by Paul Tobin
“Yes,” he said. “I did.” The bookstore manager was grinning at us. I’ve noticed that whenever Nate has his gold elephant card in view, certain people turn all mushy-brained. We could’ve been talking about blowing up the moon and the manager would’ve happily nodded and tried to sell Nate an umbrella for when all the moon-chunks started falling from the sky.
“But that’s insane!” I told Nate. “Think of the chaos! Anything could happen! This could go horribly wrong!”
“I know,” he said, beaming with pride. “I’ve really outdone myself this time!”
“This thing about the science vials,” I said. “Tell me what you’ve done, and you’d better tell the truth.” Nate and I were standing outside the bookstore and he was twitching, probably because of the way my Nate-punching fist was in Nate-punching position, right next to his shoulder.
“Oh, I’ll definitely tell the truth,” he said. “No choice, there.” Usually he sounds confident and talks very quickly, but this time it was as if the words were being pulled from him, like a boot from mud.
I asked, “Nate, how many of your science vials did you hide around Polt?”
“Fifteen.”
“Fifteen,” I said, thinking of how that was more than enough to destroy the world sixteen times over. “Which ones?”
“Oh, there were ‘Toad Finder’ pills. And ‘Lightning Breath’ pills. And a ‘Crayon Summoning’ potion, and ‘Handsome Day’ pills. And ‘Speed Runner’ pills. And ‘Chameleon’ pills. And a ‘Make Any Animal a Zebra’ potion. And a ‘Speed Reading’ potion. And—”
“Piffle!” I said. Every time he named one of his inventions it hurt my head to think of all the trouble they could cause. The only one that sounded harmless was “Toad Finder.” Well, “Crayon Summoning” didn’t sound too horrible, either. What could go wrong with that? I like crayons.
I said, “Nate, we need to find these magic pills and potions of yours.”
“That would probably be for the best,” he said. “But I have to tell you the truth. They’re not magic. They’re scientifically blended chemicals stabilized with micro-emulsions and mixed together at precise temperatures in a centrifuge.”
“Fascinating,” I said. “But what do you mean you have to tell me the truth?” Had we finally reached the stage of trust where Nate would tell me everything?
Nate said, “Remember how I said I invented an infallible truth-telling serum?”
“Yes. Although, honestly, that doesn’t sound very dumb. You’ve invented far more questionable things in the past.”
“Well . . . I drank it.”
“Okay, what?” I hissed. “Nate, honestly, that does sound very dumb.” Nate, with all he has in his head, is not a person who should be telling the truth.
He said, “It seemed reckless, and like something I would terribly regret, so obviously it was something I needed to do.”
“We have different theories on the word ‘obviously,’ ” I said, but . . . then, “Wait a minute. You have to tell me the truth? About anything? No matter what I ask you?”
“That’s true. Although, now I’m nervous about that look in your eyes, so I almost wish I wouldn’t have told you. But, you asked, so I had to answer as truthfully as I—”
“OH, THE POWER THAT I HOLD!” I yelled, startling everyone within hearing, meaning the entire block in this case, including people, birds, dogs, insects, cats, and in fact the only person or creature of any type that I didn’t frighten was . . . Nate.
“I expected you to yell that loud,” he said. “There was almost a hundred percent chance.”
“Of course I yelled loud,” I said. “You’re the smartest person in existence, maybe the smartest person who’s ever existed, and now you have to tell me the truth about everything. I can ask you the most important questions of all time, and you have to answer honestly.”
“That’s true,” he said. “But I should point out that—”
“Which do you like more? Cake or pie?”
“Neither,” Nate said. “And, that’s the most important question you can think of? Never mind. I should have calculated that. Anyway, I have to point out that—”
“How can you like pie and cake equally? That’s mathematically impossible.”
“No it’s not. Fifty percent of my preference goes to pie, and fifty percent goes to cake. There are variables involved, such as how I prefer apple pie over Bundt cake by a margin of eighty-two percent, and I like chocolate cake more than peach pie by a factor of three, but when the entirety of all known pies is matched against the vast wealth of cakes, I find that I’m exactly even.”
“But that’s not fair,” I said.
“Math doesn’t have to be fair.”
“It never has been,” I agreed, thinking of certain math tests that I’d not particularly enjoyed.
“Anyway, Delphine, there’s something I should tell you before you continue yelling at me.”
“It’s true that I’m not done yelling at you,” I admitted. “How could you do something so idiotic as to put your science vials all over—”
“Oh. My phone’s ringing,” he said.
“Nate,” I all but growled as he started to answer his phone. “I’m talking to you. This is important.”
“This is, too,” he said, holding up his phone. “Not answering your phone is like pretending you’re not available, and that would be dishonest.” He moved the phone to his ear and said, “Hello?”
There was nothing I could do but wait. Well, I could also be irritated. And I could poke him in his arm several times while saying “piffle,” rolling my eyes at him as he listened to whoever was on the phone.
“Who are you talking with?” I finally asked. Nate hadn’t been saying anything except a few statements of “yes” and “no” and “I’m with Delphine.”
“Maculte,” Nate answered. “The leader of the Red Death Tea Society.”
My skin went cold. My face flushed. I could feel my stomach tighten and my fingers begin to twitch.
“Wh-what?” I said. “You’re not serious!” He had to be joking.
“I’m telling the truth,” he said. “Have to.” Then, into his phone, he said, “The first pills I hid were taped below Mrs. Isaacson’s desk in her classroom at Polt Middle School.”
“Why are you telling him that?”
“I have to,” Nate said. “It’s the truth.” Then, into the phone, he said, “It’s a small silver packet containing ‘Speed Runner’ pills. ” Nate listened for a bit, wincing, because I was hitting him in the shoulder at half strength while glaring at him with full power. After a moment, he told Maculte, “Okay. I understand. But Delphine and I are going to try to beat you there and get the pills first, and, to tell you the truth, I hope you lose.” He disconnected the call and slid his phone into his front shirt pocket. Most people don’t like to carry their phones there, because they slip out when you lean over. But, most don’t have a pocket made of intelligent fabric that will grab the phone if it starts to fall out, squeezing shut like a hand. So, Nate was well ahead of the game in that area, but then again most people don’t tell their archenemies where to find dangerous technologies. So Nate was both the smartest boy on the whole planet and also, without a doubt, completely and utterly brainless.
“Why did you do that?” I said. “Nate, you just told the world’s most maniacal criminal where you hid one of your inventions.”
“That’s what I was trying to tell you before,” he said. “It’s not just you that I’ll be forced to tell the truth to, it’s everyone.”
“Piffle, Nate. Completely piffle.” I couldn’t even express how mad I was. I felt like there was steam coming out of my ears.
“This is the stupidest thing you’ve ever done!” I said.
“Yes. It is,” Nate answered, telling the truth.
Before we even made it to the car, we saw Kip Luppert, one of our classmates. Kip was carrying four gallons of red paint to his parents’ car, struggling with the weight, because
Kip is about as muscular as Nate, which is not a compliment.
“How are you today?” Kip asked, sweating with his efforts.
“Not good,” Nate answered. “I’ve done a really dumb thing, and also I think I drank too much cinnamon-radish lemonade, which is a drink I’m experimenting with, and in addition to that I bumped my head on a particle accelerator that I constructed out of soup cans and the remains of a robot I built in third grade.”
“Huh?” Kip said.
“Nate’s just kidding,” I said, grabbing Nate by his arm and dragging his truth-telling butt away from our classmate.
“No I’m not!” Nate yelled back to Kip.
“Any money you can spare?” a panhandler asked us. He was no more than twenty years old, wearing hipster glasses and boots that were obviously so expensive that he had no need to be asking strangers for money. He had short hair, a girl’s name (Celia) tattooed on his neck, and a mustache that twirled into complete circles at the tips.
“I do have rather a lot of money I don’t need,” Nate told him, reaching into his pockets and taking out what seemed to be hundreds of dollars, giving it all to the panhandler, who gasped in surprise as I quickly moved on, tugging the world’s most honest boy along with me.
We’d only taken about five steps when Melville, my pet bee, came in for a landing on my shoulder.
“Bzzz?” she asked.
“We’re going to the school,” I answered, glaring at Nate. “Nate did something . . . not so very smart.”
“Bzzz,” Melville said.
“So true,” I told her. “It’s not like the first time ever.”
Together, my bee and I frowned at Nate.
Bosper was at our car, staring at the door, wanting inside.
“Bosper is here by the car but not being inside,” he said. “Why does the girl smell like bad adventure?”
“I smell like bad adventure? What do you mean?”
“The dog has a nose that says things,” Bosper said.
“Okay,” I said. He’d explained . . . nothing. No wonder he’s Nate’s dog.
“Girl smells like yelling?” Bosper said, trying again.
“That would make sense,” I said. “I’ve been doing some yelling. I probably reek of it.”
Nate said, “Bosper’s nose is talented enough that he can smell moods and feelings, like that day when I put on my mechanical dog’s nose.” The first time I’d ever met Nate he’d strapped on an invention of his, a technological wonder of a nose, and he was able to actually smell that he and I were going to be friends. I wondered if I smelled very friendly just then. I probably did. Just because your friends do idiotic things doesn’t mean they’re not your friends. They’re just your idiotic friends now.
I said, “I thought Bosper could only smell peanut butter.” I knew he could smell a lot more than peanut butter, but I was making a joke about the impressively single-minded focus that Bosper sometimes has about peanut butter.
“Peanut butter,” Bosper said in a voice as if he’d just fallen in love, which was farcical, because he had long since fallen in love with peanut butter.
“Oh,” Nate said, suddenly acting very uneasy. And he was trying to avoid eye contact with Bosper.
“Something wrong with peanut butter?” I asked. I was speaking to Nate, but Bosper is the one who answered, because terriers always barge into conversations about peanut butter. It’s genetics.
“Peanut butter is bad for dogs,” Bosper said. His voice was full of sorrow and woe, and many other words that mean much the same thing.
“It is?” I said. I hadn’t thought it was. I’ve heard chocolate is bad for dogs, and of course that’s an unspeakable tragedy in their lives, but as far as I knew they were good with peanut butter. In fact, I’d once watched Bosper eat a glob of peanut butter bigger than he was.
“No,” Nate said. “Peanut butter isn’t bad for dogs.”
Bosper went suddenly still. Terriers normally keep moving, as if they’re constantly hearing music in their heads and can’t help but shake their little rumps, but now, Bosper was like a statue.
Except for two . . .
. . . slow . . .
. . . blinks.
“The dog was told peanut butter was bad for him,” Bosper said. He was definitely holding back a growl.
“Ahhh, yes,” Nate said. “That.” He adjusted his glasses.
“Is the peanut butter bad for dogs?” Bosper said. There was that lurking growl again.
“No,” Nate said. “Not really. It’s just . . . I told you that because you kept eating all the peanut butter.”
“That is what the peanut butter is for!” Bosper said. “The peanut butter is for the peanut eating!”
“Enough of all this,” I said. “We’re in a race.” I started to explain that we were racing Maculte to Polt Middle School, to where Nate had hidden the packet of “Speed Runner” pills, but apparently you should never mention a race to a talking terrier, because they love it. They just love racing.
“Race!” Bosper yelled, and he spun around in a tight circle, and then dashed off down the sidewalk at top speed, yelling, “The dog can be winning the race!”
“Should we get him back?” I asked Nate.
“No need. He might even beat us there.”
“Did you really lie to him about peanut butter?” I asked, getting into the car, grinning, because I also love racing.
“I did,” Nate said. He was getting behind the steering wheel, whispering. I wondered why he was whispering. Maybe because Melville, my bee, had curled up in the backseat and was sleeping?
“Okay,” I said. “First of all, now that I know you’ve lied to Bosper, have you ever lied to me?” It was a merciless question, but he’d been foolish enough to drink his honesty invention, and I felt duty bound to discover certain truths, like if Nate had ever lied to me, or if he thought I’d looked awesome the time I was riding a hippopotamus like a horse. I highly suspected the answer to that last one, because of course I did.
I said, “And, another question, why are you whispering?” When I’d spoken my first question Nate had grimaced, and when I asked my second question he slumped over and thumped his head on the steering wheel, like you do when you feel overwhelmed. I’ve literally seen Nate wearing a nuclear bomb and the pressure has never been too high for him before.
“I’ve lied to you twenty-seven times,” Nate said. His eyes were closed and he was still slumped forward against the steering wheel, so it was not a fair time to punch him in the arm.
“Piffle!” I said, unfairly punching Nate in the arm. “Twenty-seven times! We’re supposed to be friends!”
“Sometimes it’s friendlier to lie,” Nate said. “And sometimes it would be too embarrassing not to lie.” I thought about that, and I supposed it was true. I wondered how many times I’d lied to Nate. It was more than twenty-seven, I’d bet.
I said, “We’ll talk about this later, when we’re not in a race. I’m guessing you regret ever drinking your honesty-potion-thingy, don’t you?”
“I do,” Nate said. “I don’t think I’ve ever regretted one of my Friday the thirteenth dumb things more than this.” We were driving down Alabaster Street, past a row of food carts, like Polly’s Pastry Palace, and Thai High, and Burrito Angels, which is run by three Spanish women who dress like angels and serve what I honestly do believe to be heavenly burritos.
I said, “You didn’t answer my question about why you were whispering.” Nate groaned and his head slumped even farther forward against the steering wheel. Despite how we were zooming down the street, I wasn’t worried, because we don’t actually drive when we’re in the car. This is because Nate’s car is actually intelligent. Her name is Betsy and she’s pretty great, although she has a bit of a crush on Nate and . . .
“Oh,” I said, realizing what was going on.
I told Nate, “I’m sorry,” and put an apologetic hand on his shoulder, right at the spot where he’s usually deserving to be punched.
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br /> Nate, forced to be honest when he answered my question, said, “I was whispering because I didn’t want Betsy to know I’m now scientifically programmed to tell the truth.”
“You are?” Betsy said. Yeah. She can talk.
“I’m so sorry,” I told Nate again, finally understanding why he’d been whispering. Betsy is great and I completely love her, but . . . she can be difficult.
“How do you feel about me?” she asked. There. See? It was a difficult question.
“Uhh,” Nate said.
“Saying ‘uhh’ does not count as telling the truth,” Betsy said. Her voice comes from the glove box. It was rattling the entire car. “I spend my days driving you everywhere, utterly devoted, and I think it’s only fair that you answer my question. So, Nathan . . . how do you feel about me?”
“Oooh,” Nate said. He sounded like a duck with a raging stomachache.
Luckily, it was at that moment that we were attacked. Yes, I do know that “being attacked” is not generally noted as being wonderful, but if you’d seen Nate’s face in those moments . . . tottering as he was on the edge of being scientifically forced to answer Betsy’s question . . . you’d understand why, when the laser beams began to shoot out from the buildings all around us, it really was for the best.
“Oooch,” Betsy said as the lasers focused on her. Other laser beams, barely missing us, were cutting swaths through the street, gouging holes in the sidewalks, cutting a fire hydrant in half, and slicing off the top of a mailbox, even chopping over a streetlight that crashed among a group of pedestrians, sending them scrambling for safety.
“Oh boy!” Nate said. “We’re being attacked!”
See? It was for the best.
But I did worry about Betsy, because I’d seen what those lasers could do, and if they could slice through a streetlight and mailboxes, then where did that leave Betsy? Also, where did that leave Nate and me, since if the lasers cut through Betsy, they would also cut through . . .