Science Fair

by Dave Barry, Ridley Pearson

  “You mean Ecstasy,” said Toby.

  “Ohmigod,” said his mom, putting her hands over her mouth. “Ecstasy. Ohmigod.”

  “No, no, no!” said Toby. “I’m just saying that’s the name. I’m not saying I’m doing it.”

  “Then what was it doing in your locker?” said his dad.

  “It wasn’t…”

  “Who gave it to you?” said his mom.

  “Nobody!” said Toby.

  “Then how did you get it?” said his dad.

  “You hear about this happening,” said his mom, breaking down sobbing. “But you never think it’s going to happen to you.”

  “It’s okay, Fawn,” said his dad, putting his arms around her. “We’ll get him help. And we’ll get rid of those video games.”

  “Listen!” said Toby. “Will you just please LISTEN for a minute?”

  His parents, arms around each other, looked at him.

  “First,” said Toby, “there were no drugs in my locker, okay? No drugs.”

  “Then why did you just say there were?” said his mom.

  “I DIDN’T SAY THERE WERE!” said Toby.

  “Don’t you shout at your mother!” said his dad.

  Toby took a deep breath. “Okay, I’m sorry I shouted. I’m just trying to explain that they didn’t find any drugs in my locker. They found some green stuff. Some kind of chemical or something. They think I put it there, but I didn’t.”

  “Then who did?” said his dad.

  Toby considered telling his parents his suspicions about Mr. P, but he decided that, for the time being, he would rather not have his parents charging into the school and trying to help him but basically just being weird while accomplishing nothing or managing to make things worse.

  “I dunno,” he said. “But whoever it was left a note, supposedly written to me, that makes it look like the green stuff was part of a science-fair project that I’m supposedly buying. They’re making it look like I’m cheating.”

  “Are you?” said his dad.

  “No! Of course I’m not!” said Toby.

  “Then why are you suspended from school?” said his dad.

  “It’s just for three days,” said Toby. “While The Hornet investigates.”

  “The who?” said his dad.

  “Principal Plotz-Gornett,” said Toby. “I’m sure she’ll find out I’m innocent.” He also decided not to tell his parents about his plan to go back to the Science Nook for proof that the ME kids were cheating.

  “I think we need to speak to the principal,” said his mom.

  “No!” said Toby. “Please! I’m sure it’ll be fine. It’s just three days.”

  His parents looked at each other.

  “Go to the kitchen and set the table while we discuss this,” said his dad.

  They called him out a few minutes later. His dad said, “Your mother and I have decided that you’re going to be grounded during the suspension.”

  “Grounded?” said Toby. “Why?”

  “If you’re not at school, we want you here, studying,” said his dad.

  “What about after school?”

  “You’re still grounded,” said his mom.

  “But I didn’t do anything!” said Toby.

  “Watch your tone, young man,” said his mom.

  “And no video games,” said his dad.

  Toby argued some more, but it was no use. Once his parents had made a decision, they stuck to it, no matter how irrational it was. Toby was grounded.

  They ate dinner (tofu foo yong) in silence. Toby spent most of the meal trying to figure out how, if he was grounded, he was going to get to the Science Nook. When dinner was over, he trudged to his bedroom. When he turned on the light, he saw dirty footprints on the bedspread next to the window—a reminder that, in addition to being suspended and in danger of being expelled, he was being stalked by a lunatic with a large, hairy assistant. He went to bed but spent the next hour and a half squirming restlessly, unable to stop his brain from thinking about his problems. But his thinking did no good: he came up with no answers.

  The only consolation—and the last thought he had before he finally fell asleep—was this: at least it can’t get any worse.

  IT TOOK DRMTSI AND VRSK three days to travel from Krpshtskan to Washington, D.C.

  They prepared for the journey in traditional Krpshtskani fashion by stuffing their pants legs with smerk, a very strong cheese that could be used as either food or wolf repellent. For money, they had four bills issued by the Krpshtskani treasury, each in the amount of one million purds. The purd was the official currency unit of Krpshtskan; one million purds, at the current exchange rate, was equal to about six dollars. As a backup, they also had some gold coins in a leather pouch.

  With their preparations complete, Drmtsi and Vrsk set off by oxcart for Grdankl the Strong International Airport.

  This was a weedy dirt strip next to a small, rundown wooden terminal building. On the side of the terminal was a sign in Krpsht that translated roughly to:

  AIR KRPSHTSKAN

  “IT IS GOING UP, THEN IT IS COMING DOWN IN DIFFERENT PLACE”

  Parked next to the terminal was the Air Krpshtskan fleet, which consisted of a lone Russian-made World War II-era cargo plane. A goat was chewing on the tail. Drmtsi and Vrsk found the Air Krpshtskan pilot asleep in the cockpit, surrounded by the littered remains of several meals. Drmtsi shook the pilot awake and ordered him to fly them to the neighboring nation of Fazul, which had a larger airport. The pilot shooed the goat away and managed to get both of the engines started. He gestured for Vrsk to sit on the floor behind him. Drmtsi, fourth vice president of Krpshtskan, sat on a folding chair, which represented business class.

  The pilot taxied the plane to the end of the rutted runway and then, after offering a brief prayer, advanced both throttles to full. The engines belched black smoke, and the plane lurched forward, causing the business-class chair to collapse, and sending Drmtsi tumbling backward. The plane gained speed, rattling violently. Vrsk got on his knees to look out the plane’s windshield and saw they were rapidly approaching the end of the runway, beyond which was a wooden fence. The pilot, shouting another prayer, pulled back on the yoke. Slowly, the nose of the plane began to rise. They were taking off! The pilot turned, smiling hugely, and gave his passengers a thumbs-up gesture. At that moment there was a loud explosion, and something fell off the right-hand engine. The pilot struggled with the controls as the plane came back down, went off the end of the runway, and plowed through a fence, plunging into a field. It bounced along violently for a hundred yards, finally shuddering to a stop. With a shrieking sound of tearing metal, the right engine detached completely from the wing and fell to the ground with a whump. A goat wandered over to the plane and began chewing on the tail.

  The pilot turned to look at his passengers, who were now both on the floor, their faces white.

  “We are having slight mechanical delay,” he announced.

  With the Air Krpshtskan leg of their journey over, Drmtsi and Vrsk traveled the rest of the way to Fazul by oxcart. In Fazul they used some of their gold to purchase tickets on Air Fazul (motto: “Very Reliable. Sometimes.”) to the Republic of Zerkistan. From there they flew Air Zerkistan (motto: “At Least It Is Safer Than Air Fazul.”) to Paris. The flight lasted eight hours, during which they were given nothing to eat except one stick, apiece, of Air Zerkistan chewing gum. Drmtsi attempted to eat his, but it was so hard that he cracked a tooth. Vrsk put his stick in his pocket for later.

  In Paris, Drmtsi and Vrsk were required, for the first time, to produce passports. Solemnly, they handed their documents to the French immigration official. These were not actually passports: Krpshtskan did not produce passports. Before they left, Drmtsi and Vrsk had gone into the government files and grabbed two official-looking pieces of paper. Drmtsi’s was a 1937 wedding license. Vrsk’s was a 1993 bill, unpaid, from a plumber who had unclogged the presidential palace toilet.

  The French official
frowned at these documents, then said something in French. Neither Drmtsi nor Vrsk spoke French. Vrsk, who had learned some English from the Internet, said, “Can you say in English, please?”

  The French official sighed. “These passports,” he said, “do not have pictures.”

  Vrsk translated this to Drmtsi, who replied, in Krpshtskani, “Why does he need pictures? We are standing in front of him! He can see us! Tell him he is stupid moron idiot with brain of salamander.”

  Vrsk translated this as: “Our country is very poor. We have no camera for picture.”

  “What is the purpose of your trip?” said the French official.

  Vrsk translated this to Drmtsi, who replied, “Tell him we are on important secret mission that is none of his business.”

  Vrsk translated this as: “We are tourists.”

  The French official frowned at the documents some more, then said, “Your final destination is the United States?”

  Vrsk translated this to Drmtsi, who said, “Tell stupid moron idiot if he asks any more stupid questions I feed his tiny idiot brain to pigs.”

  Vrsk translated this as: “Yes.”

  The French official frowned at the documents some more, looked at the growing line behind Drmtsi and Vrsk, sighed, then waved them through for the Americans to deal with.

  Eleven hours later, Drmtsi and Vrsk, tired and hungry and smelling strongly of smerk, arrived at Dulles Airport outside of Washington. They shuffled along in a long line of people waiting to pass through immigration. When they reached the front, the immigration agent took one look at their documents and called for his supervisor. His supervisor, a woman named Wanda Lefkon, took them to a holding room for questioning.

  “So, Mr.…Vrsk is it?” she said, frowning at Vrsk’s plumbing bill.

  “Yes, Vrsk,” said Vrsk. “And this is Fourth Vice President Drmtsi. He is brother of Grdankl the Strong, president of Krpshtskan. He is very important man.”

  Lefkon looked at Drmtsi.

  “Halle Berry,” said Drmtsi, this being one of the very few things he could say in English.

  “Excuse me?” said Lefkon.

  “He is big fan,” Vrsk said. “She is from here, yes? Halle Berry?”

  “Yes,” said Lefkon. “Now…”

  “Catwoman,” said Drmtsi.

  “Right,” said Lefkon. She rubbed her temples. “And you came from Kpr…Krt…”

  “Krpshtskan,” said Vrsk.

  “Right, you came from there to here for what purpose?”

  “Touristism,” said Vrsk. “We are tourists.”

  “I see,” said Lefkon. “And are there any particular sights you’re planning to see?”

  Vrsk thought about this. “No,” he said.

  Lefkon rubbed her temples again. The small room was starting to fill with an unpleasant aroma. As she watched in horror, Drmtsi reached into his pants and pulled out a greenish blob that smelled like a full Dumpster on a hot day. He thrust this toward Lefkon.

  “Smerk?” he said.

  “Is tradition,” said Vrsk.

  “No, thank you,” said Lefkon. “Please wait here.”

  Lefkon spent the next several hours on the phone with officials at the State Department, the CIA, the FBI, and the Department of Homeland Security. Eventually it was determined that Drmtsi was, in fact, the fourth vice president of Krpshtskan, and that he and Vrsk would be admitted to the United States as diplomats. But it was also agreed that, because so little was known about Krpshtskan, and because the two men were so vague about the purpose of their visit, their activities would be closely monitored.

  It was late afternoon when Drmtsi and Vrsk left the airport. They went to the taxi line, waited their turn, and got into a cab. The driver got one whiff of his passengers and immediately rolled down all four windows.

  “We go to Hubble Middle School, please,” said Vrsk.

  “Where’s that?” said the driver.

  “Is near to Washington,” said Vrsk.

  “A lot of things are near Washington,” said the driver.

  “Yes,” said Vrsk, “but we only want to go to Hubble Middle School.”

  The driver sighed, then radioed his dispatcher, who looked up the school and told the driver the address. The driver wrote it down, then said to Vrsk: “That’s Maryland. You got money for the fare?”

  “Yes,” said Vrsk. He showed the driver one of the one-million-purd bills. It featured a picture of Grdankl the Strong wearing a traditional Krpshtskani fur headpiece. He looked like a man whose scalp was being attacked by a raccoon.

  “What kind of money is this?” said the taxi driver.

  “Is purds,” said Vrsk.

  “Purds?” said the driver.

  “Purds,” said Vrsk.

  “I don’t take purds,” said the driver.

  “What about gold?” said Vrsk, showing the driver a coin.

  “Gold is good,” said the driver.

  “Halle Berry,” said Drmtsi, to be part of the conversation.

  “She’s good, too,” said the driver. With that, he put the taxi into gear and eased away from the curb. Traffic was heavy; it was rush hour. Neither the taxi driver nor his two tired passengers paid any attention to the white government-issue Ford sedan that began moving when the taxi did and was now following about one hundred feet behind.

  DANIELLE PRESCOTT MARCHED PAST the secretary into the large, modern office of her husband, Tim, and took a seat without asking if she was interrupting. Which, in fact, she was: Tim was on a conference call with some men in Taiwan who were about to pay Tim’s company, PresTech Industries, fifty-three million dollars to build a surveillance satellite that could count the dimples on a golf ball from space. Although that probably wasn’t what they planned to do with it.

  “Excuse me for a moment, gentlemen,” Tim said into the phone. He pressed the MUTE button. “Dani, you can’t just…”

  “Where’s the thingie?” she said.

  “The thingie?”

  “The whaddyacallit,” Danielle explained. “The computer thingie. For Harmonee’s project.”

  Tim quickly rose from his desk, crossed the office, and closed the door.

  “Dani,” he said, “this is not something we should be discussing here.”

  “Yes, it is,” she said. “Harmonee needs the thingie tomorrow.”

  “Yes, and I will—”

  “So I thought I’d just pick it up now, since you might forget.” Danielle checked her diamond-encrusted watch. “I have a nail appointment in fifteen minutes.”

  “This is…a delicate situation,” said Tim. “It’s not exactly”—he lowered his voice—“legal.”

  “This is the science fair,” said Danielle, raising her voice. “Do you care about your daughter’s education at all?”

  “Of course I do.”

  “Well, I hope so.” Danielle checked her watch. “Thirteen minutes.” She drummed her flawless nails on her husband’s desk. Tim wondered why nails that perfect needed a manicure, but he was way too smart to ask.

  He looked at the phone, its light blinking to indicate that the fifty-three-million-dollar customers were waiting. He cleared his throat and said, “I’ll meet you at the loading dock in ten minutes. Have the trunk open.”

  Danielle smiled a flawless smile. “You’re such a good father, Timmy,” she said. “Have I told you that?”

  * * *

  Carl Niles lugged the heavy aluminum case into the spacious, spotless, and fabulously ultramodern Niles kitchen, where his wife, Jeanette, and son Jason were eating food from Burger King. Jason was watching his video iPod. Carl set the case down gently on the floor. He tapped Jason’s shoulder to indicate that he wanted to talk. Reluctantly, Jason removed one of his earbuds.

  “What?” he said.

  Carl pointed at the case. “Be very, very careful with this,” he said.

  “Yeah, whatever,” said Jason, starting to put the earbud back in.

  Carl gripped his son’s shoulder. “I’m seriou
s,” he said.

  “Ouch,” said Jason.

  “Carl, you’re hurting him!” said Jeanette.

  Carl let go, took a calming breath. “Okay,” he said. “But he needs to understand that this”—he gestured toward the case—“is an extremely sophisticated piece of technology. If anybody found out it was in civilian hands…”

  “I’m sure Jason will be very careful,” said Jeanette, scraping the breading off a chicken nugget. “Won’t you, dear?”

  “Sure,” said Jason.

  “And above all,” said Carl, “tell the…tell your guy to follow the power-supply specifications. This is very important, all right? If he exceeds them, this thing could…It would be very bad. You understand, Jason?”

  “Yeah,” said Jason.

  “Then tell me what I just said,” said Carl.

  “You said he shouldn’t exceed…something.”

  “The power-supply specifications!” said Carl, gripping Jason’s shoulder again. “This is very important.”

  “Ouch,” said Jason.

  “Carl, stop hurting him!” said Jeanette. “I’m sure it will be fine. Jason will tell the science coach what you said. Won’t you, Jason?”

  “Yeah,” said Jason, reinserting the earbud, his eyes on the iPod screen.

  Carl looked at his son for a moment, then at the metal case, then at his wife.

  “I need a drink,” he said.

  DRMTSI AND VRSK STARED OUT through the taxi windows at America, their mouths wide open like groupers. Everything they saw astonished them, starting with the sheer number of cars—more cars on just this street than there were in all of Krpshtskan. And these were new cars, cars that actually worked, driving at amazing speeds on smooth roads as wide as the Krpshtskani presidential palace.

  The taxi whizzed past forests of fantastic buildings, new and clean and spectacularly high, some of them looking as though they were made entirely of glass. And then there were fields of houses, big houses; Drmtsi and Vrsk assumed that houses this grand must be occupied by the rulers of America. But there were so many of them, and every one had a car out front. Sometimes two cars. Just sitting there. The houses were surrounded by grass, big swaths of it, green and lush. Drmtsi and Vrsk saw no livestock; they assumed that the cows and goats were kept inside the houses, let out to eat the grass at night. Much different than the Krpsht system.