“What’re you doing?” I ask.
“Setting up,” she says, as if this is obvious.
“For Invention Day?”
She rolls her eyes. “No, for fashion day.”
“What’s your project?”
“I’m not going to tell you that.”
“Why not? It’s not like I’m planning to steal your idea.”
“Zoe and I are keeping it top secret. The last thing we need is for Marlon to somehow find out what we’re doing.” She tilts her head. “Why are you so interested anyway?”
“Gilardi told me today she thinks I should enter.”
Erin’s eyes get wide. Then she bursts out laughing. She laughs nonstop for what seems like several minutes. Finally, she stops long enough to ask, “YOU?” then cracks up again.
“Hey, it’s not that funny.”
“Yes, it is!” She wipes away tears. “Best thing I’ve heard all day! What would you possibly invent?” She snaps her fingers. “Wait, I have it! A cure for ESD!”
“Ha-ha. You can stop now. I’m not entering.”
“Of course you’re not.” She looks back at the table, apparently consulting a list of items and checking things off.
“I can do stuff, you know.”
She closes the cap on a Sharpie with a solid click. “You can. Three hundred volleyball sets in a row on the driveway.”
“Yeah, see?”
“But not science stuff, Ethan.”
I walk toward the door to the house, then stop and take the Invention Day form out of my backpack. I look at it for a few seconds, then toss it into the recycling bin. There aren’t many things my sister and I agree on, but this is one.
There are only two other things I can think of: (1) We love roasted marshmallows and would gladly eat them anytime, anywhere, in place of any meal; and (2) We hate tomatoes. When we were little, we formed a tomato haters’ club. It lasted one day and we were the only two members. Mom was making tomato soup for lunch, and we marched around the kitchen with signs that said DOWN WITH TOMATOES! and TOMATOES ARE THE WORST FOOD EVER! Except we spelled it TOEMAYTOES. The one thing Erin sucks at is spelling. Because of course, she made the signs.
Anyway, it’s been a downhill ride since then. And right now, we’re solidly in the driving-each-other-crazy zone. Basically, my sister and I have gone from marshmallows and the tomato haters’ club to living in opposite galaxies.
CHAPTER NINE
A Cosmic Sign
BRIAN
After dinner, Mom asks if I’ll help her put up our Halloween decorations outside.
I make a fist and curl my arm, then push up the skin like I have a huge muscle. “Iron Man at your service.”
She laughs. “I’ll still call you Brian, if that’s okay.”
I follow her into the garage, wondering when the heck I’m going to be taller than my own mother, who’s less than five feet. Dad’s short too. The odds for tallness are not good.
I get a ladder and start taking the decorations from a high shelf, then handing them to Mom. One smiling pumpkin after another, a ghost holding a basket of candy corn, and a sign that says WELCOME TO THE HOUSE OF BOO.
“These are so lame,” I say. “We’ve had the same decorations since I was in preschool.”
She puts her hands on her hips. “What do you mean? I love these decorations! Each one has a special meaning.” She picks up the Boo sign. “We got this when we went to that pumpkin farm in Wisconsin. Remember the hay ride? And the corn maze?”
“No.” I climb down. “Mom. These are embarrassing. We need skeletons, vampires, gravestones, blood, you know, that kind of stuff.”
She looks at the pile on the garage floor. “You’re saying these are too babyish?”
“Uh . . . yeah.”
Her face lights up. “How about we go to Target? You’ll pick out some cool new ones.” Target, her favorite store on earth. Any excuse to go, she’s there.
“Now?”
She nods excitedly. “Yes! Why not?”
I shrug. “Okay, sure.”
“I’ll get my purse!”
We’re in our ancient, rusty minivan five minutes later and Mom takes her secret shortcut through several neighborhoods involving many death-defying turns. When Mom’s at the wheel, you just hang on to the door handle and hope for the best. Finally she zooms into the parking lot, looks up at the red neon sign, and grins. “Vampires, here we come!”
“Take it easy, Mom. Try to contain yourself. It’s just Halloween decorations.”
“I don’t want you to feel embarrassed. Come on.”
When we’re inside the store, Mom grabs a cart and we go directly to the Halloween section. She points to a bloody ghost, then a mummy. “I see what you mean!” She starts loading the cart with every ghoulish item in sight. That’s another thing with my mom. When she’s excited about something, she goes way overboard. Our house is gonna morph from Happy Halloween into a bad horror movie.
After she can’t fit one more thing into the cart, I think we’re done and heading to the checkout, but she stops at the boys’ section and insists that I get some new jeans.
“I haven’t grown,” I say. Some of the guys at school are already in men’s sizes. And they’re shaving. And . . . other things are happening, so I hear.
“You certainly have grown,” she insists.
She steers the cart through the racks of clothes and I follow, suddenly feeling like I’m in a desert with no water and I’m never gonna make it out. One thing I avoid at all costs—trying on clothes. I’d rather have head lice again than spend time in a claustrophobic dressing room with a pile of jeans and Mom waiting outside the door.
“You can’t just spring this on me,” I complain. “Besides, new jeans aren’t going to make a difference.”
She cups her hand around my chin. “Don’t say that. You are a very handsome boy. You know that, don’t you?”
If I weighed three hundred pounds and had a face full of zits, she’d still tell me I was handsome. Which is an incredibly strange way to compliment a guy. Hand some? Hand some what?
I move her hand away. “Mom. Please. We’re in public.”
She takes a few pairs of jeans from a shelf, gives them to me, then points to the dressing rooms. I trudge inside one, shut the door, and immediately start breathing like Darth Vader.
She knocks and tells me to come out and show her.
“This was not in the deal!” I shout. “You said decorations! You tricked me!”
I come out with a pair of jeans on and she lifts my shirt and runs her finger around the waistband. I pull my shirt down.
Mom steps back. “You look very grown-up.”
“Good, we’re done.” I change back into the pants I was wearing, stumble out of the dressing room, turn the corner, and literally bump into Jamie.
Mom’s a foot away, checking her phone, guarding our decoration-filled cart.
Jamie smiles her amazing smile. “Oh, hi, Brian. Doing some shopping?”
I stare at the jeans like they just appeared in my hand. “Yeah, you know. Gettin’ taller.”
“Oh,” Jamie says. “That’s good.”
What’s that mean? She agrees I’m getting taller? Am I? Maybe Mom was right.
I send Mom a silent signal to not look up. Doesn’t work. She wheels the cart closer and waves at Jamie. “Hi, I’m Brian’s mom, Halina Kowalski.”
“Hi. Nice to meet you. Wow, that’s a lot of Halloween decorations.”
I stand there. If Mom starts talking about the decorations, I might have to tackle her right here in the middle of the clothing area.
“Oh, well,” Mom laughs. “Brian felt ours were too babyish. So here we are.”
“For sure.” Jamie shakes out her hair and I almost lose consciousness.
Mom keeps going. “One thing about the Kowalskis, when we’ve got a job to do, we’re on it faster than you can slice a sausage.”
At that point, it’s a choice between clamping my hand ove
r her mouth, diving into a rack of sweaters, or making a run for it. I opt for choice number three and grab the cart. “We’re kind of in a hurry!” I shout over my shoulder.
Jamie does this cute little fluttery wave. “See you at school.”
She walks away and I rush toward the checkout, with Mom stopping at every display and me pulling her arm and telling her we need to go.
“Seems like a nice girl,” Mom says as we’re finally checking out. She throws a lint roller into the cart. “What’s her name?”
“Jamie,” I whisper, and suddenly, when I hear myself say it, I know this as sure as I know anything. The fact that we keep bumping into each other in random places is a cosmic sign we are meant to be in a relationship. Or at least have a thing.
Don’t you agree? I mean, it can’t be a coincidence anymore, right?
Mom and I walk out, head toward the minivan. I look for Jamie in the parking lot but don’t see her anywhere. But get this. The A is blinking in the Target sign. And it wasn’t before, when we came in.
The A!
You can’t tell me that isn’t another cosmic sign. Target sign/cosmic sign. Come on, are you with me here? There’s an A in Jamie, of course. And two in Pappas.
CHAPTER TEN
The Secret
ERIN
I’ll tell you. I can barely keep it in, anyway. Are you ready? Okay, here it is.
Zoe and I are going to invent a solution to stop the spread of invasive plant species.
Our theory is that certain organic elements or natural chemical compounds will be able to, in a sense, smother the seedlings of invasive plants, thus preventing their growth and spread. How brilliant is that? Basically, we’ll shut them down before they even have a chance to take root.
The plan is to test several substances, including cayenne, black cumin seed oil, elderberry, licorice root, and tea tree oil. And guess what? That’s just the beginning of our list!
We plan to start this weekend. The sooner the better. We have so many substances to examine, and then we have to figure out how it would be applied. A spray? Powder? Granules? We’re not sure about that part yet. But that’s the amazing thing about inventions. Many times, you make discoveries as you go along.
I told Mom and Dad they can have the garage back in November, after Invention Day. They weren’t exactly happy about that, but they agreed to make a sacrifice in the name of scientific research. I offered to set and clear the table every night. I do that anyway, since Ethan’s usually MIA daily at five forty-five and six thirty p.m. But still, I wanted Mom and Dad to know I’ll do something in return.
If Zoe and I win and have a chance at earning an actual US patent for our discovery . . . I don’t even want to think about that right now. We have a long road ahead. But I’m confident we’ll get there.
I heard through the rumor mill that Marlon’s doing something with robotics. So last year. It’s been done. I can’t believe he doesn’t know that!
Other than Marlon, I don’t think we have a lot of competition. Parneeta’s working on a lighter-weight backpack. Naomi’s creating an improved bandage that delivers medicine and won’t fall off. Way, way too basic, and not even that important in the grand scheme, you know?
So, NO JINX, but I think we’ve got this!
Except . . . I’ll admit, one thing worries me . . . Zoe’s been a little distracted lately. I don’t know what’s going on with her—she’s been spacey and dreamy and sometimes doesn’t even hear me when I ask her something. I’ll have to talk to her. We need 100 percent focus in order to take first place.
Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to research more substances to add to our list. As they say in the invention world: If it can be imagined, it can be done.
Actually, I don’t know if that was ever said, but I’m saying it now.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The Carrot Seed
ETHAN
That night at dinner, Mom and Dad say they’re proud of me for doing the Reflection days without any arguments, and they hope I “learned something” from this experience.
“Did you?” Mom asks.
I push the mashed potatoes on my plate into a small ski hill. “Sure.”
Thankfully, she doesn’t ask me what. Because really, I don’t know if I did.
“I think I can safely say that I learn something every day,” Erin says, stabbing a piece of broccoli with her fork. “And not just in school.”
“Of course you do.” Mom beams.
“Like today,” Erin continues, “I read this article that concluded all humans are descended from the same population in Africa around fifty to eighty thousand years ago.”
I stare at my sister. Where did she even find that article?
“Interesting,” Dad says. “We can always count on Erin for a fascinating fact of the day.”
I shrug. “I’ll stick to video games.”
Mom pats my arm. “That’s okay, honey.”
“Nothing wrong with those,” Dad says.
“Sure,” Erin adds.
Sometimes I think they all think I’m an idiot. I mean not really, but you know.
• • •
After we’re done eating, I go up to my room and look over the pile of homework I’m supposed to do. I should study more, I know that. The LA test today? Not a great experience. But everyone said it was hard. Even Erin. So all the studying in the world probably wouldn’t have helped.
I’m attempting to decode a science handout on the parts of a cell when there’s a knock on my door, and then Mom pops her head inside. “I’m cleaning out the bookcase in the family room.”
Her favorite activity besides Parenting 101 is cleaning something out. We’re the opposite of hoarders. As soon as someone’s done using something or we don’t need it anymore, Mom packs it up for Goodwill.
“If you want anything,” she says, “take it now.”
“What’s there?”
“I don’t know. Go have a look. Erin grabbed a few old favorites.”
With Mom, now means now. They’ll be gone tomorrow. Unless some of them can be used for therapy sessions.
I go downstairs and see a couple of stacks of books on the floor. I take a quick glance through them, but nothing jumps out. “I don’t want any!” I shout to Mom, wherever she is.
“You’re sure?”
“Yeah!”
“What about the book on the butterfly life cycle? That was your favorite when you were little!”
“Nope, I’m good!”
I leap up the stairs, two at a time. She might’ve thought that was my favorite book when I was little, but she doesn’t know. My favorite was something just between me and Dad. And him and his dad. It’s a Marcus guy thing.
And that book, I have.
Back in my room, I carefully shut the door, then open my sock drawer. I reach my hand underneath the bad socks and pull out the book.
The Carrot Seed.
You might think this is weird, and I agree, it’s a little weird, but after you hear why I have a picture book hidden in my sock drawer, then you might not think it’s that weird.
It was written in 1945 and belonged to my grandpa, Dad’s dad, who I never knew. He read it to Dad when he was little. Then Dad read it to me when I was little. Like, all the time, because I loved it and never got tired of hearing the story.
And let me tell you, I still think The Carrot Seed is one of the best books ever written. I’m not kidding.
There’s this kid who plants a carrot seed, right, and everyone tells him it’s not gonna grow, but he waters the seed and pulls the weeds around it. People keep saying it’s not gonna grow, nothing will happen, give it up, kid (basically implying he’s a real chump), but he doesn’t listen and continues his watering-and-weeding thing.
At the end, it’s the best. This gigantic carrot sprouts up, and the kid carts it off in a wheelbarrow. He has this little smile on his face like he never doubted that tiny seed once. Stories don’t get much better than that. We Marcus
guys know a good thing when we see it.
So here’s the bad part. When I got a little older but not that much older, I took a black crayon and wrote me over the kid’s head on every single page.
Dad got pretty mad. He said, “Why would you write in a book? Especially one like this.”
I remember looking at Dad’s face, and thinking about his dad, and feeling like I should be kicked out of the family. But I had a reason. I told Dad, “It was only because I wanted to be the carrot seed kid.”
I think he got it. And the next day, he wasn’t so mad anymore. We tried but couldn’t erase the crayon.
I sink onto my beanbag and open to the last page, where the kid has the carrot, and stare at those two shaky letters. Me.
When I was four, I had big dreams. And when I was five, and six. Who doesn’t? The usual stuff. Become a superhero, play in the NBA, slay a dragon. Whatever. The point is, like the kid in the book, I thought things could happen if I believed hard enough.
I stretch out, cross my hands behind my head. So what happened? Yeah, okay, I’m not a little kid anymore. But when did I become the kid who goes along with everything and gets along with everyone? The laid-back guy who never takes anything all that seriously because . . . it’s just easier not to?
That’s okay some of the time, but for that one moment in LA when I refused to sit in my chair, it felt kinda excellent to be on the other side. Exhilarating, to use a current vocab word. Make some trouble. Take a stand. Believe I could do something, I guess.
That day a long time ago when Erin and I did the tomato protest? Mom thought it was the most hilarious thing and didn’t make us eat the tomato soup. I remember feeling exhilarated then too. Erin and I danced around the kitchen, celebrating our escape from those terrible toemaytoes.
I still won’t eat them. At least I stuck to that. But yeah, after my brief rebel moment in Delman’s class and then mouthing off to D’Antonio, what do I do? I cave in. Give it up. Do my Reflection time, and then it’s back to being the good kid.
Ethan Marcus Stands Up Page 4
