Mrs. Abernathy called the roomful of eleven-year-olds to order and told them to open their math books to page thirty-one. Her eyes scanned the class and came to rest on a stocky boy beneath a dome of golden hair, who was making grotesque faces at a girl.
“Donald! What is the square root of a hundred and forty-four?”
The boy turned his attention to the teacher with sleepy-eyed indifference. “I’m sorry, what did you say?”
“What is the square root of a hundred and forty-four?”
“Do I know the square root of a hundred and forty-four? Is that what you’re asking me? Of course I do. It’s absurd that you would even ask me that.”
“Please tell the class what it is.”
“You
want ME to tell the class? Excuse me—aren’t you supposed to be the
teacher? I think we can all agree that, if anyone around here is going
to tell the class the square root of a hundred and forty-four, you
should be the one to do it. If you even know the square root of a
hundred and forty-four—which, frankly, I have my doubts.”
This last phrase was delivered to three boys sitting across the aisle from the blond boy. They giggled.
“Do you know the answer, Donald?”
“Do
I know the answer? Lady, I am super-smart. My I.Q. is, like, many
multiples of the square root of a hundred and forty-four. Beyond
anything you have seen in this grammar school, believe me.”
“Then you can tell us the square root of a hundred and forty-four.”
“Listen, I know the square root of a hundred and forty-four. I have known it for YEARS.”
“What is it?”





