The Clueless Girl's Guide to Being a Genius Read Online Free Page B

class, but missing more and getting away with it was harder. I stormed up the crowded steps when—
    Crash!
    I fell against the kids behind me like some dumb domino. My backpack went flying, and a foot smashed my hand. A shrimpy girl with black hair wearing a gray suit sprawled next to me. She pushed her bangs out of the way and rubbed a red spot on her forehead. The crowd kept coming, and kids stepped over us, complaining we were blocking the way.
    â€œOmigosh!” said Timothy. He grabbed me by the arm to help me up. Timothy has had a “secret” crush on me since I was six, and for once I was grateful he followed me around. The boy who sometimes followed Timothy grabbed my other arm. “Are you all right?”
    â€œThat girl slammed into me,” I told them. “She didn’t even say sorry. She just sat there as if she’s never been knocked down before.”
    Like that wasn’t bad enough, then Principal DeGuy came rushing down the stairs two steps at a time to help the girl up. “Holy tumbleweeds! So sorry, Aphrodite. These stairwells can be dangerous with the students charging up and down. Let’s go to my office.”
    Of course, I had no idea at the time that the rag doll with the skinny limbs who Principal DeGuy was leading down the steps was my new math teacher. I figured she was just some dumb new kid. I even stuck my tongue out at her as she passed, although she didn’t seem to notice.
    â€œI’m okay, too,” I said to Principal DeGuy’s back. “Thanks for asking.”
    â€œYou stampeding elephants should get to class,” he shouted, before dragging the girl out of view.
    The rest of the crowd took his advice and rushed off, leaving me and Timothy alone. I plopped down on a step and reached for my backpack. Something was oozing from the front pocket. My tube of strawberry hand lotion must have exploded when it hit the ground.
    â€œUgghhh!” I pulled out a tissue and began wiping off the mess. My hand was still throbbing from the fall, and the nail I had fixed was totally snapped in half.
    â€œLooks like you’re in a jam,” said Timothy. “A strawberry jam. Get it?” (Did I mention he had an annoying habit of telling incredibly lame jokes?)
    â€œOh, can it,” I replied.
    And that’s how I met Aphrodite.

5
    Aphrodite Ducks Squash
    I f you are ever on the receiving end of flying squash, do this. First, remain seated. Standing will just make you a bigger target. Second, dart your head to the left or right, but never duck. The curvature of the spoon tends to fling the squash low, so you will take it in the head if you duck. Third, try to remember that it’s only squash, and it washes off with water.
    That evening, the mashed squash hit my left eyebrow. “No, no,” I told my baby brother, Hermy, the food-flinging fanatic. “In the cave. Put the yummy in the cave. Just like me.” I demonstrated by scooping up a spoonful of peas, dumping them in my mouth, and chewing with exaggerated satisfaction.
    Hermy pointed to his own mouth. “Cave,” he squealed.
    I wiped off the squash. Dinners had lost all civility since my baby brother joined us at the table, and I couldn’t have been happier. Hermy never criticized me for baby talk or acting silly. It’s not that I didn’t love my parents, but, like my professors, they made me feel like I had to act mature. My mother was an especially serious person. If she were a drink, it would be water. My father, Buster Wigglesmith, would be a cup of warm milk. Hermy would be a fizzy cherry soda with a scoop of piña colada ice cream and a slice of lime served in a Winnie-the-Pooh glass.
    Hermy was twenty-one months old. He was born while I was at Harvard. My father, a mythology buff, named him Hermes after the Greek god who bridged the mortal and immortal worlds, just as he had named me Aphrodite after the Greek goddess of love and beauty. Hermy