Corianne decided the best defense was a good offense. "How was social studies Suri?" she asked.

"It sucked," Suri replied. "And how's Team Project?"

"Useful," Corianne answered liking the one word reply that wasn't either good or bad.

"Tikvah was off by herself yesterday," Suri explained. 

"I have an indepndent," Tikvah boased. "I'm learning about angles. It's just arithmetic but it's fancy."

"Math just sucks," commented Suri replied.

"So does kick ball," Tikvah replied.

"It's better than Beginner Aquatics. How's the water?"

"I wasn't in the water today. I had metal shop," Tikvah reminded Suri.

"Shit, it's not a gym day for you is it?"

The line began to move. It moved four places and then stopped. "They'll be out of food by the time we get in," Suri complained. "But I'm sure there will be plenty of toe food."

"Can't you even pronounce it right?" Corianne asked.

"You know you girls are annoying," a nearly adult boy refused to mind his own business.

"Ever hear of Clearasil or Clinique?" Suri asked the boy who had interrupted her polite conversation.

"Isn't that makeup," clueless, nearly adult boy responded.

"It's for zits. I hear when they serve pizza again, they're going to make it out of your face," Suri told the boy. "And you should shave. I can see your beard hairs and they're disgusting."

"I didn't know they let brats into this school."

"They let in assholes." Suri rocked on her heels.

"They surely do," nearly adult boy answered.

"Takes one to know one," Corianne piled on. Then the line had to move. They managed to get all the way to the top of the stairs. For a brief second, the dining hall door opened and a Suite Advisor poked out his face. He looked worried.

"Could there be a riot or a food fight like in that movie that I can't remember?" thought Corianne.

A few seconds later Ms. Albina, the  Suite Advisor, sauntered out. She mouthed numbers but did not say anything. "Are they out of food?" asked Corianne.

"Not yet," Ms. Albina replied. "And it would only be a few things."

"Burgers...boogers...burgers," Corianne let the "some things" dance in her mind. Some adult somewhere had said that revenge was a dish best served cold.

Thursday evening Albina forced Tikvah to email her mother. She got roped into this twice a week. "Your mother expects it even if I update her." Rules were rules. Tikvah put together a chatty email about swimming, metal shop, and her upcoming book report for English as well as team project. What she really looked forward to was speaking with her father:

"העלא טאַטי,"
"טיקוואַה, טאָן איר באַקומען אַוועק דעם אָפּרוטעג?"
"נאָך קיין וואָרט."
"עס איז דאָנערשטיק נאַכט. עס זענען ערעוו שבת."
"יאָ, אָבער איך טאָן ניט טראַכטן מיר וועלן גיין צו ווייסע פּלאַינס יעדער אָפּרוטעג. מיר האָבן אַמאַזאָן צו קויפן זאכן. איך האָב נייַ טייץ פֿאַר ראש השנה."
"זייער גוט, עפּעס אַנדערש."
מייַן ברוין שיכלעך וועט זיין גוט, און איך גאַט סוועטערז איידער איך געגאנגען צו שולע.
"אזוי וואו טאָן איר גיין פֿאַר ראש השנה?"
"יונגע ישראל פון ווייסע פּליינז."
"דאס איז ניט קיין אָרט ... ניט ... און איצט איך וועל ניט זען איר פריער ..."
"פארוואס?"
"ווייל איר וועט ניט קומען צו ווייסע פּליינז."
"פארוואס ניט קומען צו דער סטאַנציע פּאַרטיי אויף שבת אָדער זונטיק. אַלבינאַ, די מאָראַ, האָט איר פארבעטן."
"איר קענט ברענגען אַ בוטשור."
"וואָס סאָרט פון פּאַרטיי איז עס?"
"זיי האָבן מוזיק, קונסט, שפּילערייַ."
"וואָס מין פון מוזיק?"
"סעקולאַר. עס איז אָבער אין איין צימער. איר דארפט נישט אריינגיין דארט. מיר טאנצן אין שורות, נאָר אויב מיר וועלן."
"אָלרייט. דאָס איז אין דיין שולע. ווי טאָן איך באַקומען ין."
"איר רעדן מיט אַלבינאַ די מאָראַ. לאָזן מיר געבן איר איר נומער."

TRANSLATION
"Hello Tati,"
"Tikvah, are you getting away this weekend."
"No word yet."
"It's Thursday night. It's erev shabbos."
"Yes, but I don't think we go to White Plains every weekend. We have Amazon to buy things. I got new tights for Rosh HaShannah."
"Very good, anything else new."
"I got a shoe shine kit. My brown shoes will be good, and I got sweaters before I went to school."
"So where are you going for Rosh HaShannah?"
"Young Israel of White Plains."
"That's not a place... no...  And now I won't see you before..."
"Why?"
"Because you aren't coming to White Plains."

"Didn't daddy remember," Tikvah wondered. She told him: "Why not come to the station party on Saturday or Sunday. Albina, the mora, invited you. You can bring a bochur."
"What kind of party is it?"
"They have music, art, games."
"What kind of music?"
"Secular. It's in one room though. You don't have to go in there. We dance in lines, but only if we want to."
"Alright. This is at your school. How do I get inside."
"You talk to Albina the mora. Let me give you her number."

Tikvah hoped her father would call her Suite Advisor to get let in through the big front gate. Actually, she felt disappointed with the call. She wanted to tell him about independent study of angles in Team Project, and designing a tie clip in metal shop. Too bad, the tie clip would not be finished before Rosh HaShannah. Tikvah also wondered if and how she would see her father during the Days of Awe and how she would observe Yom Kippur. A ten year old is almost old enough to fast.

Fasting scared Tikvah, but her mother finding out about her new tights wardrobe that would arrive early next week scared her more. An angry mother could pull her out of school and imprison her in Brooklyn, though how they would start her in school two weeks into September was a mystery. Maybe she'd stay at home with the grandparents and go to school on the computer.

Tikvah envied Corianne for not having to think of those things. Corianne had an ordinary life even if her mother was far away in the United Arab Emirates and her father was busy with his fourth or fifth wife and a mountain of stepkids out in Indiana.

Stoop Shoulder, whose real name was Farley took a big, sloppy bite of his double burger and glowered over the table. "What I don't get," he began "is how they could fuck up the schedules."

"The computers were down for only a little while during registration," Marion remembered back nine days ago. Why did it feel like a different world now?

"That's not what I'm talking about," Farley groused. "It's the groups we have to join. Why does the STEM Club meet at the same time as the Chess Club or that Legion d'Honneur Francaise that half the girls join? I mean it's one big conflict."

"It's a cluster fuck if you ask me," Mounish who ate a tuna burger smothered in ketchup and a bowl of hot pickles on the side, "It's not just STEM Club, though that's bad, it's Debating Team and Young Programmers."

"Young Programmers do anything?" Farley asked.

"They're pretty good," Mounish replied but the vice president couldn't show up because he's also on debating. Mounish gave a snot-filled sniff of total disgust.

"Well I talked with Madame Grosse, cause I  missed Legion d'Honneur for STEM," Oded complained. "She knows about the conflicts."

"So much for girls in STEM," sighed Farley, not that there's that many of them anyway. "I didn't see either of you at the STEM Club meeting."

"That's cause I didn't join STEM Club," Zia bravely spoke up. "I'm taking Junior Achievement and Chorus"

"Why the fuck?"

"I like to sing and business makes the world go round."

"OK, if you want to make little plastic dinguses. I guess it's a girl thing."

"It's a matter of interest. I joined the Environment Club because I want to use science to change things. I study enough during the day," answered Marion.

"Distributing recycling baskets is not science," Farley pronounced.

"Yes, but recycling is based on scientific principles, if it can pay," Marion answered. "Besides if we do more of it, we keep more carbon out of the atmosphere and save more energy."

"Girl science," sighed Mounish.  "If they had a horticulture club, all the girls would be lining up to grow flowers, and the smart ones would be at the effing head of the line."

"What's wrong with breeding flowers?" asked Marion.

"It's..." Farley searched for a word. "It's not important. Now my parents twisted admin's arm to get me an assembly language course and differential equations. It means no electives, but...I'm learning something."

"I learn something in all my subjects," Marion could feel her face hot with anger.

"OK, how about PE? I can't get out of it either so I also take it," Farley added.

"I'm taking intermediate aquatics so I'm going to learn to dive."

"How exciting."

"After that it's advanced aquatics, and I'll learn water safety and some lifesaving."

"You better not fall into a pool without Marion around, Farley" Mounish said.

"And are you taking Advanced Aquatics, Zia?" Farley seemed unfazed.

"Beginner Aquatics," Zia chirped. "I also went out for chorus. I'm going to learn more about singing in a group. It's a good skill because it satisfies the heart. We have hearts as well as minds."

"Your heart will make you boy crazy you know," Farley observed.

"For you, never or at least not until you stand up straight and use some deodorant, " thought Marion.

"And art helps me think visually. Ask Oded about biology yesterday." Marion tag teamed the boys.

"We have two, typical, well-rounded smart girls here" Farley summed it up. "They are good in French, history, biology, geometry, which is girl math, pretty much everything and they take art and swimming and love all of it. My parents wish I was like that."

"They'll wish it until you are out looking for a job," Mounish consoled his friend.

"My parents want me not to close off my options. I'm just taking regular classes," Oded responded.

"Then your parents want you to be number one in the class val-ed-ict-orian," Mounish said. "Now those girls have a shot at beating us. That all aroundness is something teachers really like and some parents."

"There is always more demand for technical skills," Farley argued back.

"And medicine needs bed side manners,"  added Oded, who would not attend med school for eight years, at least, "so humanities are important."

"But the shit they make you read," Farley replied.

"It gets better in highschool," consoled Mounish.

"I hate fiction. It's a fucking waste of time."

"It depends on the story," Marion waded into this cesspit of a conversation.

"What stories do you like?"

"On the Road by Jack Kerouac."

"Didn't he commit suicide with drugs?"

"I believe he drank himself to death."

"Doesn't that say something?"

"About the man, yes, but his art... You can make great art and have a wretched life."

"OK..." Farley, who had no use for long lunches wanted to get back to eating. He left before Marion and Zia were half done with their meals. The conversation turned to different computer languages and the possibility of using DNA to code information instead of silicon, and then it turned to CRISPR which both Marion and Zia knew about by keeping up with the news.

"So if you could engineer your baby girl to have blonde hair and blue eyes would you do it?" asked Zia.

"Probably not," answered Mounish. "I'd want her to be smart."

"I'd want her to be immune to alcoholism," Marion volunteered "and have a low chance of getting Alzheimer's later in life, and a low chance of cancer."

"But you would still design a baby?" asked Zia.

"If it could be done and there was no risk of harming the child sure. Everyone wants a healthy kid and people do get addicted. It would be nice to get rid of that."

"And what about your Kerouac?" Oded asked.

"How do you think his mother felt?" Marion found the words.

Mounish and Oded exchanged looks. Marion wondered if she scored a point as her mind wandered to her parents who were down the black hole of a sober home. She also wondered if there were a gene that didn't just code for addiction, but for a flaw that made getting stoned and partying the highest aim in life, even if the person could sober up long enough to talk his way into a port or drive a ship safely for eight hours. Science, after all had its uses.

Marion watched nervously while Mr. Oldes, the biology teacher, handed back the chemical drawings that had been last night's assignment, glucose, fructose, amino acids, methane, and a few others that were building blocks of life or poisons of death or warmed the earth unbearably when humans produced tons of them.

Mr. Oldes handed back even the most minor, daily homework face down which made it more important than it should have been. The papers made a slishing sound as Mr. Oldes placed them in front of each student. He said nothing to Marion as he skipped her and returned Zia's assignment. Zia and Marion sat together. There were times when they were joined at the hip, and Marion felt grateful for that. It could have been claustrophobic, but it wasn't because they were turning out to have different extracurriculars and foreign languages. Marion was once again thankfully she had survived the latter half of French 1 on Skype.

Then Marion began to wonder what happened to her assignment. Had she done something horribly wrong? Had Mr. Oldes lost the assignment? Had he simply forgotten her? Marion did not like to get forgotten and she usually made enough trouble to prevent that, but Mr. Oldes was not Uncle Niles or Aunt Judith.

"I want to show you all a great example of the second chemistry assignment's diagrams. Ms. Broyde is that OK with you?"

"Sure," answered Marion who still wondered what happened to her assignment, until she saw it on the document projector. The carefully drawn colored dots for different chemicals, the straight lines and the drawing of hemoglobin, too big to diagram like sugars and amino acids, but still a beautiful porphyrin that Marion had sketched in three dimensions as well as drew in two because the biology book said that large molecules (and even small ones) had three dimensional shapes. The two dimensional diagrams were really a kind of formula because the places for the bonds between carbon, hydrogen, and nitrogen were important.

"These are accurate diagrams and illustrations. You see how soft and round the hemoglobin molecule is. That's the way most large molecules look from what we can tell, how how do we 'see' these molecules?" asked Mr. Oldes.

The boy with thick glasses, the one to beat, in geometry, shot his hand into the air. He was also the one to beat in biology. Somehow Marion pictured him as an old man with a comb-over because his light brown hair was parted way on the right side of his head, and he had a round, clean shaven, face with a very pink complexion. "Electorn microscopy," answered thick glasses.

"And what is an electron microscope?"

"A microscope that shoots beams of electrons instead of waves of light to picture objects. The electron waves are smaller and have a higher frequency so you can see smaller objects than you can with light."

"Great answer Mr. Siegert."

"Now we are going to move an order of magnitude up in size," Mr. Oldes lectured. This was going to be the cell, but first they were going to discuss what made life and viruses, whether they were alive. Oded Siegert, the boy with thick glasses and the retched comb-over asked about prions.

"Does anyone know what a prion is?" asked Mr. Oldes.

Marion raised her hands. "Yes Ms. Broyde," Mr. Oldes looked at Marion who looked away. "It's a misfolded protein that makes other proteins misfold. It's hard to kill and get rid of. It's what causes mad cow and chronic wasting in deer."

"Very nice. To answer your question Mr. Siegert prions are not considered living things even if they cause disease. Now viruses are another matter...."

Biology left Marion exhausted. She had Nonwestern Studies next and they were still discussing Japan and looking at its strange history. "There is so much in this world I will miss," Marion told herself. She wished she had been older and been able to see the sights in Tokyo. Now it would be years before she went back again, if she ever did.

"Thanks for the answer about prions," a male voice intruded on Marion's musings. She looked up to find Oded Siegert moving down the hall. They had Nonwestern, English, biology, and geometry together. She should have known him better, even if he was a slightly overweight version of a typically under-developed boy. At least he was intelligent and accomplished. It was not his fault that boys matured later, which sort of made fourteen year old males blurs. He deserved better than to be a part of that blur.

"You're welcome," Marion replied.

"And your drawings were really great. Have you considered medical illustrating."

"Who's going to hire me?"

"As a career."

"I don't think that far ahead," Marion confessed.

"Why not?"

"I just don't." Marion was not sure she could tell Oded about her parents. "It's complicated."

"We don't have family table for lunch. Want to eat with us?"

"When did you become a plural?" Marion thought.

"If I can bring my roommate. I don't want her eating alone."

"Sure....Sometimes I eat with my roommate too."

"And when your roommate is not around?" Marion remembered eating alone in the Malta Middle School cafeteria. Eighth grade was awful. She was glad that was behind her.

"Come on, we'll be late for Nonwestern," [color=004bdd]Oded[/color] reminded her.

There was a reason school work got Marion through the day. For English, the assignment was writing a descriptive paragraph. Sitting at her laptop, Wednesday night, Marion pounded out.

She was a world to herself, and she was a four letter word, one letter shy of mild profanity. She measured 37 meters (About two hundred and twenty feet) in length and was a good twelve meters (37 feet) across. She was sheathed in white composite, and the captain, or rather the crew he hired, kept her spotlessly clean. From the sky deck which housed the cabin, wheel, and control panel, one could imagine that one saw the earth, though of course most of the world was beyond what anyone could see even with a spyglass It took radio and GPS to reach the outside. From the bedroom below decks, one could curl up and imagine one was at home.

"Wow," thought Marion. "That feels cathartic."

Marion glanced around the room. This afternoon she would have to email every Suite Advisor and see if they would accept a recycling bin. She would only have to deliver the recycling bins to Ferrante-Walker, the ninth grade high rise, but it would be a lot of bins, that is if the township of Greenburgh supplied them. Another student was writing away for the bins. There were also going to be posters, because Activity Awareness Week was coming and there was a prize of funding for the best posters. Marion wondered if she had a conflict of interest. Also, academics did not let up.

Marion wondered what was happening with Zia and Junior Achievement. She'd been a curse of a roommate the night before. She felt bad about that now. "Alright let's see your praagraphs on the screen," called out Mr. Cardozo, the English teacher.

Marion checked the class monitoring software and set it to give permission for her work to be shown, but a plump boy who wanted to be a physician got to go first. The boy was her shadow in every class except electives. His paragraph about being left at science camp at age twelve was good because it evoked loneliness through physical description. Marion said as much. A girl was skeptical that a dead college campus in summer could provide this much emotion. Marion, remembered STEM camp after sixth grade as fun more than anything else, but it had been daycamp and Shaunna had been home waiting while her parents were off having fun, because why shouldn't they have fun.  Yes, that was a rhetorical question.

Zia went next.

In the United States they use four words to describe this food, but in Kenya and many other places they are called mealies. The smell of mealies hits you before you even see them. It is sweet grain roasting on hot coals, charcoal, or wood, and even if you have eaten, the smell asks: "Are you hungry?" The answer is nearly always yes. They can be long and thin with tiny kernels. They are usually golden yellow, but they can be pale primrose, or translucent white. They can be plump and squat with kernels like pearls and yellow, white, pink, or golden. They nearly always have black tiger stripes or spots, scars of the battle they lost honorably to the vendor's fire.

"Can anyone guess Zia's four words?" Mr. Cardozo asked.

Marion's hand shot into the air. "Corn on the cob."

Zia smiled.