Teen Girls Zap Muslims: Cia Wins: Hacker & Birds Help the Cia Win

By Bill McKelvey

The book starts with two high school girls who share a dorm-apartment in a very private school on Long Island, New York. One is Zabi, a fourteen-year-old genius born in Tehran. The other girl, Colette, looks like a French high-fashion model and is eighteen. Though she was born in Paris, her parents now live out in the state of Wyoming, USA. Both are seniors at the private school.

Zabi gets a letter, seemingly from her father, which tells her she has been married off to some Arabian sheik. Arranged marriages of girls in Islamic Iran are allowed, starting when a girl is at least thirteen years old. Colette tells Zabi that she needs to go out to her father’s ranch in Wyoming to hide. While Zabi is having lunch with Colette’s parents in Cheyenne, Wyoming, Zabi’s iPhone starts buzzing. Zabi and Colette’s parents hear that Colette is being captured by two Iranian men because they couldn’t find Zabi at the private school.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Dec 5, 2018
• ISBN: 9781984556974

Bill McKelvey

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Copyright © 2018 by Bill McKelvey.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Rev. date: 10/04/2018

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CONTENTS

1. Letter to Zabi

2. School on Long Island

3. Hiding Zabi in Wyoming

4. Diane’s Help

5. Lunch in Cheyenne

6. Black Muslims

7. Colette’s Capture and Escape

8. Colette’s Recapture

9. Flying from Cheyenne to Rome

10. Rajasthan, India

11. Jinia’s Castle in Rajasthan

12. Birds Find Blonde in Kashmir

13. Zabi in Kashmir

14. Shopian Castle

15. Dubai

16. Pole-Dance Hall in Dubai

17. Meeting ET

18. Tehran

19. Back to Pali, Rajasthan

20. Back in Tehran

21. Killing Roksi

22. Paris

23. Oligarch

24. St.-Denis

25. Looking for Crooks

26. Tunnel to Dover

27. Jinia’s Capture

28. Finding Célina

29. Hiding in Europe

30. Girls Go Back to School and Then to Berlin

31. Flying Back to Rajasthan

32. London

33. Oligarch and Moles in London

34. The United States and Its Crooked Politicians

CHAPTER 1

Letter to Zabi

Do you think I should let my math teacher play with me and probably have sex with me? Colette asks.

What? Zabi questions loudly. How do you know he wants sex?

He keeps looking at me, asking me rather personal questions—definitely not math stuff. Yesterday he sort of accidently touched me.

What do you mean ‘sort of accidently touched me’? Zabi asks with a frown.

Well, he dropped some papers in front of me when I went up to his desk after class to ask a math question. When we both reached down to pick them up he sort of reached under me—seemingly aiming to pick up the papers—but his arm touched my left boob, and then he reached farther and pushed me over. When I landed on my right shoulder the bottom of my short dress went up even farther. I don’t know whether he saw my crotch or not. He helped me get back up on my feet. Then he rubbed his hand all over my clothes, sort of like he was rubbing dirt off my clothes. Except I was in a classroom and there was no dirt, grass, leaves, or bugs on the floor. I think he did the rubdown just to get his hands on my body.

Well, what do you expect? Zabi asks, laughing. "You’re gorgeous. You look like a Parisian high-fashion model and Marilyn Monroe, when she started her movie career and after she became a blondie. He is male. They are all always looking for ways to make contact with cute girls. It’s their evolution-based male motivation—the Harvey Weinstein thing. It’s the price you pay for looking so great! Would you rather look fat and ugly?"

So, you think that just because I look like a blondie cheerleader, guys have the right to rub and touch me wherever? Colette questions.

Okay, you would rather look ugly and grossly fat? You are a teenage girl. A French fashion model. Gorgeous and cute! If men were attracted to female monkeys instead of cute girls, the human species wouldn’t exist.

Don’t I, the female, have some rights as to which man I like, and with whom to keep evolution continuing?

Of course, Zabi agrees. But are you going to report this to the principal?

Do you think she would listen to me? Colette questions. As you already know, the math guy is a really good teacher. Isn’t the principal going to protect him rather than me? There is only one of him. There are a bunch of cute girls to grope. She can’t give up teaching high-quality math just because of groping. Right?

Actually, I don’t really know. The principal is a woman. Would she protect a male groper? I wonder how much groping or whatever goes on in this school. None of you cuties have ever mentioned it to me until now. Private schools are famous for protecting their good teachers. And the latter, then, know they can get away with it. Cute girls like you suffer. Needless to say, no man has ever groped me, the fourteen-year-old, boobless, high school senior with a genius brain, Zabi says. Groping reports are all over the web.

But, since this is a girls-only school, there are hardly any males around, Colette responds. Besides, I have to avoid having sex like the plague. My father would probably shoot me if he found out I was having sex or got pregnant. Being in a girls’ school makes me safer. This is partly why Dad sent me here. Not just because it’s a girls’ school on Long Island, but I think that he just wanted to get me away from cowboys—guys.

Come on now. Your dad wouldn’t shoot you, would he? Really? You have never had sex with some cute boy? In Paris even? Besides, he would probably shoot the guy, not you!

Well, it is not easy here. We are in a girls’ school. No boys. Only one old man—well, okay, a thirty-five-year-old guy. You and I always go into Manhattan together. Have you ever seen me go into the back room of a store to have sex with some guy? Never.

It is hard to believe that the math teacher actually groped you, Zabi challenges. He’s the only male teacher. Everyone is watching him. He has no secrecy. The principal, especially, must be checking up on him all the time. Are you sure he really tried to grope you?

"You are questioning me? Really, Zabi? Yes, he tried to grope me."

"Well, okay. Okay, okay. You are the cutest blonde in our school. But of course, being a cute blonde is a tough life. Sometimes I wish you could share it with me. Do you have any idea what it is like to live with a gorgeous French fashion model? How could you? No way!"

Colette Atkinson and Zahabia Soleymaini have just gotten back to their dorm apartment from dinner, having been in classes all day long. They are looking at their mail, chatting, laughing, and complaining about the day. Romantic classical music plays in the background. They are sitting at the small coffee table in the living room of their two-room dorm apartment. Their coffee machine has just finished making coffee, which they are both enjoying after a healthy dinner.

Do you know what it is like to live with a fourteen-year-old genius with an incredible memory? Hardly, and yeah, I often wish you could share your genius brain with its incredible memory with me, Colette tells Zabi. You get A+s all the time. I’m lucky and surprised to get a B+ now and then—like maybe once a year.

No guy is going to fall in love with a genius female brain, Zabi adds. "But you are much more creative than me. My brain is full of memories about things from the past that already exist. When have I come up with a really creative new idea? Ever? You may not remember everything, but you do come up with lots of new ideas. Creativity comes from getting something new by combining two existing concepts or ideas."

I think I remember more than you think I remember. But, yes, you seem to remember everything that has already happened. Your brain is sort of cluttered with too many already-existing ideas and concepts. There is no space left for creativity.

You are telling me that I have an uncreative brain full of old stuff? Really?

Okay, okay. Sort of. Well, not really, Colette responds, rolling her eyes and looking out the window. But when was the last time you associated two ideas already in your brain and came up with a truly new idea or concept? Colette asks. But of course I can’t remember the most recent new idea I came up with.

Talk about you being pissy toward me! You have no idea what it’s like to be me—with a great memory and boyish-looking body. No one likes me! Girls who don’t have good memories hate me. Guys with genius brains and incredible memories hate me. All the other guys think I’m a boyish-looking little girl. I’m not attractive to anyone.

"You think you have a problem. You have no idea what it’s like to look like me—a cute cheerleader-looking, blonde, Parisian, high-fashion model—a young French Marilyn Monroe. Girls are jealous, mothers are suspicious, and boys and men just see me as a pecker target with no brain. Heaven forbid I get pregnant and actually have a baby. Do I have a brain? No one cares."

I can’t change. My brain isn’t going to disappear. Zabi moans.

I’m a sex object. That’s it. The only way it goes away is if I become obese. Maybe get pregnant. Surely not my objective in life, Colette responds mournfully.

Weird. We both seem to hate what we are, and yet what we are really has value. I guess this must be why the gods put us together in the same dorm apartment. You compensate for my inadequacy. I compensate for yours.

Since you’re sort of going religious on me, I guess I can say amen to that, Colette responds with a giggle.

Saying ‘gods’ is the opposite of going religious unless you are a Hindu believing in their pantheon of multi-armed gods, Zabi says, rolling her eyes. "And by ‘multi-armed’ I don’t mean that they have lots of guns. Really! Hindu gods can have two or more pairs of arms and four or more hands. It’s hard for any logical person—not that believers are logical—to believe that Jews, Christians, Muslims, and Mormons all believe in the same god. Really? Really not! But then, of course, religion is based on faith, not logic, which is why I’m not religious. But Islam and Mormonism were created by older men so they could keep marrying young girls. The perfect religion for older men: one god, many wives. But there is a difference: Mormons can only have four wives; Muhammad had twelve or thirteen."

Yes! Better to carry a good brain in your head rather than a Bible under your arm. Even if all the religious types value faith rather than memory. Maybe faith helps a person with preachers, but a great memory is of great value to everyone, even if it feels like an elephant in your head sometimes, Colette observes before taking another sip of her coffee.

I guess I’m lucky to have a good brain and a great memory, but I have no friends other than you, Zabi moans. "If people are friendly with me, it’s because they value my memory, not my sex, personality, or looks. Besides, having my memory is often a problem, not a gift. There are many, many things I wish I could forget. But I can’t. Do I really need to remember that the Eiffel Tower is 986 feet tall? Or that the distance between New York and London is 5,585 kilometers? Okay, 3,470 miles. Or that the distance between Seattle, Washington, and New York is 2,857 miles? On and on. And, yes, I remember more than just feet and miles. Like, Muhammad was born in 570 CE in Makkah, which eventually was named Mecca. Do you know that the Muslims’ Allah tells them it is their god’s wish that they kill all the ‘infidels’—that is, Jews and Christians? This is why lots of the Islamists say ‘Allahu akbar’ right after they’ve killed someone. This means they killed someone for the benefit of ‘Allah is the greatest.’ This is what Muhammad did the last thirty years of his life. But he lived in the Dark Ages—that is, before Luther’s Ninety-Five Theses were posted on the door of the All Saints cathedral in Wittenberg, Germany, which began the Age of Enlightenment."

CE? Colette asks. Why not AD?

BCE and CE are the anti-Christian versions of BC and AD. Most Iranians now prefer CE and BCE, Zabi explains. "Especially since the Islamists took over the country.

Do you think you’re still Iranian or now mostly American in how you think and what you believe, value, like? Besides, I think that, by now, you would be using AD, not CE, Colette says, looking directly at Zabi.

Zabi gets up from the table, takes her coffee cup over to the sink, and then goes over to look out the window. My dad sent me over here from Iran to become more American—but also because we are in the best private school for girls that exists. We all have really great teachers and consequently learn the best of the best all the time. But I still remember things from Iran. And, of course, being where we are on Long Island, not far from Manhattan is wonderful. Okay, yes, I would rather live in Paris, but maybe that will happen later.

Paris? Where in Paris would you like to live? I don’t think you’ve ever been to Paris, right? My mother grew up in Paris. She is French, born in France. She met my father in Paris, fell in love, they got married, and now they live in Wyoming on a cow ranch—hence my cowboy/cowgirl personality. And, yes, they own a big flat on a rich people’s avenue in Paris. But, of course, you already know this. Don’t worry, I’m not going to shoot you. I love you. Really! You are the best friend I have ever had. But, of course, I have also told you this many times before. Colette gets up, goes over to the window, and puts her arms around Zabi.

I know. And I love you too. On the one hand, we are so different, which means we learn a lot of different things from each other. And, yes, we fight now and then, but we always make up and hug each other afterward. This is the part I like best.

It is sort of weird that we are both somewhat international from America. You are Iranian, and my mother is French, and I was born and partly grew up in Paris, speak French, love the French. Vive la France! It is weird and hard to be sort of French out in cowboy country. Much easier here and with you.

What is also weird is that you represent the French history of Napoleon Bonaparte, and I carry the legacy of the Persian Empire. Now we have a new Franco–Persian alliance, the original of which dates back to the Middle Ages. A former shah of Iran joined with France in 1664 to help undermine the British Empire at that time. We now have Little England instead of the British Empire. Brexit is going to make it even worse to be a Brit. Because of Brexit, the value of the British pound has crashed relative to the euro, creating horror for all the Brits who have retired, moved to Spain, and bought houses down there. Given that Little England will have a population around thirty million, it will be smaller than six other European countries—even smaller than Poland. The so-called British Empire is long gone. But the Brits don’t seem to realize this yet. I don’t know whether this is because they’re biased, stupid, or just want more rights to do whatever their way. We are lucky to be here on Long Island.

"I guess I should thank the gods I was born in Paris rather than in London or somewhere else in Little England: Hull, Nottingham, Ipswich, Norwich, Brighton, Plymouth, Penzance, wherever. Good gods, I could have been the daughter of a pirate from Penzance!"

You wouldn’t rather be Scottish? Zabi wonders aloud.

Scotland. Hmm, Colette says. It’s famous for whiskey and men wearing colorful skirts—well, okay, kilts. And, of course, the Loch Ness Monster. And its puffy white clouds and rain come and go in minutes.

"So, we are the girly remains of the ancient Franco–Persian Empire," Zabi responds.

You’re telling me you have sort of a shahstic personality, yes? Colette says, laughing.

Better spelled with an ‘a’ than an ‘i,’, Zabi continues.

You mean a shitstic personality? Colette asks, showing a big smile.

No, shahstic. Sometimes I wish I was a shah somewhere.

But not in this room, I hope, Colette says with another laugh.

What did you just say? Zabi asks. Do I act like a shah? How can I? There is nothing I can be in charge of.

No, you don’t act like a shah, Colette says. But you do look Persian with all your gold, turquoise, or pearly earrings.

Okay. And you look à la française when you wear wire hoops or lavender earrings. Your family is rich, but you don’t wear diamond earrings. Weird!

Okay, back to the real world and the different cultures we come from. But do you think I am more French or more cowboyish? Colette wonders aloud.

Hard to say. You behave à la française, but you can shoot handguns like a cowboy back in the day. Actually, I think it is kind of neat that we look Persian or French, Zabi responds.

Colette and Zabi sit back down at their table.

Looking at the letters they found in their mailbox after dinner, Zabi sees one from her father. She opens it. I am only fourteen years old, and my father wants to marry me off to some Muslim shithead, she shrills.

Zabi, you are joking, yes? He sent you here to New York’s best and most expensive private school for girls, Colette responds.

No. No joke. I just got this special-delivery letter from Daddy, Zabi moans.

Obviously we are in America, says Colette. But you are now marrying age in Iran, right? Isn’t he just following cultural rules?

"Apparently, yes. But I don’t care about Islamist cultural rules. I am a fourteen-year-old genius. I got sent to the US. I am in the US. Why should I have to get fucked five times a day by some brain-dead Arab sheikh who is brainwashed—or pecker-washed—to treat wives like sex slaves? Daddy must know about the American culture I am now part of.

All that counts is what’s between my legs. They don’t care about what’s between my ears, Zabi continues aggressively. "Only men get to bow with their asses up in the air in mosques. Women and girls are stuck in a back room somewhere. Most Islamists are uneducated, can’t read or write, and are taught by imams who read only the Koran, if they can read at all. The ISIL caliphate, and most other Islamists since the Dark Ages, force females to stay inside their residence, uneducated. Perfect! Since they are uneducated, they have no other kinds of work skills. They can’t get jobs outside of the house. Hence, they are trapped as slaves—sex slaves really—for their entire lives. Well, maybe not their entire lives. Islamic men keep adding new, younger wives to their nest, with the result that the older wives lose their role as sex slaves. Muhammad’s thirteenth wife was a six-year-old little girl—eight years younger than me. He had sex with her when she was nine!"

Zabi stands up from the table, crying.

My father sent me to the US to get educated and then sells me to some stupid sheikh who lives I don’t know where. I will end up as a sex slave in a brothel somewhere. Since they don’t have sheikhs in Iran, the rather dead remains of the Persian Empire, I am obviously going to end up in some other Mideast country. I won’t know the local language. They won’t know English. I don’t know whether to love my father for getting me a wonderful education and keeping my brain happy, or to hate him because he sells me off into the unknown. It is the end of my life. She backs into a corner of the room over by the window and slides down till she is sitting on the floor, crying.

It’s not just the Muslims who don’t let females on the main floor of their mosques, Colette tells Zabi. "There are still temples in Israel that don’t let females in. These are also religious leftovers from the Dark Ages. Thanks to Martin Luther and his Ninety-Five Theses nailed to the front door of a cathedral in Wittenberg, Germany, around 1500 AD, we had the beginning of the Enlightenment and Protestantism, and females being allowed to worship in churches with men. From the time of Abraham and long before the Age of Enlightenment to even now, most, if not all, females have been treated like lower-class citizens or maybe even just sex objects or baby producers. For many men this is all we females are on earth for: to produce babies and thereby keep the human species evolving. That female humans also have large brains is ignored.

Worse, between 300 and 1500 AD all the non-Christians had to deal with the so-called Holy Roman Empire and its Popes, many of whom behaved like dictators, Colette continues. The Popes made money by selling what were called ‘indulgences.’ These supposedly allowed people to buy their way into heaven by giving indulgences, or money, to the Church (that is, the Popes). It’s amazing how much gold there is on statues in many of the European cathedrals. The Holy Roman Empire once owned about half of Europe. The Borgias were Popes in the fifteenth century. Their reputation was of sin and immorality. They had sex with girls, but since the girls weren’t their wives, these Popes claimed they didn’t have children when the girls had babies. If Muhammad—living in the late sixth century—was anti-Christian and treated Christians like infidels that should be killed, I can’t really blame him. Being anti-Christian in those days was really being anti-sinful Pope, anti-killer Pope, and anti-crooked Pope. But, of course, all the cathedrals in southern Europe have gold-covered statues staring down at the people in the cathedrals.

See, you’re not just a cute dumb blondie. You do remember all sorts of things, Zabi tells Colette. The date of the Theses was actually 1517. Unfortunately, I have never read them, so I can’t give you details. You know about the Holy Roman Empire? You know that the Borgia Popes were horrible, sinful, crooked monsters? You know this history of the Holy Roman Empire, the Holy Roman Catholic Church? How do you know all this? Even if your parents were Catholics, you wouldn’t learn all this horrible stuff from them, or from a Priest, would you? Well, okay. Catholic history is your problem. I am a Muslim kid. I live in the world of Islamists, though I agree that not all Muslims are Islamists. I just can’t believe my Daddy would do this to me.

You could blame it on evolution, you know, Colette responds. If men didn’t have the urge to have sex with females, and females didn’t have the urge to have babies, the human species wouldn’t exist. But, of course, you already know this. Do you know that your ancestry dates back to a Shaw a couple hundred years ago?

You’re kidding, yes? How do you know this? Zabi questions.

When the school proposed that the two of us could be roommates, my Dad, the cowboy, did some research to find out more about you. Given your ancestry—being from the remains of the French-Persian Empire (Persia is now Iran)—he accepted the idea that you could be in the same dorm room with me.

"Amazing. When the school proposed this, my Daddy also did some ancestral research about your family. He found out that your mother’s French ancestry dates back to the first daughter of Queen Marie Antoinette, who obviously had sex and babies before her head was chopped off by a guillotine. But I don’t know how much of this shows up in your looks or personality. You do look like a gorgeous girl that some French King would want to marry!" Zabi says, laughing.

You know that my ancestry goes back to Marie Antoinette? Really? I didn’t even know this. Not sure I want to. Yes, Queen Marie Antoinette was beheaded by a guillotine. I suppose you already also know when and where the guillotine was invented, Colette concludes, looking sideways at Zabi.

"Yeah. The French version of the guillotine was created by Dr. Guillotin, but he didn’t want it named after him. He actually later changed his name. Poor Marie—though not really poor—was married to a French King’s son at age fifteen. She came from Austria. But since you are a real blonde, you don’t look very Austrian. But you do look like a French princess! Do you know that the largest empires in ancient times were the result of a King not having a son but only one or more girls? Since he didn’t have a son to inherit his empire, his empire went with his oldest daughter when she got married and he died. The two empires became one larger one. Since many kings had daughters instead of sons, the larger empires of Medieval Europe were much more the result of the arranged marriages of daughters than wars between men."

But, of course, only a fourteen-year-old genius could tell me this, Colette concludes.

And as if getting married off at fourteen isn’t bad enough—though no empire is involved—I only got an A on the physics test today. Sometimes this school really sucks, moans Zabi from the floor. "Yes, I know it is an advanced course about astrophysics, but my teacher doesn’t seem to know that the Higgs boson, often called the God particle, has been shown to exist by research at the CERN Hadron Collider, which is located on the Swiss/French border near Geneva. She didn’t like my answer to her question: ‘Does the God particle exist?’ I suppose you don’t know what this is and don’t really care, but it is a big deal for physicists. In my answer, I said it has been presumably proved to exist by an experiment using the CERN Collider. My teacher apparently doesn’t know this. The experiment cost billions of dollars, and three thousand physicists were involved, but my teacher apparently doesn’t know this either. She said my answer was wrong. I always get A+s on all the tests. Can’t believe I only got an A on this one." More moaning sounds come from Zabi.

Zabi continues talking and sobbing. I don’t really believe the physicists have done a valid test of whether the Higgs boson exists or not. The CERN Collider produced millions of data results. They divided all the results up among some three thousand physicists. As far as I’m concerned it could all be a big statistical hoax. Scientists now know that so-called ‘big data’ analyses, which are based on thousands of data bits, often produce spurious results. With that much data and that many people looking at it, some physicists could claim to have found evidence of the God particle just by chance.

Poor Zabi, Colette says softly in response, pretending to cry. Only an A. Have you ever gotten a B+? And why would anyone here in our high school want to know about the Higgs whatever? Who cares? Besides, first you say that your teacher is out of date and doesn’t know the Higgs thing exists, and then you say you don’t believe it’s been validly proven to exist. Maybe your teacher actually agrees with you in believing the Higgs thing hasn’t really been adequately proven to exist and put the question on the test just to see if you would say it doesn’t exist. You shouldn’t just accept the A. You should go talk to your teacher and explain why you gave the answer you did. By the time you get done talking to her about the Higgs whatever, she has to realize that you really know a lot about the Higgs thing. She will probably improve your grade. Give you an A+. Have you ever gone and actually talked to a teacher?

Colette goes over to the corner, pulls Zabi up, and gives her a hug. You should stop taking your brain for granted. Start taking advantage of it. Turn this test into a test of your teacher, not you. Could be fun. But do it in a nice way. You and your teacher should join together on this, not fight about it.

CHAPTER 2

School on Long Island

The girls’ school—called the Long Island Teen Girls Academia—is located on the north side of Long Island. Glorious trees surround it, but from their window Colette and Zabi can see the Atlantic Ocean two blocks north, through the trees. It helps a bit that they are on the third floor. The school keeps itself hidden from Google Maps but does have a strong academic reputation with all the top private colleges and Ivy League universities and colleges.

To a person driving by, the school building looks more or less like many of the other apartment buildings in its neighborhood. There is no school sign on the outside to tell people the building is really a school. Architecturally, it is cleverly designed to not look like a single large school building. Instead, it is designed to look like the many multiple-apartment, or multiple-condominium, buildings in the surrounding neighborhoods, each three stories high, a front door appearing to open into its first floor, a balcony on its second floor, and bedroom windows on its third floor. But actually, it is one large school building surrounding a soccer field, which has a racetrack for runners going around it. On its north side, the building consists of dormitory suites on its second and third floors, and offices for teachers and administrators on its first floor. But the apartment-looking doors on the first floor are fake; they don’t open. The inner doors on the first-floor hallway throughout the building open out to the soccer field. On its south side, the building consists of classrooms on its second and third floors (some large and some small), with study spaces for students and a large library on its first floor; it has Einstein’s first two books, which Zabi has found and read, needless to say.

The main entrance to the school is at the west end of the building. The east end looks like apartments from the outside, but from the inside it is really a large theater-like space that seats five hundred people and has a stage. There is a parking lot across the street from the west entrance. The large double doors open into a spacious lobby that includes a welcoming concierge, sitting areas, and a Starbucks that faculty, students, parents, and guests can take advantage of. On one side of the lobby is additional administrative office space.

Most of the parents are from Manhattan or its surrounding cities, though others come from other parts of the United States (Colette comes from Wyoming) or foreign countries (Zabi comes from Iran). Parents such as Zabi’s want their daughter to learn good English, get a good education, and be admitted to a top US university.

Some 240 girls are enrolled in grades seven to twelve. Each class has a maximum of twenty students, but some specialized classes are much smaller (for example, there are only five girls in Zabi’s astrophysics class). All the girls live in dorm apartments—two to an apartment. They each have a nice desk and bookcase in one room; there is also a nice couch but no TV. The girls sleep in separate bedrooms; they each have their own bed, closet, side table, and so on. Their bathrooms are very upscale. After all, the parents are very rich and want, and only accept, the best for their girls.

Colette is almost eighteen years old. She is about five feet nine inches tall. Her slightly curly blonde hair has never been cut. When in a braided pigtail, it extends down below her waist. She has curves in all the right places, but she worries a lot about gaining weight. She expects that her first job will be a fashion model in Paris after she graduates, so she has to focus on staying thin. She has no boyfriend, since boys aren’t allowed in the school. But she has cowboy friends she grew up with in Wyoming, and she also likes some of the French guys she has met in Paris.

Because her mother is French and she grew up in Paris, Colette is mainly interested in studies pertaining to Europe, foreign affairs, war and peace, and diplomacy. Her two majors are history and social science. She is the top soccer player in the senior class. While she looks like a cheerleader, on the field she becomes a different person: aggressive, quick, and competitive. She even picks fights at times and gets yellow cards more than her coach wants. To become a top soccer player, Colette has also been running a lot and building muscles. All the exercise also keeps her looking really cute, to which she doesn’t object.

Zabi is shorter and thinner and looks more muscular. Like Colette, she is also a senior, but she is only fourteen years old. She has dark brown hair hanging down to her shoulders. Her dark hair and her bangs make her look like Cleopatra in the movie starring Elizabeth Taylor. She does weight lifting in the gym, and she does tae kwon do when she goes back home for the summer. A bully-type girl once tried to beat her up on the playground. Zabi responded, and within minutes the bully was unconscious, with a broken arm. Fortunately, a schoolteacher witnessed the whole fight and was willing to testify in court, and the lawsuit was abandoned. The bully was forced to leave the school.

Zabi studies physics, chemistry, and math. She has an incredible memory, which is why she is a fourteen-year-old genius. While she seemingly remembers everything, such a memory becomes a burden. Zabi remembers too much, far more than she would like. She remembers more than anyone else in every context. She remembers stuff she hates, doesn’t want to remember, and has no use for. Unlike the man who memorized 83,431 digits of pi, she tries not to! Every time someone talks to her it sets off her memory. She starts telling people what she remembers, even if she doesn’t want to. Such a memory is hard to control; Zabi tries but often loses the battle.

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