Read Online Bringing Down the Mouse by Ben Mezrich - Free Book Online
Authors: Ben Mezrich
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his friends, it really was. None of them feared tests or homework or the random gaze of a nearby teacher. But day to day, their reputations were a continual challenge.
Charlie had no illusions as to his own personal social standing at Nagassack. He was skinny, clumsy, horrible at anything involving kinetic motion of any kind. But he was also the kid most likely to use the word âkineticâ in common conversation. His parents had been calling him a genius since he was three years old, and though he never thought of himself in those terms, he knew that his mind worked fast, and that he was especially good with numbers. At four, he had been able to do long division, and by seven, heâd been joining his dad in the MIT engineering department, observing and sometimes participating while his dad puttered away at some odd circuit board or digital device. And day to day, he knew he was different; he really did often think of the worldin terms of numbers. Waiting for the bus each morning, heâd watch the cars go by, and unconsciously calculate each vehicleâs deceleration time as it approached the stop sign by his house. On the rare occasion he was forced to play kickball with Johnny and Michael, every pitch was more than just a big rubber ball rolling across grass; it was a mathematical formula come to life, a lesson in rotational physics. Even the flight of a lightning bug could freeze him in his tracks, an incredible study in lift, aerodynamics, and chaos theory.
Everyone outside of the Whiz Kids had started calling him Numbers, a nickname heâd earned after getting a perfect score on a national math test that had been targeted at ninth graders, but had mistakenly been handed out on the first day of fourth grade by a language-impaired substitute teacher. To Charlie, the Numbers name always evoked nothing more than the feeling of being a prison inmateâjust another number.
But the truth was, he wasnât. Nor were any of the other Whiz Kids. Even the location of their lunch table was a function of their brain power and their social status. They certainly hadnât chosen it because it was in the far back of the lunchroom, located under a poison-spewing, busted light tube by a door that smelled of ancient sweat and liniment oil. Theyâd chosen it becauseit was the table closest to the where the teachers ate. Fifteen feet away, on a low dais that had once housed a gymnastics area, squatted a circular table with chairs instead of stools. At the moment, as usual, there were four teachers at the teachersâ table: Mrs. Fawler, who taught sixth-grade English lit; Mr. Doughtry, who taught both algebra and physics; Mrs. Collier, French and Spanish; and Mr. Tom, who taught shop. The teachers had trays, just like the kids, but instead of little cartons of milk or juice, they had coffee mugs and Styrofoam cups. The mugs were self-evident, but nobody really knew what was in the Styrofoam cups, something that had been the subject of debate for many years.
For the most part, during lunch the teachers kept to themselves. At the moment, the four teachers were huddled around a laptop that one of them had brought along, probably watching a movie or a television show. Having parents who were professors allowed Charlie to see a bit behind the curtain, and he knew better than most that when teachers werenât teaching, they were kind of like everyone else.
âIâm not going to waste my good vinegar on Marionâs nasty warts,â Crystal said, slowly spreading drops from the pipette on the orange bread. âIâm only interested in the advancement of science.â
âOur own little Madame Curie,â Jeremy said, digging into his meat with a fork that was shaped like an L .
Charlie was about to chime in and point out that Curie was a physicist and a chemist, while Crystal only cared about rocks, when he suddenly saw a flash of motion over Jeremyâs right shoulder. In that split
Charlie had no illusions as to his own personal social standing at Nagassack. He was skinny, clumsy, horrible at anything involving kinetic motion of any kind. But he was also the kid most likely to use the word âkineticâ in common conversation. His parents had been calling him a genius since he was three years old, and though he never thought of himself in those terms, he knew that his mind worked fast, and that he was especially good with numbers. At four, he had been able to do long division, and by seven, heâd been joining his dad in the MIT engineering department, observing and sometimes participating while his dad puttered away at some odd circuit board or digital device. And day to day, he knew he was different; he really did often think of the worldin terms of numbers. Waiting for the bus each morning, heâd watch the cars go by, and unconsciously calculate each vehicleâs deceleration time as it approached the stop sign by his house. On the rare occasion he was forced to play kickball with Johnny and Michael, every pitch was more than just a big rubber ball rolling across grass; it was a mathematical formula come to life, a lesson in rotational physics. Even the flight of a lightning bug could freeze him in his tracks, an incredible study in lift, aerodynamics, and chaos theory.
Everyone outside of the Whiz Kids had started calling him Numbers, a nickname heâd earned after getting a perfect score on a national math test that had been targeted at ninth graders, but had mistakenly been handed out on the first day of fourth grade by a language-impaired substitute teacher. To Charlie, the Numbers name always evoked nothing more than the feeling of being a prison inmateâjust another number.
But the truth was, he wasnât. Nor were any of the other Whiz Kids. Even the location of their lunch table was a function of their brain power and their social status. They certainly hadnât chosen it because it was in the far back of the lunchroom, located under a poison-spewing, busted light tube by a door that smelled of ancient sweat and liniment oil. Theyâd chosen it becauseit was the table closest to the where the teachers ate. Fifteen feet away, on a low dais that had once housed a gymnastics area, squatted a circular table with chairs instead of stools. At the moment, as usual, there were four teachers at the teachersâ table: Mrs. Fawler, who taught sixth-grade English lit; Mr. Doughtry, who taught both algebra and physics; Mrs. Collier, French and Spanish; and Mr. Tom, who taught shop. The teachers had trays, just like the kids, but instead of little cartons of milk or juice, they had coffee mugs and Styrofoam cups. The mugs were self-evident, but nobody really knew what was in the Styrofoam cups, something that had been the subject of debate for many years.
For the most part, during lunch the teachers kept to themselves. At the moment, the four teachers were huddled around a laptop that one of them had brought along, probably watching a movie or a television show. Having parents who were professors allowed Charlie to see a bit behind the curtain, and he knew better than most that when teachers werenât teaching, they were kind of like everyone else.
âIâm not going to waste my good vinegar on Marionâs nasty warts,â Crystal said, slowly spreading drops from the pipette on the orange bread. âIâm only interested in the advancement of science.â
âOur own little Madame Curie,â Jeremy said, digging into his meat with a fork that was shaped like an L .
Charlie was about to chime in and point out that Curie was a physicist and a chemist, while Crystal only cared about rocks, when he suddenly saw a flash of motion over Jeremyâs right shoulder. In that split
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