Michael and Eleanor heard about it later from Mrs. Chen. They sent a card. There was no check inside.
I was glad.
By then Eleanor and I had become something like friends, though sixty-nine years separated us. We spoke once or twice a month. Sometimes she asked about school. Sometimes I asked whether she was using her cane.
She hated that question.
The next year, I entered the California State Mathematics Championship again.
I was eleven.
This time, my mother arranged her shift three months in advance. Mrs. Chen drove us because neither of us trusted public transportation with our nerves. I carried a portable battery in my backpack and checked it so many times my mother threatened to confiscate it.
At 9:42, we arrived.
At 9:51, I was in my seat beneath the bright lights.
Three sharpened pencils lay beside my calculator.
My hands were sweating.
Then someone in the visitor section coughed.
I looked up.
Eleanor sat beside Michael in the second row.
On her lap was a small paper bag.
She lifted one red apple just high enough for me to see it.
I almost laughed during the instructions.
At exactly 10:00, the proctor told us to begin.
For two hours, there was nothing in the world except numbers.
I did not think about scholarships. I did not think about wheelbarrows. I did not think about whether children with better schools or newer calculators belonged there more than I did.
I solved what I could. I skipped what I could not. I came back. I checked my work.
When time was called, I put down my pencil and realized my hands had stopped shaking.
I did not know my score yet.
I knew I had finished.
That was enough for the first minute.
Then the results were posted.
I had won.
Not by a dramatic landslide. By two points.
Mrs. Chen screamed. My mother made a sound I had never heard from another human being. Michael clapped over his head like a sports fan.
Eleanor stayed seated because standing quickly still made her dizzy.
