“You’re welcome.”
Hope scratches the side of her head with her pencil. “Is Kali coming?”
“I’m not sure. She hasn’t been feeling well.”
“Oh, that’s too bad. We sure appreciate all the work she put in. Kids should be here in fifteen. Do you mind checking people in?”
“Of course not.”
“Great.” The woman hands me a clipboard. “Here are the teams, and those are the shirts.” She nods at a box under one of the tables. “Have people wait by their traffic cones.”
“Got it.”
The woman leaves.
Students drift out from the main buildings. Most hang back when they see me. I stifle my irritation. I promise not to touch you or breathe in your face. “Step right up. Todd Sze, Ann Abrams, you’re both on Team Eight. Take a shirt and find your cone.”
Those at the back of the line start pressuring those in the front to hurry up, and soon I have a crowd on my hands. I strain my eyes for signs of the math teacher and the librarian, and finally spot them approaching from the lunch tables. This is the first time I’ve seen them together. I can’t read their chemistry anymore, but they aren’t exactly brimming with conversation, which for the moment, is good. Ms. DiCarlo lifts her feet, but her heels keep sinking into the grass.
“Hi, Mr. Frederics and Ms. DiCarlo.” I sniff, trying to read their chemistry, even though it’s futile. Nothing but sunscreen and grass. “We decided to separate the adults this year to even out the competition. So, Mr. Frederics, you’re on Team Two, and Ms. DiCarlo, you’re on Team Eleven.”
Ms. DiCarlo spreads the neck of her T-shirt wide as she maneuvers it around her hairdo. Mr. Frederics makes eye contactwith me, pupils shifting meaningfully to Ms. DiCarlo, who’s still tented in her shirt. I give him an apologetic shrug, and tick my head toward Principal Swizinger, as if she made me do it. His mouth rounds into an O and he nods. He tugs on his shirt. “You know, Ms. DiCarlo, eleven is very special. Do you know why?”
“It’s the first number we can’t count on our fingers?”
“Well, yes.” His zinc-smeared nose bobs up and down as he nods. “But it’s also the fifth smallest prime number.” He slips on a baseball cap. “You know, my colleagues used to call me the human calculator.” He winks at me. Is this the secret weapon? “Give me any problem and I’ll do it in my head. Go on.”
Ms. DiCarlo frowns, eyes bobbing around as she thinks. “572 times 1,008.”
Without missing a beat, he answers, “576,576.”
“Wow, that certainly is . . . impressive.” She blinks.
“Cool, Mr. Frederics,” I add. “But you should get to your cones. We’ll be starting soon.”
“After you,” he says to Ms. DiCarlo, extending his hand toward the cones. “Give me a harder one,” I hear him say as they stroll away. I watch him drop her off at Cone Eleven, then amble to his own Cone Two. Hopefully there’ll be no more romancing for today.
People crowd around me, loud and impatient. Some start rummaging through the shirt box before I can check them in.
“One at a time, people!” barks a familiar voice. “What are you, piranha?”
“Kali!” I nearly weep at the sight of her solid self. She sweeps her arms at the crowd and they finally begin to line up. There’s a healthy glow to her cheeks and a swagger to her stride. The plumeria on the print of her lavalava wrap are so vibrant they might burst off her dress.
“Thanks for picking up the slack.”
She didn’t saytalofaor call me Nosey. It’s not something I would ordinarily notice, but today, the lack of familiars stings. I sniff for her mood out of reflex, but of course, don’t get anything but grass. “Where have you been?”
“Thinking about earthworms again.”
“Earthworms?” People start crowding around us, halting further conversation. At least she doesn’t seem to be actively mad at me anymore, despite her relative aloofness. I check off names while she hands out T-shirts and dispatches people to their cones.
Her hand shoots up. “Next!”
Cassandra bounces up, fidgety as a sunbeam on water. “Hi!”
“Oh, hey,” says Kali, handing Cassandra her clipboard, instead of a T-shirt. “Oops, sorry.” Kali’s cheeks flush and she exchanges the clipboard back for the T-shirt.
“Are you feeling better?” Cassandra’s voice goes squeaky. “I was worried about you.”
