The Accidental Genius of Weasel High

by Rick Detorie

  And so, of course, my dad started in with the bike story.

  Here is the condensed version: Two years ago, my dad bought me a new bike, and a month later I left it unchained at the bike rack at the bus stop. It got stolen. He bought me a second bike, and a month later, I chained it to a parking meter, and some guys came along and lifted the bike over the meter and made off with it. Okay, I know it was a stupid thing to do, but back then I was still a stupid kid.

  I’m a much smarter guy now.

  A much smarter guy who now rides either my old beat-up bike, or Kelly’s old beat-up bike, whichever doesn’t have a flat.

  So, to continue my dad’s lecture, if I want to get another big-ticket item, like a camcorder, I’ll have to earn the money to pay for it. Lucky for me, my dad’s “Lesson of the Bikes” lecture was interrupted when my mom got home. She spends most Sunday mornings at church where she helps to cook and serve meals to homeless people.

  “Can I make you a sandwich, dear?” my dad asked her.

  “No, thanks,” she said, “I’ve been handling so much food this morning, I’ve completely lost my appetite.” She then sat down next to me, broke off a piece of my sub, and popped it into her mouth.

  “Mom!” I said.

  “Shh,” she whispered, glancing around. “Do you hear that?”

  I listened, and I did hear something. It was a series of thumps that seemed to be getting louder and louder, until it sounded like a herd of buffalo charging down the stairs.

  It was Kelly, who burst through the door and bellowed, “I’ve had it! I can’t take it anymore!”

  “What’s the matter, princess?” said my dad.

  Kelly was pacing the floor and heaving, as if she were trying real hard to break into tears.

  You know, pretend tears.

  “My life,” she said dramatically, with her eyes closed, “is one heaping bowl of warmed-over despair, seasoned with equal dashes of aggravation and angst!”

  “Stop it,” I said cheerily, “you’re making me hungry.”

  “Shut up, Larkin,” she said.

  “Now, Kelly, I’m sure you’re being overly dramatic,” said my mom.

  “Look at me, Mother,” she said. “I’m a mess! My hands are shaking and my nerves are shot!”

  Actually, she didn’t look any worse than usual. In fact, she looked a little better because she didn’t have that little speed bump on her head.

  “What’s your problem this time?” asked my mom.

  “It’s Pandora! She’s up all night, every night, jumping on the dresser, pouncing on the bed, swinging from the curtains!”

  “Aww, but she’s such a sweet little kitty,” said my mom.

  “She’s the Terror Who Never Sleeps! And she won’t use the cat door! She sits there and cries when she wants to go out, and again when she wants to come in: Meeeeeoowwwww. I can’t stand it! That cat has plucked my last nerve!”

  “Maybe she’d behave better if you were nice to her,” I said, “instead of yelling at her all the time.”

  “Shut up, Larkin! It’s all your fault anyway!”

  “My fault?”

  “Yes, it’s because of you that Pandora and those other barn cats are so neurotic.”

  That really made me mad.

  “I did not make those cats, or any cats, neurotic, and if they are neurotic, I had nothing to do with making them neurotic!”

  Then I turned to my mom and said, “Mom, what does neurotic mean?”

  “It means nervous, honey,” she said, “or having a mental disorder.”

  “Why do you always take his side?” wailed Kelly.

  “I’m not taking anybody’s side, Kelly. I’m explaining to your brother what neurotic means.”

  “Well, you tell him that I want that cat out of my room by sundown today!”

  Then she stomped out the door, and thumped, thumped, thumped back up the stairs.

  “Well,” said my mom, “wasn’t that delightful?”

  “And that was just the matinee,” said my dad. “You know how much better her evening performances are.”

  LARKIN PACE, COME ON DOWN!

  I finally got the footage of the French class prank edited together into a four-minute video. I added a clunky polka that goes real well with Mr. Bivic’s spinning around and showing off for the camera. In fact, it looks like he’s actually dancing the polka.

  I posted the finished video online this morning, and it’s already had fifty-six hits.

  I can’t wait to be out of here and making movies for a living.

  The problem is I’ve got three more years of high school, then four years of college. What a big waste of time school is.

  I mean, I already know exactly what I want to do with my life. Just give me the proper equipment and a decent budget, and I’ll start right now.

  Okay, I’ll let you in on a little secret. For the past year or so, I’ve been working on a way to fast-forward my filmmaking career. It’s my Master Plan, and this is how it’s going to work.

  First, I’ll have to get to Hollywood. I’ll probably hitchhike out there. It’s the cheapest way to do it, and depending on the weather, I should be able to get there in four or five days. Second, when I do get there, I’ll go right to Television City in Hollywood and get in line for The Price Is Right. I’ll already have the ticket I preordered online.

  I’ll have a fake ID that says I’m eighteen, and I’ll be wearing a fake moustache and a little soul patch to make me look older.

  And maybe a tattoo.

  When the producers come out to pre-interview everybody in line, I’ll act real peppy and tell them that I’m an Accidental Genius type who can recite lines from any movie that they can name, and I’d be willing to do it on the show with Drew Carey.

  To get on a show like this, it helps to have a weird kind of talent. The weirder your talent, the better your chances are.

  Actually, just having a weird name like Larkin should be enough to get me selected to be a contestant.

  Third, after I’m seated in the audience and waiting for the taping to start, I’ll check my notes.

  You see, for the past year, I’ve been recording The Price Is Right every day and making notes of the prices of the items. I’ve even memorized most of them.

  Then, when the announcer yells out: “Larkin Pace, come on down!” I’ll be ready, man.

  When they bring out the first item for bids, the beautiful Spa-in-a-Box, I’ll say “$1,499,” which is the exact price. I’ll go up onstage, and because I got the price right on the nose, Drew Carey will give me $500 as an extra bonus, and I’ll continue on to play a pricing game.

  Because I’ll know most of the prices, and I’m smart enough to wear running shoes, and not flip-flops like some of those losers who trip all over themselves while playing The Race Game or Bonkers, I’ll probably win a lot of stuff. I’d really like to play Plinko or It’s in the Bag and win cash, but I’d be down with winning a new car.

  But then, and this is really important, because I will win the most in cash and prizes, I’ll be the last person to spin the wheel for the Showcase Showdown. After the other two contestants have spun, I’ll step up to the wheel, spin, and it’ll land on the $1.00, which is worth $1,000. The place will go wild. People will be whistling and jumping around.

  Then, when it’s time to take the bonus spin, instead of spinning for the $25,000, I’ll make an important announcement.

  I’ll say, “Thank you, kind people of The Price Is Right. Your generosity has touched me in a very special place. It means a lot to me. However, I cannot in good conscience spin the wheel again, for I have won enough good, quality, brand-name stuff already. Therefore, I give up my spot in the Showcase Showdown to the second-place contestant, Aileen, that poor old toothless widow from Kentucky.”

  Then poor old Aileen will fall to her knees in tears, and the audience will chant: “Larkin! Larkin! Larkin!” and they’ll have to cut to a commercial.

  During the commercial break Drew C
arey will tell me that what I did was a first on The Price Is Right. He’ll ask me to stick around after the show, because he wants to hang out with a great guy like me.

  Later, the two of us will go to a fancy Hollywood restaurant where lots of famous people hang out, and I’ll order a shrimp cocktail and the filet mignon, medium rare, and a Caesar salad.

  We’ll be just sitting there talking about stuff, and Drew Carey will get a phone call from his agent or somebody famous, and he’ll excuse himself and take the call out on the patio so he won’t disturb the other diners if he has to cuss or something.

  While I’m sitting there drinking my shrimp cocktail, Steven Spielberg and Ron Howard will come in and sit at the next table. I’ll act real cool, and ignore them, like it’s no big deal that two of Hollywood’s greatest directors are just inches away from me.

  Pretty soon they’ll start talking about how worried they both are that they’ll never be able to make another blockbuster because all the scripts they’ve been getting are so bad. “There are no good stories out there,” Steven Spielberg will say. “Yeah,” Ron Howard will say, “maybe all the good stories have already been made into movies.”

  Then I’ll lean over, introduce myself and say, “Gentlemen, I believe I have the story you’re looking for.”

  Then I’ll tell them my idea for a movie about this guy and a beautiful shampoo girl who meet on a plane that’s flying to Los Angeles. When they land, their families aren’t there to meet them, and so they take a cab to the guy’s father’s house, but when they get there, the father’s dead, and the five-year-old stepbrother is now fifty-five years old. So their plane had flown fifty years into the future!

  Brooke will play the part of the shampoo girl, and Drew Carey will play the dead father.

  That’s all I’m going to tell you, except that creatures from another dimension are trying to take over the world, and they’re disguised as cab drivers and schoolteachers.

  After they hear my story, Steven Spielberg will offer me a million dollars to write the script. He and Ron Howard will co-direct the movie, which will go on to gross $3 billion. My cut will be about $900 million, which will be enough for me to start my own production company and make movies from all my other great story ideas.

  And all of this will happen before my sixteenth birthday.

  Anyway, that’s my Master Plan.

  A CALL FROM FREDDIE

  I checked last night to see how many hits my French class prank video had gotten, and it was up to 1,690—and that’s after being online for only four days.

  My mom yelled from downstairs that Freddie was on the phone, so I went down to see what that was all about, thinking something must be up, because Freddie never calls to just chat. He’s not a chatting-on-the-phone type of guy.

  Out of curiosity, I asked my mom if Freddie asked for me by name. She wanted to know what I meant.

  “Did he say, ‘Is Larkin there?’” I asked.

  “Uh, I guess so,” she said. “No, wait. When I answered, he said, ‘Hi, Mrs. Pace. It’s Freddie.’ So I just assumed he wanted to speak to you.”

  I picked up the phone and said, “Hello, it’s Larkin.”

  “I know,” said Freddie. “Can you come over? We have a situation here.” He sounded all serious.

  “What kind of situation?” I asked.

  “Uh, it’s something I’m not supposed to tell you about until you get here.”

  “What are you talking about?” I was pretty annoyed. “Freddie, we’re about to have dinner in, like, two minutes.”

  “You can eat here,” he said.

  “What are you having?”

  “Hold on.” Then I heard him say, “Mom, what are you fixing for dinner?”

  There was a lot of whispering and stuff, and Mrs. Schnase got on the phone and said, “Larkin, something’s happened. We need your help. It’s about Ted. Can you come over right away? And please don’t tell anybody why you’re coming.”

  How could I tell anybody why I was coming, if even I didn’t know why I was coming?

  “Okay,” I said, “I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

  I told my mom I was going to Freddie’s to work on a project, and I wasn’t sure what time I’d be home.

  I put on my jacket, zipped my camera into the side pocket, took the bike without the flat tire, and pedaled through the dark, cold night to Freddie’s house.

  Mrs. Schnase sure sounded upset on the phone. Sometimes she gets all emotional and acts kind of crazy. Like the time she called Mr. Schnase when he was on a job in South America and told him to come home right away because she couldn’t figure out how their new remote control worked, and she didn’t want to miss the season finale of Dancing with the Stars.

  I thought about what Mrs. Schnase had said: “It’s about Ted.” Ted is Mr. Schnase, and something must have happened to him. Maybe he fell down the stairs or had a heart attack. But why were they calling me for help? Maybe they’d heard that I’d taken that class last year at the Red Cross and wanted me to do CPR on him.

  I hoped not.

  I’d feel weird giving mouth-to-mouth to Freddie’s dad. I don’t think I could give mouth-to-mouth to any man. Or to any woman that looked like a man. I guess I could probably give mouth-to-mouth to a pretty girl. She wouldn’t have to be too pretty, but she’d have to be at least as pretty as the plastic dummy we practiced on at the Red Cross.

  It’s all very mysterious, but then so is Mr. Schnase.

  I know he’s pretty old. Once on his birthday, I asked him how old he was, and he said he was closer to a hundred than he was to zero. So that means he has to be somewhere over fifty. I know he travels a lot for business. His job is to track down fake microchips. I know he always takes his golf clubs with him when he travels, so I guess there are a lot of fake microchips on golf courses.

  I also know that he was married before. Freddie told me that his ex-wife, Linda, took all his money and ran off to California with an aboveground pool guy.

  When I got to their house, Freddie was at the kitchen table working on a duct tape wallet. Mrs. Schnase had just taken a plate of nachos out of the microwave. She told me to have a seat.

  I looked around but didn’t see Mr. Schnase anywhere on the floor.

  “Have a nacho,” said Mrs. Schnase, sliding the plate to me. Her nachos aren’t the greatest. She squirts aerosol cheese on olives and corn chips and nukes it for twenty seconds. And the olives still have the pits in them.

  “Oh, Larkin,” she said, “the last five hours have been a nightmare, a living nightmare!”

  “Where’s Mr. Schnase?” I asked.

  “Freddie’s father is away on a business trip,” she said. “He’s in Asia, in one of those horrid little countries where nobody speaks proper English and they have flying cockroaches.”

  “Flying cockroaches?” I said.

  “Yes, and while he was at the airport, waiting to board the plane to come home, two men in uniforms pulled him out of line and arrested him! They said they caught him stealing—no, something like stealing. Freddie, honey, what did they say they arrested Daddy for?”

  “Smuggling antiquities,” said Freddie.

  “That’s right,” she continued, “smuggling antiquities. He took an ashtray from the hotel, is all he did! Those people are a bunch of crooks, and now they want us to pay a $25,000 fine, or they’ll haul him off to prison!”

  She pulled a tissue out of her sleeve and started to cry.

  I felt sorry for Mrs. Schnase and all, but I still couldn’t figure out why she’d called me for help.

  And then it hit me.

  She wants me to help pay the fine.

  “Gee, Mrs. Schnase,” I said, “I only have $285.75, and that’s money I’m saving to buy a camcorder.”

  “Oh, no, no, no, Larkin,” she said, “that’s not why I asked you to come here tonight. We have the $25,000. What we need is for you to help us get the money out of the hole in the basement.”

  Then she led me down
the creaky basement stairs where she explained what she meant.

  There’s a hole in the basement wall that leads to a crawl space under the master bedroom. Many years ago, Mr. Schnase had buried $30,000 in cash in a metal box in the crawl space. He did it because of something called Y2K, which is when everybody thought the world was going to end when computer clocks switched from the year 1999 to 2000.

  Because Freddie was afraid of spiders and small spaces, and especially spiders in small spaces, she wanted me to crawl through the hole in the wall and dig up the box of money.

  I thought about it for a little while and offered them a deal. I’d agree to dig up Mr. Schnase’s cash box if they’d let me film it when they opened the box, and, more importantly, if Freddie would set it up so that the two of us could spend a night at Jason’s place to film the ghost cat.

  Mrs. Schnase agreed to let me film the opening of the box, but only if I didn’t film their faces or say their names.

  Freddie agreed to the night in Jason’s apartment, but he wasn’t real happy about it, if you know what I mean.

  I crawled into the hole with a little shovel and started digging in the spot under the brick marker. Freddie held the flashlight for me. It turned out that I didn’t have to worry about running into any spiders in that tiny crawl space, because they had all frozen to death.

  It seemed like I had been digging for hours, when I finally heard the shovel strike something metal. It was the box. I dug around it and lifted it out of the ground. We managed to get the box through the hole in the wall, and Freddie carried it up the stairs and placed it on the kitchen table.

  Mrs. Schnase wiped it off with a damp rag, while I washed my hands and got my camera ready.

  “Okay,” I said, “don’t do anything until I give the word.”