Norman stroked his lucky nickel and booted up the computer. Luigi awoke and stared, unblinking, at the screen. “My final data entry,” said Norman. He pecked in the weights of the mice, double checked his figures and determined the difference in weights for the CONTROL group, the 1500 CPM group, and the 3800 CPM group. The 1500 CPM mice were slightly lighter than the CONTROL group. The 3800 CPM group experienced a significant weight loss.
“Hey Luigi,” said Norman, “my hypothesis was correct. First the ISEF finals, then Stanford, then the Nobel Prize. All I have to do is print out my results and get these cages to school.”
With two keystrokes Norman backed up his data.
“Now let’s take care of another problem.” Three more keystrokes and the computer displayed a page with twenty Algebra problems arranged in two columns. “Twenty problems worth five points each and three extra credit problems worth three points,” said Norman. That’s been the format for Mr. Davies’ tests all year. There’s no reason for him to change now.” Norman flipped open his Algebra book, found three problems suitable for extra credit on his dummy test and entered them into the computer.
Chapter 16
Dinner on Sunday was a tense and hushed affair. Mrs. Babbit had prepared teriyaki mung-bean casserole. When prepared properly Norman hated mung-bean casserole. Tonight’s, burned on the outside and runny in the center, was disgusting. The texture reminded Norman of critters he’d dissected in General Science. For dessert Mrs. Babbit had baked coconut-carob cookies. They were underdone and doughy.
Norman pushed the casserole around his plate, munched a little salad and drank four glasses of milk. Marcus utilized his bruised jaw as an excuse for not eating.
Doris loved it.
She had two huge servings of mung-bean and ate four cookies. Mrs. Babbit finally broke the silence, “Would you like a cookie, Marcus?”
He shook his head, No.
“I’ll take another one,” said Doris.
Mrs. Babbit passed the plate of cookies to Doris who snagged two and stacked them alongside her plate.
Norman poured his fifth glass of milk and said, “Are you staying home from school for a few days, Marcus?”
“Just Monday,” he said faintly.
“Will you be able to drive me to school on Tuesday? I need transportation for me and my science project.”
“Don’t bother him, Norman,” said Mrs. Babbit. “If Marcus isn’t well, you’ll just have to find another way to school for you and your rats.”
“They’re not rats,” said Norman. “They’re mice. Award winning mice that will win me a trip to Washington D.C.”
“Sure,” said Doris. “Washington.”
“What’s up?” said Marcus. Even Mrs. Babbit looked interested.
“The finals for the International Science and Engineering Fair are in Washington this year. I should qualify. The other projects in my class are butterfly collections and papier-mâché volcanoes. I have a real science project.” Norman pushed his plate away and folded his arms across his chest.
Mrs. Babbit stood, “That’s earth shaking news, but being a scientist won’t get you out of the dishes. Norman washes; Doris dries.”
“But Mommmmm,” said Doris, “The Muppet Movie is on.”
Mrs. Babbit wavered a moment, then said, “Then hurry up with the dishes if you don’t want to miss it.” She finished her tea and said, “Marcus, take a pill and go to bed. I’ll be upstairs reading.”
Norman sprang up and cleared the table. He sped between the table and the sink with plates, glasses, and silverware. “What’s your hurry, Norman?” said Mrs. Babbit.
“I promised Chris I’d help him with his homework.”
“Tonight?”
Norman scraped food scraps into the sink and flipped on the garbage disposal. He yelled over the disposal’s metallic munching. “YEAH! TONIGHT!”
“YOU HAVE SCHOOL TOMORROW.”
“I’LL BE HOME BY NINE.”
“YOU CAN’T GO TONIGHT.”
Norman flicked off the disposal, “I have to, Mom. I have to.”
Mrs. Babbit rose and left the table, waving a feeble goodnight.
“I’ll drive Tuesday,” said Marcus, “don’t worry, Sport.”
“Thanks.”
“Doris,” said Marcus, “help Norman with the dishes.”
“Okay,” Doris slipped out of her chair, walked over to the sink and kicked Norman in the shin. “That’s for talking back to mom.”
“Ow. You brat. OW.”
She stuck out her tongue.
Norman flicked water in her face.
“Just for that, I’m not helping you.” She stomped from the kitchen and flipped on the TV.
“What a waste of DNA,” said Norman.
“I’ll give you a hand, Sport.”
Norman, until this moment, considered his older brother invincible. Always cranking out push-ups and sit-ups and running all over town; but tonight he seemed weary and defeated. “Take your pill and get to bed.”
Marcus nodded, “If you go to Chris’ don’t be too late.”
“I won’t be. G’night, Marcus.”
Obviously in pain, Marcus left the table and snuggled down onto the couch with Doris and The Muppet Movie.
Norman scrubbed and thought:
THINGS TO DO TOMORROW
1) Deal with Tom Allen
2) Study for Algebra test
3) Borrow some stuff from Mr. Lewis
4) Work at Mr. McCormick’s
5) Visit El Camino Construction
The dishes were washed and dried and Norman was at Chris’ before the sun set. The Fortes were just finishing dinner. An enormous platter of ribs, like a dinosaur boneyard, dominated the center of the table. Chris and his brothers were busy cleaning the kitchen, their faces smeared with varying quantities of BBQ sauce.
“Have a seat, Normy,” said Chris. “We’ll be done in a minute.” Norman settled into the chair next to Mrs. Forte.
“How is your brother?”
“A little sore,” Norman said. “He’ll be okay.”
“Thank God,” she said. “I remember when Chris was hit by a pitch in Little League—”
“It wasn’t a pitch,” said Chris.
“—that’s right, you were pitching—”
“I was playing third.”
“—and the batter hit a line drive.”
“Mom,” said Chris, “it was our pitcher. He tried a pick-off play and beaned me in the head.”
“It was terrifying, seeing Chris hurt. I was so relieved when the tests showed no signs of brain damage.”
Mr. Forte spoke from the far end of the table, “Unfortunately they also found no evidence of brain activity.”
“Funny, Pops,” said Chris, drying his hands on a towel.
“Ready for that boxing lesson, Norman?” said Mr. Forte.
“Yeah,” said Norman.
“Me too,” said Chris. “I’m done here.” He draped the towel over Harvey’s head and followed them to the garage.
“Stick and move, Norman. Stick and move. That’s it,” said Mr. Forte. Chris and Norman circled each other in the center of the garage. They were both stripped to the waist. Norman was half-a-foot shorter and thirty-five pounds lighter than Chris. He looked like a refugee on a crash diet. “Work him to the body, Norman. The body.”
Norman punched wildly. Chris side-stepped and Norman missed. Norman gathered himself and swung again. Chris tried to side-step in the opposite direction, but slipped. On his way to the floor Chris’ face found Norman’s right hand. The right hook connected.
Chris slumped to the concrete.
Norman jumped up-and-down three times.
But not in triumph.
In pain. His right hand throbbed inside his sweaty glove. “I think I broke my hand on your cement-block-head.”
Chris stood and patted Norman, a little too roughly, on the head. “I think you broke my nose.” He laughed and blood-bubbles exploded from his nose.<
br />
“I was aiming for your stomach, Chris.”
“You missed.”
“I know,” said Norman, massaging his right hand. “I know.”
Chapter 17
“You don’t look too bad with a purple nose,” said Norman.
“Thanks,” said Chris. “How’s the hand?”
“Swollen.”
The pair passed by McCormick’s grocery. The patchy fog obscured their view of Kenilworth. Norman stopped. “Go on ahead, Chris.”
“See you in homeroom, Normy.”
Pushing the door open, Norman said, “Morning, Mac.”
Mr. McCormick stood behind a pyramid of apples. “So, Norman, why did the turtle cross the road?”
“Why?”
“To get to the shell station.” Mr. McCormick tossed an apple to Norman, who dropped it. “Not too adept at the National Pastime.”
“I’ve never played baseball.”
“Never? Even an ancient Irishman such as myself has played the game.”
“When?”
“In the Army, during the Korean War.”
“I’ll be finishing the freezer today, after school,” said Norman around a mouthful of apple.
“Take another day, Norman. I know it was an ungodly mess.”
“Have you closed up the outside of the ice chute yet?”
“Indeed I have, Sonny.”
“If I get the stuff I need from Mr. Lewis I can take care of that today; then I’ll finish the freezer tomorrow.”
“That’s the boy.”
“Thanks for the apple, Mac.” Norman tucked his books under his left arm and waved goodbye with the apple.
Clarence Bleeker, Chris, and Norman were gnawing on a meat-like-substance that the cafeteria called Salisbury Steak when Tom Allen approached the table: “Do you losers mind if I borrow Norman for a moment?”
“No,” said Clarence.
Chris glared down his swollen nose at Tom.
“Thank you,” said Tom. “Keep his lunch warm. He’ll be back.”
Tom snaked his arm around Norman and whispered, “In thirty seconds a food fight will break out. That’s when we slip out of this cafeteria. Slowly and calmly, so we don’t attract attention.”
Tom and Norman strolled to the far end of the cafeteria. When Dave Davido flung his Salisbury Steak, Frisbee style, at the sixth grade table Mrs. Fletcher sprinted to the table to stop the food fight before it started.
Too late.
Chris had already scooped up the contents of Norman’s tray and propelled it in the general direction of Dave Davido. The so-called meat fell short of the mark, but assorted vegetables and cornbread bombarded the sixth graders. Tom and Norman slipped out of the cafeteria and sneaked down the corridor to Mr. Davies’ room. Looking left, then right, Tom tried the door. “It’s locked,” said Norman, “we’ll come back later.”
“Not quite, nerd-boy,” said Tom. He extracted a plastic Kenilworth Junior High Student Body Card from his shirt pocket and waved it at Norman. Tom slipped the card between the doorjamb and the lock and yanked the door open. “There ain’t a door in the school I can’t open.” Tom grinned like a vulture over bloody roadkill.
“Cheating on homework is bad enough,” said Norman. “This is breaking and entering.”
“I haven’t broken anything, and you’ll do the entering, so I feel pretty good about it.” Tom pushed Norman into the classroom. “You’ve got about five minutes to steal the test. Don’t get caught. I’d hate to see you get into any trouble, Norman.”
Norman hauled the door silently shut. The classroom had that muffled silence that empty schools, stadiums, and churches possess. The blackboard was scarred with calculations from the previous Algebra class. Mr. Davies’ desk featured books, papers, a half-eaten-donut, and a framed snapshot of his wife and children. Norman had the family portrait in his palm when he heard a key turn in the lock. He replaced the picture as the door opened. Norman darted to the blackboard and began solving a problem left over from the previous class. His heart thumped as he heard footsteps approaching from behind. “Stay cool,” said Norman. “Stay cool.” The footsteps stopped; Norman felt a hand on his left shoulder.
“What did you say, Norman?“
Norman turned to see Mr. Forrester standing behind him. “I said, Stay in school, stay in school.”
“What are you doing in here during lunch hour, eh?”
“Norman gestured at the board, “Algebra.”
“Shouldn’t you be at lunch?” Mr. Forrester tightened his grip on Norman’s shoulder.
“I wasn’t hungry,” said Norman, as his empty stomach rumbled. “And we have a big test tomorrow. Anything wrong with a little extra studying, sir?”
“But the door was locked.”
“Really?” said Norman. “It wasn’t when I opened it. How else could I get in?”
Mr. Forrester squeezed goodbye to Norman’s shoulder and examined the classroom like a detective hunting for the murder weapon. He opened Mr. Davies’ desk drawer and examined the pencils and rubberbands. He tugged at the locked file cabinet drawers. “Get back to the cafeteria, Norman.”
“Okay,” said Norman. He returned the chalk to the tray. “May I stop at my locker first?”
“Sure,” said Mr. Forrester, “but let me write you a hallway pass.” He scribbled on a blue pad of paper.
“Thanks,” said Norman. “I’d hate to get in trouble. Eh?”
From his locker Norman extracted a piece of paper. Across the top was typed: Eighth Grade—Group B.” Two neat rows of problems ran in columns. Three extra-credit problems nestled together at the bottom of the page. Norman kissed the paper, “I may be a coward, but I am not a thief.”
Tom Allen leaned against the far wall, running a hand through his hair repeatedly, as if searching for bugs. Norman handed him the phony test, “Here.”
Tom snatched it, “Careful, you wanna get busted?”
“No. Bye.”
“Where are you going?” Tom latched onto Norman’s belt.
“Algebra class.”
“Not without this.” Tom slipped the fake test back to Norman. “You solve the problems and have the answers tomorrow morning. I need time to make a cheat sheet. And, Normy, if they aren’t the right answers you are dead.”
Norman wanted to tell Tom that he’d have the right answers but to the wrong questions.
Chapter 18
A minute before they were dismissed Mr. Lewis said, “I need three volunteers.”
“Volunteers for what?” asked Mike Caldwell.
Mr. Lewis tapped on the lab table with a glass stirring-rod. “I can’t tell you until you volunteer. But I can promise you substantial extra credit.”
“Okay,” said Mike. “I volunteer.”
“That’s one,” said the science teacher. Mr. Lewis looked hopefully at Norman, who avoided eye contact. Darcy slowly raised her hand, “That’s two,” said Mr. Lewis.
“What’s in it for me?” said Chris.
“Extra credit,” said Mr. Lewis, “and my undying gratitude.”
“Forget the gratitude,” said Chris, “how much extra credit?”
“A substantial amount.”
“Put me in, Coach,” said Chris, “I’m ready to play.”
“That’s three,” said Mr. Lewis. “You three will present your science projects in class tomorrow. If they are mechanical in nature you will demonstrate how they work. If they are research projects you will explain your hypothesis, methods and conclusions. As I recall, Chris, your project is about Industrial Chemistry and Teflon, right?”
The bell sounded, drowning out Chris’ feeble, “Yes.”
As students flooded out of the room, Mr. Lewis said, “Norman, I have something for you.”
Norman fought against the flow of students to the front of the room. “Here’s that powdered sulfur you asked me for.” Mr. Lewis held a white bag at arm’s length. “What a stench, be careful with this stuff. It’ll ruin any fabric it contacts.
”
“Thanks.”
“What do you need that for?”
“A burglar alarm.”
Mr. Lewis nodded. “Remember your friend’s problem?”
“What? Oh, yeah.”
“How’s she doing?”
“Worse. A teacher couldn’t help. Do you know any cops?”
Chris leaned up against Norman’s locker. “I’m sunk,” said Chris. “I need your help.”
“With what?”
My science project. I’ve barely started it and I have to demonstrate it in less than twenty-four hours. What’s that smell?”
“Sulfur,” Norman spun the combination and placed the white bag of stink in the bottom of his locker. “I thought you had it all worked out?”
“I had an idea, but when I tried it I discovered it was impossible. Besides, I’ve been studying English so we don’t flunk.”
“Chris?”
“Yeah?”
“Why’d you open your big mouth and volunteer?”
“I wonder if Mr. Lewis would give me extra credit if I sat in front of the class for an hour and didn’t say anything.”
“You could call it Breaking the Sound Barrier. I don’t think you’d get extra credit, but he’d appreciate it.”
“I need your help, Normy. Tonight.”
“I’ll ask, but you know my mom. She almost didn’t let me out last night.”
“Please?”
“I’ll try,” said Norman, “but it might take a miracle.”
Chris massaged his sore nose. “Please try.” He wandered down the hall to his locker. “Industrial Chemistry and Teflon. I’m dead.” He stopped, banged his head against a locker once, twice, and continued down the hall.
Chapter 19
Norman had finished all but one wall of the freezer.
His hands were red and raw from the strong detergent and he was dizzy from the smell of bleach in the freezer. He climbed down the ladder, dumped the bucket and rinsed the brush. He grabbed his schoolbooks and waited while Mr. McCormick counted change back to a wrinkled old lady in a flowered dress. As she shuffled to the door, Mr. McCormick said, “What can I do for you, Sonny?”
“Two things.” He handed Mr. McCormick the sack of reeking yellow powder. “I hooked up a string harness in the ice chute. Put this bag in the harness. As soon as anyone jostles the harness it opens and drops the sack to the ground. It’s sulfur. It smells terrible, it smells like—”