1
PARALLEL LINES
—lines in the same plane that do not intersect
My cell phone rang just as I was about to crush the Emperor of Doom’s trebuchet and save the villagers from certain annihilation.
It was the ominous beats of Beethoven’s Symphony no. 5. Da-da-da-daaaa. “Yes, Dad, what is it?”
“Could you come here, please?”
Why didn’t he shout my name like a normal parent?
I walked next door to the study and flicked the light switch on. He was pushing piles of schematic diagrams around his desk, sending dozens of small Snickers wrappers onto the floor. Dinner. I picked them up, along with the chunks of chocolate that fell on the rug, and shook my head. Dad was probably fifty pounds heavier than he should be—the Giant Genius.
“Dad, when Dr. McGovern said to reduce your fat intake, I don’t think he meant reduce the size of your candy bars. I bet he was thinking more like . . . salad.”
“I don’t eat salad.” Dad’s voice didn’t match his frantic fingers flipping through the piles on his desk.
“What are you looking for, anyway?”
No answer. His gray head was stooped so low that the glasses he’d shoved on top of it were staring straight at me.
Glasses. “Have you checked your head recently?” I asked.
He blinked up at me, then up at his forehead. “Ah. It’s actually my keys I seem to have misplaced.” But I noticed he put his glasses on anyway.
“Did you try your pocket?”
He patted his left pants pocket and I heard the familiar jangle. “Ahhh. Thank you.” He stood up and grabbed his jacket off of the computer monitor. “Must run. Teaching tonight. Seminar this summer, Romania.”
Dad had been teaching Math for Electrical Engineers for so long, he spoke in isolated packets of energy, like he’d turned into electricity himself. I pinched my nose to do my robot voice. “Too much resistance. Please complete circuit. Thank you.”
Dad took a deep breath. “I will be in Romania for six weeks this summer, lecturing at the university there and working on my book.”
Romania? The first thing I thought was, Hey, isn’t that near Russia, where Sasha was adopted from? Then the full effect of what Dad said hit me like an electrical charge. I stared at him. “Romania? You can’t go away—I mean, by yourself. How are you going to survive? Dude, you can’t even find your car keys without me!”
He blinked up at the ceiling. “Car keys won’t be necessary. I won’t be driving.”
I won’t be driving? Is that all he could say? “But—how about all the regular, everyday stuff?” He couldn’t do anything for himself—pay bills, make toast, find shoes that match.
He stared at me for a second, which is about as long as he can hold a stare. “Room and board is provided.”
“Fine,” I sputtered. “I’ll take care of everything here.” As usual. I crushed the Snickers wrappers in my fist.
Dad cleared his throat. “My colleagues inform me that it’s inappropriate to leave a, uh”—he squinted at the ceiling—“a . . . thirteen-year-old home alone.”
“Fourteen, Dad.” Do the math. You’re the genius.
“Ah. Nevertheless, I believe the minimum age stated was sixteen.”
Wait a minute . . . if I couldn’t stay by myself . . . that meant he was taking me with him! “Dad! We’re going to Romania? A trip? Just like Sasha and his parents? Sweeeet! Why didn’t you say—”
“No unsupervised minors allowed.”
I felt the chunks of chocolate melting in my hand. “I—I can take care of myself.” Shoot, I’d been taking care of myself—and him—for years.
Dad shook his head. “Obviously, I will not be able to supervise you there.”
I dropped the Snickers wrappers. “Dad. You don’t supervise me here, either.” Hadn’t he ever noticed that?
He paused and I thought I had him, but all he did was put on his jacket. “I’ve contacted the aunt and uncle whom I visited in rural Pennsylvania every summer as a boy. You’ll be staying with them.”
Rural Pennsylvania? Wasn’t that where the groundhog lived? And if he saw his shadow, it was six more weeks of doom? This was even worse than Sasha’s upcoming vacation. Wait a minute! Sasha!
“Hey, Dad, if you’re going to send me away somewhere, can’t I go backpacking with Sasha’s family? They’ve always said I could go with them whenever I want.” And, boy, did I want. The Canadian Rockies for the entire summer with no cell phones, iPods, or laptops—much as Sasha and I had cursed up and down about it—sounded like nirvana compared to Groundhogsville with some old relatives I’d never met.
Dad pushed his fingertips together and flexed his fingers, gazing at them like he’d created some engineering puzzle. “Sasha’s father informed me it was a family bonding trip.”
Mr. Namboodri had only said that to give Dad a clue that maybe our family could use a little bonding. Of course, Dad didn’t pick up on the hint.
“I’m practically like family to them.”
Dad shook his head. “And your school . . . touchy-feely person—”
“Counselor, Dad. Mr. McMillin.” I still wonder what Dad wrote on my third-quarter report card to make Mr. McMillin call us in for that awkward “little chat.” He kept giving me sad-puppy looks while he emphasized the word family to Dad, saying that I was at the age where I needed to know how much my family cared about me. And that, being a boy, I needed a male role model from my family. He was trying not to be too obvious so as not to embarrass Dad. The truth is, you have to be really direct with Dad or he doesn’t get it. Like sending me to live with complete strangers.
I stared at Dad. “So, let me get this straight. I’m supposed to go stay with people who, technically, are family, but I’ve never actually met?”
He nodded.
“And what exactly am I supposed to do there for six whole weeks?”
He gave me a small, tentative smile, as if to say there’s hope for this kid yet. “Your great-uncle is heading a project that involves math—a lot of math. It will be of great value to you. He’s building an artesian screw.” Dad immediately screwed up his face, maybe to look artesian. “I don’t understand the logic of that because, obviously, a water screw is designed to force water to rise, but artesian water rises naturally.” He shook his head. “Still, I said that you would assist with this artesian screw project.”
Great. I was artesianly screwed.
“I believe this project will help you with your math skills. You’ll learn about oblique angles—those are acute or obtuse angles—and intervals—those are arrangements of elements of a set—as well as properties of physics!”
This was Dad at his most excited. Math. Science. Engineering.
I tried to look interested. I tried to look like I cared. Okay, I tried not to yawn.
“You may be building a water turbine—that’s a device that takes the kinetic energy of a moving fluid, converting it into mechanical power and—” He stopped himself and smiled at me. “Do you want to know the best part of this whole experience for you? I believe it might help you get into Newton.”
Was he serious? Newton High? A math magnet school? I’m no statistician, but what are the odds of a kid with dyscalculia—a math learning disability!—getting into a math magnet school? Oh, yeah . . . Newton High was a feeder school for his university, and Dad did a lot for Newton. They’d probably accept a token math moron just to thank him.
“Dad, really, there’s nothing wrong with the regular high school.”
“You need to stand out in order to be accepted at a good university. Therefore, Newton High is the only choice.” He sighed and picked up the photo from his desk. It was of Mom and me with the huge LEGO drawbridge I made for Dad’s birthday when I was six. “Your mother always said you’d be a great engineer.” His voice was quiet. As if he were talking to Mom, not me. Like he was asking her what went wrong. And how it was possible that he’d ended up with me, Michael Einstein Frost, ignorant spawn of the genius James Elliot Frost, P-H-D.
I slumped back against Dad’s bookshelf and felt the blue LEGO brick that was always in my pocket. Mom called me her “little engineer” when I made LEGO creations with my friends at Montessori or when I got all the kids on the beach to help me make the biggest sand castle, but it was when I made that drawbridge—it actually worked!—and Dad laughed and hugged me that she called me a “great engineer.” Come to think of it, that’s the last time I remember Dad laughing or hugging me. Soon after that, Mom was gone.
“I think you’d learn a great deal from this project,” Dad said, still staring at the photo. “I’d like to see you master math or engineering at an acceptable level, at least. If you can’t solve the simplest problems—”
“I know, Dad. I’ll end up on the street.” How many times had I heard that?
That’s when my toes started wiggling and I knew I was about to have a brilliant idea. It always starts in my feet, and by the time I realize my toes are moving, the idea makes it up to my brain. And there it was.
If I could ace this artesian screw, maybe Dad would be satisfied that I’d “mastered math or engineering at an acceptable level.” Then, I could show him how I could take care of myself and not end up on the street. And maybe he’d let me just go to a regular high school. Someday he’d have to accept the fact that I could never be a math genius, much as he tried to teach me and have me tutored and send me to special camps. He still had hope for me. For some reason, I just didn’t have the heart to make him see the truth.
The plan had to work. The alternative, going to Newton High, where I’d flunk out for sure, meant a miserable me and a seriously disappointed Dad. As far as I could see, there were two hurdles: (1) ace the project and (2) get my great-uncle to convince Dad that I was a great engineer. The first hurdle was up to me, and I had a lot of practice at pretending I understood math when I really didn’t. The second was an unknown.
“Hey, Dad? What’s your uncle like?”
Dad chewed his lip and looked away. Of course. It wasn’t the kind of question Dad could answer. It was about people. “I don’t know where he received his engineering education and I’m not aware of all of his qualifications. Oh, and, uh . . . Mike?” He looked at me in that cloudy way he had.
Why did he always have to stop and think before saying my name?
“What?”
“You’ll need to remember that these relatives are now oc-to-ge-nar-i-ans.” He carefully pronounced every syllable since, ob-vi-ous-ly, I’m stupid.
“Meaning . . . they’re eight-armed mutants?” I knew what octogenarian meant, but I wanted to see if I could get him.
“It means they’re in their eighties,” he said slowly. “They are elderly.”
I nodded seriously. “Gotcha.”
“They may have difficulty hearing you or understanding you.”
So instead of Dad not understanding me, I’d have . . . “What are their names?”
Dad blew at a spot on the monitor and wiped it. “Uh . . . Poppy and Moo.”
“Poppy and Moo? Are you kidding me? Dad! You’re sending me to live with farm animals?”
He sighed. “You’re going to have to control your impulsive behavior, given the demise they’ve recently suffered.” Dad’s gauge for impulsive behavior was a possum. Preferably a dead one. “Their only son died a few months ago. In a car accident.”
Like Mom. Jeez. The familiar dull ache hit my throat. I didn’t know what to say. And then I couldn’t help thinking, What if I die in a car accident while he’s over in Romania? He’ll have no one.
And he wouldn’t even be able to picture my face, because he’s got this weird condition where he can’t make a mental image of a face, even of someone he’s lived with for fourteen years. Like me.
I glanced over at his monitor and saw my reflection. Like a shadow. Of a groundhog. Six weeks of doom. I turned away quickly. “Hey, Dad—”
But I heard the front door close. He was gone.