Girl Powered
Tension shifts into high gear when a seventh grade girl joins the (previously) all-boys engineering club at school. From the award-winning author of The Miscalculations of Lightning Girl comes a feisty, feminist story that will inspire readers to grab life by the handlebars and pedal past every outdated expectation.
Ten boys. One bike. No girls allowed—until now.
Samantha Scalera is smart enough to know that seventh grade would be easier if she went along with everyone else’s expectations. Like her best friend who expects her to try out for cheerleading. But lately, Sam finds she’d rather spend her time taking things apart to see how they work than literally bending over backward to cheer for the boys’ basketball team. So when Sam’s math teacher suggests that she join the man-powered racer (MPR) team—an after-school engineering club that builds and races a custom bike—Sam is suddenly willing to disassemble her predictable life.
Unfortunately, the previously all-boys MPR team is less than excited to welcome a girl. One cocaptain is determined to force Sam out, the other guys ignore her ideas almost entirely, even her family questions why Sam would join a club where she’s not wanted. Can Sam put this team back together? If the MPR club has any chance of building a winning bike, the boys will need to learn they can’t do it without a little girl power.
An Excerpt fromGirl Powered
Chapter 1
May 1992
(Last School Year)
This isn’t rocket science or brain surgery. It’s just a school project, but I’ve never been more nervous—or excited.
“Samantha, you’re up,” says Mr. Bailey, our technology teacher.
I take a deep breath, then carry my toothpick bridge to the front of the classroom. What if I tripped and dropped it and it shattered into hundreds of pieces? (I’m good at imagining the worst outcomes. It’s one of my superpowers.)
“That’ll never hold up,” Jonathan Jenkins mumbles as I walk past. Admittedly, my bridge doesn’t look the same as everyone else’s. We had different visions for the same assignment: Using two boxes of toothpicks and a bottle of glue, construct a bridge that spans sixteen inches. Today we find out which bridge can hold the most weight. The winner gets a five-dollar gift certificate to Friendly’s and their name engraved on a plaque that hangs under the flag. I want both.
Mr. Bailey stares at my bridge and says, “Interesting design.”
I’m not sure if he means good interesting or green-hair-and-face-tattoos interesting. I’m not old enough to get a tattoo, but if I did get one, it would be of a honeycomb—nature’s coolest design—though I wouldn’t put it on my face.
I gently set down Emily. I named my bridge after Emily Warren Roebling, the woman who oversaw the completion of the Brooklyn Bridge after her husband, the chief engineer, got sick. My Emily fits perfectly on the testing stand. I strictly follow the “measure twice, cut once” philosophy. Some of the toothpick bridges failed because they were too short or too wide.
“Here we go,” Mr. Bailey says, loading the first weight onto my bridge. “Samantha needs to beat twelve pounds. Can she do it?”
“I believe in you. Not!” Jonathan replies, and his friends cheer. He’s currently in the lead—and is always this obnoxious. He’d bragged that his bridge would break the school record of twenty-one pounds, but it collapsed at twelve pounds with a satisfying explosion of toothpicks.
I’m sure my bridge will handle over twenty-five pounds, but I don’t brag out loud, only in my head.
“I could totally stand on that bridge!” says Chelsea Murray, my best friend. I love that she’s sticking up for me, but her confidence is more about loyalty than bridge-building knowledge. Her toothpick bridge was disqualified for being too short.
“That’s two pounds. Three pounds. Four. Five.” Mr. Bailey keeps piling on the weight. Emily doesn’t seem to notice. “For time’s sake, let’s move it up to ten.”
The classroom fills with a chorus of oooohs as Mr. Bailey slowly and dramatically lowers another five-pound weight.
My bridge does not react.
I glance at Jonathan. He looks sweaty, but most of the boys look sweaty. Half of them had gym class last period.
“Jonathan is about to lose to a girl,” one of his friends says, punching him in the arm.
“We will find out.” Mr. Bailey continues to add weight.
I slip my hands into the pockets of my jean jacket and cross my fingers. I’m a science girl, but a little good luck never hurts.
Eleven pounds.
Twelve pounds.
“And . . .”
Thirteen pounds! Emily is one steady bridge.
“Looks like we have a new leader,” Mr. Bailey says. “But let’s see how much this beauty can take.” He rearranges the weights, and then he goes one pound at a time to twenty.
Chelsea claps. “Sweet!”
At twenty-one pounds, we hear our first crack, but nothing breaks off. The rules state that the bridge fails when any part hits the “water below,” which is the blue-painted bottom of the testing stand.
“Hear that? I don’t think we’ll get a new record today, folks,” Mr. Bailey announces, maybe forgetting that teachers are supposed to be supportive and encouraging.
When he puts down the next weight, he’s not slow and deliberate. He drops it on top.
And yet my bridge holds.
“Sammy! That’s a new record!” Chelsea gives me a high five.
I smile, and my cheeks warm.
“Class is almost over. We need to speed this up.” Mr. Bailey adds two more pounds. The once-vertical toothpicks are now angled. Emily is clinging to life. Then he places a five-pound weight, and my bridge shatters! Toothpicks fly across the room. It’s both sad and wicked awesome.
Twenty-three pounds!
“Congratulations, Samantha. Your design won.” Something in Mr. Bailey’s voice makes me think he’s not being sincere. “How did you come up with this?”
I shrug. “I looked at bridges in the encyclopedia. Some trial and error. Um . . .” Mr. Bailey doesn’t say anything. He stares like I need to add more. “I drew a couple of designs on graph paper.” More silence. I stare at my pink Converse, wondering what Mr. Bailey wants me to say. “My dad said bridges need trusses and—”
“Your dad helped?” Mr. Bailey interrupts.
“No. I just showed him my drawings.” We weren’t required to do sketches before starting, but that’s how I understand things best. Take them apart and draw what’s inside.
“Did your father make any suggestions?”
The entire class is quiet. I’m not the only one who realizes what Mr. Bailey is getting at.
“No. Not really.”
“Not really?” Mr. Bailey tilts his head.
My dad absolutely did not help with my design. He said something about tension and compression, stuff I didn’t even understand until I looked it up in his old physics textbook.
The bell rings, but no one moves.
“Samantha,” Mr. Bailey says. “This project was to be completed by students, not parents. I’m sorry. I cannot declare you the winner.” He looks around the room. “Whose bridge made it to twelve pounds? Jonathan?”
“Yes!”
“Congratulations.” Mr. Bailey hands him the Friendly’s gift certificate.
“But Mr. Bailey, my dad didn’t build it or design it. I showed him my ideas. That’s it.” I plead my case.
He shakes his head slowly. “Let this be a lesson, Samantha.”
I feel sick to my stomach. What just happened?