“Contestants, when I went upstairs, Schmidty screamed. He was that taken aback that I had allowed you, my disciples, to see me in the light of day without a shred of makeup or hair. As you know, my platform has always been that ‘a beauty queen is always prepared,’ and for floundering this one time, I apologize,” Mrs. Wellington said with misty eyes. “Now then, as you requested, we are skipping pageantry today and will instead focus on something a bit more traditional — history.”
“History? You’re going to teach us history? What about something to do with fears?” Garrison moaned, “since this is the School of Fear and all?”
“Sporty, history is the second most important subject a boy can study. You shouldn’t scoff at that.”
“Let me guess, pageantry is the first,” Garrison said with bubbling agitation.
“Exactly! Who said you weren’t sharp?” Mrs. Wellington responded. “Was that Lulu? Or Madeleine?”
“It wasn’t me,” Madeleine quickly interjected.
“What am I supposed to tell my dad? He expects me to come home cured!” Garrison exploded. “Do you know what that means? It means afternoons at the beach! Surfing lessons! Pools! Whitewater rafting! I feel sick even saying the words! How am I going to face my dad?”
“You tell your bossy, old, grouchy father that getting over your fears is a process, one we must confront daily, and that if he has a problem with that, he should investigate why he is more afraid of your fear than you are,” Mrs. Wellington said with the confidence and clarity of a bona fide certified teacher.
Garrison, shocked into silence, stared at Mrs. Wellington, whose lipstick Schmidty had accidentally applied slightly outside her lips. It was a spectacularly astonishing moment: Mrs. Wellington had actually taught him something. Beyond the wig, bad makeup, and total insanity, there appeared to be a sliver of knowledge regarding fears.
“Thank you,” Garrison mumbled, incapable of articulating anything more. He still wasn’t any closer to being cured, but he felt a great deal lighter.
“You’re welcome, Sporty,” Mrs. Wellington said kindly. “It seems like just yesterday, my own mother was teaching me the Bill of Rights,” she said while dabbing her eyes. “When I learned that the Bill of Rights secured my right to bear charm, freedom to bleach, and protection from unreasonable tweezing and plucking, well, history just came alive. I suddenly understood how important it was, and today I hope I can help you see that as well,” Mrs. Wellington said while clicking the first slide.
A black-and-white photo of an elaborately dressed baby in a bassinet filled the screen.
“It all started at Murphy General Hospital,” Mrs. Wellington said while gazing at the baby.
“Stunning, isn’t she? In fact, Edith was so gorgeous the doctor asked to purchase her. Of course, her parents declined, although they certainly were flattered.”
“Wait, a doctor tried to buy a baby?” Lulu asked incredulously.
“As you can see, Edith was an exceptional beauty; no one could blame the doctor for momentarily losing his bearings.”
“Now then, first grade,” Mrs. Wellington said while clicking the projector. “Edith was very smart; a true hit with the teachers. Sometimes, they even brought her apples. That’s how much they liked her.”
“Who is Edith?” Theo asked genuinely. “The governor of Massachusetts? State senator?”
“Dear boy, I haven’t aged that much, have I?”
“Wait, the history lesson is about you?” Theo responded.
In that moment, Garrison was more perplexed than he had ever been. How is it possible that the same woman who just handed him fantastically smart advice was now conducting a history lesson on her own life? Not to mention doing it in the third person.
Mrs. Wellington clicked the next slide and a young caramel-haired boy, no more than ten, filled the screen. His face was angelic, a true beauty. Though the boy was only onscreen for a second, Garrison was instantly confounded by his familiarity.
“Uh! What is that doing in here?” Mrs. Wellington grumbled to herself.
“Who was that?” Garrison called out as Mrs. Wellington quickly snapped to the next slide of herself.
“Who?”
“The boy.”
“What boy? Oh, that boy,” Mrs. Wellington said with sudden recognition. “His name is Theo. Honestly, I thought you would have learned each other’s names by now.”
“Not Theo,” Garrison responded, “the boy in the slide. Who is he?”
“O-oh,” Mrs. Wellington stammered, “He came with the projector. Moving on.”
“No, I’ve seen him before. I’m sure of it.”
“Oh Garrison, no one is really sure of anything in this crazy beauty pageant of life. Now moving on …”
“No, I know I’ve seen him before. He’s the missing kid from the poster by the B&B,” Garrison said, suddenly sure of himself.
“Is that poster back up?” Mrs. Wellington said with bloodred lips. “I’m going to have some serious words with Schmidty.”
The foursome stared at Mrs. Wellington as her face twisted with fury. Minutes passed before her cheeks returned to their normal contour and her lips arrived at a more natural shade. Sensing the eye of the storm had passed, Garrison pressed on.
“Who is that boy?”
“Again with this? His name is Theo.”
“The boy in the slide!” Garrison retorted with intensifying annoyance.
Mrs. Wellington sighed, adjusted her wig, and dabbed her upper lip before speaking.
“Perhaps he was once a student here.”
“What’s his name?”
“I can’t be expected to remember every student’s name. Why, there are days I can hardly remember Schmidty’s name. Just last week I called him Harriet! And to make matters worse, he responded. He too thought his name was Harriet! Do you see how confusing it all is? It’s simply impossible for me to know who that boy is!” Mrs. Wellington exploded harshly.
“Got it,” Garrison said, surprised by her intensity and anger. “Never mind, then.”
“On to my cotillion,” Mrs. Wellington hollered before pausing to collect herself. “Edith always had such a lovely little cherub face,” she continued while gazing at the slide of herself in a white gown and elaborate jewelry.
“Do most American girls wear diamond tiaras and necklaces to their cotillions?” Madeleine asked sincerely.
“Diamonds are such a headache. Why, just looking at this photo makes me want to reach for an Excedrin. They are the worst. The absolute worst. Whoever said diamonds are a girl’s best friend never owned any. All diamonds ever got me was a bunch of dead guys. Four to be exact.”
“Did you say dead guys?” Theo asked.
“Yes, I said dead guys: the Malicious Melvin Brothers’ Circus. Those scoundrels trained in rock climbing for a year before they burgled me.”
“And you killed them?” Theo asked with surprise.
“Why is it that you are always asking me if I killed someone? Do I look like a murderer? Do I dress like a murderer? What exactly about my beauty says murderer? Had you said ballet dancer, model, actress, I would understand, but murderer? Would a murderer have perfectly painted pale pink fingernails?” Mrs. Wellington asked while displaying her immaculately manicured nails.
“Sorry, it’s just where my mind goes,” Theo said with a shrug. “You absolutely do not look like a murderer. I’m sure that if I had seen you back in the day when you still had your own hair, I would have totally thought you were a model.”
“Thank you, Theo,” Mrs. Wellington said with a nod before returning to the story at hand. “Not only did I not kill those circus creeps, but after they grabbed my diamonds, I offered them pocket money and a snack for the return journey. Unfortunately, my calm attitude spooked them, and they became frantic and cut through the forest instead of following the road back.”
“And?” Lulu asked.
“And nothing. Schmidty found my tiara and necklace four years later atop a stack of o
ld bones. Apparently the men had starved to death, or been eaten, or, well, anything. Schmidty isn’t much for forensics. What can I tell you? The forest, like a casino, always wins. That’s why you should never gamble, or enter the forest. And above all, never underestimate Schmidty,” Mrs. Wellington said seriously. “Class dismissed.”
CHAPTER 19
EVERYONE’S AFRAID OF SOMETHING:
Arachibutyrophobia is fear of peanut butter sticking to the roof of the mouth.
Macaroni loved his food — that much was obvious. The dog regularly sprayed the table with spots of drool while enthusiastically crunching through piles of kibble. So when he lifted his head and ignored his half-full bowl, the lunch crowd took note.
With their eyes dutifully on Macaroni, Mrs. Wellington, Schmidty, and the students wondered what epiphany could possibly have distracted him from his beloved kibble. It was oddly disconcerting to watch Macaroni freeze under the weight of his canine instincts; after all, this was a dog who willingly wore pajamas to bed. Macaroni’s growl was low and fierce, immediately dissolving all lighthearted explanations for his behavior.
“Why is Macaroni growling?” Madeleine, who was seated closest to the dog, asked.
“I’m not sure,” Mrs. Wellington responded while staring at Schmidty.
“You don’t think he sees a spider or something?” Madeleine continued.
“No, Madeleine, I assure you he doesn’t growl in response to spiders,” Mrs. Wellington said curtly.
Madeleine instantly began dreaming of a spider and insect seeing-eye dog. She would cherish such a companion, lavishing him or her with filet mignon, rack of lamb, and other delicacies. Madeleine’s daydream was cut short when Macaroni once again increased the decibel of his growl.
“Perhaps Mac has something stuck in his throat,” Schmidty said.
“Should I give him the Heimlich?” Theo offered while jumping to his feet.
“No,” Mrs. Wellington said dismissively. “If he had something in his throat he’d cough. This is a growl.”
“Madame, I’m not sure dogs know how to cough. Perhaps this is as close as he can get.”
“That is absolutely ludicrous. If a dog can sneeze — and I’ve heard him sneeze — then he can cough.”
“If you say so, Madame.”
Just as Schmidty finished speaking, the plates, candelabras, and glasses on the table began to rattle.
“I thought you said there weren’t earthquakes in Massachusetts!” Theo hollered at Mrs. Wellington.
The rattle morphed into a thud, a loud and repetitive pounding noise from beneath the table.
Mrs. Wellington turned paler than usual; why, even her lips were blanching. Schmidty held tight to his comb-over as his face twisted with uncertainty.
“It couldn’t be … ,” Mrs. Wellington muttered in shock.
“It’s the big one,” Theo warbled hysterically, “drop and cover,” he added as he dove beneath the table.
“Madame, you promised me that you would warn me before he came!” Schmidty screamed at Mrs. Wellington.
“I’m sorry, Schmidty, honestly, I am. But I didn’t know. This must be an emergency. There is no other reason he’d use the chute!”
“Yes, Madame, perhaps you’re right. This could be an emergency. Perhaps the wretched beast wagered his children on one of his ‘sure things’ and lost!”
“That only happened once, twice at most. And may I remind you, he didn’t use the chute on either of those occasions! This must be something … terrible!” Mrs. Wellington snapped to Schmidty.
“It’s a sad day when losing one’s children at the track doesn’t constitute terrible!”
“Oh, stop that! This is hardly the time for moral superiority!”
“Tell my family I loved them,” Theo called out from beneath the table.
“Theo,” Madeleine said sweetly as she leaned over his quivering body, “it’s not an earthquake.”
“How do you know?”
“Well, earthquakes aren’t localized to such small areas. If this were an actual quake the entire room would be affected, not just the table.”
As Madeleine finished explaining the situation to Theo, the pounding became more intense. Between thuds, a muffled voice hollered and groaned.
“Schmidty, he’s climbed hundreds of feet up a rope ladder! This is an emergency!”
“Up, children! Up!” Schmidty roared at the foursome in a decidedly un-Schmidty-like tone of voice. “Mr. Garrison, grab the left side of the table.”
Garrison, surprised by Schmidty’s take-charge manner, decided it best not to question the order.
The two pushed the table and all of its contents to the left side of the dining room. Lulu and Madeleine stood near the door to the hall, with Theo cowering awkwardly behind them. He still wasn’t absolutely sure that this wasn’t some strange earthquake mutation and thought it wise to stand in the door frame, on the off chance the rumbling spread.
Schmidty hurriedly threw the green shag carpet to the side, igniting a dust storm years in the making. When the layer of filth cleared, Mrs. Wellington, Schmidty, the students, and Macaroni stared intently at a trapdoor. Scrawled in messy red lettering was a note, “For Dire Disasters Only.” It was only the sound of yet more banging and muffled screaming that pushed Schmidty to actually unlock and open the trap door.
A large swatch of tangled and unnaturally dyed brown hair came into view first. Even from a few feet away one could tell that the hair was thick and coarse, much like the bristles of an old broom. Beneath the wildly unkempt brown mess were a full two inches of white roots. As odd looking as it was to see a man desperately in need of a touch-up, it was nothing compared to what came next.
The face was gruesome, very much in line with a dermatological science experiment gone awry. The man’s pale skin was knotted into knobs of flesh that dotted his face like bushels on a field. Long white hairs sprung from the protrusions, some hanging long and straight while others curled tightly. In great contrast to his pale skin and wild white facial hair was the yellow of his eyes and teeth. So small and yellow were his teeth that on the rare occasion he tried to smile, they recalled corn on the cob. Of course, he didn’t actually smile; he only frowned less.
Theo screeched at the sight of the man before turning away.
“How ghastly,” Madeleine inadvertently muttered aloud before quickly covering her mouth in shame.
Before them was a sweaty, out-of-breath monster of a man, hanging perilously from a rope ladder in a dark chute.
“Munchauser,” Schmidty announced with disdain as he stared mercilessly at the repugnant man.
“Who’d you think it was?” Munchauser said in a gravelly voice that sounded like the last stages of laryngitis. “Wait, don’t tell me. I’ll bet you one hundred dollars I can guess who you thought it was.”
“You vile …” Schmidty started to react venomously, only to be interrupted by a frantic Mrs. Wellington.
“Oh stop it,” Mrs. Wellington snapped, “Schmidty, help him!”
“I’m sorry, Madame, but this man …” Schmidty trailed off as he begrudgingly pulled Munchauser from the chute.
It was only when the abnormally tall man stood fully erect before the foursome that they were able to garner the full grotesqueness of Munchauser’s appearance. At six feet he was tall, but his thin and lanky limbs created the illusion that he was much closer to seven feet. Dressed in a hand-tailored garish purple suit, with racing forms protruding from his breast pocket, Munchauser was striking, but not in a good way.
With ragged and dirty fingernails, Munchauser brusquely pushed Schmidty out of the way, determined to be as close to Mrs. Wellington as possible.
“Welly, I’ve missed you,” Munchauser said to Mrs. Wellington before turning to the students nearby. “I see you have germs here as usual.”
“Munchauser! What are you doing here?” Mrs. Wellington interrupted harshly.
“Welly, we have a problem,” Munchauser announced in his
crackly voice.
“Well of course we do! You just used the Dire Disaster Door. However, I still don’t know what the problem is!”
“You want to guess? I’ll give you twenty dollars if you get it right, but if you don’t you owe me your sapphire ring.”
“Munchauser! Would you stop with the bets! What is happening?”
“Welly, it’s a serious situation. I’ve got a lot to tell you,” Munchauser said while approaching Lulu. “Five bucks says I can guess your name.”
“I don’t have five dollars,” Lulu responded calmly.
“What? Your parents didn’t give you any spending cash?” Munchauser asked with frustration. “Fine, what do you have on you? Fifty cents? Seventy-five? Come on, I’ll work with you.”
“Munchauser!” Mrs. Wellington screamed.
“What? It’s just a little friendly wager.”
“Why did you just climb two hundred feet up a dark hole? Is there or is there not an emergency?”
“And bankruptcy doesn’t count,” Schmidty said snidely.
“Why don’t you pull your pants a little higher, old man?”
“Munchauser, for Heaven’s sake, what is happening?”
“Welly, before I tell you, do you even want to try to guess? It could be easy money on your part. Of course, should you win, I’ll have to write you an IOU ’cause I left my checkbook in the bunker. But you know I’m good for it.”
“Tell me this instant or I will cut you out of my will!”
“Abernathy is back,” Munchauser spit out instantaneously.
CHAPTER 20
EVERYONE’S AFRAID OF SOMETHING:
Atychiphobia is the fear of failure.
Shrill, hysterical, and bananas were the only words to describe Mrs. Wellington after the news came. Utterly incapable of conversing or standing still, Mrs. Wellington stormed through the house saying the name Abernathy over and over again. She would start low, almost at a whisper, and build up until she was screaming at a piercing level. All the while, she clacked through the Great Hall, passing through the airplane, around the jumbled mess of stairs, across the polo field, through the Fearnasium, upstairs, back downstairs, into the kitchen, the dining room, the classroom, and so on. Behind the frazzled and frantic woman were the arguing men, Schmidty and Munchauser, each elbowing the other to get closer to Mrs. Wellington.
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