Brian goes, “Hey, I’d use it. I’m just saying.”
I look at my invention, lying on its side. “The thing is, you gotta believe, you know? If you don’t, what’s the point?”
What’s the point of planting a carrot seed in the first place if you don’t believe it’ll come up?
“I guess so,” Brian says. “Okay, you want me to make the diagram of how it’s supposed to work? We had to do that, right?”
“Yeah, good idea.”
While he’s sketching, I go upstairs and get the pictures from Dad’s printer, then glue them onto the board. When Brian’s finished, he adds the drawing. We prop the desk-evator next to the display board and stand back. One of the spatulas pops off and I retape it.
“We might want to think about those hinges,” Brian says.
“Maybe. But people will get the general idea of what we’re aiming for here, right? The concept.”
“Well, I’ll say this. We should definitely bring some duct tape to Invention Day.”
ERIN
I’m sitting at the top of the basement stairs. I’ve been listening. Hmm. Interesting.
Now they’re goofing around, laughing and pounding on something (the air hockey table?) and doing some sort of rap. But this time it’s not about sumo wrestling, it’s about their invention.
I hear Brian shout, “School got rules, that we know!” Then Ethan comes in: “But McNutt number seven has got to go!”
Then they make this ch-ch-ch sound and crack up.
I draw up my knees and wrap my arms around them. Close my eyes. Keep listening.
My brother can barely get out the words: “Sit, sit, sit, (laugh) there goes your (laugh) brain. Sit some more, you (laugh) go insane.”
More cracking up. Then it sounds like they’re running around the basement, playing kickball or basketball or something ball.
I stand, get my backpack from the kitchen, and go upstairs. I pull out my math folder, then write my name on the worksheet that’s due tomorrow.
This morning I was all ready to tell Ms. Gilardi that I’m withdrawing from Invention Day. I was on the way to her room. I was going to, I really was. But then I didn’t. You want to know why? The reason I didn’t withdraw? I can’t answer that, because I don’t know.
I don’t like when that happens. When I’m unclear and foggy about a decision. It doesn’t happen a lot, only once in a while.
Dad’s convinced I’ll make a good accountant one day, like him. He always tells me I’m a natural problem solver and never fail to see the forest for the trees, which means I don’t get bogged down in small details and I grasp the big picture.
Except, what would he say now?
By the way, not that I want to keep dwelling on Waffle Day, but I never told you something else that happened.
Ethan made me a waffle.
It had strawberries on top in the shape of a smiley face.
It was delicious.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Substitute Friend
ZOE
Since Erin and I are, well, you know, sort of in a fight, I’ve been hanging out with Parneeta. She’s okay. Some of the time. Actually, she’s completely obsessed with shopping. And fashion. And mostly, makeup.
She’s done a makeover on me three times, not that I thought I needed even one. But she insisted I did. One look for day, one for evening, and one for special occasions. She knows the names of things I’ve never heard of, like primer, luminizer, and bronzer. She was surprised I didn’t know what these are, and keeps telling me if I wore makeup, I’d be gorgeous.
I never thought about being gorgeous. I look how I look, and I’m okay with it. Plus, there are so many more important things to worry about in the world. You know me by now, so I don’t have to list them.
Anyway, we’re at her house on Friday night, in her room, and she’s painting her nails a color called caterpillar. After she’s done, she wants to paint mine, but I’m not sure how I feel about lime-green fingernails. Or a nail polish company choosing the name of an essential insect for this color. It kind of demeans the caterpillar, don’t you think?
Parneeta spins around on the stool at her makeup table. “Do you want to know how many eye shadow palettes I have?”
“You counted them?”
She giggles. “I did. I got two new ones this week with my babysitting money. So, how many, do you think?”
“I don’t know.”
“Eleven!”
“Wow. How do you wear that many eye shadows?”
She blows on her nails. “Oh, that’s easy. I wear a different one every day. I can try some on you if you want. You’d look really good in this color from Urban Decay.”
“No, that’s okay.” I see something that looks like a cross between a nylon back sack and a regular backpack on the floor by her bed. It’s a shiny pink zebra-print fabric, and there are a bunch of pockets and pouches.
“Is this your Invention Day project?” I ask. I’d heard she was making some kind of backpack.
“Uh-huh. You can try it out if you want to.”
I pick it up, put it on. “It’s really light. I mean, there’s nothing in it, but still.”
“Yeah, that’s one of the selling points—it’s made from parachute fabric. It’ll put an end to kids having sore backs and shoulders from heavy backpacks. But I’ll tell you a secret. My real reason for doing this is that backpacks are so ugly. I wanted to design something sturdy, weightless, and stylish.”
I take it off and examine it. “Did you sew this?”
She shrugs. “My mom helped on that part. She’s, like, an amazing sewer. She used to make all my clothes, but now I mostly get stuff at the mall. You know. Anyway, I’m ready for you!”
I try protesting, but I end up with lime-green fingernails. And toes. And the Urban Decay eye shadow on my lids. It makes me look like I have two black eyes.
That’s why I’m really, really, REALLY glad when Erin texts and tells me that she’s sorry. Can you come over tomorrow? she asks. We can pick up where we left off with our project. Okay?
I reply right away. YES! What time?
Ten?
I’ll be there.
Great. Thanks.
Can’t wait! So happy! I do a gazillion smiling emojis.
Then it’s like this tsunami of relief washes over me. Not that I’m making light of tsunamis or anything, they’re quite serious. I’m just so HAPPY!
While I was typing, I messed up the polish on my thumbs. Parneeta says she can redo them, but I tell her it’s okay. I’m going to take the polish off as soon as I get home anyway.
I quickly say bye, it’s been fun, and wish her good luck at Invention Day. “See you there!” I say, and text Mom to pick me up immediately.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
The Discovery
ERIN
Zoe’s not an on-time person. She always gets wrapped up in something she’s doing or forgets to check the time or stops to help someone who’s lost. I’m used to it. I expect it, and I plan for it.
But on Saturday morning, at exactly ten a.m., her face is pressed against the window next to my front door.
When I open it, she grabs me in a tight hug. “I missed you! I’m so glad you texted!”
I pull back after a few seconds. “I missed you too. And . . . I’m sorry I got so mad. About everything.”
“Me too! I’m sorry too.”
I glance upstairs. Ethan’s still sleeping. “You can like my brother if you want to,” I whisper. “It’s all right.”
She squeezes my arm, then hugs me again.
“Okay, okay,” I say. “Don’t get all mush ball on me. We have a lot of work to do.”
She wipes her eyes and sniffles. “I can’t help it! So, are we good now?”
“We’re good.” I point to her fingernails, which have a weird tinge of green. “You polished your nails? You never do that.”
She shakes her head. “Parneeta. Caterpillar.”
“What?
”
“Forget it. Not important.” She hooks her arm through mine. “Let’s go find a way to destroy those invasive plants!”
We walk arm in arm toward the garage. I take a deep breath as I slowly open the door. This’ll be the first time I’ve been in there since the . . . incident.
For days Mom’s been asking me to clean up everything if I’m not going to continue with the experiment. She said it’s getting chilly and she’d like the garage back, please, for her car and Dad’s.
“I understand what you’ve been going through,” she told me, “but enough is enough already.”
I thought that was a little harsh, but then I realized it’s been two weeks.
I flip on the light, and Zoe and I walk over to the table. It’s the same as I remember. A disorganized mess of seedlings, bottles, branches, leaves, pots, dirt. But at least now, everything’s dry.
“Ethan and I tried to straighten up a little,” Zoe says. “The day it happened.”
I pick up my pad of paper. Most of my notes on the top page are water-stained, but some are still readable.
“Where should we start?” Zoe asks.
I look around. “I’m not sure. . . .”
“Okay, well.” Zoe gently takes my notepad. “Let’s see, we recorded data for the first batch of substances. The elderberry and tea tree oil and all those. And none seemed to have an effect on the invasive plants. But the later things we tried? What were they? Oh here, it’s in your notes, of course! Peppermint, vinegar, sea salt, vanilla. I don’t think we examined the plants when those were added.”
“Right. We didn’t have a chance.”
Zoe starts picking up some of the pots and looking at the labels. “Here’s the peppermint. Oh, I think the seedling fell out. And most of the dirt too. We’ll have to do this one again. I hope we have time.”
She keeps picking up pots and talking, but I’m sifting through the tiny tangled roots that are lying on one end of the table. Something’s weird. Something’s not right. Or is right. My heart leaps. No, it isn’t possible.
I run toward the door to the house, then push it open so hard that it bangs against the wall in the laundry room.
“Erin?” Zoe calls.
“I’ll be right back!”
I rush up the stairs, almost crashing into Ethan on his way down.
“Wha?” he says, scratching his head.
“Sorry!” I shout, then tear into my room and rifle through my desk drawers. In less than thirty seconds, I’ve got my magnifying glass in hand and I’m on my way back downstairs.
Ethan’s in the kitchen, pouring milk into a bowl. Life cereal, like always. He squints at me. “What’s going on?”
“No time to talk!”
I go into the garage, then stop and take a few breaths before I walk to the table to see if what I think is true is really true.
Ethan pokes his head into the garage.
Zoe waves. “Hi, Ethan!”
I quickly turn and motion for him to stay inside. “Don’t come in here.”
“I won’t do anything, I promise. No footballs.”
“No. We have a ton of work to do. And very little time.”
He yawns. “Can I at least stand here?”
“You cannot.” I shake my head, then close the door. I hear him say “Jeez” as I take small, even, trying-to-be-calm steps to the table.
Zoe’s watching me. “Erin, what’s—”
I put my finger to my lips, then hold the magnifying glass over the roots. Zoe comes around the table and stands next to me.
I bend down and examine them closely, turning them over and looking at them from different angles. Finally I lower the magnifying glass and stand up straight.
“What is it?” Zoe asks, her eyes wide.
“Some of the roots,” I say, “are different. Sort of shriveled, and lighter in color, almost like they were, I don’t know, bleached out.”
Zoe gasps. “But from what? Which substance made that happen?”
“I don’t know.”
“This is amazing!” Zoe cries. “Something worked?”
“It’s possible. It’s entirely possible.”
She dances around the table, then grabs my hands and spins us in a circle. “Erin! Do you understand that we could be on the brink of a discovery that will save thousands of endangered plant forms worldwide?”
“I—I can’t believe it.”
She jumps and claps. “Me neither!”
But then I realize something. I have no idea how to proceed. What to do next. This wasn’t how I planned for our project to go. An accidental discovery with no clue how it happened? Now what?
Then I realize something else. Without my brother throwing the football and without Brian missing it, this might not have happened.
It was an accident.
Ethan, in his Ethan-ness, was the one who made our experiment work.
CHAPTER THIRTY
Sunday Dinners
WESLEY
Dad calls me to come down for dinner. He made spaghetti and meatballs. The guy keeps trying, I gotta give him credit for that. He’s not giving up on us. I would’ve given up a long time ago.
I can’t take how Mom’s chair at the table is empty. The three of us sit, and it’s like the chair is waiting for her. As if she’s gonna come back. Just walk in the door. Maybe tonight, and she’ll sit down with us and joke about things like she used to. How Brett’s hair sticks up in the morning and makes him look deranged, and how my laugh sounds like Bart Simpson’s. How we finish eating before she takes two bites.
How she’s sorry she left and it was all a big mistake.
I can’t stand how her stuff is still here, either. Everywhere in the kitchen. Those little flowered plates she collected. Her recipes in a box, in her loopy handwriting, in purple pen. And the plaques with the quotes about living each day and finding joy and making lemonade out of lemons.
Those crooked ceramic animal sculptures Brett and I made in art. The dumb Happy Mother’s Day card.
Doesn’t she want any of it?
Dad puts some spaghetti onto my dish, then Brett’s. “I have no idea if I cooked the noodles long enough, or if the meatballs have any taste,” he says.
Brett looks at his plate. “The noodles are stuck together.” He shoves some into his mouth. “And they’re crunchy.”
Dad sighs. “Then I definitely didn’t cook them long enough.”
So the three of us cut the crunchy noodles and eat the tasteless meatballs, and that’s the only sound in the room.
BRIAN
It’s the usual crazy Kowalski family Sunday dinner at our house. Dad’s ranting about something with the government in Poland, Mom’s telling everyone to eat, eat, eat, and my cousins—too many to name or count or even keep track of—are arguing, passing food, slapping each other on the back, and spitting (on purpose or accidentally, who knows).
I’m sitting next to Gram, who’s chewing and staring at the wall. Mom says her mind’s slowly turning into a pierogi.
All week Ethan’s been obsessed with the desk-evator. It’s all he can talk about. How the judges are gonna love it and kids will be able to stand at their desks anytime they want and this thing is gonna “take off.”
But all I can think about is if I should ask Jamie out, and how I should do it. I mean, are we talkin’ something casual, like Hey, wanna go out? or more serious, like, Will you go out with me? Big difference there, let me tell you.
And then what do I do if she says yes? Take her to a movie? Or the mall? Give her, like, a necklace or something? What do people actually do when they go out anyway?
I turn to Gram. “What do you think?”
She blinks.
“I think Jamie likes me. It’s really hard to tell with her. She’s nice to everyone. But she said I’m funny. She laughs at my jokes. She liked my sumo wrestler costume. That’s something, right?”
I don’t think Gram heard a word I said.
“I mean, how do you
know if someone likes you?”
She keeps chewing. She’s had that piece of chicken in her mouth for at least ten minutes.
“I have to break it to you, though, Gram. She’s not Polish.”
Gram raises her eyebrows, turns to me. “Not Polish?”
“Right. Sorry.”
“You marry this girl?”
“No! I’m twelve, Gram. I’m not getting married anytime soon.”
She wiggles her finger. “You listen to me, young man. Wait one hour before you go swimming.”
Okay. Good to know.
She winks at me, then goes back to chewing the chicken.
ZOE
I tell Mom I can’t take a break for dinner, and she brings a plate to my room. But I barely eat anything. This is too important. I’m online, reading every article I can find about invasive plant roots, and the clock is ticking.
We have ninety-six hours until Invention Day.
Can you imagine a world where we won’t have to worry about native plant extinction? Where sensitive habitats are no longer threatened? Where biodiversity is restored to our planet?
My heart speeds up just thinking about the possibility.
A few years ago, in fourth grade, every class did a wax museum project. You had to choose an important figure from history and portray that person. Dress like him or her, and give a speech at our assembly as if you were that person.
I was Rachel Carson.
Not a lot of fourth graders knew who she was. Kids were choosing people like J. K. Rowling and Jackie Robinson and George Washington.
But Rachel Carson—she was one of the most famous women pioneers in the field of plant biology! She led a crusade to ban the awful pesticide DDT, and helped get the Environmental Protection Agency (commonly known as the EPA) created!
I mean, how much more important can you get?
I hope that one day, my name will be right alongside Rachel Carson’s.
But for now, back to work.
Ethan Marcus Stands Up Page 11
