hundred?”
“But sir, a few minutes ago you showed us that sixty-four was a hundred.”
“Yes.”
“And before that…before that
nine
was a hundred.”
“Yes.” He smiled that math teacher’s smile – superior, but tolerant – more in pity than in anger. It wasn’t my fault I was stupid. “Any number can be a hundred, Dingwall. In base two, four is a hundred.”
“Oh.”
Where was something you could count on? Where were the constants in life? Who said numbers can’t lie? Here was a hundred, a plain and simple concept, easy to understand – a dollar was a hundred pennies, a sprint was a hundred meters – and this simple number becomes as slippery as a piece of soap. All over the place. And just when you got used to its changing size – there, it’s sixty-four – you find out it’s really thirty-six. Or eighty-one. Or four. I felt betrayed by something I’d trusted. I was reminded of the day I came home to find that Dad didn’t live with us anymore. Something I thought was forever, something I hadn’t really thought of as present, was suddenly absent. And my life was changed forever.
My dad … a hundred…what next?
“So in base two, a dollar is really worth four cents? And Donovan Bailey runs the four-meter dash? Is that right, sir?” The class tittered again. “And that song – ’A hundred bottles of beer on the wall’ – has got only four verses? It’s just crazy, sir.” I put my head in my hands.
From somewhere behind me came Nick’s voice. “Way to go, Squeaky!”
The class laughed out loud. I turned to glare at Nick. This wasn’t Norbert talking. This was me.
“You can stay after school tonight, Dingwall,” said Mr. Duschene. “For a hundred minutes…in base five. You see if you can work it out.”
Mr. Stern shook my hand in gym class. “I’m so glad you guys won today,” he said to Victor and Nick and Dylan and me. “A very special guest is coming to our next assembly. An old alumnus…probably our most famous alumnus. He’ll present the trophy. I wouldn’t want him thinking the Cougars are representative of the best this school has to offer today.”
“No, sir,” I said. I wondered who had gone on from our school to be famous – no one I’d ever heard of. I asked Victor about it after the last bell.
“Who’s the special guest at the assembly?” I asked.
He didn’t know. “Man, are you ever going to get it from the Cougars,” he said, shaking his head. “You won’t live to see the assembly.”
Our lockers are side by side. He was stacking his books neatly on the shelf of his locker; largest book at the bottom, smallest at the top. A neat little pyramid. He always does that. I throw my books into my locker. Usually the heaviest ends up at the bottom.
“Well, who’s our most famous alumnus?” I asked.
“I don’t know – what’s an alumnus?”
Good old Victor. He knows so much about some things, and almost nothing about anything else. Ask him about computers and he’ll give you chapter and verse. Or sex – I sometimes wonder if he’s making it up, but he sure sounds knowledgeable. “An alumnus is someone who went to the school,” I told him.
I kept my math book, threw the rest into my locker, and closed the door. Victor was having trouble doing up his jacket. He never gets his clothes big enough. His shirt buttons work a lot harder than mine do. When I asked him why he didn’t get a larger size, he said, “Why? I’m not that fat. I can still fit into a medium.” Funny, medium only makes him look fatter than he is.
“My dad went here,” he said. “Years and years ago.”
“Victor, your dad runs the Safeway over on Division Street. I’m talking about someone famous. Someone even you and I know.”
He thought for a minute. “But, Alan, we both know my dad.”
Victor wasn’t getting it. “Someone even more famous than your dad,” I said. “Someone on the evening news.The prime minister or Shania Twain, someone like
“But sir, a few minutes ago you showed us that sixty-four was a hundred.”
“Yes.”
“And before that…before that
nine
was a hundred.”
“Yes.” He smiled that math teacher’s smile – superior, but tolerant – more in pity than in anger. It wasn’t my fault I was stupid. “Any number can be a hundred, Dingwall. In base two, four is a hundred.”
“Oh.”
Where was something you could count on? Where were the constants in life? Who said numbers can’t lie? Here was a hundred, a plain and simple concept, easy to understand – a dollar was a hundred pennies, a sprint was a hundred meters – and this simple number becomes as slippery as a piece of soap. All over the place. And just when you got used to its changing size – there, it’s sixty-four – you find out it’s really thirty-six. Or eighty-one. Or four. I felt betrayed by something I’d trusted. I was reminded of the day I came home to find that Dad didn’t live with us anymore. Something I thought was forever, something I hadn’t really thought of as present, was suddenly absent. And my life was changed forever.
My dad … a hundred…what next?
“So in base two, a dollar is really worth four cents? And Donovan Bailey runs the four-meter dash? Is that right, sir?” The class tittered again. “And that song – ’A hundred bottles of beer on the wall’ – has got only four verses? It’s just crazy, sir.” I put my head in my hands.
From somewhere behind me came Nick’s voice. “Way to go, Squeaky!”
The class laughed out loud. I turned to glare at Nick. This wasn’t Norbert talking. This was me.
“You can stay after school tonight, Dingwall,” said Mr. Duschene. “For a hundred minutes…in base five. You see if you can work it out.”
Mr. Stern shook my hand in gym class. “I’m so glad you guys won today,” he said to Victor and Nick and Dylan and me. “A very special guest is coming to our next assembly. An old alumnus…probably our most famous alumnus. He’ll present the trophy. I wouldn’t want him thinking the Cougars are representative of the best this school has to offer today.”
“No, sir,” I said. I wondered who had gone on from our school to be famous – no one I’d ever heard of. I asked Victor about it after the last bell.
“Who’s the special guest at the assembly?” I asked.
He didn’t know. “Man, are you ever going to get it from the Cougars,” he said, shaking his head. “You won’t live to see the assembly.”
Our lockers are side by side. He was stacking his books neatly on the shelf of his locker; largest book at the bottom, smallest at the top. A neat little pyramid. He always does that. I throw my books into my locker. Usually the heaviest ends up at the bottom.
“Well, who’s our most famous alumnus?” I asked.
“I don’t know – what’s an alumnus?”
Good old Victor. He knows so much about some things, and almost nothing about anything else. Ask him about computers and he’ll give you chapter and verse. Or sex – I sometimes wonder if he’s making it up, but he sure sounds knowledgeable. “An alumnus is someone who went to the school,” I told him.
I kept my math book, threw the rest into my locker, and closed the door. Victor was having trouble doing up his jacket. He never gets his clothes big enough. His shirt buttons work a lot harder than mine do. When I asked him why he didn’t get a larger size, he said, “Why? I’m not that fat. I can still fit into a medium.” Funny, medium only makes him look fatter than he is.
“My dad went here,” he said. “Years and years ago.”
“Victor, your dad runs the Safeway over on Division Street. I’m talking about someone famous. Someone even you and I know.”
He thought for a minute. “But, Alan, we both know my dad.”
Victor wasn’t getting it. “Someone even more famous than your dad,” I said. “Someone on the evening news.The prime minister or Shania Twain, someone like
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