The Fabulous Zed Watson!

by Basil Sylvester

  “No!” I said, shuffling and looking up and down the street. “We want to be ready to bolt the second your sister finally gets back.”

  “It’ll be, like, a three-second difference,” Gabe said.

  “Three more seconds the historian will gain on us.”

  Gabe stared at me like I was loco, but he rejoined me by the car.

  “Have you got heatstroke?” he asked.

  “I’ve got historian stroke,” I said. “My quest is turning into a joke.” I slapped my hand against the side of the car. But instead of a satisfactory clunk, the metal made a kind of sickly rattle.

  “Careful,” Gabe said with a chuckle. “We don’t want to break Rusty.”

  “Gabe, I am not in the mood for jokes.”

  He leaned back against the car and hung his head. “Okay, sure.”

  We didn’t say anything else for what seemed like hours.

  “Do you think your sister abandoned us? This is ridiculous.”

  “Why do you keep calling Sam ‘your sister’?” Gabe asked.

  “Fine. Sam. Whatever.” Images of the historian racing farther and farther ahead filled my brain. The sun got hotter and I did too.

  “I wonder who the historian could be?” Gabe finally said, watching a tumbleweed slowly make its way down the middle of the road. “It’s pretty amazing that someone else is figuring out Taylor’s clues.”

  Wait. Did Gabe seem excited?

  He was still talking. “I wonder if he figured out the church address in Arcadia? Oh! And he definitely got the postcard stuff. You’d have to be totally clueless to miss that one. But did he see Lysander’s grave after we cleared the vines from it? And if he’s on the same track, it means we were right about the clues so far!”

  I clenched and unclenched my fists. “We. We. WE. Who’s ‘we,’ Gabe? You and the tall guy? You seem so happy, maybe you want him to find it first?”

  His mouth snapped shut. He narrowed his eyes.

  “Zed, you’re being a pain.”

  “I’m being a pain?” I began to yell. “You’re being a jerk! If you hadn’t posted that stuff about place names on the site, the historian wouldn’t even be on this trip! Now he’s ahead of me!”

  I slapped the car again.

  “Ahead of ‘me’?” Gabe said.

  “Yes! He was a couple of hours ahead in Arcadia. And now he’s two days ahead.” I stabbed a finger in the air. “And it’s all. Your. Fault.”

  Gabe pushed himself away from the car. He took a deep breath. “I think you need to cool down, Zed,” he said. “Let’s go back inside the post office.”

  “Do not tell me what to do.”

  Gabe’s face grew red. “Zed—” He started to say something, then stopped. When he opened his mouth again, it was like a volcano erupting. “If I hadn’t made that post, YOU wouldn’t have any idea either!” He began waving his arms. “Did you know what Rosaceae meant? No. What a memento mori was? No! No, Zed. I did. Me.”

  I stood there, speechless.

  “Nothing to say? For once?”

  Gabe’s words hit me like a punch in the gut. Had I actually said this was “my” trip?

  I ran the conversation back in my head.

  I had said it. I was being the jerk.

  I had never seen Gabe like this. It made me sad and ashamed. It was my fault.

  My shoulders sagged.

  “Gabe—” I started.

  “What? You want to criticize my love of opera? Or flowers? Like all the other jerks at school or my stupid dad—” He stopped suddenly; his arms fell. He looked like a balloon that had just been popped, and he turned away from me. “Zed, you love this book, but I do too. This isn’t your trip. It’s our trip. Ours. Or I don’t want to be on it anymore.”

  “Gabe, I . . .” I wasn’t sure what I could say. But I needed to say something. “I’m so sorry. I don’t want to criticize you for anything.”

  “Sure.” He shrugged.

  “Hey, what’s with the racket?” asked Sam as she walked up holding a brown paper bag. “What’s going on?”

  “Nothing,” Gabe said. “Let’s go.” He reached over to open his door.

  Sam looked at me and cocked her head. “Um, Zed?”

  “Can you give us a minute?” I asked.

  “Sure,” Sam said. She got in the driver’s seat and turned on the car. The engine rumbled as the A/C kicked in.

  I walked over to Gabe, who was just standing there with his hand on the door handle.

  “Gabe, you are one million percent right. This is our trip.” I sighed. “Back in Mantua, I said stuff does bug me. This is one of those times.”

  “Zed—” he began.

  I held up my hand. “No. I’m not making an excuse. It’s just an explanation. I was acting like that hot-headed soldier Marion and Cassandra meet. The one who started the Battle of Thistlethorn.”

  “Which we have no idea who wins,” Gabe said.

  “Yeah. Cassandra keeps trying to convince him to calm down. But he just refuses to listen. And then he fires that spectral-haze bomb and it’s too late.”

  Gabe gave a weak smile. “Stupid guy.”

  “I’m that stupid guy right now. But you’re Cassandra, and I’m going to listen.”

  “Cassandra is pretty awesome.”

  “You are too, Gabe.” I practically leapt over and hugged him. “I know you want to find this book too. Let’s go find it together, deal?”

  He smiled. “Deal,” he said.

  We shook hands.

  Sam rolled down her window. “Ahem. Can we get back on the road now?”

  “Sure,” Gabe said.

  He opened the door, and we got in the back seat.

  My stomach growled, loudly.

  “That sounds like a hungry Zed,” Sam said. “Lucky for you, I found some sandwiches at a place down the street. Not bad, actually.” She tossed the paper bag to me.

  I eagerly pulled out two amazing-smelling sandwiches in folded wax paper.

  “Yours is the greasy one.”

  I unwrapped the paper.

  “Brie cheese and pear!” I jumped forward and hugged Sam’s shoulders.

  “And a kale Caesar wrap!” Gabe seemed more excited than me. “Thanks, Sis!”

  “You’re welcome. So, Scooby-Doo and Scooby-Don’t, everything cool between you?”

  We already had half the sandwiches stuffed in our mouths, so we just nodded our heads.

  “Good.” She put Rusty in gear and began driving away. “You two eat up while we burn some rubber. Then we can look for an ice cream shop for dessert.”

  Gabe and I exchanged a look. Our argument had added even more time to the historian’s lead.

  Stopping for ice cream was now a luxury.

  “No time,” Gabe said.

  I smiled. “Yeah. WE need to keep moving.”

  “Moving where exactly?” Sam asked.

  Gabe munched quietly on his kale wrap while I swallowed some pear and Brie. I saw he was going to be no help on this one. I cleared my throat.

  “Yeah, about that . . .” I started.

  I didn’t know how to tell Sam that we weren’t sure.

  Chapter 20

  Dolly Carton

  In fact, we did end up stopping for ice cream.

  Well, actually, we stopped for gas, but it seemed like every dust-covered gas station on the highway also served desserts.

  Ice cream sandwiches were on the menu at the Gas-n-Stuff (which I immediately dubbed the Gassy Stuff). These sandwiches were a pale imitation of actual ice cream, but they had to do in a pinch. I swallowed my pride, and then three of the sandwiches.

  They also tasted better because they were Gabe’s treat. I’d accurately predicted that the sweet old lady with the tiny eyeglasses at the checkout counter would call me a boy.

  Gabe pulled his notebook out of—you guessed it—a pocket of his pants and updated the tally.

  “Boy 6, girl 5,” he announced. Then the notebook disappeared.


  “Where do you hide those?” I asked, impressed.

  “Wouldn’t you like to know?” Gabe smiled mischievously.

  “Yes. That’s why I asked. I assume you have some hidden compartments in your shoes, because those pockets should be bulging with all the stuff you jam in there.”

  Gabe just nibbled on his vanilla ice cream sandwich and looked out the window.

  I continued my observations. “It’s because they’re boys’ pants. Girls’ pants have smaller pockets. How do I know this, you ask?”

  “I did?”

  I ignored the interruption. “You may have noticed that I do not, as a rule, wear pants—and certainly not jeans. Sometimes chinos or corduroys, but only in a pinch—I prefer either my current choice of sweatpants, featuring what is known as a Memphis pattern—”

  Sam snorted from the front seat. “Very stylish, Zed.”

  Gabe looked at my sweats, which I had just changed into, featuring neon-blue squiggles and yellow triangles with green semicircles.

  “That’s a Memphis pattern?” he asked.

  Sam laughed. “It looks like a math textbook threw up on your legs.”

  This elicited a snort from Gabe.

  “Or if I am feeling jaunty,” I continued, “I often choose patterned leggings with pictures of taco shells or cats. My core idea about clothes is that you can never be too flamboyant.”

  “You sure about that?” Sam said.

  “I simply like visual excitement in my clothes. It’s like the writer and flamboyant icon Oscar Wilde once said: ‘One should either be a work of art, or wear a work of art.’ And I happen to achieve both.”

  Gabe slow-clapped, and I gave a little bow.

  “Now, to answer your question about pants.”

  “Ah, yes,” Gabe said, “that imaginary question I didn’t ask.”

  “I was once forced to buy actual blue jeans.” I made a quick gagging noise. “This was for a school trip to a factory or something. No sandals allowed.”

  I held up my sandaled feet.

  “No baggy clothing.”

  I pointed to my sweatpants and amazing sweater.

  “And students needed to wear denim for ‘safety.’ I have never felt so attacked!” I shook my head in disgust. “But my parents took me to the store, and I looked in every aisle for something that wasn’t horrible. I did not succeed.”

  “You didn’t go on the field trip?” Gabe asked.

  “I said I didn’t find any jeans that weren’t horrible—but I did find a pair. So I wore them once and then handed them down to one of my siblings.”

  Sam looked at me strangely in the mirror. “They actually made you buy new clothes to go on a field trip?”

  “Well, not exactly,” I said. “The other option was to cover your normal clothes with a bright orange safety smock. I mean, not this kid!”

  Sam rolled her eyes for like the thousandth time.

  “You’re going to need a new prescription if you keep that up,” I said. “And shouldn’t you be looking at the road?”

  She growled but turned her attention back to the highway.

  We were passing some town. Green trees were giving way to billboards and motels. Those soon gave way to more trees and bushes. And so on.

  It had been like this for hours, and we expected it to be much the same for hours to come.

  This was the longest stretch of driving yet.

  And as I had started to admit to Sam, we weren’t exactly sure where we were heading. We had some coordinates that pointed southwest, which was where Sam was heading anyway, but the next stop on the road trip was unclear.

  The postcards had said “Come dine with me.” But where?

  The clues in the fifth stanza of the poem and the corresponding chapter fragment weren’t as obvious to us as the other three had been. It wasn’t just the coordinates that had pointed us in the right direction. The fragment was all about a dinner between Lysander and Yves. Both it and the poem referenced a rare type of plant that blooms only at night. And Gabe knew that this plant grew only in the southwestern US. But what were we looking for?

  A restaurant at a botanical garden?

  A greenhouse that served french fries?

  Doubts nagged at us.

  Were we missing something?

  I desperately wanted to check the fan site to see if there were any more comments that might help us solve this riddle.

  “How about Eugene Onegin?” It was Gabe’s voice.

  “Who?” I asked. “I don’t remember him from the book.”

  Gabe looked at me strangely. “I think you were having a Zed moment. Sam and I are wondering which opera to sing along to.”

  I slumped in my seat. “Opera. The denim blue jeans of music.”

  “Onegin it is,” Sam said.

  They began singing some high-pitched opera thing in what I think was Klingon. I stared out the window and waited for it to be over. But—and I hate to admit this—after a little while, I quite liked it. The music was totally dramatic, and Gabe filled me in on the story.

  “It’s this tragic romance about a guy named Onegin who moves to a new place and meets a woman named Tatiana. She falls in love with him, but he rejects her.”

  This really emotional song came on next, with this woman singing about how hard it is to find the words to tell someone how much you love them.

  I even choked up a bit. “It helps to know what’s going on,” I said.

  Gabe was singing along with the woman, so he just nodded at me.

  All of a sudden, Rusty made a high-pitched whining noise.

  “Aww, Rusty is trying to sing along too!” I said.

  But Sam immediately switched off the music and started cranking the steering wheel.

  Rusty continued whining. It sounded worse now, like a huge bunch of nails and marbles being shaken in a jar during a thunderstorm.

  We began to slow down, right in the middle of the highway. A truck zoomed past us on the right. There was an exit just ahead.

  “Hit the gas,” I said, starting to panic.

  “Get off the highway!” Gabe said, pointing at the exit.

  “Quiet!” Sam said. She hit the hazard lights, opened her window and began frantically waving her hand in the air.

  I looked out the rear window. There were only a few trucks and cars, but they were moving fast, and we weren’t.

  “What’s happening?” I said.

  “I’m trying to get us out of here!” Sam yelled.

  The car drivers saw her waving and slowed to let us get in the right lane.

  Rusty rolled and rolled but continued to slow. We were almost at the exit.

  I looked out the back window. A truck was heading toward the same exit we were.

  “MOVE!” I yelled.

  The truck began blaring its horn. The exit had only one lane—and we were now in it.

  Gabe and I screamed, “I don’t want to die!”

  Sam turned the wheel sharply, and we rolled off the side of the road.

  The truck honked loudly and sped past us, zooming up the exit ramp.

  “Jerk!” yelled Sam, still struggling with the wheel.

  Rusty began sliding down into the ditch. Sam slammed on the brakes, but we continued to go down the muddy bank.

  Gabe started screaming, so I screamed too.

  Gabe’s head smacked the top of the car, and my teeth clacked in my mouth.

  Then suddenly, we stopped.

  All three of us jolted forward. My head almost collided with the seat in front of me, but I was pulled up short by my seat belt.

  I kept screaming, “I DON’T WANT TO DIE! I’M TOO ADORABLE!” until my voice was suddenly much louder than any other noise. I realized that Sam and Gabe had both stopped and were looking at me.

  “Don’t kid yourself, Watson,” said Sam, and for a second, I was quiet.

  But then for some reason, what she said seemed so funny to me, and I started laughing. Soon we were all laughing, even Sam.

&nbs
p; Then, like the car, we slowed and stopped.

  Sam gave a tired sigh. “I’m going to see what’s up with the car. Don’t go anywhere.”

  I opened my mouth to make a joke, like, “Where would I go without a car? The moon?” But Gabe was starting to know me too well and shot me a warning look, so I closed my mouth and said nothing.

  Sam got out and walked to the front of the car. We watched her through the windshield as she strained to open the hood.

  A cloud of thick black smoke poured out and obscured Sam almost completely. Gabe gasped and unbuckled himself, then he was out the door in a flash. I could hear Sam’s raised voice, and then I could see them arguing as the smoke cleared. I got out too because I didn’t want to be left out of the action.

  “Zed! What did I JUST say?!” Sam waved her arms angrily at me.

  “I just wanted to make sure you guys were okay! Rusty tried to kill us!” I protested.

  She opened her mouth to make some retort, but then looked confused. “Wait. Who’s Rusty?”

  “You’re looking at him, Sam,” I said, pointing to the mess in front of us.

  Sam folded her arms. “Her name is Dolly Carton.”

  I stared at the Impreza in shock. “At least Dolly Parton works nine to five,” I said. “Dolly Carton doesn’t seem to be working at all.”

  Sam shook her head and turned her attention back to the engine. She closed her eyes, and for a second, I was scared she was going to cry.

  “Are you okay?”

  “Yes!” she snapped. “I’m just trying to think.” She tinkered with some cables and lines but eventually slammed the hood and gave the bumper a kick.

  “So . . . what do we do now?” Gabe asked.

  “Yeah, the historian is gaining more ground the longer we stand here!”

  Sam turned around. “Your little quest is the least of our problems right now. Got it?”

  “Little? LITTLE?”

  She pointed a finger at me. “Don’t. Just don’t.” She gave a frustrated scream and kicked the bumper again.

  Someone needed to take charge, and that someone was going to be me.

  I cleaned off my glasses with a tissue and activated what my dad calls my Zed-O-Vision.

  Chapter 21

  Zed-O-Vision