Ungifted by Gordon Korman Page B

Man through his paces. I watched in amazement. The robot fairly danced around the lab, the lift mechanism moving easily. The Mecanums worked like magic, changing direction instantly with a flick of Donovan’s wrist.
    The kids broke into cheers. They mobbed Donovan, begging him to be our operator at the meet—all except Abigail. She stood rooted to the floor, fuming.
    â€œGot it!” Noah lowered the camera and ran for the computer to upload his very first YouTube video.
    And me? Well, I was thrilled for the team and tantalized at the prospect of finally giving Cold Spring Harbor a run for their money. But I also realized that my chief problem was no closer to a solution. Being good with a joystick because of hundreds of hours playing video games was not the kind of talent that got a student into the Academy for Academic Distinction.
    What was Donovan Curtis doing in the gifted program?

UNREPAIRED
DONOVAN CURTIS
IQ: 112
    T he grade glowered at me off the cover sheet of my social studies paper: D-minus.
    â€œIs that graded on a bell curve?” I asked Mrs. Shapiro.
    She was almost sympathetic. “No, Donovan. It’s just graded.”
    â€œOh.”
    I wasn’t normally grade-obsessed, but this really threw me. The thing is, I had no chance with the kind of math and science they taught in this place. If I was going to have any prayer at all of hacking it in the Academy, I’d have to rock subjects like English and social studies. That’s why I was so shocked about the D-minus. I’d worked really hard on this paper. Maybe I hadn’t aced it by gifted standards. But I’d figured I’d get a least a B. I would have settled for a C!
    The teacher sighed. “Is there anything you want to tell me? Is something wrong?”
    Something was wrong, all right. When the biggest effort I’d put into a school project since kindergarten pulled a D-minus, yes, it was pretty fair to say that something was wrong.
    She interpreted my silence as an invitation to probe further. “At home, perhaps?”
    â€œWell, it’s just that I have ADD.” That was pure blind inspiration. Sanderson had ADD, and occasionally he got cut a little extra slack because of it.
    Mrs. Shapiro’s expression softened immediately. “Why didn’t you say so?”
    â€œI guess I was too distracted by other things.” She looked a little suspicious, so I added, “I really wanted to make it on my own. ADD doesn’t sound very gifted.”
    â€œThat’s nonsense,” she reassured me. “You’d be astounded how often giftedness is accompanied by some sort of learning disability.” She handed the paper back to me. “Why don’t you work on this for another week?”
    I didn’t like the sound of that. “Well …”
    â€œAnd we’ll see what we can do about raising your grade.”
    Hmmm, maybe there was more to this learning disability racket than met the eye. After all, ADD was just the beginning. With a little bit of effort, I could work up a case of obsessive-compulsive disorder that would knock your socks off. And what about dyslexia? That could be just the ticket to ward off any D-minuses that might be coming down the pike in English.
    I put my all into the social studies paper, and Mrs. Shapiro grudgingly upped me to a C. I fared no better in English class. Dyslexia or not, C-minus was the best I could come up with, and that was a stretch. Have you ever read Beowulf ? Even the Cliff Notes could kill you.
    I expanded my list of disorders. Restless leg syndrome was a good one. It explained all my fidgeting. And my nonspecific bladder issues allowed me to spend as much time in the bathroom as outside of it. I had this recurring nightmare that all my teachers got together and compared notes on my various illnesses, weaknesses, and diseases. At the end of the dream, an ambulance pulls up to the Academy to haul me off to intensive care. But