The Clueless Girl's Guide to Being a Genius by Janice Repka

I’ve been practicing my throws in this alley two hours a day since I was six.” Out of habit, I twirled as we talked. Whenever I held the baton, it felt like it should be in motion.
    â€œIf you can get that good at baton through practice,” she said, “you can be a math wiz. Math and baton aren’t that different. They both require dedication and hard work. Might I try?”
    I handed her the baton, and she examined it like it was an alien. “Turn up, turn under, like this,” I said, showing her how to do a simple twirl.
    She tried to mimic, but the baton clunked against her elbow. I showed her again, and this time she managed not to whack herself too bad. She had this droopy elbow thing going on, but once we fixed that she actually got it going a bit. It felt cool to be the teacher for a change. I went inside to get another baton so we could twirl together. I came out just as Professor Wigglesmith spread her legs out for balance, lowered the baton, and flung it in the air. It flew crooked, crashed into a window, and broken glass rained down. The baton hit the pavement on the ball end and bounced up.
    â€œOmigosh! You broke my window!”
    â€œI forgot to take into account the difference in our arm strengths—and that I haven’t developed the ability to throw it straight,” she said.
    â€œYou forgot to take into account that my mom is going to kill me,” I replied.
    Professor Wigglesmith reached into the pocket of her jacket and fished out a wad of cash. She peeled off two one-hundred-dollar bills and handed them to me. “Do you think that’s enough to cover the cost?”
    â€œWhat are you, rich or something?”
    She shrugged. “Every time I win a math contest, I get a prize. Plus, now I get money for teaching at the middle school. My parents have asked me to stop buying them things, and Hermy already has every toy in the store. I don’t have anything else to spend it on, so I always have a lot of ready cash.”
    I held a bill up close for inspection, in case she was trying to pull something on me. The name under the picture said FRANKLIN. The only hundred-dollar bill I had held before was beige and printed with the word MONOPOLY. “How do I know it’s real?”
    â€œYou can soak it in a solution of one part isopropyl alcohol to one part water and then try to set it on fire. A chemistry professor showed me once. If it’s real money, it won’t burn.”
    I put the bills in my pocket. “Thanks, but I’ll just take your word for it.” We pushed the broken glass to the side of the alley near a wall. Then I helped her with a wrist roll.
    â€œYou know, you’re not half bad for a—”
    â€œWeirdo?” she asked.
    I was going to say teacher, really I was, but as soon as she filled in the blank like that, a picture of the VJs insulting her on the porch came zooming back to me. I felt bad that we had hurt her feelings, and I didn’t know what else to say. “It’s just that you’re different,” I told her.
    â€œNot as different as people often assume.”
    â€œBut you’re a genius.”
    â€œAt math. That doesn’t mean I’m good at everything. Besides, you can catch a spinning baton dropping three stories with your eyes closed. Isn’t that different?”
    â€œYou totally got me there,” I admitted.
    It made me think. Maybe I didn’t have to settle for the short end of the baton. This meeting with Professor Wigglesmith could be a sign of good things to come. If I practiced, I would pass math, win first place at the Twirlcrazy Grand Championship, and maybe, just maybe, Miss Brenda wouldn’t sell the Baton Barn after all. Everything was going to be cool. My stupid, rotten luck was all bridge under the water.
    I tossed my baton, did a backflip, closed my eyes, and held out my hand, waiting for the baton to return. I would catch it, Professor