My dad stepped into my bedroom doorway just as the entire load of dirty laundry flew across the room. I felt like I was watching it in slow motion, and as my clothes soared through the air, I realized two things. One: I didn’t take into account the wind resistance and how it would separate the clothes in midair. They spread out like a stinky shotgun blast. And two: I miscalculated my aim. My laundry’s flight path did not lead to the hamper beside the door. It led to the door itself.
My dad was pelted with dirty clothes. He held up his arms and tried to bat away an assault of dirty jeans and T-shirts. All in all, I think only one sock actually made it into the hamper. Its mate was draped across my father’s face.
My father scowled and peeled it from his head.
“I’m sorry, Dad,” I said, rushing forward. “My aim was way off. And my timing.”
My father sighed. “I have five labs running a wide assortment of experiments,” he replied. “And I have a few introverted employees less than thrilled with being inundated by a bunch of seventh graders. Right now, being contaminated with a teenager’s dirty sock is the least of my worries.” He dropped the sock into the nearby hamper. “That’s not why I’m upset with you.”
“What?” I asked. A knot grew in my stomach. He was really upset with me?
“Sit down, Tom,” my father said. This was never good.
I plopped down on the bed while my father pulled over my desk chair. He sat down and looked me in the eye. “I spoke with Steve Kavner earlier today.”
I glanced down and sighed. I should’ve seen this coming.
“Do you think the interview went well?” my dad asked.
“No,” I admitted. “I… I kind of blew him off.”
“Yeah, that’s the impression he got too,” my dad said. “Look, Tom, I thought we were going to make this work.”
My father and I had already had this conversation when he first asked me to give the interview. He knew why I didn’t want to do it and he made me do it anyway.
“You wanted to make this work,” I said. “I didn’t want to do it.”
“But you said you would, so I expect you to honor your word,” my dad replied.
“I answered some questions!” I said.
My dad raised an eyebrow. “You know what I mean.”
I rubbed the back of my neck. “Yeah, but at school? With everyone there?”
“I know how you feel about being called out because you’re my son,” he said. “And I appreciate how you don’t want any special treatment. I really do.”
I wanted to tell my dad that no, he didn’t know how it felt. His name was an asset. His name was part of the company’s name. He was the boss. He was supposed to be special.
Of course, I didn’t say any of that.
“This news article will be great publicity for the school,” my dad continued. “We could get more funding, more students, maybe even expand.”
“If it’s about the school, why does it have to be me?” I asked.
My dad shrugged. “That’s the angle Steve wanted to take. Besides, it’s good to get out of your comfort zone sometimes, don’t you think?”
I cocked my head at him. “Really?”
“Sure,” he replied. “That’s how we grow. Learn new things about ourselves.”
That seemed like a weak argument, especially coming from my dad. “I guess,” I said.
He put a hand on my shoulder. “Look, you do all kinds of things for your friends, right?”
“Sure,” I said.
“Well, Steve’s my friend.” His face softened. “And just between you and me, I get the feeling that he really needs this story.”
“He needs it?” I asked. I didn’t know what that meant. I needed to be left out of the article.
“I think so,” my dad said. “It’s hard being a freelancer, especially when supporting a family. I even offered him a job at Swift Enterprises. He was a brilliant researcher when we were in college.” My father leaned back in the chair. “He turned me down. But he did ask for press access to the academy.”
“Yeah, but why does he need me?” I asked.
“He said he wants a subject to follow,” my dad replied. “To see the school through someone’s eyes.”
I still didn’t like it, but I could see my dad’s point. He was just trying to help out a friend. I would certainly do the same for any of my friends.
“Come on, Tom,” my dad said. “It won’t take that long. Then your time in the spotlight will be over, and you can go back to being a regular student.”
I sighed. “All right.”
My dad stood and patted my shoulder. “Thanks. And remember, stepping out of your comfort zone is good once in a while.”
“I guess so,” I murmured.
I could think of better ways to step out of my comfort zone. Testing new inventions, not knowing if they would work or not. Except, I did that kind of stuff all the time anyway. I guess that was my comfort zone.
“I knew I could count on you,” my dad said as he walked toward the door. “Just answer his questions honestly and let him follow you around for a couple of days.”
I glanced up. “A couple of days?”
My dad stepped through the doorway. “He’s going to the lock-in tomorrow night too.”
I shook my head. Great. Not only would I have to deal with a reporter shadowing me at school, he’d also be looking over my shoulder during the lock-in. All… night… long?
I sat upright. “Wait, what?”
3 The Intrusion Collusion
WHEN I ARRIVED AT SCHOOL the next day, the front hallway looked like a collection site for a clothing drive, or the staging area for a hurricane evacuation. Gym bags, sleeping bags, and big plastic bins lined both sides of the hall. Most of the academy students were attending the lock-in that night and were dropping their stuff off in the front hall. As more students arrived, they excitedly added their gear to the piles.
I remember when I had been excited about the lock-in. I mean, who wouldn’t be? Get out of school early on Friday and then spend the night in a cutting-edge facility, with access to most of their high-tech equipment. Need an electron microscope to test a hypothesis or two? Swift Enterprises has you covered. Need to test a prototype’s aerodynamics in an actual wind tunnel? No problem there. Personally, I was going to use the company’s circuit printer to make a bunch of different circuit boards for my projects. Except now I’d have to do it with a reporter in tow.
I spotted a large bin with S. WATSON printed on the top. I assumed it was full of Sam’s prototype skates as well as spare parts and previous versions of her invention. I sighed, plopped my own gym bag next to her bin, and trudged to class. The thought of having a reporter looking over my shoulder all night had deflated my excitement.
My algebra classroom was half full by the time I arrived, and Amy and Sam were already in their seats. Sam leaned over and was pointing to something on Amy’s bulky sweater. Sam whipped her hand back when she noticed me, and Amy sat up straight. I raised my eyebrows questioningly at them.
“Uh, hey,” I said as I took my seat in front of Sam.
“Hi, Tom,” Amy greeted.
“Are you sore from yesterday?” asked Sam. A sly smile stretched across her face. They were never going to let me forget about my unfortunate landing on the track.
“Ha ha, I’m just fine,” I replied, though I did feel a dull twinge when I sat on the desk. I wasn’t about to tell them that.
“Well, if you want to redeem yourself, I want to try them out again in the gym during lunch,” Sam said. “I’d like to get the feel of a hard surface before running the Swift Enterprises track.”
“I’ll just watch,” I said observantly. No sense in falling down on a harder surface and have it happen in front of a news reporter.
“I’ll try again,” Noah said as he slid into his desk in front of Amy.
Amy glanced down at her sweater. “Not today, thank you,” she told Sam. Then the two girls exchanged a knowin
g smile. My brow furrowed as I glanced from Sam to Amy. There was some kind of inside joke there.
I was about to ask what was going on when Amy sat up in her seat and looked straight ahead. The three of us followed suit. We knew Amy well enough to read her body language by now. Her internal clock told her it was almost time for first period to begin. The bell rang, proving her accuracy once more.
I glanced around the classroom. There was no sign of Mr. Kavner. I didn’t dare hope that he had changed his mind. But I couldn’t help myself.
Our algebra teacher, Mr. Jenkins, rose from his desk, his long gray ponytail swishing behind him. “Because of tonight’s lock-in, I’m not assigning homework.”
A wave of approval rippled through the class. Evan Wittman even clapped.
Mr. Jenkins raised a finger, silencing everyone. “But… that just means we have more ground to cover today.”
Then moans washed through.
“Turn to page eighty-four of your text,” Mr. Jenkins continued, “and we’ll begin with…”
A loud tone sounded from the PA system. “Mr. Jenkins?” asked Ms. Lane from the front office.
One of the perks of the academy was all the upgraded tech that came built into the classrooms. This, of course, extended to our two-way PA system. “Yes?” Mr. Jenkins replied.
“Please send Tom Swift to the office,” she said.
The students gave a collective “oooooh” as Mr. Jenkins nodded in my direction.
As I got up from my desk, Amy’s stomach gave a loud growl. I mean loud enough to hear over the oohing students. Sam and Amy giggled at the sound.
That was weird. Amy was one of the shyest people I knew. Her face usually turned bright red with embarrassment when the tiniest of snorts escaped while laughing. I would’ve thought that if her stomach growled that loudly, her entire head would explode. Instead, she just laughed it off.
Maybe finally making the fencing team had given her some confidence after all. Or… there was something my friends weren’t telling me.
I caught Noah’s eye to see if he knew the inside joke. He merely shrugged.
As I made my way to the front office, I knew Mr. Kavner’s absence was too good to be true. That had to be why I was being called. Meeting him after school was one thing, but having a reporter follow me around school had to be by special permission. It was hard to believe our principal, Mr. Davenport, would like the idea.
A smile pulled at my lips. Maybe Mr. Davenport had vetoed the idea of having some strange man tail me all day. The disruption alone would be enough to turn him off the idea. My father may have set up the academy, but he never interfered with its curriculum or day-to-day operation. In the end, Mr. Davenport always had the final say. It felt as if a weight had been pulled off my chest. I would get out of the news story without being at fault.
I entered the front office and approached the reception desk. Ms. Lane didn’t look up from her computer screen. “Mr. Davenport’s office,” she said, jutting a thumb over her shoulder.
“Yes, ma’am,” I said, maybe a little too cheerfully.
I walked past her desk and turned into the principal’s office. Mr. Davenport and Mr. Kavner stood behind the big oak desk, their backs to me. Mr. Davenport was pointing to a plaque on the wall. “This was my commendation from the school board.”
I knocked on the open door. “Mr. Davenport?”
Both men turned and grinned. “Tom! Come in, come in,” said the principal.
I felt the weight begin to press on my chest again. Mr. Davenport was in way too good of a mood. He usually called me Mr. Swift. He hardly ever called any student by his or her first name.
“You wanted to see me, sir?” I asked.
“This is exciting news!” The principal beamed. “This article is going to be great for the school.”
There it was. The weight was all the way back now.
“Uh, yeah,” I said. I tried sounding enthusiastic, but my heart was plummeting to my feet.
Mr. Kavner held out both hands. “Now, I know you’re not exactly thrilled being the focus of this story.”
Mr. Davenport cocked his head. “Really? Don’t you want to be famous? You share a name with the school. Who better to represent it?”
I shrugged. “I guess so.”
“Look,” said Mr. Kavner. “I spoke with your dad last night and Mr. Davenport today, and I think we’ve come up with a pretty good compromise.”
“Really?” I asked. “What’s that?”
Mr. Kavner held up a finger and then motioned toward the corner of the office. “Ro? Come here, buddy.”
I hadn’t seen the younger boy standing in the corner of the office examining Mr. Davenport’s model of the Mercury rocket. He wore a black T-shirt, had scruffy blond hair, and looked to be about ten years old. He left the display case and joined his father.
“This is my son, Rowan,” said Mr. Kavner. He ruffled his son’s hair. “Rowan, this is the guy I told you about. Tom.”
Rowan gave a quick wave.
“Uh… hi,” I said, waving back.
“Instead of me following you around all day”—he glanced at Mr. Davenport—“we thought Rowan might be a little less distracting. Then he could report back to me.”
I wasn’t going to be followed around by a strange man anymore. I was going to be a babysitter instead. I forced a smile. “Great.”
This day was getting better and better.
4 The Adolescent Incident
“WAS THAT A REAL ROCKET?” Rowan asked as we walked back to my algebra class.
“What?” I asked.
“I mean, I know it wasn’t a real rocket,” said Rowan. “But was it the kind that can fly? Like a model rocket?”
“No, I think it was just a model-that-you-look-at rocket,” I said.
“My dad and I made a model Mercury rocket too,” he explained. “But it was the kind that could fly. It was a Mercury-Redstone.”
I was impressed. The kid already knew about the Mercury rockets, from NASA’s first manned mission to space.
“We get to launch model rockets here sometimes,” I told him.
“I thought so,” he said. “You can’t be a science school without model rockets.”
He continued chattering as we walked to Mr. Jenkins’s class.
“I got to see a real Mercury rocket one time,” Rowan said as we reached the door. “My dad had a meeting at NASA in Houston and we got to…”
“Uh, hey,” I interrupted, putting my hand on the classroom door. “We have to be quiet now. Class has already started.”
“Oh, okay,” Rowan whispered.
I opened the door slowly, hoping not to disturb Mr. Jenkins’s lecture. However, a low murmur flowed through the open doorway. We peeked inside to see the entire class crowded around Amy. Even Mr. Jenkins peered over the top of everyone’s heads.
I moved into the crowd to see what was wrong. Amy didn’t enjoy being the center of attention. Was she ill? Or hurt?
As I neared her, I saw that the attention wasn’t on Amy after all, but on a tiny gray Chihuahua. Its head poked out of her unzipped sweater as several students reached in to gently pet it.
Amy noticed my look of surprise. “His name is Otis,” she said. “I’m bringing him tonight for a custom fitting.”
Amy’s plan was to use the Swift industrial 3-D printers at the lock-in. She had spent the past couple of weeks visiting animal shelters around town. Her aim was to make prosthetic limbs and carts for dogs and cats that needed them, to help them get adopted.
Sure, we had a 3-D printer at school, but the Swift Enterprises printers could create objects in finer detail. They could also print things using materials other than plastic.
Sam gave the tiny dog a scratch behind the ears. “Otis can’t use his back legs,” she explained. “Amy’s going to make a little cart for him.”
I glanced at Noah. “Did you know about this?” I asked.
Noah shook his head. He could barely move with all
the students pushed in around him. “No one did,” he replied. “Little guy started barking right after you left.”
Amy gave a nervous smile. “I thought he’d stay quiet in my sweater and not be disruptive.”
That explained Amy’s growling “stomach” from before.
Noah glanced up at the crowd of people and grinned. “How’s that working out for you?”
“Okay, people,” Mr. Jenkins said. “Now that you’ve gotten that out of your systems, return to your desks, please.”
I slid into my desk as everyone went back to theirs.
“And it looks as if Miss Hsu isn’t the only one who brought a guest today,” Mr. Jenkins continued.
I glanced around the room and realized everyone was looking at me. I totally forgot about the kid.
I got to my feet. “Uh, this is Rowan.” I turned and gestured to the ten-year-old hovering by the classroom door. “He’s going to hang out with me today to… uh… learn about the school.”
Rowan looked up from his feet long enough to give a nervous wave. I knew how he felt.
“Welcome, Rowan,” said Mr. Jenkins. “You can have a seat in one of the chairs in the back.” Our teacher returned to the math problem projected onto the electronic board. “As you can see…”
SKREEEAAAAAAAPE!
A loud scraping sound came from the back of the classroom. Everyone turned to see Rowan pushing one of the chairs forward. He slowly pushed it down the aisle with a couple of the students having to scoot their desks to either side to make room.
SKREEEAAAAAAAPE!
Rowan finally got the chair next to mine. He sidestepped between it and Noah’s desk before plopping down. Mr. Jenkins and the rest of us continued to stare.
Rowan jutted a thumb at me. “I’m supposed to stay with Tom all day.”
Mr. Jenkins raised an eyebrow. “Okay… as I was saying…”
I didn’t hear the rest of the sentence as I sighed and rubbed my forehead. This was going to be a long half-day.
* * *
Rowan did surprisingly well sitting through algebra, for a ten-year-old. He didn’t fidget or fall asleep or anything. I can’t say that I would’ve been as good at that age. At least my next class, history, was more interesting for him. We happened to be covering the space race, and we were just getting into the Russian cosmonauts and American astronauts. I knew he was interested in that subject. And to top it all off, I had robotics class right after. What ten-year-old doesn’t like robots? I was hoping Rowan would be so excited about his time at the academy that his father would want to change the angle of the story, maybe write from his son’s point of view instead.
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