the outskirts of town. She marched confidently into the principal's office
with us in tow and informed him that he would have the pleasure of
enrolling two of the brightest, most creative children in America in his
school.
The principal looked at Mom over his black-rimmed glasses but
remained seated behind his desk. Mom explained that we'd left Phoenix
in a teensy bit of a hurry, you know how that goes, and unfortunately, in
all the commotion, she forgot to pack stuff like school records and birth
certificates.
"But you can take my word for it that Jeannette and Brian are
exceptionally bright, even gifted." She smiled at him.
The principal looked at Brian and me, with our unwashed hair and our
thin desert clothes. His face took on a sour, skeptical expression. He
focused on me, pushed his glasses up his nose, and said something that
sounded like. "Wuts et tahm sebm?"
"Excuse me?" I said.
"Et tahm sebm!" he said louder.
I was completely bewildered. I looked at Mom.
"She doesn't understand your accent," Mom told the principal. He
frowned. Mom turned to me. "He's asking you what's eight times seven."
"Oh!" I shouted. "Fifty-six! Eight times seven is fifty-six!" I started
spouting out all sorts of mathematical equations.
The principal looked at me blankly.
"He can't make out what you're saying," Mom told me. "Try to talk
slowly."