by M. E. Castle
Eventually, she began to notice the differences between the two boys, though, forcing Fisher to reveal Two’s existence to her. He’d also made her swear not to reveal his existence to anyone else, and she clearly resented the fact that her boyfriend was Fisher’s deepest secret.
Despite her misgivings, she’d helped him find Two in LA, and fight Dr. X when he had reemerged. He hoped she did trust him, because he had to trust her. She was the only person besides him and the Granger brothers who knew that Two existed. Admittedly, GG McGee and Kevin Keels had seen Fisher and Two together, but they had likely mistaken them for twins. For that matter, Dr. Devilish probably had, too. Fisher wasn’t too concerned about them. Together, they had an intellect slightly more impressive than a tulip’s.
“Hi, Fisher.”
He turned around at the sound of Veronica Greenwich’s voice, and his heart instantly responded by rocketing into his throat. She wore a long black dress with a pleated skirt, accented by a silver necklace and earrings. Her wheat-gold hair was swept into an elegant bun.
None of this consciously registered to him, of course. He simply saw the loveliest sight he’d ever seen, and acted accordingly. That is, he opened his mouth to say hello back and only a sound like a tiny leak in a steam pipe emerged.
“Pretty dumb decorations, aren’t they?” she said. Without waiting for him to respond, she said, “Dance?”
“Dance …,” Fisher said, still having trouble getting his chugging brain up to speed, “with you?”
“No, Fisher, I’m asking on that seahorse-camel’s behalf. She was too shy to ask you herself,” she said, smiling.
“Oh … er …”
“Yes, with me! Come on!” She reached out and took his hand, gently pulling him to the middle of the dance floor.
Fisher pretended to stumble as he walked, and struck his left heel sharply against the floor. This activated his newest invention: the iGotRhythm Dynamic Automated Dancing Shoes. His footwear, which appeared to be ordinary black dress shoes, contained sophisticated electronic equipment and powerful magnetic motors. Their built-in microphones could detect even a subtle beat, and the motors in the shoes would then force his feet to move in time to the music and in a style appropriate to the music’s tempo and rhythm.
At least, that was what had happened when Fisher had tested the shoes in the solitude of his own room. Here on a crowded, noisy dance floor, they would be put through their first field test.
The first song was slow enough that Fisher could get used to the way that the shoes pulled and pushed at his feet. He took Veronica’s right hand in his left and rested his right hand on her hip.
She smiled at him as they moved smoothly along the floor. So far, the shoes were a complete success. His feet moved perfectly with the music and didn’t bump into hers once. He hoped the second invention he had brought—a small pocket fireworks display, which he intended to show her in the school’s athletic field after the dance was over—worked just as well.
Veronica glanced over Fisher’s shoulder.
“I’m kind of surprised that FP isn’t here, inhaling the buffet and swimming in the punch bowl,” she said with a grin.
“I learned a little bit from the LA trip,” Fisher responded easily. Now that his body was moving with grace and fluidity, it was much easier to get his voice under control. “He’s no longer invited to parties.”
“Good thinking,” she said as he carefully attempted to spin her. He succeeded, to his surprise. Veronica giggled.
“So,” he said cautiously, “has there been any news on Kevin Keels lately?”
Veronica blushed. She’d gotten caught up in the fervor surrounding the young pop star. Then someone had leaked a video of Keels actually singing—not just lip-synching while he swiveled across the stage—and that fervor had collapsed like an elephant on toothpick stilts.
“Last I heard, he was going back to school with his head hung low,” said Veronica. She shook her head and smiled. “I’m still kicking myself for going so crazy over him. Even if he had been a real singer, I was being so ridiculous! I expect better of myself.”
“We all do ridiculous things,” Fisher said. “You hold yourself to a high standard. I admire that.” He could hardly believe that such a well-constructed sentence had come out of his mouth. He had never spoken this many words to Veronica before. And those words he had spoken hadn’t really been spoken so much as blurted like a baboon being punched in the stomach.
Veronica opened her mouth to respond when the song changed. And the new song was very, very fast.
Fisher felt the shoes start a simple pattern, but they paused briefly, and he felt a faint click near his left big toe. That meant the onboard (or in-shoe) computer was making a decision.
Unfortunately, that decision turned out to be a blazing tango.
The shoes carved a trail along the floor with Fisher in tow. Fisher could barely hang on to Veronica. They went forward and backward as he took powerful, sharp steps. He led her all around the dance floor, and the other couples parted and stepped back to watch.
He was even able to execute a few turns and spins. When the number ended with a dip, his short arms strained for the leverage to support her as she leaned back, her head a foot from the floor.
Fisher pulled Veronica back upright when the next song began. Sweat beaded and trailed down his forehead as the kids around them clapped.
“Wow, Fisher,” Veronica said, out of breath. “I had no idea you were such a dancer.”
“I … didn’t, either,” he said. He was totally exhausted but at least he hadn’t made an idiot of himself. “I … think I’m going to try some of that punch.”
Veronica nodded. “I see a friend of mine in the corner. I’m going to say hi. Meet you there?”
Fisher nodded, smiled, and tapped his heel on the floor again. But instead of powering down the motor, the shoes switched to a waltz, and he was forced to execute a little one-two-three, one-two-three off the dance floor. He grabbed a table with both hands and hit his heel harder. This time, the shoes stopped.
He reached the punch and immediately downed three cups of the red-orange concoction before his breathing slowed to normal. He leaned against the wall, searching the crowd for Veronica. The gym was completely packed.
Instead, he saw Two, still wearing the duck costume, climbing up onto the stage next to the DJ. Two wrestled off the mascot head. Fisher dropped his fourth cup of punch and ducked behind the nearby bleachers.
What was Two thinking?!
The DJ tossed Two a mic, then scratched the disk a few times and lay down a hip-hop beat. Two bobbed his head along and held the mic up to his face.
“The Wompalog duck don’t fly south for wint-a!
You don’t know what’s up, lemme give you a hint-a!
Double billed, double skilled, rhymin’ cup is overfilled,
Bilious, but still-ius, my quacking is the shrill-ius.
The Wompalog duck got no time to dawdle!
The fowl step aside when he starts to waddle!
Our yellow-bellied champion is always fightin’ for us,
DJ! You take over, ’cause I ain’t got a chorus.”
The kids shouted and screamed as the DJ kept the beat going. Two pumped his arm to the rhythm for a few seconds more and then stepped off the stage, slipping into the crowd with the mascot head hanging in his right hand. Kids started flowing onto the dance floor, amped up from Two’s rap, and Fisher saw his chance. Before anyone could reach Two to congratulate him, Fisher made a dash across the gym and yanked Two into a dark hallway.
“What in the world do you think you’re doing?” Fisher said, furious. Everything had started off so well.
“I’m roasting in this thing,” Two said, throwing the head on the floor and then stripping off the rest of the costume. “And I want to actually dance with Amanda, not hover next to her in a plastic cocoon. I took my turn in the suit. Now you can take yours.” And he strode back out into the gym before Fisher c
ould stop him.
Fisher kept himself from bolting after Two. No one could see them together; Two wasn’t even supposed to exist. Gritting his teeth, he pulled the duck suit on as quickly as he could, trying to ignore the fact that the interior was damp with sweat and smelled like an old gym sock. He popped the head on last of all—it was heavier than he expected—and went off in search of his clone.
From a distance, Fisher watched Two breeze straight past Veronica without saying a word to her. She called after him, confused, but Two kept right on walking like she wasn’t there. Fisher balled up his fists and wished desperately that he could rip the suit off and explain everything to Veronica right there.
But there were too many variables. He had no way of knowing how Veronica would react to the news if it was delivered so suddenly. He could do nothing but stew and watch as Two grabbed Amanda and led her in a wild swing dance when the DJ completely changed gears and put a vintage Duke Ellington tune on the turntable.
And Two wasn’t even wearing automatic shoes to do it.
Fisher hurried back behind the bleachers and smacked the padded gloves against the walls over and over again, furious and powerless, until he was finally struck with a simple idea. He took out his phone. He sent the quickest and simplest text he could think of to Veronica: Sorry. Will explain. Meet outside in 5?
He let out a long breath, nearly collapsing against the bleachers. Then Two walked up to the punch and poured himself a glass. And Veronica walked up behind him. Fisher was just close enough to hear their conversation.
“Fisher?” Veronica said. “You mind telling me what’s going on?”
“What do you mean?” Two said, not even turning his head, and instead shoving a bunch of chips in his mouth.
“I mean.” Veronica took a deep breath. “I thought you and I were kind of here … like, together.”
Two shrugged. “You got the wrong guy,” he said.
Veronica looked as if she’d just been slapped in the face with a giant wet noodle. Without saying another word, she spun around and stalked out of the gym. Fisher knew she wasn’t going to wait for him outside. She probably wouldn’t even look at her phone until she was already back home and cursing the day she’d ever met him.
His hands were shaking inside the fuzzy wings of his costume. Two had caused trouble before, but this time he’d gone too far. And he was going to answer for it.
Ah, yes … the school dance. I remember mine fondly. Mostly because I coated the floor with a friction-activated gel that turns shoe leather into a stew-like liquid.
—Dr. X, backstage on Family Feudalism
Two was taking a break in between songs when Fisher struck. He grabbed on to his clone’s arm with the grip of a starving cobra and hauled him out into the hallway and to the cafeteria kitchen, where the extra refreshments for the dance were being stored. Fisher whipped off his mask and began stripping off the stupid mascot costume. Dim fluorescent light spilled across carts full of cookies, ridged potato chips, and scarlet punch.
Fisher and Two, identical, and identically angry, squared off.
“We had an agreement,” Fisher said, his teeth clamped together. “You got to spend two weeks being a celebrity, living in an LA apartment for free and going to parties and fancy dinners every night. The very least you owe me is a single night at a school dance with the girl of my dreams.”
“Are you forgetting why I went to LA in the first place?” Two said, crossing his arms. “It was your fault. I was chasing down a lie you told me.”
They slowly began circling each other, framed by the snacks and drinks.
“Is that why you did this?” Fisher said. “Revenge? You’re still angry with me because I kept you in the dark, so you’re ruining the one successful interaction I have ever had with another human being?!” He could feel his cheeks and neck starting to flush. Anger poured through his veins like a bubbling beaker of hydrochloric acid. He balled up his fists.
“You would have ruined it with Veronica, anyway,” Two said, his voice rising in pitch. “You’ve never known how to deal with people. If you knew how to deal with people, you wouldn’t be so frantic to keep me a secret. If you knew how to deal with people, you’d have told me the truth from the beginning. If you knew how to deal with people, you could’ve handled the seventh grade, and you never would’ve made me in the first place!” His voice had risen to a barking shout.
“So that’s it?” Fisher shouted back. “You wish you’d never been born??”
“Why not??” Two roared. “You’ve always treated me like a mistake, anyway!”
“Well, maybe I should correct it, then!!” Fisher hurled at the top of his lungs, before leaping at Two with his arms outstretched.
They locked arms in the middle of the room, pushing against each other with all of their limited might. Fisher had no idea how to fight, and though Two was better at improvising, he really had no idea, either. So they shoved and shouted and grunted at each other.
Two finally freed himself of Fisher’s grasp and wound up for a punch. Fisher saw it coming and ducked under Two’s fist, bellowing in fury and throwing his shoulder into Two’s stomach. Two fell backward, crashing against a cart carrying a bowl of punch and upending the bowl all over his head.
Fisher, who had also fallen, got to his feet, every breath feeling like a match being lit in his throat. Two pulled himself off the floor. The punch had stained his white dress shirt pink. There was also a bright red stain covering the middle of his face, which looked like some large birthmark.
His hair had gone directly into the punch, and was now a dark, reddish shade. Two was about to charge at Fisher again when he caught a glimpse of himself in one of the polished cafeteria doors.
“There,” he said, panting. “Are you happy? We’re not twins anymore. I’m going back out to the dance. Say hello to your cousin Jimmy.” And he gave a short bow and stalked back toward the dance.
Fisher finally felt like he could breathe again. “I don’t think so,” he panted out. “We’re not done yet!”
Two broke into a run as Fisher came after him. Fisher caught the clone just as they reached the gym, and tackled him to the floor. They rolled back and forth, and Two managed to get in two punches. Fisher rolled out of the way, more shocked than hurt, and felt something jab him in the thigh. There was a clicking sound.
Then he remembered: the pocket fireworks display.
Fisher managed to shove Two away from him as a crackling, like demonic popcorn, drowned out the pumping dance music. Moments later, his pocket was blown right off his tux pants with a rush of flame and eight-colored smoke.
Fisher was lucky he’d made the lining of his tux pants flame retardant for exactly this situation. The fireworks spiraled around the gym, leaving bright smoke trails in their wake. The dance chaperones were suddenly on their feet. Shouting filled the room. Fortunately, he had designed the fireworks to burn themselves out quickly, and they dissolved harmlessly in the air after a few seconds, letting off showers of colored sparks.
But people continued shouting. Fisher heard several people scream his name in unison.
He hauled himself up from the floor, arms shaking, his pants ruined. Two was doubled over, panting.
Fisher’s heart dropped.
There was a trail of crushed cookies and shattered snack foods leading away from the buffet tables, which had been overturned. The trail led up to the DJ’s stage.
It was the duck. Or rather—it was someone inside the duck suit.
Disguised, the person was setting out to destroy the gym. The DJ stood up as the unidentified aggressor pushed over one of the four huge speakers around the stage. Kids jumped out of the way as it crashed down, letting off sparks and smoke.
“Fisher?!” someone shouted. “What are you doing?”
Fisher and Two looked at each other, gaping. Then Fisher understood. Everyone had seen Two take off the mask on stage earlier. They all thought it was Fisher in the suit.
Amanda f
ought her way through the panicked crowd to them.
“Fisher?” she said, confused. “That’s not you?”
“Not me,” he said, putting up his hands.
“And it’s not you …,” she said, looking at Two with confusion. “Why are you both here? What happened to you?” She pointed to his cherry-infused face.
“Tell you later,” Two said. “First, let’s …”
But he didn’t get to finish his sentence. The duck-suited attacker had grabbed the DJ and chucked him off the stage, where he was fortunately caught by the crowd. The duck slid behind the DJ’s computer and began playing wild, thumping beats at such volume that people began falling to the floor, gripping their ears.
Fisher felt like his skull was being excavated with TNT. He collapsed to the floor with Amanda and Two. Trembling, he was able to reach into his inside pockets, withdrawing a small box containing one of his dance-related inventions. He had invented a breath mint so dense that it would take hours to dissolve. He could keep one in his mouth for the whole dance and never worry that his breath’s freshness was in peril.
He was counting on that density to save his tortured ears as he popped a mint into each. The sound was still deafening, but no longer crippling. There were two mints left, and after giving Two a scorching look, he handed them over. Two tapped Amanda with worried eyes, and she nodded back that she was okay.
“Just get him!” she screamed. Her voice was barely audible over the crushing remix.
Fisher and Two took off toward the stage, stepping and hopping over their fellow students, who were writhing on the floor in agony. The chaperones were all slumped over in their seats or pressed flat to the floor, moaning, as though hoping the sound waves might simply pass over them.
The mascot leapt from the stage and took off, ducking around the overturned buffet table and using it as a shield, then sprinting toward the double doors and into the hall. Fisher and Two pursued him all the way out of Wompalog’s front doors.
