Ninjas, Piranhas, and Galileo

by Greg Leitich Smith

  I looked over at my dad, who was ready to go ballistic after spotting Jason Takeshita’s project, “The Mystical Powers of the Pyramid.” I nodded, then followed Tim.

  We ended up in the Atrium Garden, where Tim fetched pennies from the Fountain of the Grand Army of the Republic, until it was time to go.

  Honoria

  After I splashed my face off in the locker room, I serenely, majestically even, exited, and promptly bumped into Shohei who, as usual, wasn’t looking where he was going. My silver medal clanked to the tile floor.

  “Sorry,” Shohei said, stooping to pick it up. As he handed it back to me, Shohei gave it a glance, then said, “Congratulations,” but it was more like a question than a declaration of principle. Then, when I said nothing, he added, “You won the silver.”

  I almost laughed. Last Olympics, I had gone off extensively on how awful it was that the broadcasters had called the silver medalists “losers.”

  “Why,” I asked, “does everyone treat me like I wouldn’t deeply appreciate the honor of winning second place at the Peshtigo School science fair?”

  He gave a quirky grin, then observed more seriously, “You actually like the science fair.”

  “You think?” I asked.

  Shohei ignored that. He gestured toward the gym. “You like this whole pile of …” His voice trailed off. He held up my medal. “Goliath Reed likes this. He comes up with projects he knows he can win at. You do projects because you actually want to learn stuff. You’re, like, a scientist.”

  “Thanks,” I said, after a moment, “for trying to make me feel better. But Goliath Reed actually won at the science, too.” I showed Shohei my score sheet. The only thing I’d had any serious points taken off for was my fake plants, which supposedly did not constitute a sufficiently controlled environment.

  “Plants!” Shohei said. “Ugh.”

  At my raised eyebrow, he explained. About Tim and the ikebana and the results he’d faked by copying Christoph.

  “I’ll bet Eli was pretty —”

  “He did that clenched-jaw, teeth-grinding thing,” Shohei said, nodding.

  “That’s serious,” I agreed.

  “It’ll be okay,” Shohei replied. “Look, I have to go … I’ve got to find Tim.” Then he ran off.

  It was one of the longest one-on-one conversations I’d ever had with him, I realized. And then I started to wonder why.

  20

  Bad News

  Elias

  My science fair participation certificate came with an itemized score sheet. Scores were given for Appearance and Presentation, Methodology, Lucidity of Explanation, and, of course, Scientific Validity. I scored a zero on Methodology and a zero on Scientific Validity.

  Because I didn’t think it was fair, I went to speak to Mr. Eden, to get some explanation and maybe even score one or two extra points. It was worth a try.

  I’d never been in his office before. It had a window overlooking the Atrium Garden and portraits of Bach and Handel. It was kept way too warm and even more humid than the Atrium Garden itself, probably for Mr. Eden’s creepy collection of carnivorous plants. The place smelled vaguely like a swamp and the Christmas tree-shaped car air freshener hanging in the window.

  My glasses fogged instantly.

  “What do you want, Mr. Brandenburg?” Mr. Eden asked me, his image blurry. He was hunched over one of his plants. “No, don’t tell me. I suppose you’re here about your science fair assessment.”

  “You gave Shohei a B,” I said.

  He’d gotten low points for Appearance and Presentation, but high points for Scientific Validity. Ha.

  “Mr. O’Leary burned his eyebrows with a Bunsen burner last year,” Mr. Eden said, wiping his fingers on his handkerchief.

  “So?” I asked, my glasses finally clearing.

  “Mr. O’Leary’s effort was a good one, by the standard by which he ought to be judged. Yours was not.”

  I couldn’t believe that Mr. Eden was judging us on different standards for the same project. “Do you know how much I worked on that project?” I asked.

  “Irrelevant,” Mr. Eden said, now caressing a Venus flytrap. Its jaws snapped shut. “You copied the work of your brother Johann Christoph, and even with that advantage, you weren’t able to get it right. Mr. O’Leary did obtain the correct results.”

  “How do you know Christoph got it right?” I said.

  “Child,” Mr. Eden said, standing upright, and looking down at me. “You are the sixth member of your family I’ve taught. You have the potential to be more than the runt of the litter. And yet, your project was clearly a failure. It took less effort, showed far less imagination than anything even Johann Jakob ever presented.”

  “What?” I asked.

  “The football player,” he said, as if the phrase offended him.

  “I know who —”

  “Look!” Mr. Eden exclaimed, pointing out his window into the Atrium Garden. “Since Christoph’s experiment, we have treated the Garden to the most exquisite and transcendant music mankind has to offer. Johann Sebastian Bach. Antonio Scarlatti. George Frederic Handel. Antonio Vivaldi. Johann Pachelbel. Georg Philip Telemann. The flora have never been so lush or vibrant. Quod erat demonstrandum.”

  “But, that’s so completely wrong,” I said. Something else could be causing it. If it was even true. “How do you know the plants aren’t growing better because they changed the recipe for Miracle-Gro?”

  “Mr. Brandenburg. You. May. Leave,” Mr. Eden said.

  I stood, but asked, “Why did you approve the project in the first place?”

  Mr. Eden glared. “The science fair is not about original research. That is why Mr. Reed wins despite his rather banal conceptualizations. The science fair, indeed, science, is about method. About how you go about your experiments. Your project could have been an excellent, independent research project. Instead, it was a cheap and tawdry imitation of your brother’s.” He took a sip of coffee. “Go. Now.”

  I went.

  21

  Troubles

  Shohei

  So I was lying on my tatami bed in the dark, tossing a soccer ball at the ceiling. Elias wasn’t talking to me and I wasn’t ready to talk to him yet, anyway.

  Worse, almost, dinner with the Eichbaums and the bonsai class were just a few days away. I mean, I was supposed to be celebrating, or whatever, my Japanese heritage. But my parents had never let me decide what that meant.

  When they’d remodeled my room, I’d wanted to put up a couple of samurai swords. My mom had said “no” because they were “not going to glorify a sordid military tradition.” They’d vetoed my Godzilla film festival idea. Too violent, they’d said. Anime was out for the same reason, and, no, I have no idea why they let Tim do the ninja thing.

  The Chicago Auto Show? Cars are a major cause of global warming, they’d said.

  The Consumer Electronics Show? Video games are bad for the eyes, and besides, the show was too far away. Yeah, it was in Vegas, so I’ll give them that one.

  But since Japanese is my heritage, I figured I should at least get to choose what parts to get in touch with. It’s not like we’re living in Japan where you don’t have a choice other than to become one with it. Besides, I was learning the language. I mean, my parents don’t speak anything other than English! Dad’s totally Irish American, and Mom probably is, too, but also maybe part Lithuanian and Polish, depending on who her real grandfather is. They’re only a couple generations off the boat, but they’ve never had any interest in learning more about where they came from.

  I caught the soccer ball and sat up. My parents and I were going to have a little talk. But first, I needed to do some shopping.

  Elias

  The more I thought about it, the madder I got. I’d spent as much time on my project as Honoria or Goliath Reed. And my science was right. I didn’t expect a medal, but a C was ridiculous. Especially since Shohei had gotten a B. It wasn’t fair. I had to do something to get Mr. Eden to
listen. To show him he was wrong.

  And it had to be something spectacular.

  Still, I probably wouldn’t have thought of it if Number Two Son, Johann Ambrosius, Chess King and Spymaster, hadn’t taught me how to open a locked door with a piece of coat hanger.

  It’s quite simple:

  Cut about a six- or eight-inch piece of coat hanger (the wire kind) with any suitable wire-cutting tool. I prefer needle-nose pliers with a cutting edge.

  About an inch and a half from one end, use the pliers to bend the coat hanger to about ninety degrees.

  Make a matching bend at the other end but in the opposite direction. This allows you to easily manipulate the resulting implement.

  Insert your newly-created tool between the door and the frame, where the doorknob latch is.

  Push the doorknob latch in.

  Open the door.

  Note 1: Don’t try this at home.

  Note 2: The above method does not work with dead bolts.

  Note 3: The control room for the Atrium Garden does not have a dead bolt.

  22

  Ninja Acts

  Elias

  After soccer practice Friday, I hid in the locker room. I’d told my dad I was going over to Shohei’s. I figured I could take the El home, or maybe a cab.

  When I was sure everyone else had left, I sneaked out. I stayed close to the hall lockers, trying to hide in the shadows. I figured I could avoid the janitors, but I wasn’t taking any chances.

  At night, the Peshtigo School isn’t completely dark, since the glow of the city’s sodium-vapor lights shines through the Atrium skylight and classroom windows. But there’s this weird quiet — not a silence, since you can hear the traffic outside on Grand Avenue, Illinois Street, and Lake Shore Drive. And, of course, in the Atrium Garden itself, the sounds of the glorious baroque. It’s kind of neat and a little creepy.

  I climbed the stairs to the fourth floor. Outside the control room, I shined a penlight at the door and inserted my coat hanger fragment between the door and the frame. Seconds later, I was inside. It took only a minute to find the CD player Mr. Eden used for the plants. Out went Ode for St. Cecilia’s Day, and in went the CD I had bought at lunch.

  It was a song I’d liked when I was little but that Dad forbade in the house on first hearing.

  It was poetic.

  It was catchy.

  It was “Puff, The Magic Dragon.”

  Shohei

  I’d just finished putting on my fake tattoos when the doorbell rang. I waited a couple minutes for the knock on my bedroom door.

  “Shohei,” my dad said through the locked door, “the Eichbaums are here.”

  “Be there in a second, Dad,” I called.

  I touched up my face paint and waited for a couple more minutes. I did a final check. My hair was spiky and chemical neon green. I had shamrocks on my cheeks. I was wearing a Notre Dame Fightin’ Irish TOUCHDOWN JESUS T-shirt and green soccer shorts, and I was holding a big, green foam rubber WE’re #1 finger-glove thing.

  I was ready.

  I cracked open the door to make sure no one was in sight. My parents, Tim, and the Eichbaums would all be in the living room. My parents loved to show off the view of the lake.

  I sneaked down the hall. I paused a moment, listening for voices, to make sure everyone was there. It was the point of no return. I could get into mega-trouble. Probably would.

  I jumped into the room.

  “Top o’ the evening to you!” I shouted, waving the WE’re #1 glove.

  They sat there, stunned. Mr. and Mrs. Eichbaum were next to each other on the sofa, Megan and Mallory were sideby-side on the love seat. Dad was standing at the bar, and Mom was sitting in one of the armchairs.

  “Mom, Dad,” I said into the silence. “I think you have to get in touch with your Irish heritage. I want to be as supportive as possible. You need to buy lots of tam-o’-shanters, shamrocks, and potatoes. You should also remodel Tim’s room like a mud hut, or stone cottage, or whatever.”

  Still not a word from my parents. Mallory looked at me like I was a little kid, beneath her notice. Megan and the Eichbaums, though, were definitely trying not to laugh.

  Then I started to sing “It’s a Long Way to Tipperary” as loud as I could.

  That’s when I was tackled from behind.

  “Gotcha!” Tim yelled.

  I pitched forward, with him on top of me. My legs got tangled in his cape and he tried to snatch the glove. So I held him down and started to pummel him with it.

  “Mom!” he yelled. “Shohei’s hitting me!”

  Somehow, he managed to squirm free. He took off down the hall. I stood, pausing long enough to look at the Eichbaums. “Hi, I’m Shohei,” I said. “Slainte.” Then I raced after Tim.

  Honoria

  Eli and I were in the hall, just outside the leaded glass French doors leading to the wrought-iron entryway to the Atrium Garden. It was Monday morning before classes. There wasn’t anyone too close, but we were keeping our voices down.

  “You did what?” I asked Eli, not because I hadn’t heard him, but because I couldn’t believe I’d heard him correctly. He’d just told me he had sneaked into the Garden Friday night to change Mr. Eden’s CDs.

  I was horrified. Mr. Eden was a little harsh on Eli sometimes, but this was way out of line. “What if they find out? They’ll expel you.”

  “But it’ll prove to Mr. Eden that the new music won’t affect the plants,” Eli replied.

  I held my history book to my chest. “How?”

  “He’ll see that the plants don’t die, or get dry rot, or wilt, from the music,” Eli replied, a little smugly. “Okay,” I said, “but what do you think Mr. Eden played in the garden before he switched to chamber music?”

  Eli went a little pale. “I don’t know,” he said.

  I shook my head. “You better hope they don’t notice or, if they do, they don’t catch you.”

  “Oh, they’ll notice,” Eli said, with a grimace.

  “A word of legal advice,” I said. “Say nothing, admit nothing, deny nothing.”

  “Hmph,” he replied.

  23

  Meeting the Vice Principal

  Elias

  They came for me during seventh-period algebra.

  Ms. Chang was discussing the history of the Traveling Salesman Problem when Mr. Eden and Vice Principal Harrell opened the door. Mr. Harrell’s official title was Vice Principal of Student Affairs, which meant he was in charge of discipline, student conduct, and behavior modification. Mr. Harrell walked over to Ms. Chang and whispered something. They both looked at me. Then she said, “Mr. Brandenburg, you’re excused from class.”

  I decided to take Honoria’s advice. Say nothing, admit nothing, deny nothing. I stood, gathered my books, hoisted my backpack onto my shoulder and marched, eyes forward, up the aisle and out the door. I walked between Mr. Eden and Vice Principal Harrell, through the science wing, past the cafeteria, around the Atrium Garden.

  No one spoke.

  We arrived in Vice Principal Harrell’s corner office. It faces east and has a lake view. The first thing I noticed, other than the uncomfortable-looking Frank Lloyd Wright rip-off furniture, was the TV and VCR sitting on a cart.

  Vice Principal Harrell sat behind his desk, folding his hands. He wore little round wire glasses and a navy suit with a smiley-face tie. A cabinet along one wall held trophies. Behind him loomed a print of the Mile High skyscraper that never got built. Next to it was a poster that read, IT TAKES A VILLAGE TO RAISE A CHILD.

  “Johann,” Vice Principal Harrell said, “you may know that, here at the Peshtigo School, we try to resolve our problems as a community.”

  I said nothing. Clearly, something bad was about to happen.

  Vice Principal Harrell held up a videocassette and moved to insert it into the machine. “I would like to show you something.”

  On screen, a grainy, black-and-white image of me appeared, entering the control room and fiddling wi
th the CD player. The time stamp showed that it was 5:30 P.M., well after school hours.

  Incriminating evidence.

  This was very, very bad.

  “Nice,” I said. “Do you have cameras anywhere else I should know about?” I swear, I was momentarily possessed.

  “Now, Johann,” Vice Principal Harrell said, sitting back at his desk, hands folded once more, “your anger is not what we call productive.” He shuffled some papers. “We would like to help you become a more fulfilled and self-actualized member of the Peshtigo School family-”

  “Mr. Brandenburg,” Mr. Eden cut in, sitting on a desk corner, “we are referring this matter to the Student Court. You are to be charged with malicious hooliganism and vandalism.”

  “Vandalism?” I repeated. “What vandalism? Nothing happened to the plants!”

  Vandalism was, I don’t know, spray-painting gang graffiti on the school walls, or taking a sledgehammer to the audiovisual storage room, or any other good, old-fashioned, random, wanton destruction and violence.

  Vice Principal Harrell shook his head sadly. “I am afraid that Mr. Eden,” and he gestured at Mr. Eden, “has insisted that you stand trial for your actions.”

  Mr. Eden spoke again. “By changing the CDs, you removed the flora from the beneficial effects of the baroque music environment, thereby inhibiting their potential growth and, hence, causing them damage. The flora is school property. Damaging school property constitutes vandalism. Punishment for vandalism can range from detention to expulsion.” He smirked. “The trial will commence Monday.”

  I gripped the wood arms of my chair. There was no way that he could’ve seen any kind of damage to the plants. They were healthy before “Puff.” They were healthy after “Puff.”

  “Of course,” Vice Principal Harrell said quickly, “you are presumed innocent until found guilty by a jury of your peers.” He steepled his fingers. “That’s the beauty of the system. As I’m sure you’re aware, the Peshtigo School Student Court has been featured as a model in Newsweek magazine …”