Read A Girl Named Digit for Free Online Page A

long patch of grass that runs the length of the Federal Building, separating it from Wilshire Boulevard. They teetered precariously between being arrested for blocking access to the building on one side and falling off the curb into traffic on the other. They moved as a single unit, swaying with their signs of protest in nearly the same rhythm as the palm trees behind them. I bolted through the crowd’s membrane and entered another, louder dimension. I wedged myself between a huge man in a polar bear suit and an arguably larger woman. I craned my neck to read the polar bear’s sign: HOT ENOUGH FOR YA? The crowd shouted, “One Earth, One Chance, One Earth, One Chance!”
    My drably colored clothes and my not-quite-average height were all I had going for me at this point. I scanned the crowd for Creepy until I saw his dark suit move through a gap between the swaying bodies. He teetered with the crowd, edging perilously—I hoped—close to Wilshire Boulevard. I nosed my face into the furry back of the polar bear and tried to figure out what to do next. Soon the crowd would disperse to go have a few drinks and mourn the ozone layer. I’d have nowhere to hide. I saw his suit struggling to move closer. It was being pushed left and right, up and down, to the rhythm of “One Earth, One Chance, One Earth, One Chance!” I knew how disoriented he must be, but in a minute he’d adapt. I gave my polar bear one last squeeze, took a deep breath, and sprinted from the back of the crowd into the garage of the Federal Building.
    I can’t say for sure why I thought I’d be safe trapped in a dark parking garage, but I knew that they wouldn’t let Creepy in there and that my best chance of survival was to be arrested. I had to make sure I’d broken enough rules that the security guys wouldn’t just send me on my merry way.
    With this idea at the core of my half-baked plan, I ran through the parking garage looking for something to smash or someone to kick in the shins. Any infraction would get me arrested for sure; wasn’t I already trespassing and evading security? To make sure, I did the following (for real): I started jumping up and down and making huge circles with my arms, cheerleader style. They saw me all right. It seemed I’d done enough to get cuffed and perp-marched into the building. Thank God.

99% Of Being Smart is Knowing What You’re Dumb At
     
    Two of the security guys lost interest by the time we got into the garage entrance to the building. At five feet four and 115 pounds, I probably didn’t seem like a big flight risk. The remaining security guy put his index finger into the print reader for admittance, while never letting go of my left arm. Overkill, right? Where was I going to go with my arms cuffed behind me?
    “Where are you taking me?” My heart was still racing from the chase.
    “Intruder interrogation.”
    When we got to the lobby, I immediately recognized the line of kooks waiting to report conspiracies. I knew just how they felt. I was led, cuffed, along this line, drawing the sympathy of everyone in line until I arrived at the front. It seemed I’d cut the line to the Fruitcake Room.
    John Bennett sat behind his desk, nodding into the phone. “Yes, I’ll handle it. She sounds harmless, but I’ll exercise caution and . . . Okay, bye.” He put the phone down and started talking before he looked up. “Do you have any idea how serious an offense it is to . . .” He looked up and recognized me. A half smile crept onto his face. “You were here with your dad, Mr. Fawcett, was it?”
    If I had a dime for every time I heard that one. “No, it’s Higgins. I’m Farrah Higgins.”
    “Right, right. With the flashing-numbers conspiracy code. I remember now.”
    Was I being mocked? To my face? Was that a slight smile or a slight smirk creeping up on the side of his mouth? The security guard uncuffed me, and I plopped down in the less than hospitable metal folding chair that he offered—Fruitcake