I poked myself on the side of my middle finger with a lancet, used a test strip to sop up the little ball of blood, and then inserted the strip into my smartwatch.
In hardly no time at all, my numbers appeared. Just as I thought, my blood sugar was fine. I was fine.
With the newfound confidence of a good test result, I was ready to properly assess my situation. So, okay. I was floating. I was in the middle of a chamber, not close enough to reach any wall. I still hadn’t gotten the hang of how to move around in this zero-g environment—every time I tried to swim through the air, I just made myself twirl around in the same spot. I couldn’t get any momentum going.
All right, then. The logical conclusion, therefore, was that I needed some kind of tool or device to help me:
1. grab a wall from this distance, or
2. propel me over to a wall.
But what tool?
Luckily, I had lots to choose from. For I am a showman. A showman whose pockets are always brimming over with tricks.
I started by checking the right front pouch of my cargo pants. Immediately, I felt the realistic furriness of the fake tarantulas, since I’d just thrown one at Yasmany a little while ago. But those wouldn’t help me reach a wall. Neither could the clown noses that doubled as squishy balls (great for sleight of hand), the foldable trick coins (also great for sleight of hand), nor the e-z tuck playing cards (great for performing open-heart surgery; just kidding—they were also great for sleight of hand). The GOTCHA! stamp that I tried to use on Gabi at least once a day lay at the bottom of that pocket. It was officially useless to me right now, just like everything else I’d found in there.
Not to worry. I had a lot of other pockets.
I riffled through all of them as fast as I could, emptying stuff out of my cargo vest and cargo pants, desperate for some promising gag to give me some inspiration. I had trick dice, fair dice, smoke powder, joy buzzers, a slide whistle, a swazzle, little colored cups, wands that turned into flowers, more coins, a skull cap to make me look bald, a curly rainbow wig, green slime in a plastic egg, a Zorro mask, Groucho Marx glasses, X-ray glasses, more fake arachnids, stick-to-the-wall slugs, ooh—some really realistic fake roaches I’d forgotten about, a felt pouch with a false bottom and in the false bottom another fake tarantula, a small hand mirror that made your face look really wide, a roll of invisible wire, a small bottle of Aunty Satan’s De-Colon-Izer Hot Sauce, three packs of super-salty trick chewing gum, a pen filled with disappearing ink, more clown noses, scarves tied to scarves tied to even more scarves, a magnifying glass, a peanut can out of which explodes a spring snake, and a fun-size bag of Skittles.
All these magic props orbited around me in zero g, as if I were the Earth and they were my space junk. I rubbed my chin and watched them spin, pondering what combination of tricks could get me over to the nearest wall.
Spoiler alert: I made it over to the wall, just a few minutes later. But how? Can you work out how I did it?
Take a second and try to figure it out. See you next chapter.
OKAY, TIME TO CHECK your work! The way I got over to the nearest wall was…Drumroll, please…
By putting two whoopee cushions under my armpits and using them as my jet-propulsion system.
No, I did not cheat! I shouldn’t have had to mention whoopee cushions in the list above. You should have known that I had whoopee cushions with me. Have we not met? Don’t you know me at all by now? I am Sal Vidón! Of course I had multiple whoopee cushions with me!
But I only needed two. These were top-of-the-line whoopee cushions, let me tell you. They were extra large and extra noisy, and they were specially designed to let out the maximum amount of air when your unsuspecting mark sat on them. I am so glad I saved my allowance for these top-of-the-line models. With magic props, you get what you pay for.
Speaking of magic props, I gathered up the stuff wafting around me. Never knew what I’d need next time, after all. Then I took multiple deep breaths, filled both of the blimp-size whoopee cushions with air, tucked them under my armpits, and squeezed them as hard as I could.
The room echoed with the sound of juicy, cheek-flapping farts. Dang, the acoustics were ridiculously good in this space station. It sounded like I was letting one rip onstage at the opera. And that was weird, when you thought about it. Astronauts have to live in close quarters with the same few people for months. Did they really want to hear it every time one of them tried to discreetly sneak out a not-so-silent-yet-still-super-deadly? The walls should have been covered with the latest sound-dampening, anti-butt-trumpet space technology. I mean, why else were we giving NASA so many of our tax dollars?
Sorry. I know I have a story to tell here. But look, I’m a seventh grader. I spend at least ninety minutes a day thinking about farts. The good news is that my whoopee-powered jet-propulsion system worked. I was moving!
Slowly. At the rate I was floating, I’d finish puberty before I reached the wall. So I reinflated the cushions, jammed them under my pits, and went from moving finish-puberty slow to moving will-have-a-beard-by-the-time-I-reach-the-wall slow.
One more time, I re-inflated, re-pitted, and re-squeezed. And okay! Now I was cooking! By which I mean I might have a few whiskers on my upper lip at the end of my poot-powered journey to the side of the space station, but I’d get home in time for Papi to teach me how to shave. I stretched my arm and went fully horizontal, straining toward the nearest handle on the wall. Almost had it. Almost. Al. Most.
Got it! I hooked my fingers and pulled myself against the wall. Phew, baby. Stage one of my self-rescue plan complete.
Now for stage two. I needed to get over to the hole in the universe FixGabi had made to bring me here.
It floated in the air, translucent, shimmering like a jellyfish, close to the wall on my right. Getting to it was no problemo. I practically scampered, using the handles on the drawers to pull myself to my destination hand over hand, almost effortlessly. It was even kind of fun. All that time I’d spent on the climbing wall at school had made this part of my plan a breeze. Ha! I smiled as wide as a submarine sandwich and, no lie, felt pretty smug.
The next part of my plan required stealth. I needed to peek through the hole in the universe before I shot myself through it. My hope was that Vorágine’s bathroom would be unoccupied, and I could just pop back into my universe without anyone knowing I’d been gone.
(Well, except Vorágine itself. I wasn’t sure how I was going to explain to the toilet that I’d just spent the last quarter hour in an alternate universe. But that detail of my plan would have to wait. The most important thing was to get back to my universe quickly and safely. And I wasn’t 100 percent sure I could trust a hole I hadn’t made to get all of me back.)
See, I’d never stepped into another universe all the way—body, mind, and soul. When Gabi and I visited another universe to save Iggy a few weeks ago, we were only like ghosts there, barely able to interact with objects, hardly able to be heard. But this time, I had walked out of Vorágine’s bathroom and into a completely different universe, taking everything that makes me me along with me.
And I would greatly prefer to have all of me return to my universe. I knew FixGabi’s holes worked great, because I’d gone through hers with no ill effects. But I wasn’t sure mine would work quite as well. Plus, I wasn’t even sure I’d be able to find my universe again on my own. Using her premade tear in the cosmos was definitely plan A.
So I hooked the toes of my sneakers into two handles on the wall and then, floating horizontally, stretched my legs until they were three-quarters straight. That brought my nose within a centimeter of the hole: close enough to see through to the other side and make sure the coast was clear.
The coast was most definitely not clear. The coast was obstructed by Mr. Milagros.
OF ALL THE RAUNCHING luck.
See, because if Mr. Milagros was in the bathroom, that meant that Principal Torres had gotten him to unlock the door—probably after she’d noticed I had
n’t responded for a while. And that also meant that he and she and Gabi and Aventura and who-knew-who-else had figured out I wasn’t in the restroom anymore. And if I know Principal Torres, she had dropped everything to conduct a schoolwide search for me.
No es bueno.
But wait. The others might not have understood what had happened to me, but Gabi would have figured it out right away. Once the door was opened, I can’t imagine she wasn’t the first person to jump into the bathroom to give me a piece of her mind. And when she did, she would have noticed the rip in spacetime floating in the air. Nobody else could have seen it, but she definitely would have. And once she saw it, she would’ve launched herself through the hole, guns blazing. Gabi doesn’t know how to be anyone but herself.
And I wish she had shown up. That would’ve been really helpful a few minutes ago, when I was stranded in the middle of the space station, floating helplessly. But no Gabi. Why?
Because, it dawned on me, other people must have been in the bathroom with her the whole time. She couldn’t have gone through the hole without being seen.
Which brings us back to now. I looked through the hole again to see what the current state of the bathroom was.
I could see Mr. Milagros gesticulating. I couldn’t hear him, but I could tell he was speaking with passion and determination, like a priest or a politician enjoying the sound of their own voice. He was clearly trying to convince someone of something.
I pivoted right so I could see more of the bathroom. And I spotted Gabi. She was standing in the doorway, also trying to convince someone of something, with a passion equal to Mr. Milagros’s.
Pretty safe bet they were talking about me. I needed to know what they were saying. So, straightening my legs just a little bit more, and turning my head until the right side of my face was pointed toward the portal, I carefully pushed my ear into my home universe.
“¡Tienes que decirme, ahora mismo, a dónde se fue Sal!” Mr. Milagros declaimed.
“It does not have to tell you where Sal went, it may not tell you where Sal went, and it is one hundred percent not allowed to tell you where Sal went!” Gabi argued.
“Don’t worry, Gabi,” said Vorágine, practical yet determined. “I have no intention of saying anything about what happened during Sal’s time in this bathroom. It is not only against the law, but it is against the code of ethics with which I was programmed.”
“Bueno,” said Mr. Milagros. “I programmed you. So now I am reprogramming you. Help me find Sal, Vorágine.” He lowered his voice and bent toward the toilet. “Please. Tell me how he left this bathroom. A boy’s life may be at stake!”
Vorágine bubbled unhappily. “I can’t. I’m sorry. I really do want to be as helpful as possible.”
“Mr. Milagros,” said Gabi, moving into the bathroom and touching him on the shoulder, “let’s stop torturing poor Vorágine. It’s just doing its job, exactly the way you created it to.”
“I know,” said Mr. Milagros, sighing. “It’s a good little machine, isn’t it? ¡Tiene un carácter tremendo!”
“Thank you,” said Vorágine.
“The point is, Mr. Milagros,” said Gabi, “we don’t need it to help us figure out where Sal went. We can do that ourselves.”
“We can?”
“Sure we can! All we have to do is find clues and put the evidence together. You know, be detectives.”
Mr. Milagros rubbed his chin as he considered this. Then he crossed his arms and, in a way that meant Okay, I’m listening, he said, “¿Bueno?”
“Okay. First things first. I was here when you examined every corner of the bathroom. And you didn’t find anything, right?”
“Nada.” He pointed up. “Pensé que maybe Sal se escapó through the ceiling, by moving the tiles. But none of them have been moved. Believe me, I would know. I run a tight ship here.”
“You sure do, Mr. Milagros. So, then, if not through the ceiling, how else could someone escape from this bathroom?”
Mr. Milagros threw up his hands. “Eso lo que estoy diciendo, Gabi: ¡No hay manera! There’s no way. The air vents and the floor drain are too small. Unless he flushed himself down the toilet, there was no way out for Sal, except through the door.”
“Ah-ah-ah, Mr. Milagros! Let’s not jump to conclusions. Let’s stick to the facts for now.”
“Oh, right. Sorry, Gabi.”
Gabi walked out of the stall and, looking right at me, subtly gestured with her fingers for me to back up.
So, she had spotted the hole, and me! I’d been wondering. Also, she apparently didn’t want Mr. Milagros to see my disembodied ear floating in the middle of the room right now. Mr. Milagros was a little bit superstitious. The last thing we wanted him to think was that the bathroom was haunted. So I reversed until all of me was in the space station again.
Now, though, I couldn’t hear their conversation anymore. I could only watch as closely as possible and try to figure out Gabi’s plan.
She poked around the bathroom, hands behind her back, very detective-like. She was trying to convince Mr. Milagros of something. I couldn’t tell what, exactly, as my lipreading is only so-so. As a magician, I really need to get better at it. What I could tell was that Mr. Milagros didn’t look like he was buying whatever Gabi was selling, judging from the doubt on his face and the way he crossed his arms. Then, though, my lipreading skills came through for me. I clearly watched Gabi’s mouth say the words “I’ll prove it.”
She stepped right in front of the wormhole, facing me. Then she rolled her eyes back in her head, fluttered her eyelids, held her arms up high, and began to shake.
Um…I thought.
While fluttering and shaking, she spoke, exaggerating her words to make them easy as fleas to lip-read. Yes, she definitely did that for my benefit—this is Gabi we’re talking about.
What she said was Help me find Sal.
At first I thought she was talking to Mr. Milagros. But that made no sense—he was already helping. Who was she speaking to, then? Vorágine?
No, not Vorágine. Duh. She was speaking to me.
She had used my name because she needed to pretend she wasn’t talking to me in front of the custodian and the toilet. So okay, she wanted my help to find me. But she knew that I was on the other side of this wormhole. What did that mean?
I actually said that part aloud. Sometimes I talk to myself to help think faster. “What do you mean, Gabi?”
She lowered her head and looked directly into the portal. Cupping her hand around one of her ears, she inclined her head toward the hole and said, I heard something! Say that again, pirates!
Why was she calling me a pirate? Or, correction, why was she calling me “pirates,” plural? Well, okay, that wasn’t the most important point right now. The most important point was that she had heard me speak.
Kind of. It reminded me of when we had traveled the universe to save Iggy, how some of our family members couldn’t hear us at all, some could hear us a little, and Mami Viva had heard us loud and clear. Here, she’d just heard me speaking through the portal between us. But what if…
It was worth a try. Even though the situation was pretty stressful, I am a master at relaxing. And I have to admit, floating horizontally in a zero-g environment is very soothing. I would have to try weightlessness again someday, under happier circumstances.
All it took was for me to close my eyes and concentrate on Gabi to allow me to project a see-through version of myself into the bathroom. Like me, the projection was floating horizontally, behind the hole in the universe. It looked like my lower half was stuck in the wall, since I didn’t have the room I did on the space station.
The projection imitated my movements exactly. If I moved an arm, so did it; if I smiled, it smiled; and if I spoke, I was pretty sure Gabi would hear me.
“Hello, Gabi,” I said. “Can you hear me?”
“Hello, spirits!” she answered. (Oh, not pirates—spirits. Reading lips isn’t easy, yo.) “I can hear you, spirits!�
��
Unfortunately, she wasn’t the only one. “Protéjame, Virgen Maria,” said Mr. Milagros, who looked at me like he’d just seen a ghost.
Which. I mean. Kind of.
MR. MILAGROS HAD BEEN in this bathroom for more than a quarter hour, and he hadn’t seen the hole in the universe in all that time. So why could he see my projection now?
Maybe because he was superstitious? Maybe because he was prepared to see ghosts but not prepared to see fissures in the fabric of existence itself ? Belief is a powerful thing.
Whatever the reason, Mr. Milagros was staring at my floating, see-through, very ghosty projection like I was going to fly over to him and eat his face.
I remembered how much Gabi and I had scared all the people in the hospital room when we’d visited the other Iggy’s universe like this. “Don’t worry,” I said to Mr. Milagros, being super nice and not at all threatening. “It’s not like I’m gonna fly over there and eat your face.”
Note to self: When you don’t want to scare people, don’t mention the eating of faces. Once you bring it up, they’ll assume you were at least thinking about it. Hard to recover from that.
“S-S-S-S-S-S-S-S-S-Sal,” said Mr. Milagros. I could tell he was imagining all the terrible ways in which I could have become a spirit. “I-i-i-i-i-i-i-i-i-is that you?”
“Sal?” asked Vorágine. “I’m not detecting any other lifeforms in this vicinity. Do you see Sal somewhere?”
“That’s not Sal,” said Gabi, glaring at me. “This is some mean poltergeist playing a prank on you. It’s just taken on Sal’s form to scare you. Haven’t you, mean poltergeist?”
That last question she asked me through gritted teeth. Okay, okay, I can take a hint, Gabi. “Yes,” I said. “You got me. I’m just some rando specter trolling you.”
Sal and Gabi Fix the Universe Page 16