Free Stolen by John Wilson Page A

is permanently amused by something. She’s a good four inches taller than me, and I’m only a couple of inches under six feet.
    Like a mouse mesmerized by a snake, I stare up at her until she looks down, and I realize I’m still holding her hand. I drop it hurriedly and mumble, “Why were you saying Pi out loud?”
    â€œBecause it’s cool. Do you want to hear me recite it?”
    â€œOkay,” I say, not entirely sure that I do.
    Annabel closes her eyes and rattles off numbers, much faster than before. “3.141592653589793238462643383279502884197169399375105820974944 592307816406286…”
    â€œThat’s impressive,” I say, interrupting the flow that sounds as if it could go on all day.
    Annabel opens her eyes. “I can keep going,” she offers.
    â€œThat’s okay. How many digits have you learned?”
    â€œI’m up to three thousand two hundred and thirty.”
    â€œWow,” I say, partly in awe and partly in realization that my guess about an escapee from a lunatic asylum was correct. “That’s a lot of numbers.”
    â€œIt’s my party trick.” She laughs out loud. “I don’t go to many parties. Actually, it’s not a lot of digits. The world record for memorizing Pi is over a hundred thousand.”
    I frown, trying to imagine someone wanting to memorize that many numbers.
    â€œI don’t think I’ll ever manage that,” Annabel says. “My dream is to have Pi tattooed on my arm.” She holds out an incredibly long right arm and stares at it. “In a spiral.” She twists her left hand in a sinuous motion down the length of the arm. “I reckon I could get several thousand numbers on there. Don’t you?”
    â€œI guess so,” I say, wondering if I should turn and run for it.
    â€œYou’re new here,” she says, dropping her arm and turning those gray eyes on me. All thoughts of running vanish.
    â€œYeah,” I reply. “My dad’s working in Adelaide, so he thought it would be a good idea to drive down here for a holiday for a few days.”
    â€œYou don’t think it’s a good idea?”
    â€œThe beach is okay,” I say defensively, “but there’s nothing to do. The town’s boring.”
    â€œHave you been up Flagstaff Hill?”
    â€œWhy would I want to see a flagstaff?” “There’s a museum there. This stretch of coast is called the Shipwreck Coast. Dozens of ships have sunk along here.” She waves an arm expansively to take in the entire coast and ocean.
    â€œThe museum has all kinds of cool stuff salvaged from wrecks.”
    â€œBoring old stuff,” I say dismissively, trying to sound casual. I immediately regret it. Annabel’s face darkens in anger.
    â€œBoring old stuff!” she says. “You just dismissed all of history. You think people who lived in the past weren’t as interesting as you? They were certainly smarter.” Annabel strides off down the sand dune.

Chapter Two
    The dramatic effect of Annabel’s departure is spoiled by the sand dune. Her feet sink and slide into the soft sand, and she waves her arms around wildly for balance.
    â€œWait,” I shout, not wanting the only interesting person I’ve met here to escape, even if she is insane. “I’m sorry. I like history. Socials is my favorite subject—at least, the bits about battles and rebellions.” I manage to stop before saying that math is my least favorite subject—not a smart thing to say to someone who loves Pi.
    Annabel stops on the flat part of the beach and waits while I slither down the slope. “You really think history’s interesting?” she asks.
    â€œSure,” I say. “Maybe I’ll go and check the museum out.”
    â€œI work there on the holidays. I could show you round.” We start walking back along the beach. “There’s lots of great stories