The Girl Who Knew Even More

by Commander S. T. Bolivar, III

  Mattie went to sit down. He gave the Falcon back to Lem and crossed the lawn, feeling the crowd’s eyes following him. No one was impressed—and why would they be? The Aluminum Falcon was a disaster, and Mattie Larimore was a very small, very average twelve-year-old. To anyone else, he looked forgettable.

  Thankfully I am not anyone else, and to me Mattie looked precisely like the pint-size version of the criminal he would eventually grow up to be.

  Perhaps a bit more bedraggled—definitely a bit more singed—than he would be after the Great Pyramid Swap, but I can see the promise, the possibility, THE MENACE HE WILL ONE DAY BE!

  Ahem.

  Yes, it was going to be another promising chapter in young Mattie’s life, and if he had known what I know, he would’ve been terrified.

  Or excited.

  Mostly terrified.

  But the important thing is I’m excited because this is another chapter in Mattie Larimore the Thief’s great beginning, which means it’s also another chapter in Mattie Larimore the Good Boy’s horrible ending.

  Don’t say you weren’t warned.

  AH, MUNCHEM ACADEMY. WITH ITS three and a half towers, four stories, twenty-two fireplaces, and secret basement hiding a machine you could clone yourself with, it’s the perfect place for not-so-perfect children—and perhaps not-so-perfect inventions too.

  “What a disaster,” Mattie muttered, picking grass out of his teeth. It tasted a bit like one of his mother’s green smoothies. Actually, the grass was better, but not by much.

  “Don’t sweat it,” Caroline whispered. She was leaning forward to listen to Mr. Larimore, both hands wrapped around her backpack straps like she was going to parachute away. “This whole thing could have gone way worse.”

  “How’s that possible?”

  “You could be dead.”

  Sadly, Mattie had to admit this was true. He rubbed his still-tingling left eyebrow. “At least I didn’t scream, much.”

  “We were all very proud.” Caroline crammed her elbow into Carter’s side. “Weren’t we?”

  Carter winced. “Very.”

  “Guys,” Mattie began, “there’s more. I saw—”

  “I’m ready for your questions!” Mr. Larimore bellowed into his microphone. “You there!” Mattie’s father pointed to a woman close to the stage. She was tall and blond and, when she threw her shoulders back, it made her look like she belonged on the prow of a ship. “What’s your question?”

  “Why the sudden interest in our nation’s youth, Mr. Larimore?” The reporter held up a small black recorder. “Larimore Corporation has never shown any interest in children before. What changed?”

  “Oh! Oh! I know this one!” The voice came from the back. Someone tried to shush him, but the man would not be shushed. A familiar red head bobbed into view.

  “Thank you, Headmaster Rooney,” Mr. Larimore said, forehead vein throbbing once more. “I’ll take this question.”

  “But I know the answer!”

  Mr. Larimore ignored him. “And you are, Miss…?”

  “Boar,” the reporter said, “Liv St. Boar.”

  “Ah, yes.” For the briefest of seconds, Mr. Larimore frowned. “You’re the one who wrote about our recent successes in kitchen innovation.”

  “Is that what we’re calling pizza dough that turns blue when heated? A success?”

  Mr. Larimore frowned again. “Every business has setbacks, Miss St. Boar, but at Larimore Corporation we look to the future—and children? Children are the future, so luckily for everyone, Munchem Academy is poised to deliver them.”

  “But I thought Munchem was a school for bad children?”

  Mr. Larimore’s smile pushed wide. “Don’t you believe in second chances?”

  “I do! I do!” It was Headmaster Rooney again. Carter started laughing.

  “Stop it,” Caroline hissed. “You know he’s still not himself.”

  Carter did indeed know that. In fact, it was rather Carter’s fault the headmaster wasn’t himself—well, Carter’s and Mattie’s and the Spencers’. Carter shrugged. “You should be thanking me. The Rooster hasn’t strung anyone up by the ankles in months. Months! It’s a real live miracle.”

  Or the effects of being locked in a cloning pod set to Turbo, Mattie thought. The Rooster hadn’t really been the Rooster since—not that Mattie knew anything about cloning pods and Turbo settings and headmasters who had suddenly lost their memories.

  Correction: not that Mattie would admit he knew anything about that.

  After all, how would Mattie explain that Headmaster Rooney had been so sick of Munchem’s bad kids that he decided to clone them and give the new and improved clones back to the parents while the real kids wasted away in special pods? And then how would Mattie explain that he found the cloning machine? And stopped it? But not before Carter was cloned?

  The short answer? He couldn’t. So he kept his mouth shut and swore he had no idea why the headmaster was so very…ah…happy.

  In the meantime, Mr. Larimore was helping Headmaster Rooney “get Munchem on track,” which mostly seemed to mean Mr. Larimore improved the school and then invited reporters in to look at the improvements. Mattie’s dad called it “good publicity.” Carter called it “annoying.”

  “Sure, these kids made mistakes,” Mr. Larimore continued, patting his shirt’s straining buttons. “But thanks to my company’s funding, Munchem is gaining a new roof, a new gym, new science programs—all in this beautiful, quiet countryside setting.”

  “Where no one can hear us scream,” Carter whispered.

  Mattie shuddered. He couldn’t help it. Carter always said that, but it didn’t make the saying any less true. Munchem was in the middle of nowhere, and as it turned out, the middle of nowhere was an excellent place for stashing bad kids.

  And, apparently, testing out Aluminum Falcons.

  “At Munchem Academy,” Mr. Larimore continued, pointing at the crowd with a single, thick finger, “the best you is a new you!”

  The students stared straight ahead—they’d heard the motto way too much to be impressed—but the reporters exchanged a suspicious look, and Liv St. Boar’s look might have been the most suspicious of all. Mattie didn’t blame her. After last term, Munchem’s motto made him twitchy and suspicious too. He glanced toward the thick forest that surrounded the school’s bright green fields. Three months ago, the teachers and clones had escaped, but every once in a while, Mattie thought he saw red eyes flashing behind the dark trees.

  After today, he was sure of it.

  “I saw one of the clones,” Mattie whispered. Caroline and Carter froze and, after a pause, turned toward him. “When the Falcon nearly stuck me in the tree,” he explained. “I saw red eyes and then a hand grabbed for me.”

  Caroline paled. “Are you sure?”

  Mattie nodded. “I thought all the clones escaped with the teachers. I don’t know why some of them would still be in the woods.”

  “Who cares?” Carter asked, watching Mr. Larimore pound on his podium some more. Their father was explaining how the Larimore Corporation was going to lead the future, and the reporters were nodding along.

  “Poor things. It’s not like they have anywhere else to go.” Caroline gnawed at the skin around her thumbnail. “What else were they going to do? Miss Maple just up and left.”

  “Miss Maple.” Carter savored the name like a piece of candy. “She seemed so sweet.”

  And indeed Carter was right. Miss Maple had seemed sweet. The school secretary was blond and pillowy and had a smile for everyone—and behind that smile she had been plotting to clone all the students.

  “What if she’s back?” Carter asked suddenly. A couple of reporters glanced their way and Carter gave them two thumbs up. “She vowed revenge on us for spoiling her plans.”

  “No way,” Caroline whispered. “Miss Maple wouldn’t dare come back here, and the clones weren’t into revenge—remember how nice Doyle was?” She paused, face screwing up in thought. “I still ca
n’t figure out how he managed to make those pumpkin muffins in his dorm room.”

  Carter rolled his eyes. “One of life’s great mysteries.”

  Caroline kicked him and Carter flinched.

  “Stop it,” Mattie whispered. “We have to figure out what we’re going to do.”

  “Do? I’m not doing anything.” Carter rubbed his shin. “I’m going to keep pretending I have no idea what’s out there.”

  “But we do know what’s out there.”

  “I am not explaining how I know that,” Carter said. “Leave the clones alone. Live and let live, you know?”

  Up on the stage, Mr. Larimore held up the Aluminum Falcon and gestured to its coffee can–size engines. “Now, if you will just take a closer look—”

  “Oh, I think we’ve seen enough,” Liv St. Boar said, tossing her tiny recorder into her equally tiny purse. “In fact, I think we’ve seen plenty.”

  The other reporters seemed to agree. They were pushing back their plastic lawn chairs and standing up. They were ready to leave. Mr. Larimore’s face went white with panic. “But, wait! There’s more!”

  No one waited, no one wanted more, and Mattie felt bad for Lem all over again. The scientist was slumped at the stage edge, watching Mr. Larimore, whose forehead vein was still pulsing. It looked like a squirmy blue worm pinned to his face.

  “Whatever you’re thinking about the clones, don’t,” Carter repeated before melting into the crowd.

  Mattie watched him go. “I still think we should do something,” he muttered.

  “I don’t.” Caroline stood and brushed off her sweater. It was covered in brown Beezus fur. Her lab rat was molting. Again. “C’mon, we’ll ask Eliot—but he’s going to agree with me.”

  Mattie wasn’t so sure. In fact, he started to tell Caroline precisely that and stopped.

  “What is it?” Caroline asked.

  “Nothing.” But it was something, because Mattie felt a prickling on his skin, a spray of goose bumps between his shoulder blades, and, frankly, an itching in his teeth.

  Many years later, Mattie would feel this same something before being ambushed by pirates. It was his intuition, and it would save his life many times over. But right now? Well, right now, Mattie thought his teeth were just itchy. He didn’t know anything about pirates or intuition or why fortune cookies always taste stale.

  And he definitely, definitely didn’t know someone was watching him.

  “STOP PICKING YOUR TEETH, MATTIE!” Caroline covered her eyes with one hand. It didn’t do much good. She still had to peek through her fingers to keep from running into the hallway lockers. “I don’t want to see that!”

  “Then stop looking at me,” Mattie told her, picking harder. They turned up a set of stairs and took the steps two at a time. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me. They’re all itchy.”

  Caroline shoved open the double doors to the science wing. “Maybe you’re developing allergies.”

  The hallway was noonday bright and the overhead lights buzzed like wasps. Last term, the wing smelled like cleaning fluid and body odor. Today, it smelled like—

  “Is that roasted turkey?” Mattie asked.

  “Yes.” Caroline pulled her Munchem sweater up over her mouth and nose. “And it’s disgusting.”

  Mattie sniffed, and sniffed again. “I think it’s kind of nice—way nicer than the pumpkin pie scent they tried last week. That stuff smelled like a dirty hamster cage.”

  “Yeah, Lem said it ended up being their most successful scent though.”

  “Really? How’d you find that out?”

  “He was reviewing the data during study hall and got all excited. He wanted to share. The stink increased student productivity by thirty-two percent.”

  Mattie stared at Caroline.

  “I know, right? It’s because everyone wanted to hurry up and get away from the smell, so they worked really fast. Lem said Dr. Hoo is going to try the moldy laundry scent at the Larimore headquarters next week. He says it could be a great breakthrough in worker productivity.”

  “Moldy laundry scent?”

  “Yeah, you know, like when you forget laundry in the washer and it smells all gross when you finally find it?”

  “Oh, yeah. Hope they don’t try it on us.”

  “They’ll probably come up with something worse.”

  Mattie couldn’t fault Caroline’s observation. Ever since the Larimore Corporation had taken over Munchem, new experiments happened every day. Sometimes, it was special scents being pumped through the school’s air ducts. Sometimes, it was moss that ate chipmunks. It was always a surprise though, and then every Friday, the students answered questionnaires about how the experiments made them feel.

  And whether they would buy those products.

  It was supposed to help Larimore scientists with their research. As far as Mattie could tell, it really just helped the students get out of the last twenty minutes of American History.

  Caroline stopped at the first classroom door and banged on the glass. There was a scuffle from inside and the door cracked open. A sliver of Eliot’s face appeared.

  Like Caroline, Eliot Spencer was also Mattie’s best friend and destined to be his future partner in crime. It was thanks to Eliot’s computer knowledge that Mattie was able to figure out how to stop Rooney’s clones. The solution had involved a little bit of breaking and entering, a little more sneaking around, and rather a lot of overloading the clones and making them dance.

  Eliot looked at Mattie. “I can’t believe you nearly died in a diaper.”

  “I can’t believe you missed it,” Caroline said.

  “Yeah.” Eliot frowned. “Professor Shelley said missing the assembly would really teach me not to reset her passwords.”

  Mattie and Caroline exchanged a look. “And did it?” Mattie asked Eliot.

  “No.”

  Caroline rubbed her forehead like she was developing a headache. “Are you done with detention?”

  “I hope not.”

  Caroline rubbed her forehead harder. “I worry about you, you know that?”

  Frankly, Mattie was starting to worry too. Eliot was trying to impress their technology teacher. Like Lem and Dr. Hoo, Professor Shelley was a Larimore Corporation scientist. Unlike Lem and Dr. Hoo, Professor Shelley wasn’t known for inventions that ate things. She was known for big computers, and bigger robots.

  “Don’t ruin this for me,” Eliot whispered. “I’m making progress with her.”

  “Eliot? Who’s there?” Professor Shelley appeared at the door. Tall and thin, she loved every color in the rainbow as long as it was black. “Oh. Hello, Mattie. Very glad you survived.”

  “Me too.”

  “Is your father quite upset?”

  Mattie thought about the pulsing blue vein and tried not to shudder. “You could say that. Can Eliot go now?”

  Professor Shelley checked her watch. It was wider than her wrist and the digital display always made her thin face go monster green. “Good heavens, yes. You could’ve left ten minutes ago, Eliot.”

  Eliot frowned.

  “You’ll do better tomorrow, right?” Professor Shelley added, pulling her cardigan tighter.

  “Probably not,” Eliot said.

  At least he’s honest, Mattie thought.

  Professor Shelley looked at Eliot as if she were sucking on a sour candy. “Go to class,” she said, and shoved Eliot into the hallway.

  The door slammed shut in Eliot’s face and he frowned. “Professor Shelley just doesn’t appreciate what I bring to the table.”

  “Like what?”

  “Computer viruses mostly.” Eliot scratched the side of his neck. “I’m going to override her computer tomorrow. She’ll be really impressed.”

  “Somehow I don’t think that’s the word you’re looking for.”

  “Amazed?”

  “Nope.”

  “Thrilled?”

  Mattie didn’t answer. He grabbed Eliot’s arm and dragged him after
his sister.

  The science wing might have been turkey-scented, but the lower floor English classes smelled like buttery scones with raspberry jam, and Mattie’s stomach growled as he pushed his way through the other students. He tried to concentrate on Eliot’s play-by-play of his detention, but Mattie couldn’t ignore the whispers of “totally ate dirt” and “diaper” as he passed the other students.

  “I’m never going to live down the Aluminum Falcon thing, am I?” Mattie asked.

  Eliot scrunched his nose up in confusion. “What? Oh. No, I don’t think Professor Shelley cares.”

  “Hey, Little Larimore!” someone shouted.

  Mattie cringed. Little Larimore? The nickname was even worse than when Carter called him dog names for an entire semester. Mattie stared straight ahead. Please don’t be me. Please don’t be me.

  Mattie knew it was a useless prayer. After all, he was a Larimore, and let’s face it, quite little.

  “I’m talking to you, Little Larimore!”

  Mattie and the Spencers turned. Doyle was galloping in their direction.

  “Oh. No,” Mattie whispered, feeling his eyes bug wide. Doyle had been Mattie’s roommate since last semester. Everything about the other boy was big: big head, big fists, big body—and an even bigger interest in holding down smaller kids and spitting in their mouths.

  Doyle grabbed Mattie by his collar. “I was talking to you!”

  Mattie’s head went a little fuzzy with panic. “Hey, Doyle,” he managed as Doyle dragged him closer. “I didn’t realize you meant me. How you doing?”

  “Better than you.” Doyle released Mattie’s collar and Mattie rocked back on his heels. “Your dad’s all right. If we have assemblies like that every week, this place will be way more entertaining.”

  Mattie wasn’t sure what to say to that, but he needn’t have worried because Doyle spotted his best friend, Maxwell, and galloped off in the opposite direction. Mattie rubbed his throat.

  “Little Larimore,” Caroline repeated, scratching her stomach. Beneath her sweater, Beezus wiggled in appreciation. “It’s not bad—better than some of the stuff Carter’s called you.”

  “Not by much.” Mattie winced as Doyle tackled Maxwell. They began to wrestle, crashing into sixth graders and lockers. “He’s in a good mood.”