The Power of Un

by Nancy Etchemendy

  The Power of Un

  Nancy Etchemendy

  Copyright

  The Power of Un

  Copyright ©2000 by Nancy Etchemendy

  Cover art to the electronic edition copyright © 2010 by RosettaBooks, LLC

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  First electronic edition published 2010 by RosettaBooks LLC, New York.

  ISBN e-Pub edition: 9780795310195

  For Max & Claire

  With special thanks to Lianna and Ray Bennett, Nina Kiriki Hoffman, the Tuesday Night Writers, and my editor, John Allen.

  —N.E.

  Contents

  1 Stranger in the Woods

  2 The Gift

  3 Fear of the Dark

  4 Madam Isis

  5 View from the Devil’s Elevator

  6 The Big Red Button

  7 Word Problems

  8 Wading through Time

  9 Hearts and Unnings

  10 What Is and What Isn’t?

  11 Losers Win, Winners Lose

  12 Unner’s End

  13 My Thoughts about the Universe

  1

  STRANGER IN THE WOODS

  Stories used to be easier to start before I found out about the innermost workings of the universe and all that stuff—I mean, back in the days, maybe a week ago, when I was just Gib Finney, a regular guy with a bedroom full of birds’ nests, stringless yo-yos, baseballs, half-eaten Baby Ruths, and computer parts.

  The Power of Un changed everything. Not just obvious stuff, like my leg, which is very broken because of it. That’s the reason I’m lying here in a cast on a cot in the backyard, staring up at the autumn stars. The Power of Un also changed everything I thought I knew about the world. Big things, like what’s good and what’s bad and what lies ahead of me. Little things, too. For example, before all this, I never would have wondered if my whole future depends on whether I slurp up this marshmallow that’s floating in my cocoa. Sometimes it just about drives me crazy.

  Because of the Power of Un, I realize this story has about a million possible beginnings. Maybe it started a year ago, when my little sister, Roxy, went on a class trip to the animal shelter and became obsessed with dogs. Or maybe it began the day my best friend, Ash Jensen, and I saw a carnival poster in the window of my mom and uncle’s hardware store and we swore on a dead sparrow that we’d go no matter what. But I guess the clearest place to start is with that spitball I shot at my math teacher, Ms. Shripnole, known among her students as Ol’ Shrapnel.

  That stupid spitball changed my life. Who knew? Not me. Not at the time, anyway.

  But in order to understand the true meaning of the spitball incident, you first have to know what happened between me and Rainy Frogner earlier that fateful Friday.

  On the morning in question—October 27—Lorraine Frogner and I sat practically nose to nose, whisper-shouting at each other in the science lab at Mitchell Rutherford Middle School. I have no idea why Mr. Maynard assigned us both to the same table. I’d never been able to hide my irritation with Rainy Frogner, though I sometimes wished I could. It often made me look like an idiot, and who wants to look like an idiot?

  I’m not sure why she had this effect on me. In spite of her unfortunate name, Rainy Frogner has her good points. She’s smart, for example, and she’s generous. She’s lent me lunch money more than once. And she isn’t exactly ugly. In fact, she’s pretty easy to look at. She has this really unusual combination of shiny black hair and mint-green eyes. Still, I’d often catch myself thinking of her as the most pestiferous girl on the planet. I got into arguments with her all the time and when I tried to figure out why, I could seldom find an exact reason.

  That day, though, I did have a good and exact reason for arguing with her. She was on the verge of ruining our science experiment. We were supposed to do a lab project with potato skins, and we could take our choice: dunk them in water, pour ammonia on them, blow-dry them, dip them in lemon juice, or figure out something original. Since original stuff is my idea of serious fun, I convinced Rainy we ought to pour salt on our potato skins.

  I had a pretty good idea what would happen, I’ve watched my dad salt potatoes in a pan before he fries them. He makes a mean hash brown, and he says one of the keys is not to salt them too much at first, because if you do, the salt will draw out all the water, and you end up poaching them instead of frying them. Salt does that—draws the water out of stuff. Like when you put it on slugs, which I’ve only done once, and it made me puke. But I’m getting off track.

  Rainy thought we ought to pile the skins in a mound and lightly salt them—like she wanted to keep from making a mess or something. She’s kind of obsessed with neatness and with doing things correctly, which, I guess, are two of the things that bother me about her. I thought we should spread the skins out, then really pour on the salt. Experiments in which hardly anything happens are boring, and I was hoping for big results.

  “Come on,” I said. “If it gets messy, I’ll clean it up.”

  Rainy’s reaction shocked me. She said, “Gib Finney, you are so bossy and mean! Why does everybody always have to do things your way?”

  “What are you talking about?” I said.

  “We’re already using salt, just because you wanted to. You’re so selfish! You never think about what somebody else might want.”

  “I am not selfish! I just want a good experiment. We should use plenty of salt because if we don’t, nothing’ll happen.”

  Like I said, we were whisper-shouting at each other by that time. I didn’t like being called selfish. My face was getting hot—I really wanted to yell or throw something, and it was taking a lot of effort not to.

  Then Rainy said, “O.K. Have it your way.” She picked up the box of salt, opened it all the way, and turned it upside down. The potato skins got covered, all right. So did everything else, including my lap and the floor. There was no way to tell what was happening to the skins, so the experiment was useless anyway. And I had to spend a lot of time under the table with a whisk broom and a dustpan. On top of it all, Mr. Maynard gave us points off for horseplay. By the time the bell rang, I was having a hard time thinking about anything except Lorraine Frogner’s head exploding. Which is probably why I did what I did (or more accurately, didn’t do what I didn’t do) during the Spitball Incident later that day.

  We have math with Ms. Shripnole every afternoon at two o’clock. I wish we had it in the morning, because you have to concentrate in order to do math. By two everybody, including Ol’ Shrapnel, is tired and wants to be someplace else. On Friday afternoons it’s the worst.

  The classroom was a little too warm, because it was an Indian summer day and the sun was pouring through the windows. Ash and I pretended we were working on decimals, but to keep each other awake, we passed notes back and forth, making plans for the carnival that night.

  I opened my binder to get a fresh piece of paper, and a forgotten soda straw fell out. I like to keep straws around; they’re good for so many different things. Stick them in a glass of water and make volcano sound effects. Blow bubbles with the hand soap from the bathroom dispensers. Scare flies. The possibilities are endless. But what I love most about them is that anytime you need a little excitement, you can shoot things out of them. Like spitballs.

  Ash hid a grin behind his hand as he watched me take a fat, juicy wad of paper and load it into the straw. I had no idea that, seated in the desk on my right, Rainy Frogner was doing the same thing, with me as her target. Spitballs aren’t something Rainy generally does. She hardly ever gets in trouble, but now she was risking it for the s
econd time that day. She must have been pretty mad at me.

  I waited till Ms. Shripnole turned around to write something on the board. Then I took careful aim, blew out that big, wet glob with all the force in my lungs, and hid the straw as fast as I could. My plan was to hit her in the back. It would stick there, all the kids would laugh, and she’d have no idea why. It wasn’t the most admirable thing I’ve ever done. It definitely wasn’t the smartest thing I’ve ever done, either. Believe me, I spent a lot of time regretting it later.

  In the course of a split second, two unexpected things happened. First, I felt something cold and wet hit my cheek with a lot of force. It was Rainy’s spit-ball, and it stung. Then mine hit Ol’ Shrapnel. Unfortunately, she’d just turned around at the worst possible instant, and it hit her directly in the forehead.

  The whole class gasped as if it were a single organism. Before any of us could take another breath, Ms. Shripnole’s face went through a series of contortions, beginning with surprise and ending with fury.

  “Who did that?” she demanded, casting her gaze around the room like a laser beam.

  To my considerable surprise, the laser came to rest not on me but on Rainy, who was still holding the straw she’d shot me with. It all took such a short time, I doubt anybody in the room had a clear idea what had happened except Rainy and me and maybe Ash.

  “Lorraine Frogner!” said Ol’ Shrapnel in a tone that would have made even the principal shiver.

  “But … but I didn’t do it. Gib did it!” Rainy waved her straw in the air while she made this claim.

  “Lorraine, it is bad enough to do such a thing in the first place, but to deny it under these circumstances is far worse.”

  I could have stopped the whole scene at that point just by standing up and admitting I was the one who’d shot the offending spitball. It would have been the right thing to do. But I was angr

  ‘d spent a chunk of the morning on my hands and knees under a lab table. And I could still feel the cold sting of Rainy’s spitball on my cheek. So I squinted at her and sat still. I let her take the blame for what I’d done, thereby sealing my fate.

  Have you ever watched a spider walk across a web on a misty morning? It might only step on one tiny strand of silk, but the whole web moves. Then far on the other side, a dewdrop might fall and jiggle other strands of silk or maybe even break one. The whole shape of the web can change because of that one eensy step.

  That spitball was a spider step. It was just one little thing, but it made other things happen, one after another, till the whole shape of my life was different. And not in a good way, either.

  Ash had a soccer game after school that day, so our plan was to meet at his house after dinner, then walk over to the carnival. We had a lot of ideas about what to do once we got there—play the games, get lost in the House of Mirrors, eat way too much junk food. We’d heard that the fortuneteller, Madam Isis, was spookily great. And we wanted to ride the rides, of course. There was a new one we’d never been on called the Devil’s Elevator, and it was, supposed to be pretty good. Jeffrey Hargrove said it made his big sister barf, which was an outstanding recommendation.

  After school I went home, dumped my books, and said hi to my dad, who usually comes home around three from work at his rare books store. Then I did a bunch of stuff just to kill time till dinner. I played “doggy” with Roxy, which I hardly ever do. Who in his right mind wants to pretend his kid sister is a dog? It’s bad enough if you have to take a real dog for walks, feed it, and brush it. Doing those things to a dog-obsessed six-year-old is totally weird. But I was in a good mood, so I said yes when she asked me. After that I shot some hoops above the garage door. When I came back inside, my dad was on the phone, looking serious.

  “Oh, don’t worry,” he said. “These things happen. Gib can take care of Roxy. Hope you feel better soon.”

  He hung up, and I could see from his face that he was about to tell me something he knew I’d hate. “That was Lorraine Frogner,” he said.

  At first I wondered what Rainy was doing on the phone with my father. Would she seriously complain to my parents about the spitball thing? Then I remembered she was baby-sitting Roxy that night because Mom and Dad were going out and so was I. My stomach did a somersault and ended up somewhere around my vocal chords.

  “She can’t baby-sit?” I croaked.

  Dad nodded. “She says she’s not feeling well. Sorry, kiddo. You’re going to have to watch Roxy tonight.”

  “N-Not feeling well? She was fine at school today. I don’t get it.” But even as the words were leaving my mouth, I got it, all right. Rainy wasn’t sick. She was mad and she was getting even with me.

  “Some kind of stomach bug,” said Dad.

  “But I’m going to the carnival tonight! Ash and I have been planning this for weeks!”

  “Well, you can take Roxy with you. I know she’d love to go.”

  “Take Roxy?” A pain was growing somewhere behind my eyes. A picture formed in my brain of me going on the baby rides, holding Roxy’s hand—which would be stuck to mine with cotton candy—and taking her to the Porta-Potties. “Dad! If I do that I won’t have any fun at all! Can’t you guys just … I dunno … skip the dance tonight or something?”

  He and Mom were going with my aunt and uncle to a square dance, one of those dumb things where everyone dresses up in Western clothes and stomps and whoops for hours while a country band plays songs with names like “Flop-Eared Mule” and “Shindig in the Barn.” I couldn’t imagine why anybody would want to do such a thing.

  “Look, we don’t want to cancel our plans any more than you want to cancel yours,” said Dad. “Of course you’ll have fun. You’ll just have Roxy along while you’re at it.”

  “But, Dad …” By now my voice was barely a squeak.

  “No buts.” I knew by the way he said this that further arguments would just make things worse. Besides, I was afraid I might start crying.

  The room was beginning to feel incredibly small and hot. I opened the front door. “I’m going for a walk.”

  “Make sure you’re back in time for dinner,” said Dad. His voice trailed after me as I closed the door. “Sorry things worked out this way….”

  Sorry. Sure, I thought. There was an empty Coke can on the sidewalk in front of our house, and I kicked it as hard as I could. Then I found a rock, and I kicked that, too, every time I took a step, all the way to the woods at the end of the block. I wished I were an only child, that Roxy had been kidnapped from the hospital at birth or had been bitten by a tropical mosquito and died of malaria before the age of two. I wished Lorraine Frogner knew the meaning of the word mercy. Most of all, I wished I’d never heard of spitballs.

  There’s a path through the woods, and I started to run along it, still kicking everything I came across. Dry leaves flew up in fountains. Twigs sailed through the air. The last thing I kicked was a tree trunk, and it hurt so much I had to sit on the ground, holding my foot and saying every swear word I knew.

  I was pretty distracted, so it came as a shock when I looked up and saw, through a blur of angry tears, someone standing just a few feet away, watching me. I probably would have yelped if I could have, but I was so startled my throat closed and I jumped up, ready to run, before I had time to think about it. There was such a roar of rushing blood in my ears that I could hardly hear anything else, and the world seemed eerily quiet.

  Whoever it was stood in the deep shadow of a tree. The sun was about to set, and the woods felt too dark for comfort. The figure wore a long, shapeless garment—maybe a trench coat, maybe some kind of robe. When he opened his mouth, he spoke in a deep, raspy voice. “Don’t be afraid. I won’t hurt you.”

  He might as well have said he was an ax murderer. He took a step forward, and there was just one word in my mind, flashing like a neon sign: RUN. Unfortunately, the heel of my high top caught on a root as I tried to back up. I landed hard on my rear.

  The old man loomed over me. He smelled strange�
�like hot metal or lightning. I thought I saw smoke rising from his rumpled clothes and a wild halo of silvery hair that stood out from his head. He had an object I couldn’t identify in his raised hand.

  “I’ve got something for you,” he said, and he opened his mouth in a crazy grin.

  2

  THE GIFT

  The old man continued to smile at me, his head tilted. Anybody would have thought he was admiring a famous painting or something. I squirmed. I’d never seen him before in my life—he could have been the premier of Siberia for all I knew. There was no way he could have something for me, at least not anything good.

  “Wh-Who are you?” I asked. Not that I expected an answer. I was stalling for time while I felt around on the ground for a rock or a stick—anything I could use to defend myself.

  He took another step forward, and I got a better look at his face; shining eyes set in woven creases of skin. I could see the rest of him better, too. His coat—or robe or whatever—looked soft and crumpled. Maybe he’d slept in it. From certain angles, it glittered, and there really did seem to be smoke or vapor rising from it. Maybe he was homeless, but even so, I’d never seen anyone like him. He was clean, but that electrical smell was very strong. I wondered if he’d escaped from a mental hospital. Anything seemed possible.

  “Who am I? Not important,” he said. “Not important at all.” He laid one finger beside his mouth and frowned. “Well, that’s not quite right. It is important. It’s important that you not know. It’s also important that we hurry. I don’t have much time.”

  My fingers closed around a nice, thick stick in the fallen leaves. I grabbed it and raised it over my head. “Get away! I’m warning you.”

  His eyebrows drew together. He held up the hand with nothing in it, palm toward me as if to shield himself, which made me feel a little braver. “No, no, don’t worry. I’d never hurt you. Cross my heart and hope to die.” He traced a cross over his heart. I wasn’t sure I’d ever seen anybody older than thirteen do that before. “I’m just here to give you something. Really,” he continued, holding out his other hand. What I’d assumed must be a gun or a knife or some other weapon was actually a flat box that looked like it might be plastic. In the dusky light, it was hard to tell.