The Final Exam (15 page)

“No! I’m a vegetarian! I love animals. They’re my best friends! Just ask Macaroni! Actually, he doesn’t speak English. But if he did, he would tell you I love animals!”

“You hate animals! It’s written all over your face,” Basmati answered Theo.

“What? No! That’s just my natural expression. I swear,” Theo replied nervously. “Did I mention I volunteer at a squirrel-cide hotline? I talk suicidal squirrels off the ledge. Would an animal hater do that?”

“Chunk, get a grip,” Lulu muttered quietly to Theo.

“Okay, maybe I made that last part up, but I really do love animals. I would never hurt Toothpaste. As a matter of fact, I’m not leaving here until I rescue him. Toothpaste is the Lindbergh baby of our generation!”

“That is a dreadful analogy, Theo. The Lindbergh baby died,” Madeleine explained morbidly.

“Fine, then he’s our Patty Hearst!”

“Who’s Patty Hearst?” Garrison asked.

“Patty Hearst is an heiress who was kidnapped,
brainwashed, and forced to take part in a bank robbery. She subsequently went to prison but was eventually freed and pardoned. Now, while Patty lived, I must disagree with this analogy as well. I highly doubt Toothpaste is being brainwashed and trained for larceny.”

“Would you stop with the historical facts? The important thing is that my inner activist is back! Free Toothpaste! Free Toothpaste! Free Toothpaste! Free Toothpaste!” Theo chanted animatedly.

“Chubby, have you completely forgotten about saving School of Fear? We don’t have time to rescue Toothpaste! We need to rescue ourselves,” Mrs. Wellington snapped in disbelief.

Basmati gazed intently at the School of Fearians, looking each and every one of them over before closing his eyes. After a few seconds, he opened his eyes and began humming rather loudly. This was a most unusual sort of humming, as it was fast-paced and frenetic in style, almost operatic. The School of Fearians watched with perplexed expressions as Basmati then began conducting himself, waving his arms rapidly back and forth as his humming reached a crescendo.

“He’s actually pretty good; I would totally hire him
for a party or bar mitzvah or something,” Theo mumbled to Madeleine as the odd man finished.

Mrs. Wellington watched Basmati closely, unsure how to interpret his musical interlude. After all, it certainly wasn’t every day that a man broke into a humming opera in the middle of a conversation. But for Basmati, humming was a means of clearing his mind before making an important decision.

“If you promise to bring back Toothpaste, I’ll handle your stepson,” Basmati announced unemotionally while staring at Mrs. Wellington.

The old woman turned and assessed Theo, Lulu, Garrison, Madeleine, and Hyacinth. They were the strongest students she had ever had, and as such she trusted them implicitly.

“I give you my word: we will find Toothpaste and bring him home.”

T
he sleeping arrangements at the Contrary Conservatory proved exceptionally limited due to the high number of guests and peculiar use of space. Much like the first floor, the second floor had a bevy of bizarre rooms, such as the Greenhouse for Dead Plants, the Brightly Lit Dark Room, and the Reverse Tanning Booth for Turning People Pale. However, nowhere in the entire residence was there a single bedroom. As he had his whole life, Basmati slept in a bathtub, considering cold
porcelain to be the height of comfort. With this in mind, it was hardly a surprise that he had sent the Contrarians to sleep on the old wooden pews in the Atheist’s Church.

After much hemming and hawing, Basmati finally decided upon the School of Fearians’ sleeping quarters. He placed Mrs. Wellington in the Greenhouse for Dead Plants, Abernathy and Schmidty in the attic, and the children in the basement. His logic was as follows: Mrs. Wellington was so old she could go at any second, and if she did in fact die, the greenhouse would be the perfect place to store her body. As for Schmidty and Abernathy, the attic possibly contained a bunk bed suitable for the duo, but most important, there was little of value up there to break. (Basmati was concerned that Schmidty’s portly frame could do damage to some of the house’s more delicate items.) Lastly, Basmati offered the children the choice of either the Hospital for Spreading Contagious Diseases or the basement, two rooms he deemed capable of handling the wear and tear of children and animals. Rather understandably, as no one was interested in contracting a contagious disease, the children thought the basement a better bet.

After bidding good night to the others, Mrs. Wellington
made her way to the greenhouse. The glass-encased room, filled with hot, dry air, was designed to literally dehydrate plants to death. Overflowing with mounds of brown foliage and dried flowers, the dreary space did not contain one stick of furniture. So, after lying on the hard floor and finding herself unable to sleep, Mrs. Wellington grabbed a few dead plants to use as cushions. And while the slight pricks of the thorns did not bother her, the incessant crinkling drove her mad. The noise conjured up images of Macaroni gobbling kibble, saliva spraying everywhere. As much as Mrs. Wellington loved Macaroni, she loathed the sound of him eating.

Situated directly next to the greenhouse was a copper-plated elevator on the verge of dilapidation. This was the sole means of accessing the attic. Fatigued after a long’s day journey, Schmidty and Abernathy halfheartedly shoved their bodies into the narrow cart and closed the cagelike door. While the elevator sputtered toward the attic, Schmidty’s tremendous polyester-clad stomach pressed awkwardly against Abernathy’s side. It was a most unfortunate scenario, as Schmidty was nearly as sensitive about his stomach as he was about his comb-over. Regardless of what he told Theo, he too was
ashamed of his protruding midsection. For this reason, he had long pulled his black slacks up to his armpits, desperate to create an optical illusion.

Eager to escape the close confines of the elevator, both Schmidty and Abernathy darted out upon reaching the attic, where they were greeted by an impenetrable wall of debris. Broken furniture, boxes, and much more created a daunting obstacle between them and the bunk beds they’d been more or less promised. (Basmati had confirmed and refuted the existence of the bed more times than either Schmidty or Abernathy could count.)

“This reminds me of when you were a boy, and I would search the grounds of Summerstone for you,” said Schmidty to Abernathy. “Sometimes it took hours to track you down, but when I did, you always smiled, and then I couldn’t stay mad at you. Do you remember those days?”

“Of course. You were always so kind to me… not like
her,
” Abernathy squeaked, digging through the rubble of the attic.

“Oh, it wasn’t all bad with Madame; don’t you remember when she took you to the circus? You were so fond of that monkey—what was his name?”

“Garfunkle. And I wasn’t fond of him, Schmidty, I was handcuffed to him.”

“Yes, now that you mention it, that does sound familiar. Of course, Madame was only trying to stop you from running away. She knew you wouldn’t get far with a monkey on your arm.”

“Schmidty, do you recall how that night ended?”

“With ice cream sundaes in the kitchen?”

“Garfunkle tried to kiss me!”

“Perhaps this wasn’t the best memory to bring up, although in Garfunkle’s defense, you had spent the whole night together; he might have thought it was a date.”

“I don’t blame Garfunkle, I blame
her.
She’s the one who stole my father and ruined everything,” Abernathy muttered in a most resentful and childlike manner.

“You seem to forget that your father fell in love with Madame as much as she did with him…” Schmidty trailed off as he ineffectively tried to move a large brown box from his path.

At that moment Abernathy was grateful to be hidden between an old dresser and a trash bag full of clothes. Pain contorted his face as he processed Schmidty’s
words. The same alarming, yet logical, thought had slipped into his mind many times over the years. And on each occasion, Abernathy found it too agonizing to even entertain. He had built his life upon the premise that his father was good and his stepmother was bad, and he had no intention of reevaluating the notion now.

“I found it!” Abernathy called out, slowly advancing toward the child-sized bunk beds with linens dating from World War II.

“Excellent, Mister Abernathy. I shall be there in twelve to fifteen minutes,” Schmidty said as he assessed the mountain of wreckage separating the two of them.

With his body throbbing from mental and physical exhaustion, Abernathy collapsed onto the bottom bunk. Spending time with his stepmother, surviving a plane crash, and confronting his worst fear about his father made for a terribly overwhelming day. As a matter of fact, by the time Schmidty finally found the beds, Abernathy was fast asleep. Regrettably, this meant Schmidty had to take the top bunk, a most dangerous scenario for all involved.

While Schmidty attempted to sleep, his portly frame bowing mere inches above Abernathy, the students made
their way to their subterranean sleeping quarters. The basement’s walls were lined with splintered wooden slats, rusted pipes, and clusters of wild brown and white mushrooms.