My parents perked up. This was big news for them.

Mom tried not to appear too eager.

“Can you tell us more?”

I had to be careful here. If I didn't want a colossal stomachache, I had to use a version of the truth.

“This afternoon was my first encounter. Viewed as a clinical trial, I'm in Phase Zero, which is when microdosing takes place. I'll let you know how it develops.”

And then I asked to be excused from the table.

D
ell didn't see many girls.

Boys got into a lot more trouble in school.

He had assumed that “Willow” was some kind of nickname. He figured it was really “Will-Low,” which might have been gang slang.

Instead, seated across from him had been a twelve-year-old girl.

There was something not right about her.

He could see that from the beginning.

Her eyes darted around his small room and then came to rest on his stomach, which was rude.

He knew he was sweating, which was just part of who he was.

But he got the feeling that she was judging him.

That's not what this place was about.

He
was the judger.

He needed to put her in a category of Strange as soon as possible so that he could disconnect from whatever was happening in the room.

Dell had glanced over at his computer to reread the e-mail he'd been sent from Principal Rudin.

The message said that the girl was some kind of cheater. He didn't get many of those.

So she was sneaky.

Well, so was he.

He'd get to the bottom of that.

She wasn't a Weirdo or a Lone Wolf or an Oddball or a Misfit.

But she
was
Super-Strange, that much he could figure out.

He talked and talked and talked and she just sat there, mute, staring at him, but he could tell that she was listening.

He asked questions, but she didn't answer them.

She was small, but also powerful.

She had some kind of energy or aura that was different.

None of his tricks, if he could even call them that, worked.

And then he remembered word association.

It was a technique that he knew the other counselors used because he'd heard them when the windows were open and the air conditioners weren't rattling.

Dell fell asleep every night with the television on.

He had hours of recorded broadcasts, because the sound of other people's voices, especially ones that weren't yelling at him, was a comfort.

But nothing made him fall asleep faster than something educational.

And that is why as the hour got late and Dell was looking to pack it in, he often went to the most boring thing that he'd ever recorded: a wildlife documentary on the animals of Madagascar.

Scientists had made the show. It was filled with facts and feelings, two things that Dell could live without.

If he was going to actually watch a nature documentary, the only kind that he could suffer through was one where a fierce predator took down a wide-eyed furball.

But he liked it when the furball could see it coming.

A good chase with a few near misses added tension to the eventual crime scene.

A male narrator with a deep, husky (almost evil) voice set the stage for the slaughter. The music surged.

And then
Bam!

Done.

The Madagascar show had nothing like that. It focused on a group of monkeys who looked like squirrels in raccoon costumes.

There was nothing in this program of interest and Dell had fallen asleep to it many times since he came to Bakersfield.

He would not, could not, recall a single thing from the program other than what he had uttered to Willow at the end of their first session:

“Female lemurs are in charge of the troop.”

As she gathered up her things and silently headed out the door, Dell realized that his somewhat hairy hands were both trembling.

He had never met a kid like this.

He quickly accessed the electronic file that he was required to complete after every interaction with a student.

But for the first time since his Four Groups of the Strange system went into operation, Dell put it aside and dug out Dickie Winkleman's three areas of evaluation:

Activity

Patience

Attention

Willow had the ability to pay attention.

She appeared to exhibit patience (she had listened to him drone on for the first half of the appointment).

But he could not rate her activity level.

Dell copied a paragraph from one of Dickie Winkle-man's old files. It had been written for a kid named Wesley Ledbetter.

Dell wondered if Wesley's problem was that his name sounded like “Bed-wetter.” That could certainly throw a person off.

It said that Wesley appeared to be normal, but needed further evaluation for possible anxiety issues.

In truth, Dell knew that the twelve-year-old with the large eyes (who had told him to have his blood pressure checked just before she left) was anything but normal.

And for the first time in his professional career, he was not just motivated.

He was almost inspired.

The counselor had to add a new group to his system.

He had to access the color wheel on his computer and feverishly attempt to create something that would look metallic.

Something that would stand out like oozing gold ink.

Because Dell Duke believed he had discovered a new category of the Strange:

GENIUS.

 

A
fter I was
removed from Mrs. Kleinsasser's class and taken to Principal Eczema's office, my teachers and the other students treated me differently.

A few of my classmates, assuming that I'm some kind of cheater, asked me for answers to tests.

An eighth grader with what looked to me like a full-on beard demanded my math homework from last Tuesday.

I was so startled that I gave him my entire binder, which I later found on top of the trash by the boys' bathroom near the gym.

He'd left half of a roll of breath mints inside, but I think it was an accident, not a gift.

I was surprised that I was looking forward to the long walk from Sequoia Middle School over to the district offices where I had my second meeting with Mr. Dell Duke.

Knowing that I had somewhere to go gave me a new sense of purpose.

Even if it meant again lying to my parents.

But it was easier to lie the second week than the first time around, which was sad.

I decided any behavior, good or bad, could become routine.

This was probably why people were able to empty porta potties or regulate the quality of canned cat food in factories with actual taste tests.

Now when the last bell rang, and the school suddenly exploded (because that's how it felt), I gathered up my things with new gusto. (I like the word
gusto
. It should be used more in daily life.)

The doors of the school flew open and the students burst from the building as if there had been some kind of toxic-waste spill inside.

I was now part of that.

I, too, had someplace to go and a limited amount of time to get there.

When I got to his office, I could see right away that Dell Duke was prepared in a different way.

He still looked as if he had slept for the last week in his clothes; but his beard had been trimmed, or at least washed.

And his very cluttered office had been straightened up.

However, what made me smile as I stood in the doorway was that I saw he now had a small silver frame on the side table behind his desk.

And in the picture frame, like some kind of lost relative, was a photo of a lemur.

He was nervous.

He struggled to make conversation, but then he finally just blurted out:

“What would you think about taking a test again—like the one you did at school?”

I decided that was why he was anxious, and so I put an end to it.

“I'll take one right now if you want.”

This made him very happy.

He had a folder behind his desk with test booklets inside. He was suddenly all jumpy and I had to help him with the pencil and the timer.

I tried to explain that I wouldn't need the allotted fifty minutes.

He didn't believe me until I finished the first test in fourteen minutes.

After he corrected the exam, I removed another booklet from the pile and did that one in twelve minutes and 7 seconds.

If I could have had perfect test conditions—a room with decent ventilation, and a glass of unsweetened green iced tea—I would have cut off another two minutes.

I got up to go, because my session was now over, and Dell Duke was smiling. Unbroken mouth expansion.

He said that I didn't miss a single question, on either test.

I said, in a very matter-of-fact way:

“Flawless.”

Maybe he thought we were playing the word game, because he made a fist and pumped it like he was pulling down on a parachute cord (even though I'd never done that, I had an idea how enthusiastic one would be to pull the chute).

He then said in a voice that was too loud:

“Willow Chance!”

Mr. Dell Duke didn't want me to wait a week for our next meeting.

He thought that I should come again during his first open hour the next day.

He told me that he would bring a surprise to the meeting. I have never been big on surprises, but I didn't tell him.

I was planning on assessing the acidity of the soil in my garden for the rest of the week.

I worked hard to keep it at a pH of 6.5, but I agreed to return because he seemed to be very excited about the aptitude tests and I thought that he might be depressed.

It was possible that he was making some progress in his mental health condition by seeing me.

The next afternoon I was five minutes early and right away I knew that something was different.

The door to the trailer office was open, but not wide like usual. It was open only a slice.

So I looked inside and I didn't see Dell Duke. I saw two bodies.

But not dead bodies.

Alive.

I stepped back, but one of the two, the teenage girl, had seen me.

And she said:

“It's okay. You can come in.”

I didn't know if I should do this.

The room was cramped and even though there was an extra chair, I felt like I was intruding.

But then the girl got up and pushed the door open all the way and said:

“We're almost out of here.”

I could now see that an older boy was hunched over a coloring book and he was very intently filling in the spaces.

I've never understood coloring books.

Either draw a picture, or don't. But why waste your time coloring in someone else's work?

I knew that Dell Duke saw other students from the school district, but the sight of the two older kids made me uncomfortable.

The girl suddenly said:

“My brother won't leave until he finishes his assignment. Sorry. His session was over ten minutes ago.”

The boy shot the girl a hostile look, but returned to his feverish coloring. The girl then continued:

“Mr. Duke went to get a soda. At least that's what he said he was going to do. But he's been gone a long time, so I don't believe him.”

I nodded, but didn't speak.

I admired the suspicion in the girl's statement and I now hoped that Dell Duke didn't walk through the door holding a Diet Pepsi.

I made a note to myself to talk to him about soft drinks.

Those beverages are not healthy.

I was tired from dodging the volleyball in gym class, and so I took the only other seat in Dell's office.

I didn't want to stare, but the teenage girl now at my side was visually very interesting.

Like me, she was someone impossible to easily peg in terms of ethnic background.

At first glance, she might have been African American. Her skin was dark; her hair was shiny black, and a bed of curls.

I kept my head facing forward and completely still, but moved my eyes into their corners to get a better look.

With this closer, peripheral examination, I suddenly wondered if the girl was a Native American.

I took great interest in the cultures of indigenous people.

What if this girl was a member of the Cahuilla tribe?

The Cahuilla lived in Southern California and once thrived in Bakersfield.

It was possible.

But not probable.

Suddenly I couldn't control myself. I turned to the girl next to me and asked:

“Do you speak Takic?”