“Why the spare bedroom?”
“I wanted them in my room, but Luigi disturbed them. He eats mice.”
Suzanne shuddered.
“I have the control group in Marcus’ room.”
“Marcus mentioned that he couldn’t listen to his CD player.”
“It needs to be quiet. The mice can’t hear anything in the buzzers’ frequency.” Norman pushed his glasses up onto the bridge of his nose and jammed his hands into his pockets. “Each of the cages have water bottles and three identical play wheels. The mice are given the same amount of food every morning and the leftover food is weighed each night. I weigh the mice once a week. All this data is entered into my computer. All I have to do is collect the rest of this week’s data, write a final analysis and print out my conclusions.” Norman smiled, “Any questions?”
“Only one,” said Suzanne.
“What?”
“Why are you doing all this?”
“Oh yeah,” said Norman, “my hypothesis. I think that hunger and food consumption, can be controlled by environment. What I am trying to prove is that systematic exposure to a specific frequency can actually increase or decrease appetite.”
“So?”
“You ever diet?”
Suzanne looked embarrassed, “Yes.”
“Difficult?”
She nodded.
“Effective?”
“Not always,” she said.
“Would you like to decrease your appetite by listening to music twice a day?”
“That would be great.”
“If this experiment works as I think it might and the results can be applied to humans, you may be able to diet by listening to music of a specific frequency during breakfast and dinner.”
“That’s amazing,” said Suzanne. She leaned over, poked her finger through the cage and spun the exercise wheel.
“Don’t,” said Norman. “If the mice want to exercise they must do it on their own. If one group is forced to exercise more than another it will affect their appetites and invalidate the entire data base.”
“That makes sense,” said Suzanne. “You’re quite a scientist, Norman.”
“Thanks.”
“I have another question.”
“Shoot.”
“Why isn’t there any food in your pantry?”
“Mom doesn’t allow canned food in the house. Only fresh, organic, vegetarian stuff: therefore a pantry becomes a spare room.”
“Suzanne,” said Marcus as he squeezed into the pantry, “I’ve been looking for you.” He winked at Norman, “Trying to steal my girl?”
“No,” said Norman, turning red. He picked up the alarm clock and stared at it.
“We’ll leave you and the mice alone,” said Marcus.
“Luck with the experiment,” said Suzanne.
“Thanks,” said Norman. He replaced the alarm clock. “Marcus, tell mom I’m eating at Chris’ tonight. I forgot to tell her when I got home.”
“She hates when you eat at Chris’.”
“That’s why I forgot to tell her.”
Chapter 10
Dinner with the Forte family was Norman’s dream come true. Chris was the oldest of four boys. Four hungry meat-eating boys who were big, boisterous and well fed. Mr. Forte stood 6’2” and weighed close to 240 pounds. His coal black hair fell almost to his shoulders. Norman thought he looked like Tarzan in a business suit. Mrs. Forte was a large, laughing woman with sparkling brown eyes and prematurely gray hair. The boys looked just like Chris in increasingly smaller versions: black hair, dark eyes, and crooked grins.
Right now those grins were smeared with barbecue sauce.
Norman and the Forte family crowded around the kitchen table and feasted on a platter of BBQ chicken, corn on the cob, baked potatoes, and ravioli. No matter what the family ate Mrs. Forte prepared pasta. In the past few years Norman had eaten: pork roast and spaghetti, pork chops and tortellini, meatloaf and lasagna. Her maiden name was Giambatista and she considered any meal without pasta sinful.
Tonight’s ravioli were stuffed with cheese and spinach and done in a tomato-garlic sauce. Norman took several of the ravioli and placed them on his plate, but the Fortes speared them straight from the platter and popped them into their mouths. “Today at work,” said Mr. Forte, shaking his head, “you’ll never guess what happened.”
“What,” said Chris. It wasn’t a question, just a flat statement between bites of chicken and potato.
“This guy walked into my office and says he’s interested in buying some computer hardware.” He swallowed a ravioli. “So I show him my catalogs: IBM, Gateway, Dell, Apple—you name it. But I just couldn’t please the guy. He finally says, ‘Where’s the bathroom?’ I tell him and he leaves. As soon as he’s gone I notice my gold pen is missing. So I run down the hall to the bathroom. I knock over a secretary and papers fly everywhere.”
“This is gonna be good,” said Chris.
All the boys, including Norman, had stopped eating and stared at Mr. Forte, “I smash into a repair cart and knock over two computer monitors. I finally reach the bathroom and crash through the door.”
“Yeah?” said Norman.
“And the guy who stole my pen is climbing out the window. He’s halfway out so I grab his left leg—”
“Yeah?” said Norman.
“—and I’m pulling his leg and pulling his leg.”
“Yeah?” said Norman.
Mr. Forte smiled and rumpled Norman’s hair with his paw, “Just like I’m pulling your leg, Norman.”
Everyone, except Mrs. Forte, laughed. The youngest, Harvey, laughed until he started choking. Chris pounded him on the back, dislodging a piece of chicken and knocking Harvey’s face into his plate. When Harvey returned to an upright position he wore a small baked-potato beard. Mrs. Forte said, “You shouldn’t tease our guests like that, Jonathan.”
“These guys were just as suckered as I was,” said Norman.
“Not me,” said Chris.
“Your tongue was so far out you could have hung laundry on it,” said Norman.
Harvey, recovered from his choking spell and Chris’ heavy-handed remedy said, “You were bug-eyed, Chris. The only one who wasn’t fooled was mom.”
“Well, Harvey, you see, I’ve only heard that story forty or fifty times,” said Mrs. Forte. “This year.”
“Enough yakking,” said Mr. Forte, “let’s get these dishes done. Peter clears. John stores leftovers. Harvey washes. Chris dries.”
Norman picked up his plate and attempted to rise. His progress was halted by Mr. Forte’s right hand, which spread across both of Norman’s knees. “Guests in this house do not do dishes. Peter, come get Norman’s plate.” Mr. Forte released Norman’s legs and said, “Chris says you’ve devised a top-notch science project. Tell Julia and me about it.”
Norman explained the details of his project while the Fortes nodded politely.
“So,” said Mr. Forte, “how’s Chris doing on his project? He tells us you’re his advisor.”
“His project is going well,” said Norman.
“How well?” said Mrs. Forte.
“I …can…honestly say that he hasn’t made a single mistake so far,” said Norman.
The four boys clanged and bustled around the kitchen in an awkward ballet with dishes, soap, and water.
“What is his project,” said Mrs. Forte, “he keeps telling us it’s Top Secret.”
“I know he’s not working for NASA,” said Mr. Forte.
Chris saw his parents huddled, talking to Norman and inched over with the pan he was drying. Mr. Forte said, “Dry!”
Chris retreated to the sink.
Norman cleared his throat, “Chris’ project is concerned with Industrial Chemistry. More specifically, Teflon.”
“Teflon?” said the Fortes.
“Yeah,” said Chris, holding up another pan. “I’ve had plenty of experience with it.” He dried the remaining dishes quickly. “Hey Dad? Are we go
ing to box tonight?”
“I don’t think so, Chris. I’m stuffed.”
“But Dad,” said Chris, “Norman is depending on you. I said you’d give him some boxing lessons.”
Norman nodded, “It’s important.”
“Stand up, Norman,” said Mr. Forte. “Show me what Chris has taught you so far.” Norman took a boxer’s stance; fists clenched, balanced on the balls of his feet. “Good form. Proper balance.” Mr. Forte stood and held out his open hands. “Jab.” Norman swatted at the huge palms as Mr. Forte spoke: “My father and grandfather were both professional boxers. I missed the seventy-six Olympic team by one punch.” He pointed to his chin. “It hit me right here.”
Mrs. Forte laughed. “Now that’s funny.”
“Boxing is part of my heritage. Everyone in my family has been involved in the sport in some capacity and I know as much about it as anyone. Jab, jab. Good. Jab again.”
The Forte boys gathered around the kitchen table.
“I can tell you everything you need to know about fighting in one sentence.” He lowered his hands.
“What?” said Norman, still posed for action.
“Never forget, I’m speaking from a lifetime of experience—”
“What?” said Chris.
“It takes a good man to fight and win,” said Mr. Forte, “but it takes a better man to walk away.”
Norman, behind his clenched fists, looked puzzled.
“That’s it?” said Chris. “That’s the boxing lesson? Normy gets pushed around all day, everyday, bullied into doing other people’s home- work and you tell him to walk away?”
Norman unclenched his fists and lowered his arms.
“Run on home, Norman,” said Mr. Forte. “We’ll lace up the gloves another evening.”
“Thanks for dinner, Mrs. Forte,” said Norman. “See you guys.” He waved at Chris and the brothers and walked toward the door.
Norman heard Chris as he shut the front door: “That’s it? A better man walks away? Dad, I told Norman you were going to help him!”
Norman watched his shadow grow and shrink as he walked from streetlight to streetlight. Norman loved walking at night. In the darkness between the streetlights he could glimpse the brighter constellations. And in the semi-darkness no one could see how thick his glasses were. No one could see he was so skinny he had to jump around in the shower to get wet. That his chin was reddened from a rash of acne. Norman could relax at night; he could think at night.
WHY LIFE SHOULD BE LIKE A SCIENCE PROJECT
1) More organized. Projects have defined objectives and a prescribed amount of time to gather data
2) Less emotional. Projects don’t get mad and push you around when you make a lucky pass in soccer
3) Safer. If my project doesn’t prove my hypothesis I won’t barbecue the mice. I’ll just write up my conclusions
4) Projects make sense. Kenilworth Junior High doesn’t make sense. The Babbit Family doesn’t make sense
5) Conclusions. A+B=C therefore C-A=B
LIFE is supposed to be the best teacher, but it seems I have to take the tests before I read the chapters
Norman drifted along the street, lost in his silent comparisons. A block from home, Norman leaned against a car and gazed up at Arcturus.
“YAAAAAAAAAA!” screamed Chris, jumping out from behind the car.
“Hi Chris,” said Norman.
“Hi Chris? That’s all I get? I run six blocks, the long way around, to get in front of you. I hide and wait to scare you, and it’s Hi Chris?”
“OHHHHHHHHH-GODDDDDD!” screamed Norman. “How’s that?”
“Better. Thank you.” Chris kicked the car’s bumper. “Norman?”
“What?”
“I promise you, I’m really going to study for that English test. I’ll get a good grade for us. For you.”
“Thanks. I’ll help you.”
“Carlson is a major jerk.”
“Carlson is the least of my problems,” said Norman.
“I’m sorry my dad didn’t help you more.”
“Me too.”
They stood silent. A cat yowled. Two cars passed.
“See you tomorrow, Normy.”
“Yeah.”
The friends turned and walked in opposite directions, in-and-out of the streetlights’ glowing puddles. Norman turned and yelled, “Chris?”
“What?”
“What’s a run-on sentence?”
Chris stopped, raised his shirt and scratched his stomach. “Ah, Pedro went jogging and he ran on and on and on.”
“Oh God,” said Norman. This time he meant it; Chris scared him.
Chapter 11
“Hey Sport, wake up,” said Marcus.
“Whaaat?”
“Do you want to go jogging with me?”
Norman sat up and stretched, “Now?”
“Why do you think I’m dressed like this?” Marcus stood over Norman in gray sweat pants, an Oakland A’s cap and a San Francisco 49ers jersey.
“Because you don’t know whether it’s baseball or football season?”
Marcus hauled back the blankets. “C’mon, I’m not driving to the track, just run the warm up with me.”
“Let me check my mice.”
“Do it when we get back. They won’t starve.”
The fog hung over Petaluma like a dirty sheet as the brothers began their morning jog. They headed down Ely Road, past houses that were just waking up. The sun had barely risen and lights were still illuminating most of the kitchens. “You should have been there, Marcus,” said Norman. “Chicken, ravioli, baked spuds. It was fantastic. I had seconds, thirds. I could have had fourths. There was barbecue sauce dripping off the chicken—”
“I like being a vegetarian. I wouldn’t eat meat if it was on the dinner table.”
Norman puffed along. “Do you know if dad was a vegetarian?”
“Kind of. He’d go along with it to please mom, but I’m sure he had a steak sandwich everyday for lunch.”
The brothers plodded along through the fog. Norman, gasping, said, “Mom never talks about dad. How could I find out about him?”
Marcus slowed as if weighed down by Norman’s question. “I don’t know, Sport.” He stopped. “I just don’t know.”
“I know he was my father and all that,” said Norman, shuffling to a halt. “I just want to know what kind of person he was, you know?”
“Yeah,” said Marcus. “I know.”
“Where could I find out?”
Marcus shrugged. “Sorry.”
“That’s okay.”
“You’d better turn back. I’m going all the way to the high school, then run some sprints on the track. If you turn back here it’ll be a little over a mile for you.”
“How far to Casa Grande?”
“Round trip, three miles.”
“If you’d just shut up and let me run I can make it.”
“Eat my dust, Sport.” Marcus sped away into the hazy dawn air.
Norman ran evenly, but couldn’t match his brother’s pace. He settled into a comfortable stride and made it back to the house, two minutes ahead of Marcus; but Marcus had also run sprints on the track. Norman felt relaxed; all warm and loose. He fed the mice, ate five pieces of slightly overdone toast, showered, and caught a ride to school with Marcus.
Tom Allen sat in front of Norman’s locker, legs crossed yoga-style. All around, lockers banged as students prepared for homeroom. The warm, loose feeling that even the overdone toast couldn’t affect immediately drained from Norman. “Well,” said Tom, “if it isn’t Norman-the-Nerd.”
“My name is Norman.”
“Anyone named Norman is a nerd.”
“What do you want?”
“Did you do my Algebra?” Tom stood.
“No,” said Norman, “I didn’t know your assignment. Your group is a few chapters behind my group.”
Tom shoved a piece of paper in Norman’s face, “Here.”
Norman scann
ed the page. “Did you write this?”
“Yeah. Why?”
“It’s not in crayon.”
“Crayon. I get it. A Nerd joke.” Tom grabbed Norman’s shirt and banged his head against the locker.
“Ow.”
Tom held Norman against the locker, “I’ll pick it up at lunch, I need time to copy it.” Tom released Norman and sauntered down the hallway. Several students had seen Tom slam Norman against the locker, but no one said a word.
Norman stuffed the assignment into his back pocket and walked to homeroom, fighting the urge to massage the bump that had already formed on the back of his head. That would be considered weakness by everyone who had seen the incident; even if they’d done nothing to stop it.
Mr. Forrester read the day’s announcements to his homeroom class: “Kenilworth’s baseball team opens its season against Petaluma Junior High today at Luchessi Park. Please support your team, eh?”
Norman’s left hand explored the back of his head. A knot half the size of a walnut had formed. He massaged it lightly. “What kind of school is this,” he said, “ten kids see a jerk bounce me off a locker and no one says anything?”
“Excuse me, Mr. Babbit?” said Mr. Forrester.
“Nothing,” said Norman, wondering how Forrester-the-Bat had heard his muttering. He pulled out Tom’s paper and wrote in wrong answers so quickly that he broke the tip of his pencil.
“Track tryouts conclude today. The first meet is next Friday.”
Norman found a good pencil and continued his bad calculations.
“Kenilworth’s Science Fair will be judged by an International Science and Engineering Fair official. The first place winner in each category will be eligible for the ISEF Regional, then the Nationals in Washington D.C.”
Norman dropped his pencil. The bump on his head stopped throbbing.
Washington D.C.!
A week in Washington D.C.! Visiting the Smithsonian, checking out the other science projects, The Aerospace Museum. Breakfast at McDonald’s, lunch at Burger King, dinner at Wendy’s.
Heaven!
Mr. Lewis told Norman he had been trying to obtain an ISEF sanction for the school’s science fair, but Norman never thought it would happen. He was sure to win first place for Kenilworth seventh graders. He’d advance to the Regionals, then, with luck, to the Nationals and perhaps even international competition. Norman picked up his pencil and yelled, “I’m going to Washington D.C.”