DAY 39: The Appalaticians

The interstate was twenty minutes ago, and Sarina was getting nervous.  She trusted that Nate knew his way home, but she did not know what to expect for herself.  As she watched the bars on her cell phone shrink away, all the warnings that her friends and family had given her about America began echoing in her ears.  "My phone's lost signal.  Where are you taking us?"
"We'll pick up a signal again when we get up the hill.  We're almost there."  When Nate had invited her to come, she thought that he was attempting to save her from Cartesian coordinates and the solitude of Thanksgiving on campus.  She even entertained the thought that he had more than an intellectual interest in her company.  But on the long ride to Nate's home, he talked about his large family, a veritable tribe that had lived in the hills for generations; he also talked about how different he felt from them all, despite his love and familial devotion.  Almost no one ever left Fawkes County; most residents acted as if it was their choice.  Sarina understood, and she was ready to grant his unspoken request.

The house was in its twentieth year of development; from its humble beginnings as a single-wide pre-aluminum trailer, Nate's family had constructed a patchwork of hardware to accomodate the twenty-five souls that had occupied it, at one point or another.  Presently, Nate's mother, grandma, three sisters (one with child), an uncle, his girlfriend, four cousins, and two kids whose families had abandoned them... resided.  Nate had been assured, however, that he and his lady friend would have a room to themselves.
He managed to take three steps away from the car before he was swarmed by excited (and chores-averse) kids.  They were unkempt and unruly, and Sarina reflexively held tighter to her purse.  She didn't notice she was being watched until little Sunny said, "Are you Nathaniel's girlfriend?"
Sunny, 6 years old and overwhelmed by her bangs and a grown-up's t-shirt, was adorable enough for Sarina to let down her guard and introduce herself.  "I am Sarina.  I study with Nate at the university."
"What are you?"
That made Sarina laugh.  "I'm Indian."
Sunny's slightly older sister, with a buzz cut, chimed in.  "No.  You have to say 'Native American'."
"No, I really am from India.  I have only been in America for three years."
The girls absorbed this fact, and then ran off.
Nate, at the porch, called out, "Come on in!  I have to help my mom with something, but I'll get the stuff out of the car in a minute!  This is my grandma!"  He pointed to the lady in the rocking chair and ran inside.
Sarina walked up to the porch.  At a loss for words, she half-bowed to Grandma, her silver hair in a high bun, her pupils almost hidden in the recesses of her wrinkles.  Grandma returned a silent nod to her.

A rust-eaten pickup truck pulled up to the porch, holding several bushels of apples and three teenagers.  Sarina estimated the driver to be no older than 14.  The young driver, aware of the visitor, adjusted his hat and mustered up some swagger for his audience.
"Mom-mom, we need the tables," a girl in the flatbed said.
Grandma's mouth went sideways.  "Nuh-uh.  You took too long,"
"But Mom-mom!  We don't want to go to Watkins Market.  We wanna make some real money."
"You want- you wanna make- kids! get over here!- you wanna make real money, Lulu?  Okay, how much is Watkins paying for apples?"
"45 cents!  And they're selling for 99!"
"Okay, then!  Tommy, you sold on the road last week.  What was they paying?"
The young driver muttered.  "85 cents."
"Okay, Sunny, how many in that basket there? Hurry up!"
The little girl studied the bushel next to her; Sarina studied it, too.  She counted six apples across, and it looked as deep as-
"72!" Sunny chimed in.  Sarina, still calculating, was slightly shocked.
Grandma asked, just as quickly, "How many baskets we got?"
"14!"
"Right!  How many-"
Miss Buzzcut interrupted. "1008!"
"I wanted Sunny to answer that, Amy.  But you tell me how many pounds we got about."
"336."
"Okay, we got 336 pounds of apples here, kids.  Lulu, you sell every single apple, how much you bringing home?"
"285 dollars and 60 cents!" Lulu said triumphantly.
"Right; but you ain't gonna sell them all.  Tommy, you and Jason were on the road last week; how many bushels did you bring home?"
"Ten."
"Ten bushels of?"
"Seventeen."
"Give me the per-cent, Tommy."
"...58 percent."
"What?"
"58.8 percent."
"Thank you!  New girl, how much money did they bring home?"

Sarina realized everyone was waiting for her to chime in.  She didn't have an answer; 58 percent of, uh...
Grandma turned to Jason.  "How much did you bring home?"
"...$135 dollars...."
Grandma continued lecturing the kids, explaining it was more profitable to get rid of all the apples, with the bonus of ending the family apple recipe fatigue.  Sarina, meanwhile, was still attempting to regain her cognitive footing.  By the time she had reframed Grandma's word problem, the truck had restarted on its way to Watkins Market.  Grandma looked at Sarina and said, "So, I take it you're one of those liberal arts students?"


inspired by Discover Magazine article, "Why Some of Us are Better at Math Than Others"