Page 315: A dominant wolf stands tall with ears pointing upward and teeth exposed.
“How about our new student? What is the chance of this genetic cross resulting in an albino child?”
Ana nodded and got into typing position with me.
Is he testing me?
Page 315: A submissive wolf crouches low, its head between its legs.
I knew what albino meant scientifically, but I also understood what it meant to a real person. In the park when Dad and I practiced hoops, we often saw a boy about five years old whose snowy white hair and skin peeked out under a floppy hat. He wore long pants and sleeves to protect him from the sun. He usually played alone, scooping sand into his bucket and pouring it back out.
I studied the diagram, and Ana supported my arm to type while Mr. Harding waited with folded arms. A few kids yawned.
Breathe in confidence.
The ticking clock grew louder each second.
Breathe out doubt.
Ana cleared her throat and read my reply.
The answer is one in four.
Mr. Harding nodded. Ana held up her finger to signal that there was more.
That child is no mutant but should be as valued as the other three.
His eyebrows went up. “You are correct on both counts, Charity.”
He actually said my name.
“I see some people in the class nodding their heads,” Harding said. “Thank you for helping us remember the human side of genetics here.”
The last half hour of class was reserved for lab work in small groups. Ana scanned the room to see where we could join.
Grace, Darcy, and Lilly set up their microscope beside us. Grace smiled. “I liked what you said, Charity. It’s practically impossible to impress Mr. Harding. How about joining our group?”
Lilly’s eyes got big and flashed Grace an are-you-kidding-me look.
I typed, I will do my best.
Ana eyed Lilly and Darcy, probably remembering what happened in English class.
Darcy’s berry lip gloss lit up a sudden smile. “Hey, sorry if we got off on the wrong foot, Charity. Let’s be friends. I can tell you’re really smart.”
Lilly nodded in agreement, snapping her spearmint gum.
Could I trust them? I noted the expression on Lilly’s face: Hashtag whatever.
Grace read the instructions out loud. We were working with live fruit flies, some of them “wild type” and some “mutants” with red eyes. The mutants actually looked cuter . . . if a fruit fly can look cute.
Grace stuck a small wand soaked in a chemical into the jar of wild flies to put them to sleep. After two minutes, she tipped the jar to transfer the sleeping flies onto a plastic petri dish.
Ana steadied my head above the microscope so I could observe. Giant eyes and delicate, transparent wings—nature’s perfection in a minuscule package.
Lilly lowered her eyes to the microscope as if it might bite. “Eeeeew . . . these things are so gross. Hashtag nasty!”
“Give me a break,” Grace said. “Didn’t you say you wanted to be a doctor?”
“Yeah,” Darcy said, “but she meant a loooove doctor.”
The three girls laughed. Grace pulled Lilly away from the scope so she could take over counting male versus female flies. Darcy marked the totals on our lab sheet.
When we finished, Lilly picked up the petri dish and wrinkled her nose. “Let’s smush these bugs before they wake up.”
Darcy grabbed the dish from her. “No, you ditz, we need to put them back in the jar. Like Charity said, every life has value.”
I nodded and typed my agreement.
Yes, and today these flies are our teachers.
Darcy reached out her hand for a fist bump.
“Right on,” Grace said. She gathered the supplies to put back on the shelf.
When the bell rang, Ana went to talk to Mr. Harding about how to adapt the homework for me. With help, I could type and I could point now, but I still could not hold a pen to diagram genetic crosses. I was sure Ana would find a way to include me.
Darcy turned to me, hand on her hip. “Hey, fun working with you today, Charity.” She and Lilly smiled big.
I could not believe it. These girls who treated me like trash a few days ago stood in front of me, talking to me as if . . . I was . . . a friend.
Breathe in joy.
They smiled and stared at me a few more seconds.
Jaz was wrong about cheerleaders.
“Don’t you have anything to say to us?” asked Darcy. “Go ahead and type.”
She pointed to the keyboard, but my hands were useless without someone to support me. My shoulders started shrugging again.
Shrug, shrug, shrug.
Darcy rolled her eyes at Lilly. “Told you.”
It was not until I got back to the EPIC room that I realized how stupid I was to think these girls might be my friends.
I opened my backpack, and a cloud of fruit flies zoomed out.
Homework Help
Our neighbor Dr. Singh was so excited to learn I could type, she brought us a plate of homemade pistachio cookies to celebrate. “I always knew you had a spark, young lady. I could see it in your pretty blue eyes.”
She squeezed my cheeks the way old people do and patted my face. “I have learned so much by observing your progress through the years—and now that you can type . . . well, you can teach me even more.” Dr. Singh turned to Mom. “What can I do to help? You will find I’m a good worker ant.”
Mom and I were in the middle of our daily homework session. Since I could not turn pages very well, Dr. Singh volunteered to record my textbook readings so I could listen while riding in the car or eating breakfast—my very own audio-books.
I could not believe all the other people who volunteered to support me now that they knew I had a brain. Must be how Scarecrow felt after visiting the Wizard of Oz.
Random kids at school helped Ana collect my puzzle pieces at the end of every class.
Aunt Kiki became our graphic artist. She made posters of charts and tables and poems from my textbooks
