A tall black clay mountain stood on their table in perfect condition. The kids in the room gasped. A cloud of anger rose like thick, ashy smoke. Wilmer sneered in glorious triumph. He pounded his fist on their table. Here was proof!
But the force of Wilmer’s hand made the desk tremble. Its legs teetered. Claudius stepped forward with his hands outstretched, but it was too late. The legs snapped, the desk fell over, and the mountain toppled to the ground, smashing into a worthless heap of pebbles.
“Whoops,” said Wilmer.
“Our volcano!” cried Vlad.
“It was going to spew lava all over the room!” groaned Claudius.
“It would have blown chunks of slime!” moaned Vlad.
“It would have exploded awesome ooziness!” wailed Claudius.
“It would have been gloriously yucky!” cried Vlad.
Wilmer was stunned. “B-b-but . . .”
The kids in the room glared at Wilmer. Snorts of rage blew from their nostrils. Spittle of wrath flew from their lips.
“Making groundless accusations is not science!” cried Lizzy, now awake and starting to stand up. She looked at her arm. “Eeeek! A leech!” She fainted again.
“Well, maybe I made a mistake,” admitted Wilmer. “But they’re still trying to control your brains!”
“It was Wilmer who did this!” declared Claudius. “He didn’t eat doughnuts last night. Where was he? Sabotaging the exhibits?”
“I was lost outside,” said Wilmer with a gulp, his voice catching in his throat.
But no one listened. A few kids pounded fists into palms, others picked up broken objects from the ground. Sometimes battles can be won. Other times it pays to know when to retreat. This was one of those times. Embarrassed, humiliated, and worried for his safety, Wilmer turned on his heels and sprinted out of the room.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
PADGETT!
Join everyone’s favorite biology expert, Valveeta Padgett, for another fun-filled hour of science and mah-jongg. On today’s very special episode of Padgett!, your favorite science celeb will explain the madcap world of frog legs, and how understanding these hopping amphibian limbs can improve your mah-jongg game by leaps and bounds.
Check your local cable listings for channel and time.
Mrs. Valveeta Padgett smiled. This day was turning out much better than she had ever imagined.
First, she reflected on the television script notes she had written that morning. They were good. In fact, this episode of Padgett! might just be her best ever. Comparing mah-jongg to the mating habits of snails might not be the most obvious subject for a hit television show, but in her brilliant hands it didn’t only work, it was magnificent. She’d probably win an Emmy. Maybe two.
But even more delightful than her extraordinary writing and those fascinating snails was the scene unfolding in front of her.
Earlier she had been aghast at the wreckage that filled the hall. The kids’ agony was heartbreaking. But then Mrs. Padgett thought some more. Maybe things weren’t that bad. It would be easier to judge a science fair if there were no fair to be held. She had enjoyed the free food, but she had dreaded the idea of mingling with children all day while looking at their exhibits. Now she could work on her television scripts, which was a much better use of her time.
But the best part was Wilmer Dooley. The fool! Making baseless accusations that spun around the room only to knock him back like a boomerang. Disgraced! Humiliated! She had noticed strange behavior from the kids earlier, so when Wilmer accused Claudius and Vlad of mischief, she hadn’t blinked an eye. Sabotage? Some sort of brainwashing plan? She expected such industriousness from Claudius. There was a kid who was going places!
But Wilmer was completely wrong, which was even better. Oh, the joy! Mrs. Padgett especially admired Claudius’s quick thinking, turning the tables on Wilmer by accusing him of this disaster. Sheer genius!
And Claudius was hardly a genius. Not normally, anyway.
Some snot-filled kid ran up to her, interrupting her reverie. He tugged his hair in distress. His eyes were red from crying. “What are we going to do, Mrs. Padgett? What happened?”
Mrs. Padgett bent down and spoke in a soft, soothing tone. “Well, it’s hard to say. I would hate to think that Wilmer Dooley was behind this disaster, wouldn’t you? Of course, I’ve heard rumors that Wilmer Dooley’s recent celebrity has gone straight to his head. Some people simply can’t handle fame. I can, of course, and I handle it quite nicely, thank you. I will be happy to give you an autograph later if you’d like, but now is not the time.
“Still, even if the boy is a menace—and I’m not saying he is, mind you, I’m just repeating what I’ve heard—I can’t imagine Wilmer Dooley would be capable of such depravity, can you?” She waved her hand grandly. “Now, I would never spread rumors like this one: ‘Wilmer Dooley is completely nuts and has single-handedly destroyed the fair.’ No, not I!”
The snot-stuffed child pulled at his hair some more and then ran off to blabber to a group of kids. Mrs. Padgett hoped he wasn’t spreading horrible, unfounded rumors about Wilmer ruining the science fair. And she hoped that group of kids wouldn’t then prattle to other groups of kids and that soon, like a giant game of telephone, everyone would turn against Wilmer even more than they had already.
Oh, Mrs. Padgett would hate for that to happen. She snickered and smiled broadly.
Maybe Mrs. Padgett should agree to judge science fairs more often. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d had such fun.
Wilmer sat on a half-eaten chair in the lobby. Shouts from the exhibit hall buzzed through the air like angry wasps.
Wilmer stomped his foot in frustration, and felt something rub against his toes. He removed his shoe, surprised to find a small folded piece of paper wedged inside. It was a handwritten note.
Dear Wilmer,
I know you’ll have a lot of fun this weekend. We are so excited that you were nominated for this prestigious science fair.
As you know, being a good person is just as important as being a good scientist. And you’re both! We are so proud. Just remember, if you ever stumble in life or in science: observe! Observation can solve any puzzle.
Never jump to conclusions unless you have observed first — fairly, objectively, and carefully. That’s the first and most important rule of science, and of life.
But you know that already.
Love,
Dad
A lump grew in Wilmer’s throat, too big to swallow. His dad was right, of course. Observation could solve any problem. But then why was Wilmer in such trouble? He had observed, hadn’t he? He had used scientific reasoning to conclude that Vlad and Claudius were guilty beyond all doubt.
If the sun set in the west one day, it would set in the west for the next million years! If Claudius was guilty of evilness once, he was guilty of all evil forever. Those were facts culled from observations.
Maybe. Probably. No, not really. Those weren’t facts. They were predictions. Besides, the sun doesn’t move at all. The earth does. So really, the sun doesn’t set, since it’s just up there minding its own business. More accurately, one could say the Earth spins counterclockwise, creating the appearance of a setting and rising sun, and would remain spinning should gravitational forces remain constant.
What proof did Wilmer have that Claudius and his cousin were the masterminds behind this entire plan, whatever it was? Some initials and a hunch. That was all.
But that was enough, wasn’t it? Wilmer slapped his hand on his knee. Of course it was enough!
“Are you okay?” Harriet stood over Wilmer. “You slapped your knee. It looked painful.”
“Oh. Hi,” said Wilmer. “My knee is okay, thanks. Have you come to laugh at me and make me feel worse than I already do? You might as well.”
Harriet sat next to Wilmer. She took his hand in hers and rubbed it gently. “Wilmy. Darling. I’m sorry. I don’t know why I’ve been so mad. Science is all about trial and
error, right? Just because you’ve made a few errors doesn’t mean I should turn my back on you. Did Edison give up after ten thousand attempts at building the lightbulb? Of course not. And on the ten thousand and first attempt, he nailed it. Or maybe the ten thousand and forty-seventh. Really, I’m not sure exactly. But you’re onto something. Someone is trying to control our minds. Someone did destroy the exhibit hall. But are you sure it’s Claudius and Vlad?”
“Of course I’m sure,” insisted Wilmer. “I saw Vlad go down that hall the other night. That’s how I found the radio control room. What else would Vlad be doing?”
Harriet shrugged. “I don’t know. The boys’ bathroom is over there too.”
“But I found journals describing the plan with Claudius’s initials. CD! Explain that!”
The loudspeaker erupted with its signature squeak. Wilmer stiffened. His brain flipped. He and Harriet shoved in their earplugs.
“Attention, dear, dear students,” spoke the eerie voice. “Always wear seat belts, and whole wheat bread has more fiber.”
The message ended as suddenly as it begun. Wilmer and Harriet popped out their earplugs and exchanged confused glances. “What does all that mean?” asked Wilmer.
“Well, it means you should eat wheat bread and not white bread if you need to add fiber to your diet,” said Harriet. “And statistically speaking, seat belts reduce deaths and injuries by about fifty percent.”
“No,” said Wilmer. “I mean, why does Claudius, or Vlad, or . . . someone else, maybe . . . keep telling us these things? My dad always says ‘observe.’ And my observation tells me there’s more to that cheerful advice than meets the eye. Or rather, than meets the ear.”
“Oh! There you are!” Roxie, walking briskly across the lobby from the exhibit hall, waved to Wilmer and Harriet. “Ernie and I were worried about you, Wilmer. A lot of kids are mad. Ernie was setting them straight, though. He told them you would never destroy an exhibit hall, and that you guys were together all night.”
“Really? Ernie’s speaking up for me?” Wilmer’s heart lifted a little.
“Well, he was,” said Roxie. “But then he started acting all funny and saying ‘Must mash potatoes.’ Lizzy and Tizzy are snarling like wolves. Those guys with the matching Stephen Hawking baseball caps are just staring at the floor and drooling.”
“It’s the loudspeaker announcements,” said Wilmer. “They’re warping everyone’s brains.”
Roxie snapped her fingers. “I thought something was going on! That garbled loudspeaker voice! I figured it either meant someone was planning a horrible scheme or the loudspeakers were broken. I keep putting on my headphones to block out the noise. I get so mad when I think about it!”
Wilmer nodded. “That’s the loudspeakers’ fault. They’re making everyone angry.”
“Maybe I can help?”
Nothing would make Wilmer happier than working with Roxie. They would crack this conundrum together. Just like Romeo and Juliet! Cleopatra and Caesar! Except with science and brainwashing thrown in.
But Wilmer hadn’t the nerve to tell any of that to Roxie. He looked sheepishly at his shoes. “Um, yes. Sure,” he sputtered. “Science and journalism are both about observation. We would make a great team.”
“We?” Suddenly, Harriet scowled. She hissed. She gnashed her teeth. She clenched her fist.
“Harriet?” gasped Wilmer. Had her brain fallen back under the loudspeaker’s spell?
Harriet let out a deep breath. “Sorry. Not sure what happened there. I suppose you’re both right. Roxie would be a great help. Three heads are better than two.” She glared at Roxie again. “But Wilmy is mine, got it?” She grabbed Wilmer’s hand and yanked him out of his chair. “Let’s go to the radio control room, honey.”
“Honey?” Wilmer gulped. Harriet snarled, and Wilmer decided it was better not to argue. “Sure, honey,” he said meekly.
They hurried down the hallway.
“The room is this way,” Wilmer told Roxie. “That’s where Claudius and Vlad have been doing their dirty work.”
“Claudius and Vlad?” asked Roxie in surprise. “When I asked Mr. Sneed if I could put on my Mumpley Musings radio show over the loudspeakers, he said no one was allowed near the audio controls except him.”
“But I found Claudius’s initials in the room!” insisted Wilmer. “CD!”
“Maybe that’s for Clarence Dillard, as in Clarence Dillard Sneed,” suggested Roxie.
Wilmer hit his palm on his forehead. “Argh!” he yelled. “Of course!”
“Are you okay?” asked Harriet. “That was some powerful forehead slapping. And you slapped your leg earlier. Are the loudspeakers making you do that?”
Wilmer shook his head. “No, that’s just me being upset.” To Roxie he said, “Did Mr. Sneed say anything else? Every detail is important. That’s why observation is so crucial to scientific discovery.”
Roxie tapped her finger to her chin, thinking. “He said something about the radio tower. Let me see. He said that after a final announcement from the tower, we would have soup. Yes, that’s it. Something about seventh-grade soup. He cackled when he said it, which struck me as odd, but then I figured he just really liked soup and it was going to be the lunch special.”
Wilmer gulped. Seventh-grader-brain soup.
They rushed farther down the hall, narrowly avoiding Lizzy, who was trying to eat a tape dispenser.
“Hurry!” yelled Wilmer. He pointed to the closed, unmarked door. He reached it, grabbed the doorknob, and twisted as hard as he could.
It didn’t move. The door was locked.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
The world has been filled with would-be villains. Genghis Khan! Attila the Hun! They had cunning and power and evil! But none of them had a brain-controlling loudspeaker soup-brain machine, like me. So I’m better than they are. Nyah-nyah-nyah!
No one suspects us, either.
But soon everyone will fear the name of—
Observation.
That’s what scientists do when solving a puzzle, and unlocking a locked door was just a scientific puzzle. All Wilmer needed was observation.
And a key. That would be helpful.
But there wasn’t even a keyhole. Wilmer stared at the smooth round knob. How could he get in? He slammed his fist against the door in anger.
Think! Wilmer needed to use his slightly clouded brain. What had he observed earlier when he was in the radio control room?
Well, nothing. He had thrown himself into a closet with Ernie.
But observation wasn’t just about seeing things. It was about using all your senses. For instance, he had observed that Ernie needed to brush his teeth. Being in that cramped closet with Ernie’s stale breath had been very unpleasant.
What else? Whistling. Wilmer had heard it coming from Vlad. No, not Vlad, but Mr. Sneed. Maybe the sound of whistling triggered some sort of automatic locking device?
Wilmer had read that a specific combination of musical sounds could open certain locks. He remembered that Mr. Sneed had whistled like a ruby-throated hummingbird. Wilmer whistled, although it was mostly air and gurgling. He wasn’t much of a whistler.
“Thrwat, thrfft . . .”
“I enjoy a little music,” said Roxie. “But maybe we should be breaking into the room and not breaking into song?”
Wilmer continued whistling, or rather trying to:
“. . . Splsshhh whooot fllpptt . . .”
Nothing happened.
“No offense, but you’re a horrible whistler,” said Harriet. “Let me show you. It’s all about cheek vibrations. You direct your airflow around your tongue, like so . . .”
She whistled. It sounded just like a common house sparrow, flitting about. Scientific name: Passer domesticus.
“And by a simple repositioning of the tongue tip, you can change the pitch, like so . . .” Harriet whistled again; this time it sounded like an eastern bluebird. Scientific name: Sialia sialis.
“Can you whistl
e like a ruby-throated hummingbird?” pleaded Wilmer.
“That’s an odd request,” said Harriet. “But for you, Wilmy dear, anything, even if it means whistling like an Archilochus colubris.”
Harriet whistled, and the soft purr of birdlike chirps melodically floated through the hall.
The door clicked and popped open.
“See?” said Harriet. “Whistling is easy, but when you position your tongue too closely to the front teeth, it prohibits the airflow that you need to—”
“Can we just go inside?” asked Roxie.
They stepped into the control room. The pile of papers on the center table looked fuller and messier than before, with many carelessly knocked on the floor. “Harriet and I will tackle the papers,” said Wilmer. “Roxie, you try to figure out the control panel. You’re the radio expert.”
“But I’m the sound expert,” protested Harriet with a haughty nose lift. “That’s much more impressive, scientifically speaking.” She thrust her finger toward Roxie. “And don’t you forget it.”
Wilmer sighed, but he and Harriet began searching through the scattered pages while Roxie examined the console.
“I can’t make heads or tails of these,” admitted Wilmer, looking through the charts and mathematical formulas that littered the tabletop.
“The graphs show sound waves,” explained Harriet. “They represent various wavelengths and frequencies. And there are tiny notations on the side. See?” She held a page and squinted to read it. “This one says, ‘Pitch sixteen turns brains into spaghetti.’ ”
“If they created a sound that turns brains into pasta, I guess they really used their noodle,” said Wilmer with a laugh.
“Not now, Wilmy,” said Harriet.
Wilmer held up other pages with graphs and notes. One said, Pitch 428: turns brains into milk shakes. Another said, Pitch 142: turns brains into baklava.
“All this looking is making me hungry,” said Wilmer. “But we need to find the particular pitch that controls brains. It has to be here somewhere.”
The Amazing Wilmer Dooley Page 10