by Sue Lange
Dean Williams insisted the school could not sanction the Perpetual Motion Club unless it had five members. Elsa replaced the posters every other day with what she thought were new, brighter messages, more enticing and to the point. She started with the simple and straightforward: “Join The Perpetual Motion Club,” and moved on to: “The Perpetual Motion Club wants You!”, and finally, “Be all that you can be in the Perpetual Motion Club.” No one showed any interest and in fact somebody took a Sharpie and wrote “Plagiarism” across the last one.
There was a slight light showing at the end of the tunnel, though. Back in the throes of December, May had grown up. Maybe it was the attention from the creepy Ralph. Maybe her hormones kicked up a notch. Whatever. Somehow she felt a tug in her midsection. She fixed herself up. She began wearing nail polish that matched her lipstick, which in May’s case would be white. She added a Celtic cross tattoo to the back of her left hand and a yin yang symbol to her neck. She donned a tight-fitting bodice over her flowing blouses.
It worked.
Some time after the New Year had bestowed its good will toward mankind, a garage rocker decked out in Zildjian- and ASCAP-sponsored wear discovered the Wiccan goddess one day when the restrooms in the rock wing at school were closed for cleaning. He was hopelessly lost in the science wing searching for the toilet. He saw her in her diaphanous glow of sweet, innocent, pure white. She happened to be cursing at a jammed locker at the time.
jWad fell instantly in love. The two began a serious courtship marked by her attendance at one of his band’s all-ages gigs. The shows were held down at a coffee house that had formerly been a factory that made neoprene gloves before the industry went South. Sometime after the move twenty years ago, the area surrounding the old warehouse complex had gentrified and now the building housed art galleries, book stores, and reading rooms for Christian youth. On weekends the garage rockers held shows on a stage constructed on the old assembly line.
Elsa was hurt of course. When had May grown up? How had she done it without Elsa’s help? She accepted the situation grudgingly as all best friends eventually do. She was too busy with the club to be sullen about it and it turned out to be to her advantage anyway.
On January 12, jWad’s band broke up due to artistic differences. Apparently the lead singer wanted his lyrics heard but the rest of the band didn’t. The members parted their ways leaving May and jWad with nothing to do for mating rituals. May suggested the Perpetual Motion coven. jWad sneered of course, and May took that as an assent. He showed up at the first monthly meeting.
Not particularly interested in perpetual motion in the abstract, or a resume designed to get the holder into a spiffy college, jWad spent the entire meeting in a disruptive mood. Elsa, furious with May for bringing him, came around when he signed his name to a membership.
“Four down,” May pointed out. “One to go.”
The image of Jason Bridges flitted across Elsa’s brain screen, but before she could start seething and lose track of her thoughts, the image jarred something loose. Something about being blatant, unapologetic, pushy maybe. She got an idea.
The following set of posters stated in large black letters: “Soon to be sanctioned: The Perpetual Motion Club.” Underneath in a smaller, teasing size she placed the line: “Good for your resume,” unabashedly hinting that something was going on.
The new tagline cinched it. Ten prospective members ripped the e-mail address tags from the bottom and contacted Elsa. She excitedly answered all queries detailing the aims of the club and date for the next meeting. A few even showed up, but they declined membership when they saw the sorry state of the club: no sponsors, no freebies, no tickets to the skateboard park, no endorsements from famous online bloggers.
Elsa remained undaunted. She gave the night’s demonstration on buoyancy devices and closed the meeting in a happy state. She’d actually finally gotten a response. She was learning.
Another round of posters and by the following week a fifth member had been dragged in: Christine Carlisle, a sickly freshman with an average academic record. She carried a wadded up Kleenex in her hand wherever she went and was often absent from school. She had a small sponsorship with Claritin and an even smaller one with an online health site called Medline. With no hopes for a respectable resume, she figured she should join up. After Elsa, May, and Jimmy graduated, and jWad dropped out, she’d be the sole member and could appoint herself president. Now that would be something for the resume she figured.
Elsa sent the paperwork in to Dean Williams for the sanctioning of the club and a date was set for a hearing: January 31. Elsa would be required to defend her argument for Northawken’s need for a Perpetual Motion Club in front of a board of two faculty members plus the dean herself.
And who would the faculty members be? Elsa nodded graciously when the dean told her Ms. Phelps, the art teacher was one and the dean was another. But then the skies turned dark. The third member of the tribunal was Mr. Brown.
CHAPTER TWELVE
The day before the big showdown, Elsa stayed late in the library to research the finishing touches of her presentation. She needed a quiet place away from Lainie’s cyncism as well as a big table to spread out her ideas and appliances on. She might even need some of the old reference books that nobody ever used. Thus, the library.
Tucked between a bank of InterConnect boxes and the Autolibrarian, the library’s centrally located FlatSurface was perfect. Elsa placed her lap pad, cell, locator watch, and pocket page in a semi-circle at one end. In the middle of the techware, she laid out an old-fashioned pen and pad of paper.
She began her investigation by double checking the facts and quotes and historical precedents that formed the basis of her argument. She then brainstormed on details, like torque and friction, that might trip her up tomorrow, looking up anything questionable to make sure she got the particulars right.
Once that was done, she used the phone search app to find groups like hers and started a list in her lap pad notes of any that seemed remotely related. The list would prove this idea of hers was not so radical or different. If she needed to verify geographical locations, she used the watch which precluded a need to surf away. Likewise if she needed to look up a word. If she wanted to check something with a real live entity (like Dad) she texted using her pocket page.
She keyed pieces of evidence into the lap pad. After several hours she had a mess of one liners, unconnected quotes from the founding fathers and references to unquestionable authorities such as the Koran, Bible, and D&D rulebook. The pen and paper was used to draw a flow chart on how everything connected to everything. The first chart was a mess, she tossed the paper to the incinerator chute. The second was a mess, she did the same. Finally, the third made sense and was factually correct.
By eight p.m. she felt sure she’d exhausted all avenues of argument. She closed down her tech gear, folded up the final flowchart, and stowed everything in the backpack. She was ready.
As she packed up, the table sensed her movement and stated, “Please be aware it is unlawful to leave unattended bags and packages in this library. Check to make sure you have all your belongings. Anything untended will be subject to search and possible disposal.”
As she installed the bag on her back, the table added, “Have a nice day.”
The hallway outside the library was desolate. It was located on the third floor of the rock music wing, and as usual everyone was out shooting a video. The only movement came from the iVroom down at the far end as it made passes back and forth, vacuuming the floor. Once in a while the WallSpido came out from behind the now darkened Nike, Coke, and Jetstream signs as it cleaned the in between spaces. Without their glow, the signs were no longer decipherable. They were dreary in their colorlessness and it was hard to even tell what they were advertising.
Elsa’s footsteps echoed down the empty corridor as she headed for the stairwell. She was half way to the exit when the door to the boys restroom burst open and a gang of laughing, sm
oking, and possibly drinking, larger than life, teenagers rushed out. Anti-Rifs.
Elsa stopped and then cursed herself for losing momentum. The group blocked her way to the stairs, the only way off this floor. Should she return to the library? She heard the door click locked and state, “The library is now closed. You may return tomorrow morning at seven a.m.”
The front man for the group of anti-Rifs was wearing a purple bowtie and a checkered shirt under his leather vest. A metal Wrigley’s wrapper belt held his nanofiber pants up. His socks matched the belt. He was a big boy. At least 18 years of age and with a pot belly the size of a truck driver’s. She had no idea who he was. Couldn’t even fake a “Hey, Jack,” to calm her nerves. She let out a little “huh” in greeting. He no doubt didn’t hear it. She searched the halls for the floor autoguard. Something that recorded all activity and would be a deterrent to harassment.
“No guard tonight, chickie,” the front man said. He stepped aside and pointed to a gray box with an “out of order” sign hastily written with a red Sharpie. Its darkened LED readout panel showed a profound lack of power.
An ugly knot formed in Elsa’s stomach. She was alone with these people and they seemed to want more than silent protest at the moment. Her mind raced with half-formed self-protection training instructions. Nothing gelled.
“She’s the one arguing with Nails the other day,” a girl with a red tattoo of a computer chip on her left cheek said. She wore a bustiere that matched the tattoo and nanofiber hip huggers. Elsa didn’t have a chance with such nicely put togethers.
“So you like the little chips, eh, chippie,” the front man said. “Sure you don’t want to have it removed?”
Elsa backed away, nausea rising in the back of her throat. She opened her mouth to speak but nothing came out.
“Hey, Elsa,” a voice in the back said.
She instinctively turned and as soon as the darkness in her peripheral vision cleared she watched the crowd part.
Jimmy Bacomb stepped forward.
Elsa’s lip quivered but emitted no sound.
“What are you doing here?” Jimmy asked.
“I’m . . . ” She looked to the library. “ . . . working.” She raised her eyebrows unconsciously.
“You want company?” The front man said.
“No!” she answered without thinking, and then amended herself. “I mean, I’m on my way home.”
Jimmy was already grabbing her elbow to turn her towards the stairs.
“Watch out,” the girl in the red tattoo said. “She’s brainwashed.
Without breaking his stride, Jimmy turned his head to the girl and said, “Elsa? Hardly.”
Elsa gladly followed along. The world’s colors were by now returning to her vision, the black around the edges dissipating.
When they were out of the building and well on their way home, her breathing finally slowed to normal. “What the hell were you doing with those . . . people?” she asked.
“They want some graphic work done. They’re really unorganized and the stuff they’re using is crap. I’m volunteering to help with the—”
“What?”
“I’m going to help them.”
“Why? Those people are—”
“No they’re not.”
“Did you hear what they said to me? Those are probably the ones that murdered that—”
“Elsa, come on!” Jimmy stopped and reached for her arm as if assuring her she was on the wrong track and he’d set it right for her. She pulled violently away and kept walking. He followed.
“Even if they weren’t going to, you know . . . ” she imitated a straight razor cutting her jugular, “ . . . they’re drug addicts, you can see it in their faces. And their ideas are stupid.”
“Stupid? Why? Because you don’t agree with them?”
“No, they don’t make any sense. We need those chips. Look what happened tonight. I was alone and the hall monitor was broken. Nobody was around.”
“You have a chip and it wouldn’t have stopped them. Besides, Elsa, they were teasing you. No law against that.”
“Some tease. Sadistic. They threatened to cut me.”
“They asked if you’d like it removed. Don’t fall for the PR bullshit.”
“Bullshit?” She held out her arm across his stomach to stop him, like a parent protecting a child in the car. She turned to him open-mouthed and met his eyes. “You’re joining them, aren’t you?”
He shrugged.
She looked at his hair under the beret, the freckles, the ears too large for the head, the chin and unsmiling lips.
“Well, I guess you won’t have time for perpetual motion then, will you?”
“Of course I will,” he said. “Besides I’m not planning on joining them.”
She ran off then and shouted back at him. “We’ll see.”
He hung back and let her go.
“Twerp,” she said, under her breath.
***
January 31: Breakfast. Off to school. Morning classes. Lunch. Afternoon classes. The final bell. three p.m. Time for the Inquisition.
“You may go in,” the automated office assistant stated. Robert, the door to Dean William’s office, opened for her. “Come in, Ms. Webb,” the dean called. She smiled warmly at Elsa as she entered the room.
Dean Williams sat flanked by Mr. Brown on one side and Ms. Phelps, the fine arts teacher, on the other. The Dean and Ms. Phelps were smiling. Mr. Brown played with a pencil, tapping it on a sheaf of papers balanced on the right side of his lap.
The seats the tribunal sat on were usually reserved for parents called in to receive instruction on disciplining their child. Designed to make the users feel off-balanced, uncomfortable, at a disadvantage, the chairs put the three in a bad mood.
Dean Williams ordered Elsa to stand in the middle of their semi-circle just in front of the desk. Elsa desperately wanted to lean on its edge for support, but just as desperately wanted to appear earnest. Leaning might make her look cavalier. She felt earnest, but was unsure it would come off. She also felt faint and was in danger of hyperventilating.
As she took her place before the teachers, she managed a small “hi,” so quiet, the word almost never left her mouth. She nodded and attempted to smile as she said it, but her lips merely quivered, unconvinced.
“We’ve reviewed your application, Elsa,” Dean Williams started. “Now we’d like you to tell us in your own words why this school needs a Perpetual Motion Club.”
Elsa had already given the answer to that question at length in the application. But being a trained child of the institution known as school and therefore used to doing what she was told even if there is an easier, faster, better way to do it, she dove in without asking questions.
“Well, um, perpetual motion is the best way to study, um, well, it can be used to apply, um, arithmetic, er, math and lots of other things we have studied. It has a long and colorful history with people like Leonardo Da Vinci, um . . . ”
The investigators patiently waited. Mr. Brown turned his head from one side to the other as if its weight was too much and he needed to relieve the muscles on one side of his neck by using those on the opposite side. Ms. Phelps raised her eyebrows, truly interested in whether or not Elsa could answer. Dean Williams smiled harder in a coaxing kind of way.
Elsa took it all in and gathered her courage as well as her steam.
“ . . . well, he left notes from his work. Incomplete notes, but proof that it interested him. Although most people and scientists believe it is impossible, that is not necessarily the case. The first and second laws of thermodynamics have not been proven either. Whether or not you believe it is possible is not important. The study of its history and possibility, almost because it is fruitless, makes it worthwhile.”
Ms. Phelps nodded her head. Mr. Brown coughed. Dean Williams beamed.
“The fact that you will never make a perpetual motion machine puts the practice in the realm of art,” Elsa continued. “It is one w
ay we can reconcile art and science. In times past, art and science were one and the same, but these days, we separate them out. To make money with science, you use reason alone—not beauty. To make art, you don’t use the scientific method with its yes or no answers. The Perpetual Motion Club will give students a chance to meld art and science.”
“And how do you propose to do that?” Ms. Phelps wanted to know.
“Well, we’re going to build some of the historic machines, and try to invent new ways of creating perpetual motion. We’ll communicate with some of the modern followers that work with new techniques and use updated materials and theories . . . ”
“Do you yourself believe in the possibility of perpetual motion?” Mr. Brown interrupted her with the meat, the point. Leave it to Brown to give her a trick question. Her answer to his question would make or break the whole effort.
“It doesn’t matter what I or anybody else believes,” she answered stoutly. “The point is to work at something that is bound to fail. The process is what’s important. What we will learn from it is important.”
“But what will you learn, Elsa?” Mr. Brown wanted to know. “Besides what we’ve already taught you.”
“It’s one thing to learn from a book and another to put what you’ve learned into practice.”
“Were you aware, Elsa, that many people waste their lives on this sort of thing?” Mr. Brown said. “They become addicted to the idea of proving established science wrong. They think they’ll become rich and famous with an invention. Hundreds of people file patents every year and get laughed out of the office. They go home and try again and again and again. They lose their jobs, their lives, Elsa. Is that how you want to wind up?”
“Those people don’t have the benefit of the education we have here. They haven’t studied basic physics. If they’d learn the physics, they’d see easily why they fail. They . . . ”
“Are you saying we don’t have a good physics program here?” Ms. Phelps asked.
“No, of course not, but . . . ”
“But you want to test it,” Mr. Brown folded his arms across his chest.”
