Science Fair (2 page)

ME was short for Manor Estates, a development of giant houses that cost mil ions of dol ars and had more bathrooms than people. Toby knew that, based on the law of averages, there should be at least one Manor Estates kid who was not a total jerk, but so far he had not met that kid.

The ME kids stuck together. Their families vacationed together at ski resorts and in Europe, Hawaii, and any other place where it cost a lot of money to be. On weekends, the ME

kids went together to the mal , where they used their personal credit cards to buy stuff they didn’t need, like cel phones with even more unnecessary features than the cel phones they had bought three months earlier. They wore expensive clothes that were designed to look used. They made fun of kids who wore clothes that real y
were
used.

Such as Toby. For years the ME kids had made fun of his freckled face, his apparent lack of biceps, and his high voice, which had recently begun to break, so that at times he croaked like a frog. But they’d moved on: now it was his clothes.

Toby reached the door to the Gifted Science classroom, took a breath, and went in.

Oh, no.

The ME kids were already there. They sat together, of course, right by the door, so Toby had to walk past them to get to his seat. Today they focused on his shoes, which, for a change, were new. They were a name brand, but not the
right
name brand. This was the kind of fashion error that ME kids, who had brand radar, always spotted immediately.

“Nice sneakers, Hardbonger,” said Jason Niles, who had been cal ing Toby “Hardbonger” since third grade, and stil , after five years, could not get over how hilarious this was. Toby ignored him, partly to send the message that he didn’t care, and partly because Jason Niles was the size of a UPS truck.

“Oooh, Toby,” said Haley Hess, making her voice sound like she thought Toby was cute, which of course she didn’t, because she was Haley Hess. “I
love
them! They’re so…white!

Did your mom get them at Discount Warehouse?”

Toby ignored her also, but his ears turned red, because, first, that’s what always happened when Haley Hess spoke to him, and, second, his mom had, in fact, bought the shoes at Discount Warehouse. The ME kids would go to school dressed only in mud before they would wear clothing purchased from Discount Warehouse.

The ME kids insulted Toby’s sneakers a few more times as he passed, then turned their attention to new victims. Toby slid into his seat at the back, between Micah Porter, who was his best friend, and Tamara Reil ey, who was his best friend for a girl, although Toby tried not to stand next to her too much because she was four inches tal er.

“Morons,” said Micah, whose nose never stopped running, which is why he was known, unfortunately for him, as Mucus.

“Yeah,” said Toby.

“I don’t see why everybody says Haley Hess is so hot,” said Tamara. “Do you think she’s hot, Toby?”

“No,” said Toby, lying.

“Of
course
he thinks she’s hot,” said Micah. “She’s a moron, but she
is
hot. She’s a hot moron.”

“I think she looks like Kim Possible,” said Tamara, whose name had never been used in the same sentence with hot.

“Exactly,” said Micah. He noticed that Toby and Tamara were both staring at him. “What? You don’t think Kim Possible’s hot?”

“Please shut up,” said Toby, who said this often to Micah.

The bel rang, and in walked the Gifted Science teacher, Mr. Neckstrom, a smal , nervous-looking man with hair that grew unnatural y far down his forehead, threatening to merge with his eyebrows. He wore khaki pants and a brown shirt with large, permanent-looking wet spots under each arm.

“Al right, settle down,” he said. “Haley, stop texting and put away that phone.”

“Sure,” said Haley, continuing to text.

Mr. Neckstrom turned away so he didn’t have to see her ignoring his order. “Al right,” he said to the class. “It’s March first. Do you know what that means?”

“It’s time for your monthly shower?” said one of the ME kids, just loud enough so everybody could hear, but just soft enough that Mr. Neckstrom could pretend he didn’t hear, which was what he usual y did when an ME kid said something. He had learned, as most teachers had, that it was better not to mess with ME kids, because if you did, you had to answer to their parents. And nobody wanted to do that.

The ME parents had money and power. They could have sent their children to private school; if they lived anywhere else, they would have. But it happened that Hubble Middle School was the best middle school in Maryland, and it fed its students into Spiro T. Agnew High School, which sent more of its graduates to Ivy League col eges than any other school in the United States. It was the best, and the parents of Manor Estates demanded the best.

So their children attended Hubble, and every one of them got into the Gifted Program. This was not because they were al gifted; Jason Niles, for example, had the IQ of a zucchini.

No, the ME kids al got into Gifted because it was the best program, so the ME parents made sure their children were in it. They did this in various ways—sometimes by making generous donations to the school; sometimes by threatening lawsuits, or worse. Some of the ME parents held powerful positions in the federal government, and they knew how to threaten. The teachers at Hubble did not want to mess with them or their children, and so Mr. Neckstrom pretended not to hear the remark about his monthly shower.

“March first,” he reminded, “is the first day to register for the science fair. And thanks to the generosity of Mr. Swingle, first prize this year wil be…” He paused, noting with pleasure that al of the students were paying attention. Haley Hess had actual y stopped texting.

“…five thousand dol ars,” said Mr. Neckstrom.

The classroom erupted with a chorus of
whoa
s. Even the ME kids were impressed by the prize amount, which was double the previous year’s $2,500. The prize money came from a bil ionaire Hubble alumnus, Lance Swingle, who had started a hugely successful company, TranScent, based on a system he invented for sending smel s over the Internet. Swingle credited his success in part to the scientific education he got at Hubble Middle. In gratitude, he donated a generous cash prize each year to be given to the winner of the science fair.

His goal, he said, was to create an interest in science.

What he had actual y created was a near-maniacal interest in winning first prize. The Hubble science fair was
very
competitive. You did not win by hooking a flashlight bulb up to a battery to show how an electrical circuit works. No, to win the Hubble Middle School science fair, you had to do something real y impressive. For example, the winner two years ago had built a robot that could do professional-quality French manicures. The winner last year had created, through genetic manipulation, a mutant gerbil with an extra pair of eyebal s located on its butt, so it could go through a maze either frontward or backward.

Both of these winners had been students from Manor Estates. In fact, every year since Lance Swingle had started offering cash prizes, the Hubble science fair had been won by an ME kid. They didn’t need the prize money; sometimes they didn’t even seem al that knowledgeable about their own projects. But they always won.

It was widely believed among the rest of the Hubble students that the kids from Manor Estates cheated. The teachers had their suspicions as wel . In fact, six years ago, a veteran science teacher named Mrs. Feeney had gone so far as to reject a project brought in by an ME student, Taylor Niles, who happened to be the older brother of Jason Niles. Taylor claimed that he had made, al by himself, a powerful handheld laser. Mrs. Feeney doubted this, because—among other things—Taylor didn’t know how to spel “laser.” Taylor’s father, as it happened, was a very important man in Washington. Within a week, Mrs. Feeney had been transferred to another school. On her last day at Hubble, she went out to the parking lot to discover that somebody had burned twenty-seven smal circular holes through the steel body of her car. She was replaced at Hubble by Mr. Neckstrom, who never questioned anybody’s science-fair project.

“Five thousand dol ars,” said Micah, as Mr. Neckstrom walked around the classroom, passing out the science-fair entry forms. “If I had that kind of money, I could—”

“You could wake up,” said Tamara, “because you’d be dreaming.
You’re
not gonna win. One of
them
is gonna win.” She nodded toward the ME kids.

“She’s right,” said Toby. “We don’t have a chance.” As he spoke, Jason Niles turned around and looked at him.

“Hey, Hardbonger,” he cal ed. “When I win the five grand, maybe I’l buy you some decent shoes.”

“If you win,” answered Toby, “maybe I’l explain your project to you.”

A bunch of kids laughed, including even some ME kids. Jason reddened, giving Toby a look that said:
You’ll be sorry you said that
.

Toby knew he should have kept his mouth shut. But he was angry. Five thousand dol ars meant nothing to Jason Niles’s family, but it would mean the world to Toby’s.

Especial y now.

“I got an idea,” said Micah.

“Uh-oh,” said Tamara.

“No, real y,” said Micah. “I’m gonna win it this year.”

“How?” said Toby.

Micah lowered his voice. “I’m gonna levitate a frog,” he said.

Tamara shook her head sadly. “So young,” she said, “and already on drugs.”

“No, real y,” said Micah. “I read about it in Wikipedia. These Dutch scientists made a frog float in the air. It’s cal ed dia…diamagnetism. You just need a frog and a magnet.”

“He’s insane, right?” Tamara asked.

“Actual y, no,” said Toby. “Some guys did levitate a frog. But you need, like, a superpowerful magnet.”

“So, Micah,” said Tamara, “do
you
have a superpowerful magnet?”

“No,” said Micah.

“I see,” said Tamara.

“But I have a frog,” said Micah. “His name is Fester.”

Tamara turned to Toby and said, “He has a frog.”

“Wel , then,” said Toby. “He’s halfway there.”

I
T WAS LUNCHTIME
in the Hubble Middle School cafeteria, and Toby, Tamara, and Micah were sitting at the same table they always sat at, with the same kids they always sat with. At tables al around them several hundred other students were doing the same thing.

Tamara examined the cafeteria’s featured lunch entrée, which consisted of yel owish brown lumps.

“The menu says they’re nuggets,” she said. “But it doesn’t say what
kind
of nuggets.”

“Chicken,” said Micah. He bit into one. “I think.”

“Then why doesn’t the menu
say
chicken?” said Tamara. “For al we know it’s squirrel nuggets.”

“If it’s squirrel,” said Micah, chewing, “it’s not bad.”

“Maybe,” said David Wemplemeyer, whose nickname was Brad Pitt Wemplemeyer because he looked absolutely nothing whatsoever like Brad Pitt, “they don’t say what kind of nugget because there’s no meat at al . Maybe it’s just a blob of fried grease, a pure nugget, uncontaminated by food of any kind.”

“Or maybe,” said Jennifer “Pencil” Wenzel—known as Pencil Wenzel, because she was very skinny, a redhead, and always wore yel ow—“food scientists have created a new genetic mutant species of animal that’s actual y cal ed a ‘nugget.’ It’s this little hairless blob of meat that has no head or feet or anything, so it’s real easy to prepare. You just hit it with a hammer and pop it into the fryer.”

Everyone laughed except Tamara.

“I hear,” said Brad Pitt Wemplemeyer, “that they’re working on an improved nugget species that you don’t even have to hit with a hammer. You just whistle, and it rol s into the fryer on its own.”

“That’s disgusting,” said Tamara.

“Wel , you’re the one who’s eating it,” said Brad Pitt Wemplemeyer.

“Speaking of disgusting,” said Micah, “what’s your lunch today, Toby?”

Toby was peering into a paper bag. His mom always packed his lunch. His parents believed cafeteria food was unhealthy. In fact, as a general rule they believed that any food humans enjoyed was unhealthy. On Hal oween, they gave out carrot sticks. The day after Hal oween, there were discarded carrot sticks al over their lawn and usual y toilet paper on their house.

Toby reached into the bag and pul ed out something wrapped in a paper towel. He unwrapped it and, sighing, set it in front of him.

Micah leaned over to have a look.

“Toby,” he said, “did your mom send the wrong bag? Because that looks like a stool sample for the vet.”

“It’s a tofu enchilada,” said Toby. Toby’s mom believed that tofu had a near-miraculous ability to masquerade as any other kind of food—that if a lump of tofu was
shaped
like something, it would also
taste
like that thing. Thanksgiving in Toby’s house was a nightmare.

He was about to attempt to eat his tofu enchilada when he felt something cold and slimy land on his neck, fol owed by laughter from the Manor Estates kids’ table.

He did not turn around.

“What is it?” he said.

The others examined his neck.

“Yogurt,” said Pencil Wenzel. “Peach, I think.”