So now I had three things on my plate. In order of importance: Preventing “FINUL REVINGE,” saving Hammie Rex from starvation, and whipping up an impressive enough Science Night project before five o’clock to earn a passing grade. Yikes.
The bell rang, and Beefer left to go home. Just like that. No revenge. Not even an act of minor vandalism. Strange, but okay. Maybe he had a change of heart. Yeah, right. Anyway, I could check that one off the list for now.
Next I tried to sneak Hammie Rex a bag of Funchos Tangy Honey Habanero Flavor-Wedges. I never got the chance. Mr. Copeland met me at the door and shooed me away before I could get anywhere close to the PETCATRAZ Pro™.
“Sorry, Sam. I know detention was a barrel of laughs yesterday, but school’s out and you can’t be here right now. I’ll see you at Science Night.”
I left, but not before Hamstersaurus Rex caught a whiff of junk food. His pupils dilated. He foamed at the mouth and began to ricochet around his cage. I’d only made his hunger worse.
I was hungry myself—not hungry enough to rampage—but still pretty hungry. So I gobbled the Flavor-Wedges myself while I struggled to remember anything scientific I had learned in recent memory. Mutant hamster-dinosaurs came to mind.
Maybe I could whip up the gold standard of low-ambition science-fair projects: the old baking-soda-and-vinegar volcano. Except I didn’t have any baking soda or vinegar. Or a volcano.
Could I grow crystals in water? No borax.
Electromagnetic nail? No battery.
Potato battery? No potato.
The clock was ticking. What did I have? I looked inside my locker. There I saw a bunch of toy dinosaurs, a stack of moldy five-day-old PB and Js, and ten pounds of sand.
Wait. Moldy sandwiches? What about the mold guy, Alexander Fleming. Growing mold was science!
And so I set about creating the worst diorama of all time: the discovery of penicillin. At the center was a piece of white bread that had turned green and fuzzy. I wrote the word “Penicillin” underneath it. Beside that, the part of Alexander Fleming was played by a rubber triceratops. You couldn’t tell who he was supposed to be so I wrote the words “Alexander Fleming” underneath him. The scene still didn’t quite make sense, so I made a little cardboard top hat for the triceratops. I figured Alexander Fleming might have worn a top hat.
It was four forty-five by the time I finished writing the words “The Discovery of Penicillin” in glitter glue on the diorama. It looked pretty bad. I adjusted Alexander Fleming’s hat.
In the gymnasium, there was a raised stage with a microphone and enough folding chairs for the whole grade. Principal Truitt and a couple of our teachers were already there. Other kids were already setting up their projects, many of which made mine look even worse. Omar Powell had made an electromagnetic nail. Caroline Moody had made a potato battery. I overheard Dylan explaining her project to Julie Bailey.
“I invented these ultra-lightweight prototype golf discs,” said Dylan, holding one up. It was sleek and red, beautiful. “According to my tests, they fly up to forty percent farther than anything available on the market. I feel like my discs could revolutionize the sport.”
“It’s not really a sport,” said Julie.
“Yes it is!” I said before Dylan could. “By 2031, it will be more popular than devil sticks. Anyway, those discs look awesome, Dylan. Nice work.”
“Thanks, Sam,” said Dylan, before she remembered she was still mad at me. “I mean, whatever.”
“Also, I wanted to tell you I’m really sorry for being a jerk,” I said. “I shouldn’t have lied to you. I hope you can forgive me.”
Dylan stared at me and didn’t say anything. Maybe she was still mad? At least I’d finally said what I needed to say. I sighed and walked on.
I saw Martha Cherie arranging seven poster boards outlining “Optimal Tuna Consumption for a Healthy Diet” with loads of charts and graphs and diagrams.
“There’s room for you to set up your project on the table next to mine, Sam,” said Martha, absently twirling her Hamster Monitor lanyard with the cage key on it.
“You know what, I think I’ll just put mine over there.” I pointed to a spot between Wilbur Weber’s project—a jar full of snails simply titled “SNAILS!”—and Jared Kopernik’s, which seemed to be a three-foot ball of rubber bands with an ice-cream scoop sticking out of it (?). Yep, this was more the Discovery of Penicillin’s league. It was the new pennies-and-plastic-wrap solar system.
With what I had—I’d at least put in the time required to grow mold, even if it was unintentional—I figured I could maybe pull a C-minus. Maybe. Embarrassing but not humiliating. I was starting to feel kind of okay about the whole thing.
Until I saw Beefer, that is. He was dragging a dirty wire cage across the floor of the gym. The cage appeared to be full of heavy, gray rope. No, not rope. Rope doesn’t move. I caught the flash of a yellow eye.
He’d used Science Night as a pretext to bring his pet boa constrictor to school. Now I knew exactly what “FINUL REVINGE” he had in mind: Beefer Vanderkoff meant to feed Hamstersaurus Rex to his giant snake.
CHAPTER 18
MY HEART WAS pounding. I had to stop Beefer. I couldn’t let Hamstersaurus Rex end up as dinner for a boa constrictor. I didn’t know how, but I had to think of a way to—
“There he is!” cried Coach Weekes, startling me. “Little Mister or Miss Muscles himself!”
I turned. Weekes was standing next to my mom and a slick-looking woman in a shiny business suit. She was holding a metal briefcase and fiddling with her smartphone. Behind them stood a professional photographer in cargo shorts.
“Hi, Sam,” said my mom, waving. “What’s all this I’m hearing about your little muscles?”
“Nothing, Mom,” I said, trying to keep an eye on Beefer across the gym.
“Muscly and modest, too!” said Coach Weekes, slapping me on the back. “Sam here did the Sixty-Foot Sand Bag Drag in seven-point-seven seconds. Seven-point-seven! Can you believe it?”
“I can’t. My son didn’t mention dragging anything,” said my mom. “Finally, some good news from school. So Sam won something?”
“Not just something, Ms. Gibbs,” said Coach Weekes. “He won Little Mister or Miss Muscles, the preeminent junior fitness competition of the twentieth century.”
“But . . . it’s the twenty-first century,” said my mom, confused.
The slick-looking woman suddenly stopped messing with her phone and seemed to notice me. “Hi, Sam, extremely pumped to meet you. My name is Roberta Fast,” she said, shaking my hand a little too hard. “I’m a marketing rep, and I work with your mom at SmilesCorp. I’ll be the one presenting you with your award tonight.”
“Award?” I said.
“Your Little Mister or Miss Muscles Trophy,” said Coach Weekes, squinting at me. “The fine people of SmilesCorp ponied up the thirty-five dollars to have it made. You did remember that this was happening tonight, didn’t you, Sam?”
“Oh yeah, absolutely,” I lied. “Of course.”
“So, first I’m going to give your class an exclusive first look at a top secret new SmilesCorp product that I’m both psyched and jazzed to promote,” said Roberta. “After that, I’ll introduce you. You can make a few prepared remarks. Then I’ll hand over the trophy and Topher here can snap a few pictures for our social media accounts.” She pointed to the photographer.
“Maybe he could get a photo of my calf muscles, too,” said Coach Weekes, turning around and flexing them.
Roberta stared at him blankly. “Wait. Who are you, again?”
“I’m Coach Weekes,” said Coach Weekes, frowning.
“Hang on,” I said. “I think I missed something. Did you say prepared remarks?”
“Sure, just give a short acceptance speech,” said Roberta. “No more than three, maybe four minutes. Try to keep it light, funny. But heartfelt and touching too.”
“Three or four minutes . . . of me talking,” I said. Now my Hamsters
aurus anxiety was spiked with a good-sized dose of stage fright.
“You did prepare some remarks to remark,” said Coach Weekes, squinting again.
“Uh-huh,” I said.
“My son, delivering an acceptance speech!” said my mom as she gave me a big hug.
“That’s fantastic,” said Roberta. “Mother and son: a SmilesCorp family. Topher, get a shot of that. We can run it with a caption like ‘Mama Muscles.’”
Topher snapped a picture. Roberta checked her phone.
Principal Truitt approached us. She can be scary, but she has a healthy disdain for Beefer Vanderkoff. I respect that.
“Good evening, Ms. Gibbs, Ms. Fast,” said Principal Truitt. “Whenever you’re ready, we can begin the presentation.”
“Fantastic,” said Roberta Fast. “Showtime.”
Before I realized what was happening I’d been ushered onto the stage by Coach Weekes. My mom gave me a thumbs-up and took a seat beside Mr. Copeland and the other kids in the folding chairs.
“Everyone, I’d like you to all give a very warm welcome to Roberta Fast from SmilesCorp,” said Principal Truitt.
“Good evening!” said Roberta as she took the mic. “I’m totally psyched to be here at Horace Hotwater Middle School, the greatest middle school in the history of humanity!”
This got a big round of applause. I tried to keep Beefer in my sights while simultaneously thinking of a light, funny, heartfelt, touching, three-to-four-minute speech.
“I’d sure rather be at Horace Hotwater than at”—Roberta glanced down at her smartphone—“L. L. Dupree Middle School, down the road. Boooooo!”
The crowd booed along with her. Roberta Fast had read the room correctly. We Horace Hotwater students are supposed to despise L. L. Dupree, three miles away. They are our hated rivals for some reason that has never been fully explained.
“So, who here is a fan of the SmilesCorp family of food and beverage products?” asked Roberta.
The crowd gave a tepid response.
“I’ll ask that question a different way. Who here enjoys Funchos Flavor-Wedges? How about Choconobs? Or Cheez Wallets?”
The crowd exploded. Kids love junk food. Hamstersaurus Rex might have applauded, too, if he’d been around. And his arms weren’t so stumpy.
“All of those beloved snacks were created in SmilesCorp labs,” said Roberta. “Er, I mean test kitchens—obviously kitchens. Because it’s food!”
The crowd murmured at her slip up. Roberta continued as though nothing had happened. “And even though SmilesCorp is an international corporation operating in over a hundred and fifty countries worldwide, we are headquartered right here in Maple Bluffs, the greatest town in the history of humanity!”
The crowd went nuts again. She’d won them back.
“Now, I’m about to give you an exclusive first look at the newest, most radical snack food item that will have huge appeal among your demographic. No one outside SmilesCorp has ever seen what I’m about to show you, and we think you kids can create some advance buzz on social media. Are you pumped?”
Everyone cheered to indicate pumpedness. Not me, though. I felt a growing sense of panic. Out in the audience Beefer was shifting in his seat. He looked like he was ready to make his move.
“Without further ado,” said Roberta Fast, “I present to you: a prototype food so revolutionary that we at SmilesCorp believe it will change the way the world snacks forever!”
She nodded off to the side. From somewhere, dramatic music began to play. Roberta deliberately placed her metal briefcase on the podium. “Behold,” she said as she threw open the lid, “the invisible doughnut!”
The briefcase was empty. The crowd was silent.
“Let’s hear it for the invisible doughnut!” said Roberta.
“We can’t see anything,” said Tina Gomez.
“Exactly,” said Roberta. “That’s what makes this snack so incredible. It is completely invisible to the naked eye.” She reached into the briefcase and pinched her thumb and forefinger together, then she made the motion of lifting something.
At this, the crowd went “Ooooooh.” Topher snapped a photo.
“How does it work?” asked Jimmy Choi.
“Awesome question. Pumped you asked,” said Roberta. “Obviously we start with the finest-quality doughnuts. Then we give them a special coating of color-changing chromatophores derived from Bothus lunatus. That way, the doughnut can exactly match the pattern of its surroundings, effectively rendering it invisible.”
She turned the doughnut this way and that and gave a bright smile. This drew massive applause. Martha Cherie raised her hand.
“Yes, you there, little girl,” said Roberta to Martha. “Question?”
“Hi. Martha Cherie, honor student,” said Martha. “I might be mistaken, but isn’t Bothus lunatus the scientific name for a species of Atlantic flounder that camouflages itself to avoid predators?”
Roberta was taken aback. “Okay, I can’t confirm or deny that, but I promise you I will check on our end to see if what you’re saying is, uh, accurate. Anyway, the invisible doughnut’s special coating doesn’t just come from Bothus lunatus. I’m told it also uses some chromatophores from Sepia apama.”
Martha raised her hand again.
“Anybody else have a question?” said Roberta, looking around.
Nobody did.
“Yes, fine,” said Roberta. “You again.”
“Isn’t Sepia apama actually just the scientific name for the giant cuttlefish, which is pretty much like a squid?” said Martha. “Did SmilesCorp make the doughnut invisible by using genetically engineered fish and cephalopod DNA? Because, honestly, that seems kind of gross to me.”
“Fish doughnut,” said Wilbur Weber. “Blech!”
Someone laughed.
“It doesn’t affect the taste!” said Roberta Fast. And just like that, she’d lost them. Nobody was listening now. They were all making wisecracks and pretending to throw up. Mr. Copeland was struggling to calm them.
“Everyone, settle down!” commanded Principal Truitt.
“Okay,” said Roberta. “You know what, no further questions. We have, uh, let’s go ahead with—”
“Is the doughnut alive?” asked Martha.
“No further questions!” said Roberta.
Topher snapped a picture. Roberta shrieked.
“What happened?” asked Principal Truitt.
“I dropped it!” cried Roberta, scanning the ground. “I dropped the invisible doughnut. Nobody move!”
“Is it on the stage?” asked Coach Weekes, looking at the ground himself.
“I don’t know! It’s invisible!” said Roberta. “It could have rolled somewhere.”
“Nobody move,” said Principal Truitt.
“This is bad,” said Roberta. “This is really bad. That doughnut was a prototype. If I don’t get it back to the lab I’m going to be in trouble.”
“Should I call a manager?” asked my mom.
“Absolutely not!” said Roberta. “We have to find it!”
“Everyone stand up,” said Principal Truitt. “I need you to all look underneath your seats.”
And so everyone at Science Night spent ten minutes looking for a doughnut that can “exactly match the pattern of its surroundings.” Nobody found the thing. Honestly, I was starting to doubt that invisibility was such a good idea for a new snack.
Roberta stood on the stage, texting frantically. “This is bad. This is really bad. This is really, really bad,” she muttered to herself.
I couldn’t have agreed more. By now, Beefer had crept up behind Mr. Copeland, who was still searching for the invisible doughnut. He was going to try to steal the PETCATRAZ Pro™ cage key! I started to leave the stage.
“Hold on,” said Coach Weekes, stopping me. “Where are you going, Gibbs?”
“I feel sick,” I said.
“That’s just nerves,” said Coach Weekes. “If you hope to make a career as a professional bodybuilder, y
ou’re going to need confidence.”
“Okay . . . What if I don’t hope to do that?”
Coach Weekes laughed. “Good one! Now get out there, Gibbs, and seize the title you were born to hold: Little. Mister. Or. Miss. Muscles.”
He shoved me toward the mic.
Without looking up from her phone, Roberta mumbled, “SmilesCorp proudly presents the award to this kid.”
She tossed me the trophy—a heavy slab of marble shaped like the SmilesCorp smile. On the plaque they had misspelled my name: “Sar Gibbs.”
“Uh,” I said.
The microphone squealed. I blinked. Everyone in the audience stopped looking under their seats and stared at me. Behind Mr. Copeland, Beefer was now rummaging around in his bag for the key.
“I’ll keep it short,” I said. “Thanks!”
I held up the trophy then I turned to go. Behind me I saw Coach Weekes glaring. He tapped his watch. I stopped.
Out in the audience, something glinted between Beefer’s sausage-like fingers: he’d found the PETCATRAZ Pro™ key. I had to do something, anything!
“I may have won this award,” I said, turning back toward the audience and talking at double speed, “but I couldn’t have done it without the help and guidance of a very special mentor of mine. A hero, really, who inspired me every step of the way . . .”
“Gibbs, you’re too kind,” said Coach Weekes, stepping forward.
“Of course I’m speaking,” I said, “of Kiefer ‘Beefer’ Vanderkoff.”
The whole crowd turned to look at Beefer now. Startled, he palmed the key.
“What?” cried Coach Weekes.
“Wait. Doesn’t Beefer hate you?” asked Wilbur Weber, confused.
“You’re so dead, Sam,” said Beefer.
“Excuse me, Mr. Vanderkoff?” said Principal Truitt.
“It’s nothing. Beefer is just razzing me,” I said. “Right, old buddy?”
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