he
school bell rang. It was a Friday in spring, last
class of the day.
Two dozen algebra students took their seats. Mr.
Johnson was nowhere
to be seen, confirming the rumor that, ha-ha, there
would be a substitute
teacher today. In minutes, murmuring turned to
adolescent chattering
with bursts of laughter. Notebooks slammed
shut. Ballistic
paper-wads arced from row to row. Satirical
announcements appeared
on the blackboard along with a crude cartoon. All
at once, the classroom
door flung open.
Miss Silverwood, a matronly woman
wearing sensible shoes,
clomped into the classroom. Her dress was
printed dimly with dots
or possibly daffodils. From atop her head,
horn-rimmed spectacles
stared eyelessly upward. Gray strands tethered a
balloon of frazzled
hair to the back of her head. She unshouldered a
slumping purse onto
the floor and studied the blackboard, while students
stifled giggles and
tried instead to breathe.
“Your thoughts are not your own,”
proclaimed Miss Silverwood
in a strong and surprisingly melodious voice.
She erased the blackboard
and wrote her name in cursive script. “I have
the power to perceive
your every thought at will.” Miss
Silverwood turned to face
the class. She gazed for what seemed like a full
minute into unblinking
eyes. “Yes, I am your substitute teacher, and no, Mr.
Johnson himself will
explain on Monday why he is not here today.”
Perhaps the students sensed that an
unforgettable hour
was beginning.
“Some of you are thinking that I have
just made an impossible
claim,” she said, surely not for the first time. “At
this very moment,
you are thinking, ‘No person can know the thoughts of
another’.”
She allowed part of her face to smile. “I will not ask
you to raise your
hands, for I know who you are -- the skeptics in this
class. And you will
not accept extraordinary claims without evidence, am I
right?”
The only sounds were street noises
outside the classroom
window. “Even now, I know what you are
thinking. You are thinking
I should not need to ask, ‘Am I right?’ for, if I
really can perceive your
thoughts, then I would know I am right.
And, of course, you
are right to think that. However, I am prepared
today to offer mathematical
proof of my paranormal powers.”
iss
Silverwood watched the students exchanging
glances. “You are all
invited to write down a decimal number.” Several
hands shot skyward.
“Don’t bother asking questions,” she said. “Yes,
your number can be any
size you want, and, as for your other question, no,
please make it an integer
– a whole number.” The students put down their
hands.
“Next create a new integer,” said Miss
Silverwood. “This
time, simply mix up the digits in your first
integer. And yes, you
will use all the digits in your new integer that you
used in your first
one.” She paused for scribbling to stop.
“Now, calculate the
arithmetic difference between the two integers.
That’s right, subtract
one from the other. Some of you will get a
negative number, but,
being algebra students, you won’t worry much about
that.”
“Take a moment to look at your
difference there,” she
said. “Here is what I want you to do: Select one
of its digits and
cross it out -- cross it out completely, but keep that
digit firmly in
your mind. Finally, scramble the rest of the
digits and write them
down in a row – with your selected digit
removed.”
Miss Silverwood squinted her eyes
trance-like. “Keep
concentrating on the digit that you selected.
Ah, you are doing just fine,” she said, “I am
perceiving
your selected digits, every one of them. There
are several eights
in the room, some fives, and a few -- ”
The students interrupted with
laughter.
“You think I am joking,” said Miss
Silverwood. Taking
chalk in hand, she pointed at the student with the
biggest grin.
“Please read me your scrambled number – and, no, do
not include your selected
digit.” She wrote the number on the blackboard,
then turned quickly
and announced, “Your selected digit is seven!”
The student stopped grinning.
Audible gasps replaced
laughter.
Miss Silverwood nodded toward a girl in
the front row.
“And how about yours?” she asked. After writing
the girl’s scrambled
number on the blackboard, Miss Silverwood mused aloud,
“You have no secrets
from me, young lady. Your selected digit is –
well, it is three.
And how about you?” she asked, abruptly pointing to a
boy at the back of
the room.
In a matter of minutes, astonished
students called out
numbers of varying lengths. The blackboard
filled up. Miss
Silverwood correctly identified every selected digit
that day in a triumph
of paranormality. Or so it seemed.
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