The Perpetual Motion Club (2 page)

“Remember, college is only three years away for you. It’s almost too late to think about it.”

Hearing these ominous words, the sophomores bobbed their heads. They knew there was no escaping the competitive hell that college admissions was going to be.

The bell rang.

Elsa jumped up and shoved her PrenticeReader into her backpack and then swung the bag over her shoulder. Filled to the brim with half a dozen old-fashioned library books on Newton, Pascal, and Da Vinci too unpopular to translate to eInk, the pack overbalanced momentarily.

May stepped over to help adjust it. “You’re going, aren’t you?” she whispered.

“I suppose,” Elsa answered out loud. “Why not?”

“You’re probably already invited.”

“Maybe.”

“You are, I knew it,” May said. She issued an oath to Rhiannon of the Moon as she followed Elsa to the doorway.

Mr. Brown called after them. “I hope you’re coming tonight, Elsa.”

Elsa stopped and turned. “I’ll have to ask my mom,” she said. May continued to the hallway.

“Do you want me to talk to her?” Mr. Brown said.

“No, no,” Elsa called over her shoulder as she exited the room, hoping no one noticed he was talking especially to her.

May waited for her in the crowded hallway. Up above her on the wall the Jetstream sign was emitting an electronic buzz as it scrolled the red letters of its name one letter at a time and then the whole word on/off: Jetstream! Jetstream! Jetstream! a few times before returning to the scrolling letters. On the opposite wall, an equally obnoxious blue sign spelled out “Twinkies” in exactly the same scrolling way the Jetstream sign had done.

The various smaller signs situated around the two biggies struggled for attention but were overshadowed by the big guns of JeTech and Hostess.

The flashing lights lit up May’s mostly white dusted face, imparting a color that would look like an unearthly glow on anyone else but on May looked normal.

“Of course you’re going to go,” she said when Elsa joined her. “You’d be a jerk not to. You can put it on your resume.”

“My resume. Big deal. My mom says that’s just a tool for keeping the underprivileged down. Besides, what does a Science Society do, sit around and talk about DNA? How macabre.”

“Who cares. You’ll get into a totally slice school.”

Elsa slitted her eyes, “Who says I’m going to school?”

For a second, May stopped and sucked in her breath. Then she grinned. “Oh, I get it. You’re doing that free will thing. I thought you were over that.” She shrugged. “You know what they say: ‘An it harm none, do what ye will.’ Anyway, I got gym now. Talk about macabre. I gotta go.”

“Yeah. Do what ye will: hide in the bleachers. Maybe you won’t get picked.”

“Anyway, the moon’s waxing this week, might be okay,” May called as she turned down the corridor towards East Wing. Her witchly garments flowing white and diaphanous along gave her the look of a spectre floating down the hall.

Elsa watched her for a few seconds with a half smile at the thought of May praying to the goddesses for help in dodgeball. She remembered her own destiny with gerunds in fifth period English and turned to be on her way.

At the same moment, a very tall and very new student of the male variety, striding to his own next class in the opposite direction, ran directly into her.

Elsa was not a born pretty girl. Not ugly, she was merely plain in the old-fashioned sense. In other words, she never wore Tommy or DKNY or anybody that anybody had ever heard of. The usual sponsors—Seventeen, Clearasil, Newport—had never approached her with a sponsorship. She had no brand-bling. Unless the Penn State sweatshirt was always wore counted, which it didn’t, because Penn State wasn’t sponsoring her; she’d bought the shirt at Sears. At any rate, there was not much for the tall, new boy to consider when he ran her over. So naturally he did not consider her at all.

“Mmph,” he said, in way of apology before moving on to the drinking fountain without breaking his stride.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Elsa said, sprawled on the floor on her back with the voluminous pack holding her down. She struggled silently, like a turtle trying to right itself. Too proud to call for help from the stranger who had knocked the inconsequential sophomore down, she rocked ineffectually back and forth.

“Elsa,” Mr. Brown said, coming to her rescue. He’d been standing outside his classroom greeting his fifth period students during Elsa’s mishap. He stood over her now, reaching down and pulling her to her feet.

“What happened?” he asked.

“I fell,” she answered, pulling her braids out of her face and her Penn State sweat shirt down over her pants. The bag listed to her left and hung off her shoulder. Mr. Brown righted it for her.

What Elsa felt just at that moment as she adjusted herself was unlike anything she’d ever experienced before. Something to do with colors. Brighter. The veins in Mr. Brown’s eyes took on a red—no purplish!—hue, matching those in his paper thin nose. The floor tiles, faded from years of stampeding faculty and student body, shone white and set off the none-so-black steel classroom doors to a practical shout.

In Elsa’s mind, the colors of the hallway and Mr. Brown’s nose screamed, even overpowering the blinking Coke and Nike ads hanging from the ceiling and the Jestream and Twinkies signs on the walls. In the instant of time Mr. Brown picked her up off the floor, Elsa’s dating hormones had, for the first time ever, kicked in.

“Who’s that?” she asked. Her head slowly swiveled from Mr. Brown to the retreating tall, new boy who was by now getting a drink at the fountain outside the girls restroom.

“Him?” Mr. Brown’s narrow nostrils opened over his mustache and then closed down again. “Jason Bridges. New kid, recruited for the basketball team from Crosstown.”

She turned to Mr. Brown. “Did you invite him to the Science Society meeting?”

“Him?” Mr. Brown stifled a laugh.

“Excuse me,” Elsa called after Jason Bridges, who was now heading off to his reading class following his slurp at the water fountain. She took five paces toward him. “Have you been invited to the Science Society meeting?”

“’Scuse me?” Jason Bridges said, turning to see what little thing was seeking an audience with him.

He wore an Air Jordan sweat shirt, Nike sweat pants, and Converse sneakers. An Adidas pro bag hung from his shoulder. He was indeed very tall and basketball-player-like. Except his features were not exaggerated in the way of the heavy-boned types that usually played the sport. His nose: aquiline and symmetrical, his lips: romantic and full, his eyes: clear and brown; his cheekbones: Native American. In short, Jason Bridges was a doll.

“The . . . ” Elsa said, and then stopped as the magnificence of the boy hit her.

Jason Bridges turned and moved forward.

“Society Society,” Elsa shouted at his back, frightening herself with her aggression.

“Huh?” Jason Bridges stopped and swiveled his head ever so slightly toward the pesky inquisitor.

“I mean, the Science Society.” Elsa said, calmer, quieter. “It meets tonight. It’ll be totally slice.”

Jason half-smiled. “Yeah, sure,” he said not meaning it for a minute. As he turned away again and resumed his walk to class, he forgot she even existed.

But Elsa remembered. She skipped past Mr. Brown, who stood and chewed his lip while staring at an area in the hall where the spectacle had taken place.

“Yeah, I’m coming,” she stated as she passed him by.

Underneath his mustache, his lips gave up a little quivering smile, half upper lip curl and half consternation before turning to his fifth period responsibility.

Elsa just made it into Room 105 down the hall before the bell. She slid into her seat behind Johnnie Williams who turned and sneered at the bump and noise of her entrance. Elsa glared as best she could, but couldn’t quite carry it off through the smile spreading across her face.

CHAPTER THREE

“Elsa, pull that device out of your ear. No music at the table.”

“It’s not music. It’s a lecture on statics.”

“Oh great. You’re listening to some talking head while we’re having dinner together?”

“First off, Mom, you were in la la land yourself. I don’t know what you were thinking about but it didn’t have anything to do with the here and now, and second—”

“I’m tired. Long day and—”

“Second. I aced first year Mind Splitting. Remember? I can hold two thoughts in my head at the same time. One to—”

“Take it out. Please.”

Elsa popped the waxy receiver out of her ear and stowed it politely under the rim of her plate.

The microwave spoke. “Your” (pause as it inserted the proper meal name) “macaroni and cheese” (pause again as it resumed the generic portion of the statement) has completed its cool down cycle. You may now safely remove the plate.”

An electronic ding followed the statement just in case the diners were not yet in the room and couldn’t hear the message.

Elsa clicked the front panel open, extracted the bowl, and plopped a couple serving spoonfuls onto her mother’s plate. She gave herself a couple as well and then placed the bowl in the center of the table before sitting down.

No conversation ensued for a full five mintues as Lainie Webb returned to la la land and Elsa tried to figure out how to get the iHigh receiver back in her ear without Lainie Webb noticing. Finally she gave up and opted for conversation. “There’s a Science Society meeting that I need to go to tonight,” she said.

Lainie had been absorbed in trying to decide if she really wanted to go to her own meeting of the Left Wing Think Tank (LWTT). Was it worth it to go and rehash the ills of society? Sure the jukebox had a full stock of classic punk rock and there’d be a stiff Bloody Mary from the bar, but . . .

She blinked her eyes and looked up from her food. “Oh?” she said. She wore a babushka to keep the stray hairs out of her face. Unfortunately a few curly tendrils had escaped and were dangling from her forehead.

“Yeah, I guess I should try and get something for my resume,” Elsa said.

“Sure, that’s a good idea,” Lainie said, tucking a hair under the scarf. Whatever you want. Your future is—”

“Up to me, I know.”

“Well,” Lainie shook her head slightly and looked at her daughter. “What’s it about?”

“I don’t know. They’re inviting sophomores that show promise . . . ” Elsa rolled her eyes and then continued, “ . . . to a meeting to see if we’d like to join.”

“That show promise?” Lainie rolled her eyes, then turned serious, a slightly comical look with the unkempt hair and stale makeup that the end of a trying-day gives you. “You have to go.”

“Yeah, well, the whole thing seems elitist to me. Just macabre.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. You’re talented, Elsa. You should capitalize on that.”

“I don’t know if I like science.”

“You always get A’s.”

“Doesn’t mean I like it. And just because someone gets A’s doesn’t mean they show promise. You always said that the grading system was a farce and rewarded kids for the wrong things, for memorizing answers and regurgitating facts. It doesn’t reward creativity. There’s more than one answer to a—”

“Yeah, but believe me, after twenty years of working with disadvantaged people, I’ll tell you one thing: if someone offers you an advantage, grab it.” Lainie scratched at the back of her head with the hand that held the fork. A piece of macaroni fell to the floor. “You go to that science think tank meeting tonight, and you join. Get it on your resume. Get it bronzed: ‘Elsa Webb shows promise.’” She dropped her fork on the plate. Done.

Elsa stood and picked up her mother’s plate. “Oh, Mom, you are such a disappointment,” she said with a theatrical lisp.

“Yeah, yeah,” Lainie answered, rolling her head around and stretching her shoulders, still deciding on the night’s activities. She stood and kicked her chair back into place. She noticed the piece of macaroni on the floor and reached over for a paper towel to clean it up. “Leave a plate in the microwave for Dad,” she said. “I’ll be gone when he gets home. I’ve got a
thing
of my own.” She emphasized “thing” as if it was a burden. A cross, like Elsa’s Science Society meeting, to bear.

She tossed the piece of paper towel to the garbage chute which answered with a “thank you,” and then she headed for the bathroom, pulling her blob of red hair out of the babushka. At the doorway she stopped and turned. “By the way, I was talking to Mrs. Bacomb this morning.”

Here we go again
, Elsa thought. She dreaded what was coming next. Something glowing about Jimmy no doubt. Lainie thought Jimmy was slice and loved repeating conversations with his mother in the hopes that her feelings would rub off on Elsa. She harbored an inane belief that friendship with Jimmy rounded out Elsa’s subversive edges. She was well aware that Elsa thought Jimmy was macabre. Lainie probably felt sorry for him and so put forth testimony on Jimmy’s validation whenever she had the slightest chance to do it.

Out loud Elsa said, “Yeah?”

“Yeah, she said there’s a new movement afoot.”

Lainie said “afoot,” like out of an English novel. She was dramatic in that way. Sort of a dreamer. Good hearted but nutty in an exasperating way at times.