Ungifted by Gordon Korman Page A

shouting this time.
    He shot me a smirk and I leaned in to catch his reply.
    â€œYou getting married in that dress?”
    And before I could answer, he was yanked away through the crowd by a group of friends.
    â€œHi, Chloe!”
    The voice wasn’t any louder than mine, but its piercing quality cut through the music like a fire siren.
    If I was worried about being improperly dressed, Noah took all that pressure onto his slender shoulders. His outfit defied description, but in the gifted program we’re encouraged to try. He was shirtless, his upper body covered only by a sparkling sequined vest. His pants were black tights, which made his skinny legs even skinnier. You couldn’t see much of them, though, because he had on knee-high red leather boots that must have weighed thirty pounds each. It was a miracle he could even walk. Mirrored sunglasses concealed his eyes, and his unstylish brush cut was covered with a red do-rag.
    I was horrified. “Noah, what are you wearing?”
    â€œI borrowed the boots and the vest from my mom,” he enthused. “When the Angel of Death fought Kid Nitro at the Royal Rumble, this is just like what he wore.”
    â€œYeah, but this is a dance, not a wrestling match.”
    He shrugged. “Oz said we had to dress up.”
    I had no answer to that. But I sure wanted to be there when Oz got a gander at what Noah thought “dress up” looked like.
    << Hypothesis: As a space fills with people, the air inside warms, approaching 98.6 degrees Fahrenheit, the body temperature of the crowd .>>
    I began to regret my cardigan. I was going to be sweaty, not just overdressed. It was getting really packed, to the point where glimpses of the floor were rare.
    Lost in the wall-to-wall students, I was no longer able to survey the entire party. Instead, I’d catch the occasional familiar face amid the forest of heads and shoulders. I located Latrell by the back wall—it seemed like Oz was working on him to ask someone to dance. Kevin and Jacey were hanging together for mutual support in this alien environment. I thought I saw Donovan once, but it turned out to be somebody else. Maybe he wasn’t going to show up.
    All my nervousness returned in any icy wave. There was something isolating about being smothered by strangers, even in a familiar setting like your own school gym.
    As the crush tightened around me, I felt myself swept along with the movement of the crowd. I was afraid at first, until I recognized the strange combination of motions that pushed me back and forth.
    Dancing! As far as I could see in every direction, bodies gyrated, heads were thrown back, hands swayed through the air. I tried to bulldoze my way out of the group, but flailing arms and swinging hips jostled me. I kept stumbling—but there was more to it than that. I was stumbling in perfect time to the music!
    I raised my hands and moved my feet, following the pounding bass.
    << Hypothesis: Intentional or not, movement to a beat = dancing .>>
    I risked a furtive glance at my neighbors. No What-do-you-think-you’re-doing? glares; no gathering lynch mob. I cranked up the energy level, rollicking at light speed.
    I—Chloe Garfinkle of the Academy for Scholastic Distinction—was one of the crowd, letting it all hang out at a major middle school bash.
    This was the greatest night of my life!

UNTRUSTWORTHY
DONOVAN CURTIS
IQ: 112
    T his was the worst night of my life.
    Bad enough to be banished to the Island of Misfit Toys without having everybody you know come and visit you there. I’d have given anything to take a pass on this dance. I’d even offered to do an extra-credit project for Oz. He’d just regarded me sadly, as if to say, what could I possibly deliver that would be good enough? Showing up was the only thing I could do every bit as well as Abigail or Noah.
    Speaking of Noah, he looked like—holy hamburgers, what did he look like? It was almost