On Monday morning, I dragged my visibly bruised body to Mr. Z’s room and told him I had to quit the contest because my robot ran away.
“Ran away?” he said.
I nodded.
“All by itself?”
I nodded again. Mr. Z gave me a weird look. I think he thought I might have a severe head injury.
“Howard . . . would you like to go talk to the nurse?”
“Why? Has she seen Mr. Jolly?” I said.
“What?”
“Never mind.”
It didn’t matter. There were only six days until the robot contest. Six days until Gerald Forster picked up his trophy.
“All right, class,” Mrs. Washington, my algebra teacher, said. “Pair up, because you’re going to be working with a partner for the rest of the period.”
Partner? No! Was she serious? Nothing stirs dread in the heart of the American nerd more than the word “partner.” I watched helplessly as desks squeaked and crashed and spun around like bumper cars, until there were only two remaining unpaired students.
“Howard, you’re with Trevor,” Mrs. Washington said.
Oh, great. My partner was Trevor Duke, the silent knight. It all made sense now. Obviously, Mrs. Washington’s plan was to partner the smartest kid in class, which was me, with the kid who hadn’t answered a single question all semester. It was pretty clear who’d be carrying the load on this one. I stared back over my shoulder at the desk sitting in the deepest, dumbest part of Slackerland.
There was Trevor . . . slacking. Or whatever it is that slackers do. His legs were stretched out in front of him like the desk was some kind of a recliner, and he was scribbling on his notebook. I waited. He didn’t move. Big surprise — I guess moving was going to be my responsibility too! I scooted my desk across the floor with my feet until we were sitting face to face.
“Hi,” I said. “I’m Howard Boward. I, uh, sit over there. Usually.”
If he noticed I was in front of him — or even in the room — he didn’t let it show.
Mrs. Washington wrote an equation on the board and gave each team the last ten minutes of class to come up with the answer. It was a tough one, all right, but I thought I could handle it. The hard part would be making it look like Trevor helped.
I sat there thinking about it for a few minutes, then got up to sharpen my pencil. It was pretty sharp already, but the awkward silence was killing me. I took my time, staring out the window and pretending my pencil was really, really, really dull. But just when I was about to head back to my desk, I noticed something moving outside. Two figures wearing cheerleader jackets were carrying something under their arms. When they turned around, I could see it was Crystal Arrington and Missi Kilpatrick. They walked out to an area in front of the school and began unfurling a long white sign attached to two poles.
“Register Now for the Dolley Madison Winter Formal,” it said. The letters were made entirely of purple glitter.
What was going on? Was this supposed to be educational? Were teachers letting cheerleaders out of class now just so they could put up big, stupid signs?
I went back to my desk and sat down.
“Some sign, huh?” I said to Trevor.
For the first time, he put down his notebook, took a long, hard look out the window, and then glanced at me. He seemed puzzled. I guess not everyone is as concerned about excessive glitter use as I am. Then he went back to his doodling.
I shifted my eyes back to the window. The sign was still there, but Crystal and Missi were gone. Unfortunately, so were my ten minutes.
Oh no! While I’d been staring at that ridiculous sign, the clock had been ticking. This was terrible! I had nothing on the page! I hadn’t gotten the answer! I hadn’t shown my work! Me! Howard Boward — the boy who once started a petition to have mathletics declared an official team sport — would get a zero for the day!
The bell rang. I turned to Trevor with a look of horror and apology on my face. But he gave no indication that it mattered to him one way or the other. Instead, he rose from his desk, grabbed his backpack, and headed for the door.
As he passed, he handed me his doodle sheet.
It was the equation — the one on the board. He’d solved it! And correctly, from the looks of things. Suddenly, I realized there was a whole new side to the mysterious Trevor Duke: loner, rebel, math whiz.