Ghostbusters

by Nancy Holder

  By 10 A.M., the gym had filled with parents and students, who milled up and down the center aisle. Fifteen minutes later the volunteer judges made their entrance. Mr. Puccini handed them clipboards and pens. Shouting over the din to get the everyone’s attention, he introduced them to the assembly. Two were adjunct professors from Kellogg City College’s Science Department, and the third judge was the science writer for the Battle Creek Enquirer.

  Erin and Abby had to man their booth, so they couldn’t see exactly what was going on at the other end of the aisle. The judges stood in front of contestants’ tables listening to their explanations and asking questions.

  The three were standing about a yard back from the volcano when it erupted with a roar. Then the back of the cone blew off with a dull pop, sending cold oatmeal “lava” shooting across the court and into the bleachers.

  Screams rang out and the audience retreated en masse to the fire exits.

  Mr. Puccini rushed forward, waving his arms for calm. “Do not be concerned. There’s nothing hazardous,” he shouted. “The lava is organic. Our janitorial staff is on hand to clean up the mess…”

  On his signal, the custodian crew sprang into action with mops and buckets. The excitement was over. People resumed browsing; the judges resumed their task.

  When they got to Carl’s project, the übernerd gestured for them to step around his table. Waving for people to move back, he and his project partner cleared a wide space between the aisle and the bleachers. Then they unrolled a heavy circular mat, presumably to protect the hardwood from saw and hatchet misfires.

  As the audience began to crowd in around the makeshift ring, Carl and his nerd buddy donned crash helmets.

  “You know we can’t miss this,” Abby said. And they abandoned their posters for a spot at ringside.

  Carl picked up Blade Face and his partner grabbed Señor Pain. They put the machines facing each other on the mats about four feet apart. Carl and his nerd bud held game controllers in their hands.

  “Imagine a not-too-distant future,” Carl bellowed at the audience, “where robots fight the wars and we are their slaves!” On his count of three the machines charged each other and music blasted out of a speaker under the table—a rousing hip-hop beat.

  “This is not America…” the chorus repeated over and over.

  “That’s from the movie Training Day,” Abby said while the crowd cheered and whooped. “‘American Dream,’ sung by David Bowie and P. Diddy.”

  Erin decided she couldn’t root for either machine; she wanted them to mutually self-destruct. Or better yet, go berserk and chase Carl out of the gym.

  Much to the amusement of the audience, which was moving to the music, Señor Pain drew first “blood.” Apparently it had more mass, because their initial collision turned Blade Face sideways. Before Carl could recover, Señor Pain did a hatchet job on its foredeck, landing a rain of blows.

  To Erin, it looked like game over. Señor Pain was going to batter its opponent into smithereens without even getting a scratch. She had to admit that watching Carl Lund so quickly and easily defeated by one of his minions came a close second to seeing Señor Pain chop off the odd toe.

  Then in a perfectly timed move, Carl/Blade Face used its hand to snatch hold of the hatchet’s handle just below the ax head as it swung down, pinning the sharp edge into the mat. The audience gasped as Blade Face used the power of its arm to drag its torso into attack position. The saw blade whined shrilly and sparks flew as Blade Face planted the vaunted kiss of death, then quite efficiently cut poor Señor Pain in two.

  The judges and audience applauded and cheered, dancing and laughing as the music reached its crescendo and faded out.

  One of the professors clapped Carl on the back as he removed his crash helmet. “You have a great future in robotics, my boy,” he said.

  Carl looked over at Erin and Abby and shot them a smug, nasty grin. Then he mimed a hanging, yanking up on an invisible noose around his neck, sticking out his tongue like he was choking to death.

  Erin pulled her partner aside. “Abby, we’re going to get totally creamed unless we do something quick.”

  Abby nodded, her expression chagrined. “My bad. I thought we dumbed it down enough.”

  “The judges are five tables away. Think of something!”

  “Clearly we can’t change any basic elements at this point,” she said. “But we can sure spice up the presentation. Give it some punch. Carl and his crew have music, but so do we.”

  Abby popped the cassette out of the boom box and slipped in a different one.

  “It’s our planet dance!” Erin cried.

  It was a hip-hop mix tape they had danced to in Abby’s bedroom a million times, whirling around like planets and then bustin’ their moves. They hadn’t done it in forever.

  “Remember how jiggy we got?” Abby said. “We were so awesome in the mirror. We know all the cool steps and have our explanation down pat—we can rap it to the judges!”

  “But let’s dumb it way down,” Erin said. “Way, way down. Wait, I thought of something else…” She turned over one of the posters and wrote on the back in huge letters with Magic Marker: “There is a barrier keeping ghosts out, and if they are let in they will destroy the world.”

  “Oh my god,” Abby exclaimed, “that’s perfect!”

  As soon as the judges were in position in front of their table, Abby cued the music and they let it rip. At first Erin couldn’t focus on the audience’s faces because her dancing was so jerky and violent, and she was concentrating so hard on her footwork. She really got into it. So did Abby. And they hit their marks on the rapping, too.

  When Abby dropped down low for her break-dance solo, Erin took in all the people frozen around them, mouths hanging open. Yeah, she thought, you can’t top this!

  They finished their routine and the music faded out. There was dead silence in the gym. The looks on the judges’ faces ranged from perplexed to horrified.

  From the rear of the crowd, a familiar voice sneeze-yelled, “Bull-shit!”

  “Do you have any questions for us?” Abby said, panting for breath.

  More silence.

  Finally one of the professors broke the impasse. “No,” he said, “I think we have all we need from you.”

  The panel of judges retired to the boys’ locker room to confer. It didn’t take them long to make their decision. The robot fighters won unanimously and would move on to the county finals.

  Carl Lund pumped his fists over his head and did a mad toe dance-in-place, shouting, “Yes! Yes!”

  “Damn!” Erin said over the din of applause.

  “Don’t sweat the small stuff,” Abby said. “Look at all we’ve accomplished in just a year. And we’re both moving on to the University of Michigan—a bigger stage with better equipment.”

  “And maybe a more intelligent audience.”

  Mr. Puccini and another male teacher had hoisted Carl Lund onto their shoulders and were marching him around the gym, through the cheering crowd.

  “Mos’ def,” Abby said.

  * * *

  At their headquarters, Erin smiled wistfully as she studied the science fair photograph. “Oh, I wish we still had the presentation. It was fantastic.”

  Abby raised a Spock-like eyebrow as she smirked knowingly. “Patty’s wish might just be granted.”

  Patty shook her head. “No, that wasn’t my wish—”

  “You still have it?” Erin cried. “What?”

  Abby reached behind the buffet table and pulled out the title board of their project. She set the poster on a table and plopped an old cassette tape recorder down beside it. The poster was decorated with pictures of ghosts cut from books and magazines and pasted in place. But Abby wasn’t finished. She took a box out from under the table. She opened it and whipped out two more blasts from the past—their black turtleneck sweaters—and they hurriedly put them on. Abby’s looked a little tight, but Erin’s fit fine.

  “Okay, per Pa
tty’s request,” Abby said, reaching over to push play.

  Patty waved her hands. “No, I can’t express enough that I don’t—”

  Abby and Erin stood side by side in their matching pullovers, very serious as they gazed into each other’s eyes and silently counted down.

  “Good evening,” they said, hitting their mark in unison.

  “Oh lord,” Patty groaned, but she was clearly amused.

  Holtzmann smiled, then opened two beers and handed one to Patty. “I’ve only heard about this,” she said. “Never actually seen it. This is history.” Holtzmann winked at Patty and then downed her beer.

  “Prepare for takeoff into the unknown,” Abby and Erin chanted. “Five … four … three … two … one.”

  Abby hit play on the recorder. What they had thought back then was the coolest science fiction music ever ooh-wee-eww’ed from the little speaker. Erin still remembered their moves, and they began waving their arms dramatically, orbiting like planets, with Abby spinning around her.

  “The universe is mysterious,” Erin said in a mysterious voice.

  “Ninety-six percent mysterious,” Abby shot back.

  “And what of the topic of ghosts?” Erin demanded.

  Abby whispered loudly, “They’re real!”

  The music boomed across the dining room. Erin and Abby broke into more dancing, happy exuberant you’re-my-bestie dancing, and memories of dancing at the fair washed over her. Abby had been a true friend, defending “Ghost Girl” from her tormentors, telling her over and over, “You are not crazy. I believe you.”

  Erin poured her heart into the re-creation of their spur-of-the moment skit. “Then why don’t I see ghosts flying everywhere?”

  “For the barrier stops them,” Abby declared. “It is the only line of defense in the portal betwixt the worlds of the living and the dead.”

  Patty shifted a bit uncomfortably. “What century did they write this?”

  Holtzmann nodded, ignoring her question, totally into the performance.

  Abby said, “Now let’s break it down.”

  The music abruptly shifted to a corny old-school hip-hop beat.

  “Yo. How many different types of ghosts we got, A?”

  Erin picked up the rap beat. “Humanoids, vapors—”

  Abby glanced over and saw Patty’s grimace. “You know what, let’s skip ahead.”

  Erin didn’t want to admit that she was a little winded. “Yeah, that part is thirty minutes and involves break dancing.”

  She popped open the tape player and flipped the tape. The booming sci-fi score returned and they both leapt into a rapid crescendo of ecstatic dance and arm movement. Erin couldn’t believe that she remembered every step, but she did. The routine was elaborate, and holy cow, they were pulling it off. It was as if all the years between the science fair and the present moment had themselves become ghosts. She flew and spun, freer than she had felt in forever.

  “So protect the barrier! Protect the barrier! Or mankind will end! Word!”

  When it was over, Erin and Abby struck rapper poses. They laughed and hugged, and Erin was overjoyed. They had promised to be each other’s lifelong friends. Could they still be?

  Holtzmann ran up and threw her arms around both of them.

  “I am so goddam happy you two are together again. So goddam happy.”

  Erin and Abby turned to look at Patty, and her face was radiant. “I was all set to make fun of you. But goddamn, that was actually beautiful.” Then she choked up. “Thank god you had each other.”

  “Hey, look,” Holtzmann said, pointing at the muted TV. It was the NY-Local 1 News, and a reporter was onscreen. She hurried over and turned up the volume.

  “… a local team of paranormal investigators released a video of a proclaimed ghost—”

  The picture shifted from the reporter to a segment from their video, displayed for the whole world to see. Erin was clearly visible on the screen.

  “Hey, they’re airing the video!” Patty cried. “We’re famous!”

  “So,” the reported continued, “what do we think of these ‘Ghostbusters’?”

  Erin grimaced. “Ghostbusters? Why did she just say ‘Ghostbusters’? They can’t just make up a name for us, can they?”

  Abby shook her head. “No, she just misspoke.”

  But down at the bottom of the screen, crawling text read, “Discussing the Ghostbusters.”

  “Oh,” Abby said, startled.

  The reporter continued. “I spoke with Martin Heiss earlier of the Council for Logic and Data, and famed debunker of the paranormal.”

  “Oh god.” Erin had a bad feeling. She braced herself.

  “Tell me. Is this for real?” the reporter asked.

  Erin had read about Martin Heiss before, but she had never seen him. He was wearing a large hat, very dashing.

  “No,” he answered flatly.

  “Thank you,” the reporter said to him, and then turned back to the camera. “Coming up, Mayor Bradley on the rolling blackouts.”

  Erin glared at the screen. She took a threatening step toward the TV while the others lost their cool behind her.

  “Unbelievable,” Abby huffed. “Do you know that we only know what four percent of the universe is? How quick they are to say no!”

  “Oh man,” Patty said, groaning. “Now we’re the ghost girls. I suddenly feel your pain, Erin.”

  “No way. Screw that,” Erin said defiantly. The phone started ringing in the background. “We are scientists and we rely on controlled tests and provable physical results. And so we are going to catch a ghost and bring it back to this lab and, Kevin, answer the phone!”

  Kevin, who had stopped watching them and returned to studying what appeared to be two photographs, put down the pictures and answered the phone. They all looked on.

  “Conductor something. Uh-huh.” He sounded interested in whatever he was hearing. Everyone else leaned in. “Cool,” he said. “Thanks. Bye.”

  He hung up. Then he picked up the photographs. They were headshots of him, and he was shirtless in both.

  “Hey, which of these makes me look more like a doctor?” he asked. He showed them the one with the stethoscope.

  “Whichever one tells us who was on the damn phone!” Erin yelled.

  “Someone from the Stonebrook Theatre. I don’t know … something’s happening there.”

  Something? Erin thought. The only person they’d given the landline number to was their rental agent. It had appeared on Abby’s flyers as well. Ergo, unless their rental agent was into acting, this was a call from someone who wanted to talk to the Conductors of the Metaphysical Examination!

  “Yes!” Erin shrieked.

  “I’ll get the car,” Holtzmann announced.

  They whipped into action, Abby pausing just long enough to point to a whiteboard next to Kevin’s desk.

  “All right, when I get back we’re gonna start off with parallel universes and entanglement,” she told him.

  He blinked. “What?”

  “He’s curious already!” Abby rejoiced.

  Abby, Erin, and Patty dashed outside. Patty was carrying an armload of MTA uniforms along with her proton pack.

  “I took these from work and made ’em look all official. Put ’em on if you don’t want to get slimed again,” she said.

  Erin was grateful for the extra barrier of protection. She said, “We’ll put them on in the car.”

  And they were off.

  16

  Abby, Erin, and Patty raced outside while Holtz blasted their hearse—now fully loaded with proton canisters and other power boosters, a new license plate that read ECTO-1, and a cute little ghost hood ornament—down the streets of Manhattan, the siren wailing like a banshee—a tentative Class 4 soprano full screecher—as pedestrians stopped and stared after them. It was like they were shooting out a paralyzing ray on all sides. Weaving in and out of the traffic, the massive vehicle slewed right and left. Holtzmann drove right up on the back bumpers of
the cars ahead, flashing high beams until they yielded, swerving out of the way, more often than not with raised fists and middle fingers stuck out driver windows.

  Erin would have felt a wee less vulnerable if Holtzmann had deigned to put both hands on the wheel and stifled the running commentary on the scenery blurring past. Patty nodded her head as if she was listening to the monologue with rapt attention, but rode with one hand firmly gripping the door handle, as if poised to make a quick escape should Holtzmann ever slow down. Or maybe her apprehension was such that she just had to hang on to something.

  Abby didn’t seem to notice Holtz’s erratic driving. She was leaning forward in her seat, eyes wide with excitement, confirming the address and pertinent information with Kevin. Abridged version: it sounded like the Stonebrook Theatre was haunted!

  Erin figured they might be facing slime, so she passed out the uniforms to Patty and Abby, and with difficulty they pulled them on in the moving vehicle. Holtzmann braked the big wagon to a stop alongside a trash truck and illegally double-parked so she could slip into hers. The refuse workers on the truck got a big kick out of that show, and as the hearse pulled away urged them on with fist pumps and shouts of, “Go get ’em, MTA!”

  When they screeched to the curb in front of the theater, a few sleepy-looking thrash band fans were straggling through the doors. Erin could feel the thud, thuh-thud, thud, thuh-thud of a death metal bass line through the side of the hearse. It faintly rattled the windows. She and the other Conductors of the Metaphysical Examination piled out of their sick white ride, proton packs strapped on their backs and ready to rumble.

  As they stepped out into the street, a couple of dudes in comic book T-shirts walked under the marquee. They stopped and stared at the fearsome foursome.

  “Are you guys the Ghostbusters?” one of them asked, cutting his eyes to shoot a smirk at his pal.

  Oh, that name. That terrible name, Erin thought. “We’re actually the Conductors of the Meta—”