The McVentures of Me, Morgan McFactoid

by Mark S. Waxman

  “Ew!”

  “Be grateful. That layer of mites will pad our fall.”

  She couldn’t hold on any longer. She let go of her twine of hair, madly kicking her feet in the air until she tumbled onto the spongy mattress.

  The tattooed man began to pull me up the building by my hair—my railing hair, that is.

  I opened my hands and dropped, landing right next to Robin, bouncing to a stop.

  “Are you okay?” I asked.

  “Yes, but I’m not going to stop praying!”

  We climbed out of the dumpster and took off running as fast as we could. Just before reaching the end of the alley, Robin yelled triumphantly, “We made it!”

  ROBIN SAVES THE DAY

  The alley led to a busy boulevard. The police station was just around the corner. Robin and I ran as fast as we could. We were moments away from freedom when the black limo crossed in front of us, skidding to a stop and blocking our escape. A muscle-bound driver jumped out from behind the steering wheel. He looked like Shrek in a cheap suit. I thought of grabbing Robin’s hand and running back in the direction of the dumpster, but by then the hatchet guy had made his way from the hotel and was coming up behind us. The back door of the limo swung opened and a deep voice from inside bellowed, in no uncertain terms, “Get in!”

  I looked at Robin and she nodded. “We have to,” she said.

  I climbed into the plush backseat after Robin, with my mother’s constant warning to never get into a stranger’s car ringing in my ears. We were facing the rear of the limo and staring into the one good eye of its passenger—a small, middle-aged man in a velour tracksuit with a jagged scar across his forehead and a patch over his left eye. He looked like a modern-day pirate. Echo would have loved him. He slammed the door, locking us in.

  I had never been inside a limousine. It had a TV, a mini-bar, laptop, and sound system. It was so cool. Well, except for being trapped inside with a madman and a monster.

  “Are we being kidnapped?” I inquired. “Because that’s seriously against the law.”

  “I ask the questions,” said the one-eyed lunatic. “And I have just one. Where’s the formula?”

  “What formula?” I asked.

  “I ask. You answer,” he said.

  “Why do you want to know?” I asked.

  “They said you were intelligent. But there you go asking questions again.”

  “Tell him,” Robin said to me. “So he won’t hurt us.”

  “He’s not going to hurt us.”

  The man withdrew a gun from his belt.

  “. . . too much,” I added. For the first time, I realized how much trouble we were in.

  “The formula. Where is it?” he insisted.

  “I don’t remember,” I said.

  “You have one minute to remember!” he exploded.

  Robin turned to me. “What do you mean you don’t remember?”

  “The only place I ever wrote it down was on the blackboard.”

  “So that’s where it is,” the one-eyed man said.

  “No. The storm blew in and washed the chalk off.”

  “Well, I’m sure you memorized it,” Robin said.

  “I changed that formula like five times a day. A little something here, a little something there. A pomegranate seed one day, a sprig of rosemary the next. A pinch here, a splash there. A dash of this, a sprinkle of that. A teaspoon of—”

  “OKAY. I get the idea!” Robin shouted, starting to freak out again.

  “But I didn’t memorize it like it was a cake recipe!” I was starting to freak out, too.

  The wicked one-eyed man leaned forward. “I know you have the formula. Because without it, you have nothing.”

  “If I had it, I’d give it to you. If I could remember it, I’d tell it to you,” I pleaded.

  “I want it NOW!” he belted, pointing the gun straight at me.

  “Uh, did you know that every human spent about half an hour as a single cell?” I couldn’t help myself. A flood of facts came to mind. I was having a minor nervous breakdown. “A Boeing 747’s wingspan is longer than the Wright brothers’ first flight. Months that begin on a Sunday always have a Friday the 13th in them. And it’s impossible to lick your own elbow. Go ahead. Try.”

  “You have thirty seconds left.” He cocked his gun. “Before this conversation gets messy.”

  The one-eyed man was right. Without my formula written out, I would never be able to patent it, own it, or profit from it. It suddenly struck me: I had lost everything! All those rich offers from that morning meant nothing.

  Also, would this maniac really shoot us if I didn’t hand over the formula? This was disastrous!

  “Think, Morgan. That’s what you do best, so do it!” Robin said in a panic.

  “Every ingredient, each exact measurement was on that blackboard,” I said. “It’s gone. It doesn’t exist. I don’t have it!”

  “You must have written it down somewhere else!” Robin screamed.

  “I didn’t!” I hollered.

  “Ten seconds,” the one-eyed man said.

  “THINK, Morgan!” Robin said.

  “I CAN’T think when you’re YELLING at me!”

  “You’re going to get us KILLED!” Robin said.

  “Five . . .” the one-eyed man said.

  “Did you record the information into your ridiculous McCorder?” Robin asked frantically.

  “I forgot to charge the batteries!” I cried out. “And it isn’t ridiculous! It helps me to remember—if I remember to charge its batteries.”

  “Four . . .” the one-eyed man counted down.

  “You must have entered the data into your computer?” Robin was getting more and more desperate.

  “I was going to, but—”

  “Three . . .” the one-eyed man said, ready to pull the trigger.

  “USE YOUR HEAD!!!” Robin screamed.

  “Two . . .” the one-eyed man said.

  “It’s NOWHERE!” I yelled.

  “ONE!” the one-eyed man screamed.

  “THE SECURITY CAMERA!” Robin blurted out, covering her head with both hands, as if that would protect her from taking a bullet point blank.

  I looked at her.

  The one-eyed man looked at her. “What security camera?” he asked.

  “In Morgan’s lab. The surveillance camera. It records every move he makes. It will show exactly what Morgan wrote on that blackboard,” Robin said.

  “Totally! She’s brilliant! That’s where you’ll find my formula. Please don’t shoot her—I mean us,” I said.

  The man paused, lowered his gun and said, “Where’s this video?”

  “Next to my microscope,” I said.

  “Where’s your microscope?”

  “In the McFactory,” Robin said.

  “What the hell is a McFactory?”

  “My lab,” I said.

  “Where’s your lab?”

  “At his house,” Robin said.

  “WHERE IN HIS HOUSE?” the man was getting more and more impatient.

  “Technically, it’s not in the house. My lab is in the garage. Again, technically it’s not in the garage, but above the garage,” I said, becoming more and more jittery. “See, it used to be in the basement—my lab, not the garage—but when Poppy came to live with us, I moved—”

  “Shut up!” the one-eyed man said. “Let me get this straight. There’s a recording—”

  “It’s on a flash card,” I said. “A digital flash card.”

  “Okay, a flash card. Next to your microscope. In your lab. At your house. Above the garage.”

  “You got that perfectly straight,” I said.

  “On that card—” he said.

  “Some people call it an SD card. That stands for Secure Digital—” I was spinning slightly out of control.

  “On that card I will see—” he interrupted.

  “The formula,” Robin said.

  “And it’s the ONLY record of the formula,” he said.


  “Unfortunately. I mean yes,” I said. Then I added, “A piece of paper cannot be folded in half more than seven times.”

  “He may have discovered the cure to baldness, but this boy is crazy!” our kidnapper said.

  “He’s crazy smart,” Robin yelled back. I was stunned (and pretty happy) that she would defend me in the middle of this perilous escapade.

  Just then, the front door of the limo opened and the huge man with the hatchet tattoo struggled in, taking the seat next to the driver. He didn’t look very jolly.

  “If that flash card isn’t there . . .” the one-eyed man said. “If the formula isn’t visible, if you’re lying . . .” He never finished his threat. Instead, he roared at the driver, “Back to the house!”

  Robin squeezed my hand the entire drive home.

  MORGAN SAVES THE DAY

  It was still early in the morning when the limo came to a stop and parked in my driveway, but our cars were already gone, and no one was at home. Dad must have driven Chloe to school. Mom would be at work by now. Poppy was probably out looking for a job.

  The one-eyed man put his gun in my face. “Get the flash card and bring it back to me.”

  “If you could fold a piece of paper forty-two times, it would reach to the moon,” I said.

  “NOW!” he said.

  “Okay,” I said. “Come on, Robin.”

  The man seized Robin’s arm. “When I see your formula all spelled out on the video, then you both can go free. Until then, she stays here,” he said, leaning across my body and opening the car door. “Gibson will make sure you don’t try anything stupid.”

  The tattooed guy who’d chased us got out of the car and walked me toward the garage. Every step of the way, I tried to think of something I could do to rescue Robin. I had gotten her into this mess. I had to get her out.

  Gibson pushed me into the garage. I unlocked the trapdoor and climbed up the stepladder through the hatch into the McFactory. He followed, struggling up the stepladder, barely able to squeeze his wide hips through the narrow opening.

  We were greeted by Echo, who squawked, “Ahoy!”

  Gibson jumped, fists clenched, ready to fight. “Who said that?” he asked, spinning around.

  “My bird.”

  “Well, tell your bird to shut up.”

  “Shut up!” Echo repeated.

  “Echo, shut your squawk hole,” I said.

  The flash card was sitting safely on my lab table, next to my microscope. I picked it up and said, “Here’s what you want. What everybody wants. It’s all there.”

  “Prove it!” Gibson said.

  I inserted the card into my computer and played the video. It showed the interior of the lab as recorded by my security camera, the same footage Robin and I had watched the day after the storm.

  Just as Robin had predicted, hatchet man could plainly see the blackboard and every single chalk-written notation for creating Hair Today. He could see me on camera, placing every element in the blender, announcing—although there was no audio—each property and its proportions.

  I almost cried. I couldn’t have made it easier for these thieves. I had to think of something before just handing over my greatest invention. I ejected the card and held it up. “This is it. My formula. The secret to Hair Today,” I said.

  Gibson smiled and said, “Give it to the boss. Let’s go!” Then, he pushed me toward the trapdoor.

  I needed to neutralize Gibson—take him out of the equation. On my way to the trapdoor, I quietly and inconspicuously kicked open the door to my snake’s cage. I stood over the stairway to the garage.

  “After you,” Gibson said.

  Instead of walking down the stepladder, I employed my athletic emergency jump technique, leaping from the attic landing through the opening and onto the cement floor of the garage. I quickly closed and locked the door behind me, trapping Gibson inside. He yelled some swear words I had never heard before. Words I can’t repeat. But, of course, Echo repeated them. Several times.

  I snatched a pair of gardening clippers, sneaked around to the side of the garage, and laid the ladder leading to the window down on the grass.

  Gibson ripped the chicken wire off of the side window, leaned out and screamed, “Put that ladder back!”

  I heard Echo say, “Shut up!”

  Gibson immediately got on his cell phone and shouted into it, “Get up here! I’m about to be attacked by a poisonous serpent! Help!”

  I smiled, knowing that Nixon had done his job.

  I scampered to the driveway and stood in front of the limo, holding up my flash card. The one-eyed man stepped out of the car. He was on his cell phone talking to hatchet man. After a moment, he hung up.

  “That was Gibson. He says the video shows the formula. That’s the good news. Bad news? You locked him in the attic with a killer snake. He’s deathly afraid of snakes. That wasn’t very nice.”

  “Let Robin go or I’ll do something even not nicer. I’ll destroy the formula,” I said, realizing that I would do anything for her.

  “You’re not going to destroy something that’s worth billions of dollars,” he said. “Now bring it here.”

  “Not until you release Robin,” I said boldly, even though I thought I was going to piss my pants.

  “This isn’t a game, little boy,” he said. “Just give me the card and I’ll give you your girlfriend.”

  “He’s not my boyfriend,” Robin said. “We’re just . . . neighbors.”

  “Hand it over,” he said to me.

  “You first,” I said like a gunslinger in a black and white cowboy movie. “And to set the record straight, we’re not just neighbors, we’re partners. Sure, I was hoping we could become more than—”

  “NOW!” he yelled.

  The muscular limo driver opened his door and stepped out. Robin screamed from inside the limo, “Give it to him, Morgan!”

  It was time for a relaxing fact: A giraffe can clean its ears with its twenty-one-inch tongue. I felt much calmer. But then, the driver started moving toward me. That’s when I held up the pruning shears. “One more step and I’ll slice this card in half, wiping out all the information forever.” The driver stopped in his tracks.

  “As dumb as you are, you’re not that dumb,” the one-eyed man said.

  “Hey, give me credit. I was dumb enough not to make a copy of the formula and dumb enough not to patent it. Now, let Robin go.”

  “When I have the card, I’ll free her,” he countered.

  “I’m calling the shots here,” I said, not backing down. It was the all-new and improved Morgan McCracken. “When I have Robin, I’ll give you the card.”

  It was a standoff, like playing chicken with our lives. Well, Robin’s life.

  “MORGAN! Don’t do this!” Robin shrieked.

  “She’s not leaving this car—certainly not alive—until I have that formula in my hands,” the man announced. He raised his gun, aiming at my chest.

  I placed the flash card inside the blades of my gardening clippers. “Let her go right now or I’ll cut the card. It’s your turn to have thirty seconds,” I said.

  He started to squirm. “I don’t believe you,” he said.

  “Fine. You have twenty-five seconds more not to believe me.”

  “You’re bluffing,” he said.

  “Twenty-four,” I said.

  “MORGAN!” Robin yelled.

  “Listen, punk—” he said.

  “Tick, tick, tick,” I said.

  Finally, the man yanked Robin out of the limousine and shoved her toward me.

  “Okay, hand it over,” he said.

  Robin ran to my side. I flung the card to the one-eyed man who caught it. Without delay, he eagerly inserted it into the limo’s laptop. Robin and I gradually backed away. This was our chance to escape.

  She was holding my arm tightly. “We could have been killed back there,” she whispered.

  “Yeah, that would have sucked,” I said. We turned and started speed walki
ng.

  She looked into my eyes. “You gave up your formula for me.”

  ECHO SAVES THE DAY, SAVES THE DAY

  “Not so fast.” The limo driver grabbed us by the back of our necks and shoved us into the garage. “Open it!” he said, indicating the attic door.

  I unlocked the trapdoor and lowered the stepladder. Gibson was standing above us in the attic with his arms folded, fuming. He wiggled his broad body through the narrow hatch, maneuvering his fat feet down the stairs. When he reached us, he gestured toward the attic.

  “Get up there!” he said, withdrawing his hunting knife.

  Robin and I swiftly climbed the stepladder into the lab. Gibson slammed and locked the door behind us. We had traded positions with Gibson, but at least we were feeling safe, especially when we heard the limousine speed away.

  “Oh, this is great. Just great. School is about to start and we’re stuck up here,” Robin said.

  “We were just abducted! And almost murdered! And they stole my—our—invention! And you’re worried that you—we—might be a little tardy to Spanish!”

  “Sí. Now, please call the police. They’ll get us down from here, arrest those guys, and get your flash card back. Comprendes?” Robin said.

  “Good plan. But my cell phone is in my backpack. Where’s yours?” I said, scooping up Nixon and returning him to his cage.

  “In my backpack,” she said.

  “And where are our backpacks?”

  “On the hotel roof,” she said, realizing our dilemma.

  “So much for calling the police or anyone else,” I said.

  “So we’re trapped?”

  “Si. And they’ve run off with my—our—formula.”

  “Formula,” Echo yelped.

  “Shush, Echo,” I said, turning to Robin. “And they’ll register it with the patent office under their name.”

  “Formula,” Echo said again. I disregarded her. “I’ll be left with nothing. Zero, zip, zilch. Not even a smidgen left of my best invention ever.”

  “Smidgen—” Echo said.

  “Echo, I’m not telling you again. Zip your beak!”

  “—of rubber cement,” Echo cheerfully chirped.

  “Did you hear me?” I exclaimed. I turned to Robin, “Sometimes she can be so stubborn.”

  “Dash of mud,” Echo said.