Solving Zoe

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ANSWER KEY

SOURCES

At first Zoe didn't notice that the boy at the end of the table was writing down every word she said.

She barely noticed him at all, the way his blond hair flopped into his face as he sat hunched over what looked like a small notebook. Probably he was just some applicant taking notes about the lunchroom: “Burgers at the Lorna Hubbard School extremely gross,” or something brilliant like that.

And anyway, why would Zoe pay attention to some kid she didn't even know, when she was finally, after an endless morning, getting to see her best friend, Dara Grosbard? The only class they had together this year was gym, and that didn't even count, because you had to spend the whole time dodging basketballs or jogging breathlessly around the track. So the one place they could talk was the ear-splitting Hubbard lunchroom, where you really had to concentrate to have a meaningful conversation.

“God, Zoe, this is absolutely disgusting,” Dara was
saying as she chomped on a chili dog. “You sure you don't want a bite?”

“Positive,” Zoe answered. She opened her bag of Lay's potato chips and dumped them onto her tray. Usually there were twelve chips per bag; if she did it just right, she could fit all twelve into her tuna fish sandwich. For crunch, she used to explain to horrified onlookers. Of course, by now everybody knew all about Zoe's sandwich weirdness and didn't even ask.

“So how was Chinese today?” Zoe said, poking in the last of her chips. “Did he make you talk?”

“He always makes us talk. I should have taken a normal language, like French.”

“French? You think French is
normal
?”

“Okay, maybe not,” Dara agreed. “But if I took French, at least we'd be together for one measly class besides gym. Sigh.”

Zoe smiled. Dara was always saying things like “sigh” and “gasp,” as if she were attaching smiley faces, or frownies, to all her sentences. But at least that way you knew what she was feeling, Zoe thought as she took a crunchy bite of sandwich, then a cooling sip of chocolate milk.

Suddenly she felt a light poke from behind.

“Are these seats taken?”

She turned her head. Surprisingly, it was Allegra Hillenbrand, who insisted on being called Leg, along with her bodyguard, Paloma Farrelly. They were both really good dancers, two of the best in Hubbard Middle Division.

“No, they're free,” Dara was saying nicely. “If you can squeeze in.”

Zoe gave Dara a look that meant,
Do we have to?
But either Dara didn't notice or else she didn't think she had a choice. She pushed aside her chili dog and slid over to make room, so that Leg and Paloma wouldn't have to sit too close to the unknown boy with the notebook.

Leg smiled at Dara. “So,” she said. “Have you officially signed up yet?”

“Signed up for what?” Zoe asked. Out of the corner of her eye she could see the boy turn a page in his notebook and write something quickly.

“Nothing,” Dara said. “It's stupid, Zoe.”

“No, it's not. It's brilliant,” Leg insisted.

Zoe glanced at Dara. “What is?”

“Nothing,” Dara said again. Her gray-blue eyes narrowed in embarrassment. “Leg thinks I should try out for the musical.”

“The musical?” Zoe said. “You
want
to?”

“I'm not sure.” Dara nibbled on her thumbnail. “Maybe.”

“Oh, you're totally sure, Dara,” Leg said. “You said so right before Chinese.” She flipped her shiny chestnut hair over one shoulder, her gold hoop earrings catching the light. “Besides, why go to an amazing school like Hubbard if you don't take advantage, blah blah blah. You should encourage her, Zoe.”

“
Do
you want to?” Zoe repeated, trying to ignore Leg. “Because nobody should force you, Dara.”

“Nobody is,” said Paloma.

“Sigh,” Dara said. “The thing is, Zoe, I think I might want to try out, but I'm terrified. You know what Izzy always says.”

Zoe nodded. Zoe's sixteen-year-old sister, Isadora, was the star of almost every Hubbard production, but even she always complained about tryouts. She called them
cutthroat,
and how could they not be, really, with all the gifted and talented kids strutting around this “amazing” school? And the thing was, Dara was shy—talented but shy. And also tiny: not the best combination, especially when you were expected to stand onstage and sing into a blaring microphone.

Poor Dara,
Zoe thought.
She doesn't know what she's in for.

Paloma laughed. “Well, look at it this way, Dara. You probably won't even get a part, so there's nothing to worry about, right?”

“You shouldn't say that,” Zoe said, her dark eyes flashing. “Dara's actually an incredible singer. If she wants a part, she'll get one.”

“Well, yeah, Zoe. Obviously.”

“So if it's obvious, Paloma, you shouldn't tease her like that.”

“It was just a joke,” Dara said gently. “Never mind, Zoe.”

Zoe realized then that all three girls were looking at her, and Paloma was smiling. She felt like a complete moron, all of a sudden.

“Okay, then,” Leg said finally. “I guess our work here is done. See you later, Dara.” Then she and Paloma walked away, taking dramatic turned-out steps, as if to remind everyone in the lunchroom that they were both really good dancers.

Zoe took a small bite of her tuna-and-potato-chip sandwich. “You want me to come with you to tryouts?” she asked.

“Oh, definitely
not
,” Dara said. “You hate all that stuff, Zoe. It would make you crazy to sit there. Besides, we'd probably just look at each other and start laughing hysterically.” She reached over and took a sip of Zoe's chocolate
milk. “I'll just meet you afterward, okay? If you don't mind waiting a tiny bit.”

“Of course I don't mind,” Zoe said, surprised this was even a question. “Why would I?” Suddenly she remembered something. “I've got Isaac's after school today. I really can't be late.”

“Oh, you won't be,” Dara promised. “I'll be like ten or fifteen minutes.”

Well, ten or fifteen minutes probably won't make much of a difference
, Zoe thought. And even if Dara refused to come inside, they'd have the walk over together. And of course they'd have the walk back to Zoe's.

“Okay, great,” she said cheerfully. “I'll meet you in the lobby.”

And then a strange thing happened. The blond floppy-haired boy at the end of the table looked right into Zoe's eyes, the very second she finished speaking. Then he stuffed his notebook into his pocket and walked rapidly out of the cafeteria.

And Zoe couldn't say why, but she knew right then that he'd been eavesdropping on the entire conversation. And possibly worse than that: possibly writing it all down in that little spiral notebook, although of course at that point she didn't have any proof.

Leg was right: Hubbard really was an amazing place. And Zoe Bennett knew perfectly well that she didn't deserve to be there.

Her sister, Isadora, deserved to be there. So did her ninth-grade brother, Malcolm, who was a jerk half the time, but also a genius in math.

The school was perfect for them: a sprawling expanded brick mansion once belonging to some famous Brooklyn socialite, where superstar kids could study Robotics and African Drumming, and never have to deal with grades or report cards or bells or red pens. Even the teachers were amazing—published authors, semi-famous artists, and fresh-out-of-excellent-college types with nose rings and blue hair. You called them all by their first names.
They were like friends,
Zoe often thought,
except in reality.

Lunch was over, and Zoe was in Math class. She watched her Math teacher, Anya, write three Do Nows on the whiteboard, the way she always did at the start of class. Anya was maybe the coolest-looking teacher
at Hubbard, with a blue-black raptor tattoo on her left bicep, and a big red Pegasus on her left calf. But for all her coolness, she still had bossy rules, like always making you “show your work,” even if the answer was completely obvious. And by the time Zoe had copied down the three Do Nows each day and pretended to “show work” she'd never even done, her brain would be flying in all directions at once, like one of those swirl paintings you make in neighborhood street fairs. She'd start doodling in her Math notebook, and then she'd have some fascinating thought, and the next thing she'd know, the period would be over and she wouldn't have finished the second Do Now.

This was Zoe's latest fascinating thought: Every number was actually a color. Not in some silly random paint-by-number way, but in a real way that made its own sense. Zoe wasn't in charge of that sense; she didn't wake up one morning and decide,
Today I'll assign colors to the first nine digits, tra-la-la.
She just gradually realized that whenever she thought of the number four, her mind would be bathed in a beautiful sky blue. And whenever she considered the number five, she'd see a deep vivid emerald green. Pretty soon she had a whole rainbow of numbers worked out in her head:

• 1 = White
  
• 2 = Light blue
  
• 3 = Red
  
• 4 = Beautiful sky blue
  
• 5 = Deep vivid emerald green
  
• 6 = Orange
  
• 7 = Yellow (Bright yellow, not sick yellow)
  
• 8 = Purple
  
• 9 = Chocolate Brown
  

She didn't have it all worked out yet; she didn't know, for example, what happened when you got to ten. But for now she was happy just doodling with the few Prismacolor pencil stubs she'd secretly fished out from the bottom of her backpack: first a red tornado (all angry spirally 3s), then a beautiful sky blue sailboat (the sail obviously a 4), then a bunch of purple clouds (big gentle billowy 8s). Doodling-by-numbers was lots of fun, a painless way to get through Anya's boring class.

Two nights ago at dinner, Zoe had casually mentioned the number-color theory to her family. That had been a mistake.

“I don't get it, Zoe,” Malcolm had said. “You mean if I say a number, some
color
pops into your head?”

“Well, yes.”

“So, what pops into your head if I say two thirds? Or negative three trillion? Or 3.14159?”

“Oh, Malcolm,” said Isadora. “Will you please just give her a break?”

“No, no, I'm really wondering.”

“I don't see numbers with decimals,” Zoe explained patiently. “I'm talking about ordinary digits. One through nine.”

Malcolm snorted. “But you can't limit it to the first nine digits. That makes no mathematical sense.”

“Why not?” asked Dad, winking at Zoe.

“Because if you say something like, okay, three equals pink—”

“It doesn't,” Zoe said. “Three is red.”

“Whatever. Then when you perform any operation on three—”

“I'm not a doctor, Malcolm!”

“I mean a
mathematical
operation. When you combine it with another number, you're changing the value in a way that can't possibly correspond to your whole color theory, right?”

Zoe put down her fork. “I don't understand a word you're talking about, Malcolm. All I said was—”

“I know, I know. Two equals blue.”

“
Light
blue. Four is
sky
blue.”

“Isn't sky blue the same as light blue?” Isadora wondered.

“Oh no,” Zoe said quickly. “Sky blue is pure blue, like if you close your eyes and think of the word
blue
. Two is sort of a pale aquamarine. It's totally different.”

“Blue is my best color,” Spencer announced. He was three years old, and he didn't even have his colors straight. “I want ketchup.”

“Please,” prompted Mom.

“Pleasepleaseplease.”

“I'll re-explain my point,” said Malcolm, gesturing with his fork.

“Actually, Malcolm, you're completely
missing
the point,” Zoe said, her voice starting to squeak a bit. “All I meant—”

“Was that numbers equal colors. Yeah, I know.”

“Malcolm, watch that tone,” warned Mom. “It's bordering on hostile. And Zoe, calm down, get your hair away from your food, and eat your salad.”

Isadora made a face. “Speaking of salad,” she said to Mom, “did you buy a different kind of ranch dressing? This one tastes funny.”

“It's lower fat,” Mom said, examining the label. “I think it tastes fine.”

Dad cleared his throat. “Getting back to Zoe's number theory,” he said meaningfully. Malcolm made another snorting sound.

Zoe could feel her cheeks burn. “Never mind, Dad. It's not important. Can we please just drop it?”

“Why should we? Your theory's really interesting, Zozo. Maybe not in a mathematical way, but in an artistic way.”

Dad was an artist. He was always saying things like that, trying to make Zoe feel creative.

“I wonder,” he continued, “how Zoe would react to different color combinations. Or to patterns of colors. Would she see them as numbers? And would she be more likely to see numbers in an abstract painting?”

“What difference does it make?” grunted Malcolm, balling up his napkin. “This whole topic is completely brain-dead.”

Mom put down the salad dressing. “Excuse me, Malcolm, but I never want to hear that word again. It's highly offensive.”

“Okay, sorry. It's completely
illogical,
then. Better, Mom?”

“Slightly.”

Dad glanced at Zoe, but she was staring intently at her
plate, not caring that her long, curly hair was tumbling into her face. “Anyway,” he said to Malcolm in an aren't-we-having-fun sort of voice, “what's so great about logic? Who says Zoe has to be logical?”

“She's talking about numbers, Dad! Numbers are supposed to be logical! That's what they're for!”

Mom frowned. “Do we really have to have a raging debate about this at the supper table? Can't we please just have a pleasant conversation after a long, hard day?” She was an orthodontist; sometimes her patients were, as she put it, “a little bit resistant.” Apparently this had been one of those days.

“And what about zero?” Malcolm demanded. “Don't tell me zero has a color!”

Zoe sighed. “It doesn't, Malcolm. I never said it did.”

“Zerozerozero,” sang Spencer. “I have zero ketchup left!”

Suddenly everyone looked at the youngest Bennett. Spencer had ketchup on his cheeks, the tip of his nose, both hands, and down the front of his shirt. He looked alarmingly like a stunt toddler in a slasher movie.

“Oh, Spence,” Mom groaned. “What a mess. Why did you do that?”

“Zero is red,” he sang. “Red on my head.” He used his ketchupy fingers to give himself a shampoo. Then
he began clapping for himself, sending little squirts of ketchup in all directions.

That had ended the conversation, and for Zoe not a moment too soon. Why had she even tried sharing her theory with her family? If what she said wasn't intellectually perfect or artistically significant, if it didn't star Isadora or Spencer, or stand up to Malcolm's penetrating mathematical analysis, then naturally the Bennetts wouldn't understand. Well, it didn't matter that much, anyway. She'd talk about her theory with Dara. Maybe she'd tell it to her this afternoon, after that pointless tryout for the musical. Dara would think it was fascinating, even if nobody else did.

“So I guess that's it,” Anya was saying brightly.
Oh, right: Math class
.
Do now!
“Zoe? Any thoughts?”

“Not really.” Zoe could feel her cheeks start to redden.
Three.

“Oh, come on,” Anya was coaxing her, as if Zoe were at her first ever swimming lesson and refused to wet her big toe. “Join the conversation! Don't be afraid.”

“I'm not afraid.”

Paloma turned around and grinned at her just the way she had at lunch. And then Mackenzie Stafford, who went around telling everybody that she had “a near-photographic memory,” began giggling.

“That's great, Zoe,” Anya said, nodding. “Think of it this way: Numbers are sort of like toys. Try to play with them a little. You know, relax and mess around. Don't worry about being right or wrong. Just have some fun with them, okay?”

And all of a sudden Anya was right by Zoe's desk. She was looking down at Zoe's notebook with a funny expression on her face. “Is this what you've been doing all class?” she asked quietly, pointing a black-nail-polished fingernail at Zoe's number doodles.

“Um,” Zoe answered. “Not
all
class.”

Anya leaned over Zoe's desk. She studied the doodles for a couple of seconds. “Really cool. But this isn't Art, you know?”

“Sorry.”

Anya shook her head. She cupped her hand and said quietly and distinctly in Zoe's ear, “Listen. I hate to say this, Zoe. But unless I start seeing some actual work from you, you could very easily fail this class.”

Then she walked back to her whiteboard and began writing some homework problems, the blue-black raptor on her left arm jumping around frantically, as if it had suddenly found itself locked in a tiny birdcage.