Connect the Dots Read online

  For all the misfits. The kids who dress oddly, talk funny, and see the world differently.

  The world is so much more interesting because you’re in it.

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  A Drop of Hope Preview

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Also by Keith Calabrese

  Copyright

  “What if I told you that I could guarantee someone the perfect day?”

  Jimmy was used to his best friend, Preston, saying weird things like this while they walked to school.

  Several long seconds passed in silence.

  Jimmy stopped walking. “Preston,” he warned.

  “Yes?”

  “You’re doing it again.” Like many ridiculously smart people, Preston had a habit of looking past what was right in front of him, as well as abandoning conversations in mid-thought.

  “Oh,” Preston said, staring at Jimmy searchingly. “You’d like me to explain?”

  “Sure.”

  The alert on Preston’s digital wristwatch went off.

  Beep!

  Preston checked his watch. “Okay, but we need to keep moving. Kind of on a schedule here.”

  “What schedule?” Jimmy said, but Preston had already started walking again.

  “You know when something really good happens,” Preston said as Jimmy caught up to him, “and people say, ‘I guess I was just in the right place at the right time’?”

  “Sure.”

  “Well, I came up with a formula to figure out exactly when and where the right place and time would be for something really good to happen.”

  “Using math?”

  “Yes, I thought that was implied by my use of the word ‘formula.’ ”

  “To guarantee someone a perfect day?”

  “Uh-huh,” Preston said. “It’s really just a question of transposing a series of everyday situational elements into variables in a mathematical equation. After that, the algorithm practically writes itself.”

  “Oh, I’ll bet,” Jimmy said. He was used to this, too. To call Preston good at math wasn’t just an understatement; it somehow missed the mark. Like saying a fish is good at swimming. It wasn’t something Preston did, really. It was something he was.

  The boys approached a yellow, two-story Shaker house. “So, who is the lucky recipient of this perfect day you’ve somehow calculated?”

  Preston’s watch went Beep! again just as an eleven-year-old girl came bounding out the front door to join them.

  “Hey, guys!” Floss called.

  “Right,” Jimmy said.

  “So, what do you think?” she said, doing a little twirl to show off her new skirt.

  “Is that a kilt?” Jimmy asked.

  “Uh-huh,” Floss said. “My dad brought it back from his trip to Scotland. It’s authentic Highland tartan or something.”

  “Did your brother get one, too?” Jimmy chuckled.

  “Nah, he got bagpipes. You don’t think it’s too dorky, do you?” she said, suddenly a little self-conscious.

  “No way. I think it looks awesome,” Preston said.

  Floss beamed. “Thanks, Preston.”

  Preston’s watch went Beep! again.

  It went on like that for the rest of the morning.

  In science class, the egg Preston and Floss were incubating finally hatched a chick, right in Floss’s hands.

  Beep!

  In math, Floss got the second-highest test grade, behind Preston.

  “I’ll get you next time,” she said, punching Preston playfully on the shoulder.

  Beep!

  In gym class, they were supposed to play dodgeball, which Floss hated because it’s barbaric, but the gym teacher had jury duty, so they got to do whatever they wanted to for the period.

  Beep!

  “Okay, how are you doing this?” Jimmy hissed over the lunch table at Preston.

  “I’m not doing it, Jimmy. That’s the point. I just know what’s going to happen and when. Think of it like an eclipse. Astronomers use math to figure out when the sun, the moon, and the earth will all line up in a specific, exact order. Except instead of when the next eclipse is going to happen, I’ve solved for—”

  “Tater tots!” Floss said, plopping down next to Preston with her lunch tray.

  “What?” Jimmy said.

  “Guys, look,” she said, pointing to her tray. “The good tater tots are back! Today! I mean, imagine the odds, right?”

  Beep!

  Isn’t it awesome? Preston mouthed across the table to Jimmy.

  It was something, all right. Jimmy always knew his best friend was super smart, but this was getting a little scary. With every Beep! from that wristwatch, Jimmy felt a pang in his gut that told him Preston might be messing with powers he didn’t understand.

  After school they went to Floss’s house to play Nintendo, and her brother let them try out his new bagpipes. Then Floss’s mom made her special homemade lasagna, and for dessert her dad picked up Floss’s favorite ice-cream bars, Farouk’s Famous Fudgsicles, on his way home from work (Beep! Beep! and Beep!).

  “Take those out on the porch before you get chocolate on the couch,” her mom told her and the boys.

  Floss brought out her portable radio, and they went onto the porch. A few minutes later, her favorite song came on and she sang along, using her ice-cream bar as a microphone.

  The performance was cut short when a beat-up Chevy Nova that was driving by backfired, causing Floss to laugh in shock.

  “You know,” she said, looking out over the porch as the sun set brilliantly behind the trees, “this has been the perfect day.”

  Jimmy braced himself for the Beep! from Preston’s watch. But it was drowned out by a loud crash down the block, followed by lots of cursing and yelling. Just as suddenly, the teenage driver of the Chevy Nova ran past Floss’s house, screaming in terror.

  And then things got strange.

  Because a very burly, very angry man in a polka-dotted jumpsuit and clown makeup raced after the driver. The clown was moving at a pretty impressive clip, considering his oversized shoes.

  Jimmy, Floss, and all the other neighbors who’d spilled out into the street watched the absurd chase with amusement. But as Floss took Preston’s arm and pointed at the enraged clown, Preston just … shut down. His face went blank, his expression totally catatonic as his brain struggled to process this unforeseen new variable.

  It took Jimmy and Floss several minutes to get him to snap out of his stupor enough to follow them off the porch to see what was going on. Floss even took the Fudgsicle stick out of Preston’s gaping mouth because she was afraid he might choke on it. A tow truck had arrived and was in the process of extricating an accordion-crunched Nissan Sentra—with Burt the Happy Clown * Parties and Group Rates stenciled on the driver’s-side door—from the front of the teenage burnout’s barely dented Chevy Nova.

  Preston hardly noticed.

  “I think I’m gonna go,” he mumbled, shuffling away from the scene.

  Jimmy glanced at Floss and shrugged. “I guess I’ll go, too. See you tomorrow, Floss.”

  Floss, confused and a bit concerned, waved goodbye, still clutching Preston’s Fudgsicle stick in her fist.

  Jimmy caught up to his dejected friend. “Clowns. Who’d have figured?”


  “Me, ideally,” Preston replied glumly.

  “You’re being too hard on yourself,” Jimmy said.

  “The numbers were sound,” Preston said. “It should have worked.”

  “Has it occurred to you that maybe you’re overthinking all of this?”

  “No.”

  “Look, you wanted Floss to have a great day. And she did. The thing with the angry clown didn’t mess that up. In fact, it was kind of hilarious.”

  “That’s not the point,” Preston said, frustrated.

  “Why not?”

  “Because I didn’t know it was going to happen.”

  “So what? Who wants to know everything that’s going to happen?”

  “I do!”

  Jimmy sighed. “Anyway, why was it so important for Floss to have a perfect day?”

  “Because that was the experiment, Jimmy. Because—”

  “Because you like her.”

  “What? No. I don’t, I mean … So?”

  “Preston, why don’t you just tell her?”

  “Are you serious? With no research methodology? No probability schematics?”

  “I don’t know what those things are. But no.”

  Preston considered for a long moment. “That’s just insane.”

  “No, it’s not,” Jimmy said. “Whatever today was, that was insane. You tried to outsmart life, Preston. And it threw an angry clown at you.”

  Preston stopped right there on the sidewalk.

  “Of course,” he said quietly. Then, louder: “That’s genius!” Preston grabbed Jimmy by the shoulders, a smile of inspiration plastered across his face.

  “Well, thanks, I— Wait, no. No! No!”

  Jimmy smacked his head in frustration while Preston started scurrying down the street.

  “No,” Jimmy sighed helplessly.

  “It’s so obvious,” Preston muttered to himself. “Insert an independent variable to alter the equation.”

  Jimmy went after him. “Wait. What are you talking about?”

  “Don’t you see?” Preston said, continuing down the street. “I’ve been going about this all wrong. I’ve been solving for when the conditions involved in a perfect moment will simultaneously occur. Instead, I should have been working out how to create those conditions!” Preston said. “You said it yourself. Any random, trivial element, no matter how seemingly unconnected, can screw up even the best laid plans.”

  “Uh, yeah. Sure.”

  “Then it also stands to reason that I could isolate and harness a random, trivial element and use it to set other seemingly unconnected events in motion.”

  “You mean like a chain reaction?”

  “Yes!”

  “Okay,” Jimmy said, nodding. “Or you know what you could do?”

  “What?”

  “None of the things you just said!”

  But it was too late. As Jimmy watched Preston disappear back into his own mind, he heard his friend mutter something that would stay with Jimmy for years to come.

  “Life threw me an angry clown. What’s to stop me from throwing one back?”

  What Oliver Knew * Who Doesn’t Love a Good Orientation Video * A Late Drop-Off * Getting to Know You, Getting to Know All about You * Matilda’s Curious Composition Book

  “All right, then,” Frankie said, rubbing his hands together. “Ready for the big pond, Oliver?”

  Oliver Beane and his best friend, Frankie Figge, stood outside the massive, newly refurbished building that would be their academic home for the next three years.

  “No,” Oliver said.

  “Aw, come on.” Frankie gave Oliver a nudge with his elbow. “I say in three months you and I will be running this place.”

  “Oh yeah?”

  “Six tops.” Frankie smirked with a cocksure confidence that never ceased to amaze Oliver. Frankie could have been the poster child for goofy twelve-year-old awkwardness: big feet and hands; long, skinny legs and arms; and a boy’s shoulders trying to hold up a man’s head. Fortunately for Frankie, he had an unshakable sense of self-esteem. He wasn’t full of himself, exactly. He just liked who he was and seemed to figure that everyone else would eventually catch on, sooner or later.

  Despite his best friend’s back-to-school spirit, Oliver was not feeling the middle school love. About a year ago, Oliver’s parents had gotten a divorce after his father left them for a twenty-eight-year-old Pilates instructor named Selene. Then, a few months ago, his father and Selene moved to Phoenix. Oliver knew that starting middle school was supposed to be a big deal, a major life event. But as far as he was concerned, he’d had enough major life events for a while.

  Frankie and Oliver made their way up the steps to the main doors, where Oliver collided briefly with a surly, hulking boy.

  “Watch it, turdburger,” the boy growled as he elbowed Oliver aside and went into the school.

  “Okay, maybe it’ll take eight months,” Frankie said as they stepped into the school.

  Eight months. The truth was that Oliver doubted he’d still be around in eight months. A few weeks ago, Oliver’s uncle Tommy, his mother’s older brother, had driven all the way from Massachusetts to visit for a few days. His mom and Uncle Tommy were close, and Oliver knew that his uncle was pressing for her and Oliver to move to Belchertown, where he owned a chain of tire stores. Oliver knew this because while Uncle Tommy was staying with them, he kept dropping subtle hints about how great Belchertown was, how much there was to do, how much fun Oliver would have.

  It didn’t take a genius to put it together.

  Oliver and his mom lived in the town of Lake Grove Glen, about thirty miles west by northwest of Chicago, in the house where his mom grew up. He’d always liked Lake Grove Glen—it had a way of being small-town and a little bit city at the same time, and he didn’t want to leave. But ever since things had started changing, it didn’t feel like his hometown anymore. Lately, it just felt like another part of his life that, soon, wouldn’t be.

  As Oliver and Frankie made their way into the auditorium for orientation, Oliver bumped into the school janitor, a thin, wiry, and very shaggy man.

  “Oh, sorry, sir,” Oliver said.

  The janitor mumbled something back and scurried away.

  “Man, twice in one day,” Frankie chided Oliver. “It’s like you’re not even here, buddy.”

  “Who, you may ask, is Preston Oglethorpe?” the narrator intoned rhetorically. “Only the smartest man you’ve probably never heard of!”

  Oliver, Frankie, and the rest of the sixth-grade class were crammed into the school auditorium for a morning orientation, the culmination of which was an informational video, projected on a massive whiteboard screen up on the stage. The video was shot in the retro-throwback style of those old 1950s educational films with all the random pops and scratches of old film stock.

  A file photo of an adult Preston Oglethorpe, staring blankly at the camera in an awkwardly fitting suit and tie, was replaced on the screen by one of a younger Preston Oglethorpe winning a school science fair.

  “A former student at this very school, Preston won the state science fair in sixth grade but then left our hallowed halls in seventh grade … for MIT!”

  A series of photos followed showing Preston Oglethorpe in college, head and shoulders below all the other kids in his classes.

  “Preston went on to graduate at the ripe old age of fourteen and earned the first of several PhDs, this one in applied mathematics, by the time he turned seventeen. Then, at twenty-eight, Preston won the Nobel Prize in Physics for his work in applied chaos theory.”

  Oliver couldn’t stop thinking about the faraway look in the man’s eyes. Oliver knew he was supposed to be impressed, but despite all the glamorous pictures of Preston Oglethorpe winning awards and meeting powerful and famous people, Oliver just felt sad for the guy. He never looked happy; he never even smiled.

  “But then,” the narrator continued as the music took on an ominous tone, “Preston Oglethorpe suddenly vanished. To
this day, no one knows where he went or even if he is still alive.”

  The screen dissolved into a huge, cheesy question mark superimposed over a portrait shot of Preston Oglethorpe.

  “So where is Preston Oglethorpe now? Well, that is one mystery which, truly, only he can solve.”

  The lights came up and the kids were dismissed to their classes.

  “Neat video, eh?” Frankie said as they were walking back to class. “Kind of bogus, though, how the first thing we learn here is about a guy who already makes our lives seem small and meaningless by comparison. I mean, like sixth grade isn’t intimidating enough without reminding us that we’re totally basic?”

  Oliver wasn’t really listening. He was still thinking about Preston Oglethorpe and that faraway, lonely look in his eyes.

  Matilda Sandoval and her dad sat in the car outside school. All the other kids were inside; the school day was already underway. It was a routine of sorts. Showing up a little late, when everyone was in class, made being the new kid, if not easier, at least less hectic.

  This wasn’t the first time they had done this. Matilda doubted it would be the last.

  “You know,” her dad said, “I had to start at a new school when I was about your age.”

  He’d never said that any of the other times. Matilda wondered if he’d been saving it.

  “Across the street,” Matilda said as she opened the worn composition book resting on her lap. “Four o’clock. Little warm for such a heavy coat. Possible shoplifter, maybe a concealed weapon.”

  Her dad followed her gaze as she jotted down her observations in the composition book. He spotted the suspect, a little old lady in a winter coat, as she entered a dry cleaner.

  “Ummm, okay,” her dad said. “I’ll look into it.”

  Matilda finished writing, snapped the composition book closed, and got out of the car.

  “Don’t forget your physical therapy,” she said, poking her head back in.

  “I won’t,” her father said with a wistful smile. “Have a good day, okay?”

  Matilda nodded soberly, shut the door, and headed into the school.

  Oliver’s first impression of the new girl was that she was the most serious person he’d ever seen in his entire life. Her posture was right out of a health book, her stride quick and all business. Even her hair was intense, tightly coiled in a ponytail that tolerated no dissension in the ranks.