Read Online The Clueless Girl's Guide to Being a Genius by Janice Repka - Free Book Online Page A

and boos followed, but I kept my gaze on Adam. Call me crazy, but when he mouthed the words “Thank you,” I swear my chair lifted six inches off the ground.
    â€œI will advise Mr. Ripple to include us in the Great Math Showdown,” Professor Wigglesmith said. “For those who raised their hands, six will be on the class team and the other three will be alternates. After class, we’ll meet to set a team practice schedule. The competition is in only nine weeks, so we begin practicing immediately.”
    â€œWhat? You mean we have to practice for nine whole weeks?” asked Roland.
    â€œWe must work hard if we want to win,” Professor Wigglesmith said. “Now, who wants to be team captain?”
    Timothy raised his hand.
    â€œYou have to be on the team to be the captain,” said Professor Wigglesmith, smiling.
    Adam raised his hand. “I volunteer,” he said.
    Professor Wigglesmith blushed. She’s got a crush on him, I thought. Like every other thirteen-year-old girl . But the idea of Professor Wigglesmith with Adam was so ridiculous it was hard to take seriously.
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    We practiced three evenings a week at the Carnegie Diner. So that I could make it on time, Professor Wigglesmith’s dad would drive me to my class at the Baton Barn and then drop us both off at the diner afterwards. That was fine by me, since it beat the icicle ears I got when I biked there.
    We were usually the first to arrive at the diner, and would take the two tables in the back and push them together. Today, just to shake things up, we ordered for each other. I ordered her cheese fries and a killer burger. She ordered me some stupid salad with gross little chunks of chicken and this runny low-fat dressing. That shook me up, all right!
    It had rained earlier in the day and the slippery streets were slowing traffic, so it was taking longer than usual for the rest of the math team to show. I dropped my straw, and when I bent down to pick it up, I noticed Professor Wigglesmith’s feet dangling. “You don’t even touch the floor when you sit,” I observed.
    â€œWe’re all on the short side in my family. I’m only four feet, six inches,” she admitted. “It’s a genetic predisposition. My father says we’re remotely descended from General Napoleon, although my history professor at Harvard said Napoleon’s stature was grossly underestimated.”
    At five feet, six inches, I was a solid foot taller than Professor Wigglesworth. “Doesn’t it bother you to be so short?” I asked.
    â€œSometimes,” she said, pushing bangs out of her eyes. “Like when I want to write high on the board and I have to pull up that awful stool.”
    She shuddered, and I could almost hear it fart. Half of me wanted to tell her about the hidden whoopee cushion so she could stop embarrassing herself, but the other half didn’t want to go to detention for not telling her sooner.
    â€œDoes it ever bother you to be so tall?” she asked.
    â€œWhen I was in elementary school I got called ‘Jolly Green Giant’ so many times, I banished the color from my wardrobe. I still won’t wear green.”
    â€œI’ve worn something pink every day since I was four,” she replied.
    â€œReally?” I asked skeptically. I mean, after that day she came to my house in the bright pink pants and pastel pink jacket, I hadn’t seen her wear pink once.
    â€œEven at Harvard, when I went to a Mensa meeting, I would wear a black or gray suit, but secretly wear something pink where nobody could see. Are you aware how many shades of pink there are?”
    â€œThree?” I guessed.
    â€œThere’s amaranth pink, bubblegum pink, carnation pink, cerise pink, cherry blossom, coral pink, dark pink, deep pink, French rose, fuchsia—”
    â€œI get the idea.”
    â€œHot pink, Japanese pink, lavender pink, pink magenta, Persian pink, Pink Panther