FROM HYPERGIFTED

CHAPTER ONE

HYPERGRADUATE

DONOVAN CURTIS

 

Heavy Metal, robot extraordinaire, moved slowly forward, its Mecanum wheels propelling it forward on the gym floor. With a whirring sound, its lifting forks rose, bearing a rolled white parchment, sealed with a shiny red ribbon.

Abigail Lee, IQ 171, accepted her diploma as the students on the bleachers applauded politely. They were basketball bleachers, even though the Academy for Scholastic Distinction had no basketball team – or any sports team, actually. The most rah-rah team here was robotics. That’s why I was part of the Academy’s graduation ceremony even though I was far too dumb to breathe the air at this school. These geniuses could build the ultimate robot, but none of them could drive one. I was the only person with the skills to work the controller, thanks to my long career as a video-game-addicted couch potato.

Dr. Schultz, the superintendent, finished talking about Abigail’s many accomplishments and called the name of the next graduate. “Chloe Garfinkle.”

Chloe wasn’t Abigail level, but she was still probably half a brain smarter than me. She was also a great friend. I shot her a beaming salute as Heavy Metal handed over her diploma.

“Last but not least, we have Noah Youkilis,” the superintendent announced.

In the front row of bleachers, Noah stood up. They seated him in row one because if he’d been any higher up, there was a really good chance he might have come down on his head. He wasn’t exactly the most coordinated kid in the world. As it was, he managed to have his left foot hooked around the front rail, so he stumbled onto the floor before righting himself to his usual praying-mantis posture.

Even in a school full of geniuses, somebody had to be the smartest, and that was Noah – IQ 206. Head and shoulders above everyone else, even if he was head and shoulders below them, height-wise. He was my friend too – although you might ask yourself what a guy that brilliant would want with someone like me.

I sent Heavy Metal in his direction, raising the forks a little less for this shorter graduate.

“I have some special news for Noah,” Dr. Schultz continued. “You may have noticed that his diploma is a little thicker than the others. That’s because it contains a high school certificate as well as a middle school one. Our Noah is being graduated from the Academy straight into college.”

Noah’s hand froze in midair, inches from Heavy Metal’s lifting forks.  “No-o!”

“Wilderton University, the most prestigious institution in our state, is offering you a full scholarship to be part of their freshman class,” the superintendent went on.

“I won’t do it!” Noah exclaimed. “You can’t make me go to college! What about all that stuff in between? Ninth grade! Driver’s Ed! Prom night!”

Dr. Schultz regarded him in dismay. “This is an incredible honor, Noah! Wilderton has never offered this to anyone before. It shows they truly believe how brilliant you are!”

Noah scowled at him. “I’m not brilliant; I’m average!” He added, “Indubitably!”

I tapped the controller in my hands, edging Heavy Metal forward in the hope that Noah would notice the diploma and take it. When the left fork tapped his stomach, he let out a whoop and jumped back.

“Don’t even think about it, Donovan!” he barked at me. “Whose side are you on, anyway? If I touch that thing, I’ll have to go to college!” He turned and stormed away.

What could I do? I followed him with the robot. Dr. Schultz was glaring at me like this was my fault. My one job was handing out diplomas, and I couldn’t even get that right.

The other Academy kids were fidgeting and murmuring uncomfortably. Noah had been given an opportunity any one of them would have jumped at. They were all gifted; some were supergifted. But only Noah was hypergifted, which meant that even a scholarship from a fancy university was no big deal to

The one thing Noah wanted more than prizes and honors and scholarships and awards was the privilege of being ordinary. And no hypergifted kid could ever have that.

I think Noah was trying to make a dramatic exit, but he walked into the equipment room by mistake, sending a fusillade of volleyballs bouncing out toward the bleachers. One of them struck Dr. Schultz’s podium, making the sound system shriek with feedback.

 

“You should have seen Noah,” I told my parents after school that day. “They had to cut him out of the netting of a field hockey goal. He tied himself up so he wouldn’t have to go to college.”

“Poor Noah,” Mom clucked from the kitchen where she and Dad were getting dinner ready. “They expect so much from him and it’s just not fair. He may be a genius but he’s only thirteen.”

“And his mental age is three and a half,” I finished. “That’s pretty young to be living in a dormitory on a college campus, where everybody else is eighteen and older. And who’s going to want to be his roommate? You’d feel like a nanny.”

“I guess a two hundred IQ is both a blessing and a curse,” Dad put in.

“That’s not the worst part,” I went on. “Wilderton wants him to start in the summer semester so he’ll be used to college life by the time things get really busy in the fall.”

“Sounds sensible,” Mom commented.

“Sensible?” I almost howled. “They’re taking his summer! The summer after middle school is your last summer of freedom – nobody expects you to get a job or an internship or to do volunteer work. I’ve made a lot of plans for this summer. Know what they are? One word: nothing!”

Dad emerged from the kitchen, his oven mitts wrapped around a casserole dish. “Not very motivated, Donnie.”

“That’s where you’re wrong,” I told him. “See that couch over there – the one opposite the TV? My butt is going to be attached to the middle cushion and it isn’t moving till September. And I have to say I’m pretty motivated about it.”

You couldn’t blame me for having an attitude. Up until three weeks ago, our little house was packed with my sister, her husband, their new baby, and two dogs. It wasn’t just crowded; it was a zoo. Now that they’d moved on to my brother-in-law’s new posting in Europe, this place felt like a luxury Airbnb. It was really going to enhance my summer plans.

My parents placed the tuna casserole and salad on the table, but nobody made a move to sit down and start eating. A worried look passed between them. Something was up.

“What?” I asked suspiciously.

The doorbell rang and both of them ran to answer it. That’s how relieved they were to have the conversation interrupted.

It was Noah, his praying mantis posture a little stiffer than usual. Beside him stood Mrs. Youkilis, wearing her perpetual careworn expression. Being Noah’s mother was a high-stress job.

“Sorry to disturb you at dinnertime,” Mrs. Youkilis said, seeing the table set. “Noah was hoping for a word with Donovan.”

And before I had a chance to consider what this might mean, Noah aimed a long bony finger at the end of a long bony arm at the tip of my nose and announced, “You’re coming to college with me!”

I just laughed. “Yeah, I’d be great in college. I barely squeaked through eighth grade.”

“I should explain,” Noah’s mother cut in. “Wilderton University is allowing Noah to bring a friend for the summer semester, so he’ll have company as he adjusts to the college experience. They’d have a job for you on campus, Donovan, while Noah starts classes.”

Job? I repeated the ugly word in my mind. I had absolutely no idea what kind of job an ungifted guy like me would be qualified to do at a fancy university. Probably not the dean of the engineering school. Whatever it was, no way would it be the nothing I’d so carefully mapped out for myself during the next two months.

“Thanks, Noah,” I managed with a manufactured grin. “That sounds like – uh – fun. But I’ve got a lot of big plans this summer and the arrangements are all set. It’s way too late to make any changes now.”

The chorus of throat clearing from my parents happened in stereo on either side of me. I looked from face to face. Whatever they weren’t talking about before, it was about to come out now.

“Actually, Donnie,” Dad began, trying to sound casual, “this might not be such a bad idea.”

“It is a bad idea,” I assured him. “A very bad idea.”

“The thing is,” Mom took up the tale, “your father and I are celebrating our twenty-fifth anniversary this year. We were thinking of taking a special trip.”

“Really? Where are we going?”

“You’re not going anywhere,” Noah informed me. “They’re going without you.”

I fell silent. If the guy with the 206 IQ said it, it was probably true.

“It would be a second honeymoon for us,” my mother continued. “Our only problem was what to do with you. We couldn’t leave you in the house all alone.”

Why not? I wanted to scream. The couch would still be there, its middle cushion crying out for my butt-cheeks. But I already knew the answer. I was the last person anyone would trust to be home alone. I couldn’t say for sure whether I found trouble or trouble found me, but we always came together somehow. I was a trouble magnet. If you left me in charge of the house, you’d come home to find me sitting in the rubble. It wouldn’t be on purpose, but you could count on it.

“When Dean Kendrick asked who I wanted to come with me, my answer was instantaneous,” Noah said proudly. “Donovan Curtis,” he added in case the stupider people among us weren’t following the conversation.

“It’s amazing how things work out!” Mom exclaimed, giving Noah a big hug and leaving me standing there, unhugged.

Amazing was the word for it. I wasn’t even part of this decision. It was made by my parents – and between Noah and some Dean guy I’d never heard of. But by the time I heard about it, it was already a done deal.

“But –” I sputtered. “But –”

Surely there was some way to fight this thing. Yet every argument I came up with collapsed like a house of cards. My parents in Europe. Our house locked up tight. There was only one possible place for me – at some college with Noah and his big fat ginormous IQ.

It was like waking up in the middle of a chess match to discover you’d already been checkmated.

Dad was practically jolly. “I can’t believe my son is going to an elite university. Well, Noah is and he’s taking you along for the ride!”

Yeah. And the cost turned out to be one summer.

 

 

 

CHAPTER TWO

HYPERMISFIT

NOAH YOUKILIS

 

In science, there are four different forces in the universe: Gravity, electromagnetism, the strong nuclear force, and the weak nuclear force.

It was pretty boring stuff. When you have a 206 IQ, everything is so simple and obvious that very little can ever surprise you.

But I had a theory. There was a fifth force, one that nobody ever talked about. I called it Option Vacuum – also known as having no choice. It worked like a vacuum cleaner. Take away all other options and you just get sucked in.

I was going to Wilderton University because what choice did I have? I couldn’t very well start ninth grade with all my classmates because the Hardcastle School District already graduated me out of high school. That was the force propelling me to college.

That’s why I was no longer fighting against the idea of going, even though I really didn’t want to. It was pure physics. I was just following the fifth force, as we all must. Quad Erat Demonstrandum.

I tried to explain that to Donovan on the car ride to Wilderton, but he just told me I didn’t know what I was talking about.

“Like that could ever happen,” I said sadly. “I always know what I’m talking about. It isn’t fun, but it’s me.”

Case in point: In the front seat, my parents were singing “Ninety-Nine Bottle of Beer on the Wall” to pass the time. But since each verse only took approximately eleven and a half seconds, I calculated that their song would be finished in just under nineteen minutes. In order to fill the entire two-and-a-half-hour drive, they would have to start at “Seven Hundred Eighty-Three Bottles of Beer on the Wall, assuming moderate delays for throat-clearing, sneezing, and the occasional deep breath.

I didn’t suggest they actually do that. My mother did not have a lot of patience for my calculations. Like the time I calculated that if I stopped cutting my fingernails, by my fortieth birthday, they’d be well over three feet long. I calculated toenail growth too, but she refused to hear it. And saliva production – well, that was an unfortunate conversation.

To be honest, I wasn’t quite sure how my parents and I were even related. Not physically – I definitely had my father’s nose and my mother’s stick-out ears. But in human thought processes, we were a million miles apart. That was nothing against Mom and Dad. I envied them for being normal. I’d love to sing “Ninety-Nine Bottles of Beer on the Wall” and then be completely surprised when I ran out of bottles before my destination.

I wished I knew less so I could be surprised more.

That’s why I loved YouTube so much. When you click on a random video, not even a 206 IQ can predict what you’re going to see. For example, I just watched a three-legged chinchilla navigate an obstacle course made entirely of Lego bricks. I couldn’t have anticipated it and there was no way to project how it would make me feel. I loved it. I cheered the whole time.

Donovan didn’t have a high IQ like me, but in my opinion, he was more gifted than any of the kids in the gifted program, myself included, because he could be so unpredictable. He was almost like a human version of YouTube.

For example, no one could ever guess what he had brought for an entire summer at Wilderton University. Oh, sure, there were shorts and t-shirts, underwear and socks. But in his duffle bag, underneath the carefully folded clothes his mom had packed for him, was a small electric waffle iron.

I could only marvel at it. “Donovan – why would you bring this?”

His reply? “Nothing about this summer was my idea. Except this – waffles for breakfast.”

I dig further through the clothes. “But you don’t have any waffle mix.”

He just shrugged at that.

“Didn’t you read the student rules they sent us?” I asked. “We’re not allowed to cook in our dorm room. But it’s okay. There’s a cafeteria where we eat all our meals. Maybe they’ll have waffles.”

“Maybe,” he agreed.

But when I suggested that he leave the waffle iron behind, he absolutely refused.

Logic dictated that a waffle iron you couldn’t use was entirely worthless, like a boat anchor with no boat. But not to Donovan.

I had no reason to complain about Donovan’s excess baggage, though. He had just one suitcase. I had six. Plus two computers and four external hard drives since I was a computer science major. I also had gardening equipment so I could transplant three small bushes I grew in our kitchen. I’d developed a genetically modified strain of elderberries that promised to become a nutritional super-food. Mom and Dad didn’t seem too thrilled when I crammed them into the backseat with Donovan and me.

“They block the rearview mirror,” Dad had complained.

“That should be no problem,” I’d informed him. “I calculated that the other mirrors provide complete coverage.”

Another calculation: Dad had 62 percent less patience with my calculations than Mom did. Maybe even 63.

Eventually, we made it to Wilderton University, but of course, I already knew all about it because I’d researched it. Located in the sawmill town of Conifer, the school was founded in 1829 by Nicholas Wilderton. It was voted the seventh most beautiful college campus in the United States, although I didn’t see what was so special about it. There were old stone buildings covered with ivy. There were lawns, gardens, pathways and ponds. There were trees everywhere, mostly towering evergreens. In other words, it looked like most other rural locations. What was the point of skipping high school just to come here?

“What a magical place!” my mother exclaimed. “You boys are so lucky to be here!”

“There’s no such thing as magic,” I told her. “All phenomena in the known world can be explained by science.”

“She just means it’s nice,” Donovan explained.

We got a little lost searching for Butternut Hall, which was the dormitory we’d be living in. As the car navigated the winding road, Donovan’s face wrinkled into a frown of consternation. “Aren’t there any kids here?”

“These are the kids,” my father supplied. “Remember, this is college. Even the freshmen are eighteen.”

We were definitely the youngest ones here. The only people who didn’t have beards were the girls – or that’s what it seemed like.

“I’ve never felt so out of place in my life,” Donovan half-whispered.

I was a little surprised to hear him say that. To me, Donovan was the coolest guy in the world, always at home, always at ease. I was the misfit. I was too smart for the Academy, but I didn’t fit in at regular school either. Basically, there was one place where I was the odd man out: The universe.

An interesting conundrum began to form in my head: Donovan, who expected to be comfortable most places, felt like an oddball here. But since I was an oddball everywhere, Wilderton University didn’t throw me at all.

Had I reached the point in my life where my misfit status would finally come in handy?

When we found Butternut Hall, Dad pulled up to a back entrance where a few other cars were loading and unloading.

Because it seemed like the friendly thing to do, I introduced myself to the student in the car next to ours, who also seemed to be moving in.

“How do you do? I’m Noah Youkilis, an incoming freshman majoring in computer science.”

He was carrying two beanbag chairs, but he dropped them both to stare at me. “What are you – eight?”

“Thirteen,” I corrected him. “But don’t feel bad. It’s an understandable mistake due to my short stature.”

“You’re in the wrong place, kid,” he informed me. “This is college, not Gymboree.”

“My IQ is two hundred and six,” I explained. “I’m sure yours is much lower. You’re lucky.”

Donovan steered me away from the student, who seemed to be getting angry.

“Don’t be mad,” he advised the guy over his shoulder. “He’s a genius. Which has nothing to do with being smart.”

Between Donovan, my parents, and me, it only took a few trips to transfer our belongings into room 115, which was going to be home for the summer. It was a cinderblock rectangle – I calculated 208 square feet – with a small bathroom at one end. There were bunk beds, two dressers, two desks, two chairs, and a tiny refrigerator.

Donovan set his duffle on the lower bunk, took out the waffle iron, and set it in the place of honor atop his dresser, the cord dangling over the side where there was no plug. “There,” he announced. “I’m unpacked.”

My mother was amazed. “Why did you bring that?”

I provided the explanation. “There’s no purpose to it. It’s absolutely random. How uplifting is that?”

At that moment, my father arrived in the room, carrying the last two of my elderberry bushes. “Well, that’s everything. You guys are officially moved in.”

As he set down the clay pots, a single moth took flight from the branches and began to flutter around the room.

Wordlessly, Donovan picked up the waffle iron, opened up the two sides, and slammed them shut on the winged insect.

“I guess it has a purpose after all,” he said, looking mildly pleased.

Thereby proving me wrong – which didn’t happen often to somebody with a 206 IQ.

It was another reason why two people as different as Donovan and me had come to be friends.

 

 

CHAPTER THREE

HYPERPIGGY

DONOVAN CURTIS

 

After Noah’s parents left, we got our campus tour – from Dean Kendrick himself, no less. Dean Kendrick was the number two guy at Wilderton. The top dog, President Aberfoyle, was away on sabbatical right now, which was when big-shot university honchos traveled the world doing educational things or whatever.

Our first view of the dean came when he rolled up to Butternut Hall in a tricked-out golf cart. He leaped out and enfolded me in a bear hug. “Noah Youkilis!” he gushed. “You have no idea how happy I am to welcome you to Wilderton!”

I wriggled loose. “I’m Donovan. He’s Noah.”

Unfazed, he transferred the hug to Noah and repeated his greeting word for word. Noah shrank away, mumbling, “Don’t do that.” He didn’t like to be touched by strangers. Or even by people he knew, come to think of it.

“I think our proud university offers exactly the level of intellectual stimulation you’ve been yearning for,” the dean continued. “I’m not sure you know this: You have the highest IQ of any student who has ever crossed our threshold …”

As Kendrick droned on, it began to sink in to me that this guy expected Noah to be the next Shakespeare or Einstein or Elon Musk – and the credit for all that would go to the wonderful dean who brought Noah to Wilderton.

Well, dream on, Dean Kendrick. The poor slob had no idea he’d recruited a “genius” who believed that the highest point in human achievement was YouTube.

The dean introduced us to the driver of the golf cart. “Say hello to C.T. Beldner, journalism student extraordinaire. As part of his senior thesis project, he’ll be chronicling the start of your Wilderton journey, Noah.”

C.T. looked about twenty, with the same sparse beard that so many of the male students seemed to have. As we shook hands all around, the newcomer eyed me suspiciously. Since Kendrick ignored me like I wasn’t even there, my identity became the mystery of the moment. Noah was the genius; who the heck was I was supposed to be?

“I’m Donovan,” I introduced myself. “I’m just along for the ride.”

“Are you starting college too?” C.T. asked me.

I brayed a laugh right in his face. “Yeah – that’s funny.”

The tour took a lot longer than expected because Noah kept getting carsick in the golf cart, so every now and then, we had to pull over and take a break. I didn’t have the heart to tell Dean Kendrick that we’d already seen most of the campus while driving around trying to find Butternut Hall. The only difference was this time we got to hear about how most of the buildings were named after guys who died way back before the invention of the wheel.

“Most of the cobblestones on these paths come from Europe,” the dean was explaining. “They arrived in America on ships where they served as ballast. Nicholas Wilderton himself repurposed them for our pathways. Even in the nineteenth century, this university saw the value of recycling.”

From behind the wheel of the golf cart, C.T. shot me a side-eye that was almost an apology for Dean Kendrick’s boring personality. It proved that college students weren’t all that different from middle school kids.

“Of course,” the dean went on, “most of our academic buildings are connected by underground passages as well. You won’t have to trudge through snow during the harsh winter weather.”

“I get claustrophobia in tunnels,” Noah said with a shudder.

“Understandable,” Kendrick put in quickly. “I enjoy a bracing walk on a cold morning.”

It was pretty obvious the dean was determined to be in harmony with his 206 IQ golden boy at all costs. What a creep!

“Is that the football stadium?” I asked, pointing to a gray dome that loomed over the entire east side of campus.

“We’re very proud of our Wild Hogs,” the dean supplied. “They finished sixth in the Cropland Conference last season. Are you a football fan, Noah?”

Noah shook his head. “Professional wrestling is my sport. I watch the videos on YouTube.” He looked a little green, like he was getting carsick again.

“What’s that?” I asked, indicating a barn-like structure set up as a lean-to surrounded by chicken wire.

“That’s the sty, obviously,” the dean replied impatiently. Like why wouldn’t everybody already know that?

“You have a sty?” I persisted. “Like for pigs?”

C.T. laughed. “For one pig, anyway. Porquette lives there. She’s our wild hog – the mascot of our sports teams.” I must have made a face because he added, “If you’re going to survive around this place, you’d better learn to appreciate this particular lady-pig. The whole campus loves her.” With a finger, he flattened his nose into a snout. “Fine swine – ”

“Top of the line,” the dean finished, replicating the snout, which seemed pretty out of place on him.

Noah frowned. “The lifespan of the average pig is twelve to eighteen years. Do you expect anyone to believe that’s the original Porquette?”

“Obviously not,” the dean chuckled. “Every now and then we have to retire a pig and choose a successor. Students from our award-winning agriculture college make the determination of when it’s time for a new Porquette – or in the case of a male, Porky.”

C.T. got the idea the Wilderton Wire needed a picture of the college’s smartest new student with its beloved mascot. So off we went to the sty, which smelled like a hundred pigs lived there, instead of just one. I could tell Dean Kendrick wasn’t thrilled with this little side trip. He started breathing through his mouth as we approached the lean-to. I was doing some of that myself.

To my surprise, Noah actually seemed excited at the prospect of meeting Porquette. He gave me his phone along with instructions about how I should video this moment so he could post it to YouTube. And then Porquette emerged from the lean-to, and we got our first good look at the mascot of Wilderton University.

“That’s a pig?” Noah breathed. “It’s more like – a hippopotamus!”

Okay, he was exaggerating, but not by much. Porquette stood almost as high as Noah’s waist and a good forty inches in length. But while Noah was skinny and insect-like, the pig was solid as a boulder. If you drove a car into her, it seemed like the car would suffer more damage than the animal. She waddled up to us and plopped her ample belly into the mud of the sty, sending blobs of dirt and straw in all directions. We all got hit, but it was worth it to see Dean Kendrick with a splotch of filth running down the immaculate crease of his suit pants.

C.T. wanted a close-up of genius and mascot, but Noah was too uncoordinated to get over the fence. So the student reporter had to settle for a shot of Noah straddling the top post, half-tangled in chicken wire, with Porquette looking up at him almost in amusement.

“Let’s keep the tour moving,” the dean suggested, scowling down at his soiled clothing. “We don’t want to get bogged down on  any one thing.”

It took the three of us to extricate Noah from the chicken wire so we could bid our farewell to Porquette and breathe again. I was no Dean Kendrick fan, but I was happy to get back to the non-pig portion of the tour.

As we were climbing back into the golf cart, I noticed a small outcropping of rock with an image painted on it of a mallet surrounded by stars. I’d seen it a few other places around the campus – on rocks and benches and once even on the side of a building. I’d assumed it was just graffiti, but the same picture was definitely coming up again and again.

“What’s that?” I asked.

Kendrick seemed pleased that I’d noticed. “That’s Wilderton’s secret society – the Society of the Gavel. You’ll notice that symbol all over the campus.”

Noah jumped on that like a dog on a dropped hamburger. “Secret society? What does that mean?”

“All the best universities have them,” the dean explained. “Yale has Skull and Bones. William and Mary has the Flat Hat. Emory has the Order of Ammon. We at Wilderton like to think that the Society of the Gavel is the oldest and most prestigious of them all.”

“But what’s it about?” Noah persisted. “What does the Society of the Gavel do?”

“Nobody really knows,” the dean replied. “Every now and then, a group of old members makes a donation in the name of the Gavel, but we can never be sure, not even of the donors’ identities. Not until they die. They’re buried as Gavelers – and then it’s too late to ask them any questions.”

“How do you apply?” Noah asked eagerly.

“You don’t,” C.T. told him. “They have to recruit you. They say that only one out of a hundred students is ever approached to join the Society of the Gavel.”

C.T. and the dean had no way of knowing this, but I was all too familiar with it. Noah was becoming quiet and focused, his questioning rapid-fire. It was the way he’d reacted the first time I showed him YouTube. When he set his headlights on something, that 206 IQ was relentless until he’d learned everything there was to know about the topic. It looked like the Society of the Gavel was next on the list.

The tour went on for another hour, but it never recaptured Noah’s attention. He wasn’t interested in the Student Union or the Research Library or even the state-of-the-art Technology Center. Yet every time we passed a gavel and stars painted on a paving stone or a wall or a broken-down fence, he just about leaped out of the golf cart. C.T. tried to interview him for the Wilderton Wire, but Noah responded to every question with a question of his own about the Society of the Gavel – how they got started, why they chose a gavel as their symbol, and most important of all, what qualities did they look for in new members?

I could tell Dean Kendrick was becoming a little impatient with Noah’s nagging. “It’s a secret, Noah. That’s why they call it a secret society. If everybody knew about it, it wouldn’t be secret anymore.”

At long last, C.T. steered the golf cart into the driveway in front of Butternut Hall. I wondered if Noah was going to call attention to the three elderberry bushes I’d helped him transplant in a line of shrubs outside the window of our dorm room. But my roommate didn’t bring up the subject. For Noah, if it didn’t have a gavel in it, it wasn’t worth mentioning.

“Well, now you’ve seen our corner of the world.” Dean Kendrick shook hands with Noah, ignoring me once more. “Your first class is at the Technology Center at nine a.m. tomorrow. Let me just say once again how thrilled we are to have you at Wilderton.” And now that Noah was all squared away, he climbed back into the golf cart so he and C.T. could drive off.

“Hey, wait a minute!” I blurted. “What about me?”

“What about you?” he asked like I was a pesky insect that needed to be swatted.

“I know I’m not in college or anything like that,” I went on. “But aren’t I supposed to have some kind of job here while Noah – you know – does his thing?”

The dean looked completely blank. I experienced a moment of sheer panic. Was this dumb school so anxious to snag Noah that they lied about having a job for me? Tomorrow my parents were leaving for Paris and the start of their second honeymoon. It would be the final touch of this wonderful summer if I was stranded here for two months with nothing to do.

C.T. came to my rescue. “Dean Kendrick, didn’t you say that Donovan was going to work in the Explorers program?”

I clung to it like I was a drowning sailor and this was my lifeline. “What’s the Explorers program?”

“Oh, yes,” the dean said, snapping his fingers in recollection. “The Explorers program is a summer camp the university offers for the young children of faculty and graduate students. You’re going to be a counselor-in-training.”

“Congratulations, Donovan,” Noah approved. “You’ll be shaping young minds.”

I made a face. In other words, I was going to be a babysitter. But come to think of it, that was a job I already had.

I would be spending my summer babysitting Noah.