At the far end of the bridge, which spanned the ball-pit moat, a jolly man in a bright-yellow jumpsuit and a hard hat resembling half a lemon stepped through the factory’s twenty-foot-tall front doors that had been intricately carved to resemble two sideways labyrinths. A pair of shimmering brass cheese wedges tucked into angled corners of the mazes served as doorknobs.
“Whoa,” Simon whispered. The factory was even more impressive in daylight.
“Welcome, welcome, welcome!” boomed the jolly man.
“That’s my dad,” said Soraiya. “He can be a little over the top. Especially on field trip days.”
“Behind these doors,” Mr. Mitchell said dramatically, “is where science, technology, engineering, art, math, and fun go to work every day. So, of course, do many of your parents, grandparents, aunts, and uncles!”
Not mine, thought Simon.
“Hello there, Soraiya!” Mr. Mitchell gave her a fingertip-waggling wave.
“Hey, Dad.”
“Thank you again for arranging this tour, Mr. Mitchell,” said Mrs. Bickhardt. “And for my cloud.”
“My pleasure. I’m happy to show you and your students everything I can.”
“How about the secret building out back?” shouted one of Jack McClintock’s buddies.
“Sorry. No can do.”
“What’s in there?” asked Mrs. Bickhardt.
“No one knows,” said Mr. Mitchell. “Except, of course, Mr. Lemoncello and his top-secret team of engineers, architects, and construction workers. It’s been quite an operation. Most of the work was done at night, after the factory was closed.”
“When can we go in?” shouted a girl named Augusta Westhoff. “When’s the new building going to be open?”
“This weekend!” announced Mr. Mitchell. “Right after the company picnic and outdoor board game!”
“Woo-hoo!” shouted everybody who’d been on the bus.
“But only for four children,” said Mr. Mitchell. “The ones competing for the titanium ticket. Now then, are you folks ready to cross the bridge and step inside?”
“Yes!” shouted the entire class.
“Then someone shout ‘jubjub jabberwock’ into the horn! That’s the special visitor password this week.”
Augusta ran to the horn, which looked like what Dr. Seuss called a floofloover, and said the magic words. The towering wooden doors behind Mr. Mitchell groaned open.
Simon looked down into the ball-pit moat. About a dozen people were mirroring the moves of an instructor, doing exercises that pushed and shoved the balls into rippling piles.
“That’s this morning’s ball-pit aerobics class!” Mr. Mitchell had to shout to be heard over the throbbing salsa music booming behind him. “Let’s head inside, kids! And, if you see a family member, be sure to signal for a drone camera to fly over and snap a selfie.”
“Technically,” Soraiya whispered to Simon, “it’s not a selfie if a floating drone takes the picture for you.”
“Right. But it still sounds pretty cool.”
“True. You don’t have any family on the inside, do you?”
“No,” said Simon. “My grandfather is, you know, retired.”
“But this isn’t your first time inside the factory.”
“Huh?”
“Nothing. Just something my dad said this morning over breakfast.”
“You guys talked about me?”
“Little bit. Then we came up with that permission slip–Girl Scout cookies scenario. My father is very clever.”
“This way, children!” cried Mr. Mitchell.
He ushered the science class into the building before Simon could ask Soraiya any more questions.
And the instant Simon saw what was inside the factory, he was too amazed to ask anybody anything.
Simon couldn’t believe what he was seeing.
The place was huge! It was fantastic! It was amazing!
Workers, all of them in yellow jumpsuits and lemon wedge hard hats, danced to piped-in salsa music as they pressed buttons, cranked levers, and stomped on foot pedals that made high-tech printing presses roll, card cutters slice, plastic coating drums whirl, and shrink-wrappers swirl.
Mr. Mitchell passed out half-lemon hard hats for all the visitors. Some of Simon’s classmates found family members and posed for the camera drones darting around snapping souvenir photographs.
“Factory work can be monotonous,” Mr. Mitchell explained over the din of the machines and the music’s pulsing beat. “So, to make it more fun, we do it to music. Today is Latin day. Tomorrow? Country swing! Putting games together is like doing a dance. Each step leads to the next step. Everything must be done in a logical, synchronized routine.”
“Dancing is such a waste of time,” Simon heard Jack mutter to one of his friends. “My dad would make such a better plant manager than that joke Mr. Mitchell….”
“Do you come up with the ideas for the games?” asked Augusta.
“No,” said Mr. Mitchell. “Mr. Lemoncello and the other game makers dream up the ideas down at the Imagination Factory offices in New York City. Up here? We make them real—and put them in a box. That’s what engineering is all about, folks. Turning dreams into reality!”
“What game are you working on today?” asked Augusta, who always asked the most questions in science class.
“Mr. Lemoncello’s Loony Loop-de-Looper,” said Mr. Mitchell. “It’s a knitting game where you win plastic pearls. First one to string together a necklace wins! Today, we’re molding millions of miniature pearl beads, which is why we need to refill the injection tanks!”
He pointed toward the fifty-foot-high ceiling, where two workers strapped into hover packs floated near a white silo and fed pellets of plastic into a hopper at the top.
“The tower, wrapped with heating coils, will gently melt the plastic as a corkscrewing plunger presses it down to be injected into the pearl molds.”
Simon couldn’t resist. He raised his hand.
“Question?” asked Mr. Mitchell.
“Yes, sir. Since heat rises, wouldn’t it be more energy efficient if the heating tube were horizontal instead of vertical? If it were horizontal, both ends would be the same temperature and you’d get even melting.”
“What a dumb idea,” snorted Jack.
Mr. Mitchell stroked his chin, thinking about what Simon had said. He was about to answer when Augusta blurted, “What’s this?” She pointed to a huge high-tech device that looked like an upside-down plastic octopus trapped inside a big white box.
“That, my friends, is a three-D body scanner. You stand in that center circle and the one hundred twenty-eight cameras in those eight panels will capture a three-hundred-sixty-degree image of you.”
“What’s it for?” Augusta always had a lot of questions.
Mr. Mitchell’s eyes twinkled. “Who’d like to become a game piece today?”
Everyone shot up their hands.
“Then line up! We’ll capture your image and send it to our three-D printer!”
While everybody else waited for their 3-D scan, Simon and Soraiya wandered over to a printing press to watch sheets of game boards rolling out of the mechanical contraption.
“I would love to take that machine apart,” said Simon.
“Could you put it back together?” asked Soraiya.
“I think so.”
“You want to line up to do the three-D game-piece thing with everybody else?”
“No thanks,” said Simon. “I just want to watch these machines. They’re amazing!”
Soraiya had spent a lot of time inside the factory with her dad. She showed Simon everything. The card shuffler. The plastic wrapper. Even the 3-D printing machine.
“Why, look,” said Soraiya as the machine spun plastic strands to build a minia
ture, one-inch-tall Jack McClintock token. “He’s not so big and tough anymore!”
After about thirty minutes of marveling at the machinery, Simon and Soraiya joined the rest of their class in the gift shop.
“Hearty and splendiferous greetings to you all!”
Simon looked up.
Mr. Lemoncello was hovering near the ceiling.
Well, it was a holographic projection of Mr. Lemoncello, but it was extremely realistic.
Simon felt like he could pluck the tiddlywinks buttons right off his checkerboard vest.
Mr. Lemoncello doffed his top hat and tossed it to the floor, where it landed with a loud, metallic clunk.
“Yes, here at the Lemoncello Gameworks Factory, everybody, including me, must wear a hard hat. Mine’s made out of steel. I hope you enjoyed your tour today.”
“We did!” said Augusta. “It was awesometastic, sir.”
The holographic Mr. Lemoncello smiled and bounced up and down on the heels of his banana shoes, nodding to the left and then to the right, as if more visitors were heaping praise on him and his factory. Simon figured he must have a preprogrammed wait time whenever he pretended to be interactive.
“Sorry. I wasn’t pretending to be interactive. I was thinking about this year’s brand-new sidewalk board game, where the top four finishers will— Drumroll, please…”
A holographic bass drum rolled across the floor, chased by a holographic drum major in a tall, puffy hat.
Mr. Lemoncello picked up where he left off: “The top four finishers will be the first to see what’s inside my new, supersecret building!”
“Hooah!” shouted Jack.
“Here are the rules—for what would a game be without rules, except cardboard, shrink-wrap, and plastic playing pieces injected vertically into a mold when everybody knows doing it horizontally would be much more efficient.”
What? thought Simon. Did Mr. Lemoncello somehow hear my comment back on the factory floor?
“Now then, what was I blathering about? Ah, yes. The rules! To qualify for the outdoor board game, you must first play three preliminary games in the tents that will be set up on the picnic grounds. The top finishers in those games will move on to our all-new, superslimy Slippery-Sloppery Sidewalk Board Game. The top four finishers there will become the first four visitors to my new and amazingly incredible building, where, in our third competition of the day, you might find a titanium ticket that will…”
Mr. Lemoncello froze. Simon leaned forward.
“Oops. I almost gave it away. I hate when I almost do that.”
Mr. Lemoncello bent down, grunted, and with a herculean effort hoisted his heavy metal top hat off the floor. He slowly lowered it to his head, but the heavy hat slammed down hard and wobbled like a manhole cover. A circle of chirp-chirping bluebirds swirled around his head.
“Oooh. I’m feeling dizzier than usual. My hair feels rustier, too. It’s time for me to depart. Toodle-oo, everybody. I look forward to seeing you all this Saturday at the biggest, messiest, and bestest company picnic ever!”
Mr. Lemoncello snapped his fingers and disappeared in a holographic poof!
“He is so awesome!” gushed Augusta.
“He’s a nutjob,” grunted Jack.
“All right, class,” said Mrs. Bickhardt. “Let’s head back to the bus.”
As Simon’s classmates filed out of the factory, someone tapped him on the shoulder. It was Mr. Mitchell. He was holding a crisp envelope with a waxy yellow seal stamped with a scrolled letter “L.”
“Mr. Lemoncello asked me to give you this. The real Mr. Lemoncello.”
World-famous librarian Dr. Yanina Zinchenko was touring the secret new building with Mr. Chester Raymo, Mr. Lemoncello’s head imagineer.
Dr. Zinchenko’s red hair swayed with every stride as she clicked her way up a shadowy corridor in her jazzy high-heeled shoes, which, of course, were also red. Mr. Raymo, who was dressed in his frumpy white lab coat, tried his best to keep up with her. It wasn’t working. He was at least three steps behind as they walked down a corridor.
“This is not a library,” Dr. Zinchenko said in her thick Russian accent. “Nothing is organized as it should be. I think Mr. Lemoncello has invented a new cataloging concept: the Screwy decimal system.”
“You are correct, Yanina,” said Mr. Raymo, who was a little short of breath. “This is not a library. However, it has been no trivial pursuit, either. This the most technologically advanced building Mr. Lemoncello has ever created. He hopes it will, one day, become his legacy!”
“It’s too early for Mr. Lemoncello to be thinking about legacies,” said Dr. Zinchenko.
“Perhaps,” said Mr. Raymo. “But none of us is getting any younger. And the future belongs…”
Dr. Zinchenko finished the thought for him. “To the puzzle solvers. Da, da. I have heard Mr. Lemoncello say this many, many times.”
They entered the building’s vast atrium, where the focal point was a towering grandfather clock featuring figurines of a fantastical array of children playing games. The carved characters stood frozen, ready to spring into motion at the stroke of the hour.
The walls were covered with framed art. Three dozen holographic projectors were fastened to a grid under the fifty-foot ceiling. Clear tubes, illuminated by colorful LEDs, snaked their way through the empty space overhead. Pathways led out of the atrium to what could best be described as an indoor amusement park filled with fun and games. Lots and lots of games.
“It is time to plant the prize in the designated position,” said Mr. Raymo. “May I please have the titanium ticket, Yanina?”
He held out his hand.
Dr. Zinchenko sighed and handed Mr. Raymo the slender slip of shiny metal. “Do what needs to be done, Mr. Raymo.”
Mr. Raymo slipped the thin metal rectangle into its hiding place.
“It’s for the future, Dr. Zinchenko,” he said, rather ruefully. “The future.”
“Da, da. So everybody keeps telling me. Come along. I am feeling sad and blue. I need to see some books! Books make me happy.”
“Right this way,” said Mr. Raymo, leading her out of the atrium and into a room where the walls were lined with bookcases.
“Ah!” said Dr. Zinchenko, craning her head to take in the beauty of the leather-bound volumes. “This is, as Mr. Lemoncello might say, wondermous.”
“Indeed,” said Mr. Raymo. “I believe this collection contains every book, magazine, and scholarly article ever written about board games. I suppose the children who visit won’t spend much time in here.”
“Of course not,” said Dr. Zinchenko. “They’ll be too busy exploring all the gizmos, gadgets, and games! Especially the—”
Dr. Zinchenko’s high-tech earpiece began to buzz. She tapped it to answer.
“Yes?” she said. “Very well, Mr. McClintock. We’ll be right there. Give us five minutes.”
“Trouble?” asked Mr. Raymo.
“No. Just our pre-picnic security meeting. We should use this swirly slide to expedite our exit.”
“Oh, joyyyyyyyyyy.”
* * *
—
Dr. Zinchenko and Mr. Raymo hurried through the security gates (making sure they were locked tight behind them) and made their way to Mr. McClintock’s office in the gingerbread house. (Mr. Raymo wanted to take a bite of the giant jelly bean door knocker. Dr. Zinchenko advised him it was actually made out of aluminum.)
“Welcome to our pre-picnic PPC meeting,” said Mr. McClintock as he opened the door.
Dr. Zinchenko arched an eyebrow above her sparkly cat-eye glasses. “A P-P P-P-C meeting?”
“Roger that, ma’am,” said Mr. McClintock, hiking up his pants, leading the way into the command and control center. “Potential party crashers. Bad actors who might try to sneak into town this weekend
and gum things up. You ask me, we should beef up security. Eliminate some of the more frivolous activities that could provide cover for uninvited intruders. That’s what I would do if it were my factory.”
“What did Polo Orozco, head of security at the Imagination Factory in New York, tell you?” asked Mr. Raymo, who didn’t seem interested in what Mr. McClintock would do if this were his factory.
Mr. McClintock bristled a little. He knew when he was being cut off.
“Mr. Orozco advises me that all Chiltingtons are accounted for. None of them are headed to Hudson Hills.”
“Good,” said Dr. Zinchenko. “And Mr. Lemoncello’s primary competitors in the domestic toy and game market, the Krinkle brothers?”
“They are attending a pachisi conference in Palm Springs.”
“Excellent. Thank you, Mr. McClintock. Keep up the good work. Please keep in constant contact with Mr. Orozco. We must not allow anything to ruin this weekend’s celebration.”
After school, Simon showed his grandmother the wax-sealed envelope Mr. Mitchell had given him.
“Oh, my,” she said. “That ‘L’ is lovely.”
“It’s from Mr. Lemoncello,” Simon whispered.
His grandmother nodded. “Go upstairs and open it, Simon,” she said with a gentle smile. “I’ll make your grandfather some soup. Keep him busy in the kitchen.”
“Thanks, Grandma.”
“Shh,” she said. “This will be our little secret.”
She eased herself out of her chair and toddled off to the kitchen.
Simon headed up to his room. He closed the door, and after rubbing the bumpy “L” in the yellow wax seal with his thumb a few more times, he carefully pried the envelope open.
Inside was an engraved invitation from Luigi L. Lemoncello himself.
HEARTY AND SPLENDIFEROUS SALUTATIONS!
Master Simon Skrindle,
You are hereby and forthwith
Mr. Lemoncello and the Titanium Ticket Page 4