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“Speaking of hostile invasions,” his father said, his voice low and frustrated, “did you see the article in the paper yesterday about the new King of Hollywood franchise that's going to be opening up nearby? It's an outrage.”

“An outrage? How come?” Fisher blurted, an excited edge to his voice. He loved the restaurant chain, and there hadn't been one in Palo Alto—until now!

“Because of
where
they're putting it,” his father replied. “They bought out a plot on land that was supposed to be undertheprotectionofthestategovernment. They'regoing to be paving over acres of pristine peat marshland.” Fisher's father was one of only a few dozen people who had ever used the word
pristine
to describe a peat marsh. “That is precious land among all of the development around here, and moreover, it is one of the few natural habitats left to the DBYBBD.”

“The what?” said Fisher and his mother simultaneously.

“The double-billed yellow-bellied bilious duck,” he said. Seeing his wife's and son's blank stares, he continued, “It's a very rare species of duck, and most of them have been pushed off the West Coast. If this land is taken away from them, I don't know if the species will be able to survive outside of captivity.” He shook his head. “Once again consumer culture nudges a precious piece of the ecosystem toward its doom.”

The news plunged both of his parents into gloomy meditation, and the Bas family spent the rest of dinner in comparative quiet. But however much Fisher might try and empathize with the plight of the—he had already forgotten the name of the duck—he couldn't help but be pleased by the news of a King of Hollywood opening right in the neighborhood. Their star-shaped spicy fries were the stuff of legend, and Fisher relished the thought of slipping out of school during lunch period, escaping the horrors of his cafeteria, and drowning his sorrows in spicy sauce.

Later that night as Fisher got ready for bed, he selected a small bottle from the hidden cabinet he had built behind his bookshelves.

Secret Ingredients

King of HollywoodSpecial Sauce:

mayonnaise

tobasco

ketchup (good possibility per 3-23 test)

clam juice

garlic?

hot peppers

orange soda

lemon juice

duck fat? (ew)

cheddar cheese

chicken stock

chicken liver (blech!)

white asparagus

red Skittles (maybe

“Mmm,” he said as he swallowed the serum. “Doritos flavored.”

By the time his mother came in to say good night, his skin had broken out in real but entirely cosmetic red dots.

“I think I'm sick, Mom. Maybe contagious. I should stay home tomorrow.”

Mrs. Bas sighed, having seen things like this many times before. She knew Fisher dreaded going to school, and knew just as well that the only way it would get better was for him to buckle down and face it.

“Fisher, you've already been out as many sick days as the school allows. Even if
I
let you stay home, you'd get in trouble with them. I know you're having a hard time, but I promise you, it won't be like this forever. Now get some sleep.” She kissed him on the forehead and walked out.

“There's always college,” Fisher said, a little bit of hope remaining in his voice. “I know I could get into a science program if I applied now. If I went to Stanford, I wouldn't even have to leave home.”

“Fisher, if you feel like you don't fit in now, just imagine how it would be if everyone around you was almost twice your age. College will come soon enough. Besides, tomorrow's Friday. Just one more day and then you'll have the whole weekend to relax. Sleep well, okay? I love you.”

“Love you, too,” Fisher said, and then rolled over next to FP, who was already snoring lightly—no doubt dreaming of open fields, fresh hay, and infinite snacks. Fisher closed his eyes and willed himself to sleep, savoring the precious hours of unconsciousness like the calm before a big, ugly, hormone-warped storm.

CHAPTER 4

Hot air is less dense than cold air and thus rises. Ergo: Gassy Greg's farts must be perfectly room temperature, as they hover and hover, and never disperse.

—Fisher Bas, Scientific Principles and Observations of the Natural World (unpublished)

Fisher leaned carefully over the tank in Mr. Granger's room, scattering food pellets for Einy and Berg. He wished that he were in Mr. Granger's position: home sick. Granger missed almost as many days as Fisher did.

Fisher leaned over the tank and picked up Einstein, holding him gently in one hand and looking into his beady, black eyes as his jittering jaws worked their way through a morsel.

“I don't understand people, Einy. In science, there are rules for everything. But people don't behave according to rules, do they? I have no idea what people are thinking, or what they might do next.” The mouse continued to chew, twitching his nose and brushing Fisher's fingertips with his whiskers. “Sometimes I wish I wasn't so smart. If I were a dumb little thing like you, scurrying around a little box waiting to be fed, I bet I'd be pretty happy. You're happy, aren't you?” Einstein continued to twitch. “Well, enjoy it, Einy. And if you don't see me again, it'll be because I finally reach my pummelings-per-lifetime limit.”

The bell rang sharply, and Fisher, realizing he would be late, slipped the mouse back into the tank and hurried off to debate class.

He opened the door as quietly as he could, but then tripped on someone's backpack, and all the debaters turned their eyes to him. So much for a stealthy entrance.

He slipped into a seat near the middle of the room, next to Amanda Cantrell. Her jade-green eyes blazed right through him when he sat down. Amanda was small, but intense and often intimidating. She captained both the debate and the girls' wrestling teams, and was a lot stronger than she looked.

“Where have you been? You missed the opening arguments,” she said in a hissed whisper.

“I had to feed Mr. Granger's mice,” said Fisher. “He's out sick today.”

“Something you know all about,” she said bitingly, then softened a bit. “I'm sorry, Fisher. We've just been getting our butts kicked so far.”

“What's the topic?”

“The new King of Hollywood, and whether—”

“Whether it's infringing on the territory of a duck with fifty adjectives in its name?”

Amanda looked impressed. She even smiled, just a little. “Yep, that's it. We're on the side of the ducks.” Fisher lent his attention to the current speaker, who was on the pro-restaurant team.

“As you can see clearly on this map of California marshland, there are several other spots around this and sur-rounding counties where the bili … the triple … the, uh, duck, regularly makes its home,” said Trevor Weiss in a nasal voice. Today he was even more buttoned up than usual, and his stiff hairdo was dangerously approaching a pompadour. “Furthermore, as a source of sustenance to humans, especially kids such as ourselves, there can be no denying that the value of a King of Hollywood is immeasurable, and its excellent fry sauce even more so.”

There were subdued exclamations of approval and scattered applause. The two sides went along more or less the same lines, the pro-duck arguments attempting to play on the students' natural feelings toward small, cute animals, and the pro-restaurant arguments appealing to their love of tasty fast food.

Amanda watched the arguments go back and forth like a hawk, keeping careful track of the debate and making furious scribbly notes with her pink pen. When she saw that the debate had reached a standstill, and neither side would alter its strategy, she chose her moment to strike.

Fisher accompanied her to the front of the room, borrowing her pen to take down notes on her concluding argument. Amanda stepped confidently toward the microphone, and even though her head barely cleared the podium, somehow she seemed to fill the room with her presence.

“The team arguing in favor of the King of Hollywood has been happily sidestepping the issue of whether or not it can rightfully occupy the land in question,” she began, and instantly a hush fell on the room. Fisher marveled at Amanda's ability to take control.

“Instead you've all chosen to reiterate again and again the benefits that the franchise will bring,” she went on. “My teammates have been a
little
bit more on topic, but only insofar as playing on sympathy toward the little animals in the marsh, describing their feathers, their family habits, and their daily lives, which even I have to admit are beyond boring.”

Corey Devonshire and Jenny Bits, who had both described the ducks' dietary habits at length, squirmed uncomfortably in their seats. Amanda narrowed her eyes right at them. Corey adjusted the collar on his polo shirt to break eye contact, and Jenny decided to carefully study the wall.

“The issue in question isn't restaurants, and it's not ducks. It's
land
,” Amanda resumed, adjusting her pink headband and allowing herself a small, proud smile. “The land that we are
supposed
to be talking about was signed into protected status by the state legislature ten years ago. That status has not been revoked. It doesn't matter how good the restaurant is. It doesn't matter how many thousands of acres the ducks could still live on. The land, itself, was a part of a transaction that was not sanctioned by law. No commercial interest has any right to it. End of story.”

She strode quickly back to her chair, and Fisher scurried off behind her. The pro-restaurant team looked at one another, and began chattering among themselves and scribbling notes, trying to rethink their tactics.

“Nice job, Amanda,” said Theresa Keller, brushing her red bangs out of her eyes. The rest of the team complimented her. It was obvious she had won the debate for them.

“Good work!” said Fisher, handing her back her pen.

“Thanks. I just need to make a few posters to tell people about the protest I'm going to stage in the parking lot of the new King of Hollywood, and hopefully I'll get at least a decent crowd to—Ew, Fisher, what
is
this?” She was about to scribble a few notes when she let out an exclamation of disgust, holding the pen by its cap as though it were a dead cockroach. The other debate team members crowded around to look. Fisher looked at the pen he had handed back to her, and then down at his own hands, in horror. Both had bits of Einstein's and Heisenberg's droppings all over them. His face turned fire-engine red.

“Remind me not to lend you my toothbrush!” said Jen Keller, giggling.

“It's m-mouse poop!” stuttered Fisher. “I had to feed Granger's mice today!” The other kids were starting to break down into fits of laughter.

“Ugh, and all these little white hairs on here, too,” Amanda said. “Fisher, I'm allerg—” Her words were cut off by a sudden sneeze. She raised her hand, barely able to ask to be excused in between sneezes, and then tore out of the room, sneezing every few steps. Fisher's teammates were still laughing and pointing at him.

At that moment, Fisher wished that he were a rodent himself. He would find a deep, dark hole, burrow into it, and hibernate. Forever.

His day went downhill from there.

He was bumped into by no fewer than four people as he made the long journey to the bathroom to wash his hands, and then four more on the way back to his locker, including Wally Dubel, who sweetened the deal by shoving Fisher into the wall and grunting, “Move it, loser.”

Usually, bricks were a building material but apparently Wally had decided that one would make a good substitute for a brain. Fisher trudged to his locker, trying to distract himself from his dark mood with theorems and mental calculations.

Assuming a rate of naturally selected brain expansion consistent with early
Homo sapiens
development, Wally Dubel's descendants should be able to fit into modern-day society in approximately 134,000 years, assuming the pres
ence of suitable breeding partners, which is unlikely.

On the way to his locker, he glanced up and immediately felt his throat seize and his chest tighten. Veronica Greenwich. The last time he'd seen her had been moments before diving into a shrub. This time, he promised himself, he would actually smile at her. Maybe he would even talk to her.

But the feeling of warmth in Fisher's chest turned to cold revulsion when he saw Veronica was already talking to someone. Chance Barrows.

Chance Barrows, who had a golden aura radiating out from his blond hair. Tall, athletic, with a smile that could make plants grow. Always accompanied by a pack of girls who wanted to be closer to him, and boys who thought that if they stood in his presence they might absorb some of his holy Chance Barrows-ness.

Fisher's stomach twisted as Veronica let out a chiming laugh in response to something Chance had said. Fisher spun around and stormed off in the opposite direction, forgetting all about his locker.

To add insult to injury, with Mr. Granger out sick, Fisher had no choice during lunch but to brave the off-white, leaky-ceilinged, straw-wrapper-strewn wasteland that was the cafeteria. When the time came, he took his place in line between two elbows that reached almost to his head.

He shuffled forward in line, trying to pick out one or two things that looked marginally digestible. He ended up with a turkey sandwich that was about 93 percent bread with a membranous layer of what may at some point in the past have been turkey, some stale chips, and a small carton of chocolate milk.

Fisher looked over the crowded tables, each occupied by one of Fisher's carefully observed and named groups. The Aristocracy sat around the sole round table in the corner with the best windows. They wore clothing that most students' parents couldn't even afford for themselves, the kind with a single European name on the tag. They didn't pick on Fisher for the same reason that they didn't pick on potted plants. This was where people like Chance Barrows sat.

In the middle of the cafeteria was the two-table domain of the Legion. These were the largest athletes, the ones whose mental capacity was even smaller than their necks. Fisher would have to constantly dodge elbows if he sat there.

At the smaller table nearest the door sat the Urchins. They wore torn hoodies and band T-shirts with words like
skeleton
and
witch
in their names. They enjoyed being thought of as delinquents, even though the worst crime any of them had actually committed was putting Krazy Glue on a chalkboard eraser so that it stuck when the teacher tried to use it.

Finally, there was the uneven-legged table by the trash cans. Its sole occupant was Gassy Greg. Of course. The kid was cursed with the world's most troubled digestive tract. But if Fisher was lucky he would be able to sit down, eat, and leave in between Greg's “eruptions.”

He moved toward the table and almost jumped in the air when he caught sight of Leroy the Viking bearing down on him. Fisher braced himself for impact, but Leroy just swiped his chocolate milk. “Trade ya,” he said, putting a carton of the cafeteria's regular, unappetizing, and probably past-expiration milk down in its place.

Fisher let out a small sigh of relief. All things considered, he'd gotten off easy. He took his seat, exchanging mumbled greetings with Greg, and tried to get his teeth to cut into the spongy bread of his sandwich.

Greg, in spite of his volcanic intestines, still sat a little above Fisher on the Wompalog social ladder. His father worked at TechX, and all the kids liked to wonder what he did there all day. Greg was the only Wompalog student who had ever been inside the TechX compound, and he kept what he'd seen to himself, which only made the other kids pay him more attention.