by Bill Myers
Her cool look grew cooler.
“We did return them to their original molecular structure,” Tuna said.
“Just like we did those goldfish on the third floor,” Herby added.
Her cooler look grew colder.
“Come on.”
She folded her arms and refused to talk.
The boys exchanged looks. “I believe she really is gur-roid,” Tuna said.
Herby nodded. “To the max.”
TJ spotted the stack of unopened boxes in the middle of her room. When giving others the silent treatment, it’s always best to do something, so she crossed to the boxes and started to unpack.
“So,” Tuna said, “I suppose this isn’t the best time to point out that you’ve not improved your behavior with either Naomi Simpletwirp or Doug Claudlooper?”
TJ couldn’t believe her ears. Here she was, having the worst week of her life, and all they cared about was how she was treating a couple of loser kids. Amazing. She remained silent and dug into the box.
“Please,” Tuna continued, “how is it possible to continue meaningful communication with you if you are unwilling to share your thoughts?”
She gave no answer. Instead she started pulling out clothes her aunt Matilda had packed before they left Missouri—a heavy wool scarf, down-filled parka, thick woolen mittens—just the fashion statements she needed for life in sunny Malibu, California.
Herby nervously cleared his throat. “Do you think she’d, like, mind if we used the Acme Thought Broadcaster?”
“An excellent question.” Tuna turned to her. “Do you mind if we utilize our Acme Thought Broadcaster?”
TJ ignored them and continued to dig. Earmuffs, thermal underwear . . .
“That’s not exactly a yes,” Tuna said.
“But it’s not a no, either,” Herby said.
Tuna agreed. “Yes, it’s not a no, so yes, it could be yes. Yes?”
“Yes.” Herby reached into his pocket.
By now TJ was at the bottom of the box. Snowshoes, battery-powered socks. She was so busy, she didn’t see Herby pull out what looked like a ballpoint pen. Nor did she hear him give it a click. But she did hear:
She pulled her head from the box just in time to see an eerie blue beam shooting at her. She tried to duck but was too late. The beam struck her face and immediately she began shouting:
“What is that, what are you doing, what’s going on, hey, how come I’m talking but not moving my mouth, wait a minute, my voice is coming from those stereo speakers over there, no way, this is crazy, what’s happening, what are you doing, what—?”
“No sweat, Your Dude-ness,” Herby said. “It’s just our Acme Thought Broadcaster. Sold at 23rd century time-travel stores everywhere.”
“Saves the bother of having to speak,” Tuna explained.
“A Thought Broadcaster, what, what are you talking about, and how come we’re hearing everything I’m thinking, I don’t like this, I—”
Tuna frowned. “It appears the thought filter is malfunctioning. She is stuck on maximum broadcast.”
“Maximum what, I’m stuck on what, oh yeah, what a surprise, something else of yours that doesn’t work, imagine that, is there anything you have that works, and what do you mean by thought filter, what’s—”
“Relax,” Herby said. “It’s nothing to get torked about. It just means we hear everything you’re thinking.”
“Everything I’m thinking, you don’t mean everything, boy, it sure sounds like everything, I sure hope you can’t hear that I have to go to the bathroom, oh no, I can’t believe I just said that, I mean thought it, I mean—”
“TJ?” Dad called from the other side of the door. “Are you okay?”
“Oh no, it’s Dad, what do I do, he can’t see me like, er, hear me like this, shut it off, shut it—”
“No problemo,” Herby whispered. “All I have to do is . . .” He clicked the pen and the blue beam immediately disappeared.
The good news was they no longer heard TJ’s thoughts.
The bad news was TJ no longer had any thoughts.
“Sweetheart?”
“Answer him,” Tuna whispered.
TJ turned to him and said,
“ .”
She scowled and tried again.
“ !”
“What’s her problem?” Herby asked.
“I am uncertain,” Tuna answered. “She didn’t say.”
“Or think,” Herby added.
Both boys looked at each other and groaned, “Oh no . . .”
“It has also shorted out,” Tuna sighed. “We can’t hear what she’s thinking because she’s not thinking.”
TJ turned back to him and shouted,
“ !”
“Honey, can we talk?”
The three looked at each other in a panic. (Well, the two boys looked at each other in a panic. TJ was looking at them in a .)
“Imitate her,” Tuna whispered to Herby.
“What?”
“As you did before!”
“Oh, right.” Herby cleared his throat and gave another awful impersonation of TJ. “I’m okay, Poppsy.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes. I just need a little time to myself.”
“Well, all right,” he said. “But I’m here if you need me.”
“I know you are.”
“And take care of that cold. It sounds like it’s getting worse.”
“Okay, Poppsy. I love you.”
“I love you, too, sweetheart.”
Tuna raced to the door and pressed his ear against it until he heard Dad walking away.
Meanwhile, Herby was busy clicking and reclicking the pen, while occasionally
it against the desk, trying to fix it.
All this as TJ stood around, frantically yelling,
“ !”
Suddenly her cell phone rang.
Without thinking (literally), TJ reached into her pocket, pulled out her phone, and answered,
“ ?”
“TJ?” an all-too-familiar voice asked.
“ ,” she replied.
“TJ, It’s Naomi. Your best new friend.”
“ .”
“It must be a bad connection; I can’t hear you. But if you can hear me, turn on the TV. Hesper Breakahart is on Eye Witless News, and you won’t believe what she’s saying.”
TJ answered, “ .”
“Sorry. I’ll try later. Bye.” With that Naomi hung up.
TJ turned to Herby, who was still busy
the Acme Thought Broadcaster.
She turned to Tuna, who had just pulled something the size of a postage stamp from his pocket. He started unfolding it until it was the size of a notebook. He continued unfolding until it was the size of a computer monitor.
She looked on and would have wondered what he was doing (if her wonderer could wonder) as he continued unfolding it until it was the size of a giant TV (LCD of course). Without a word, he hung it on a nearby wall, clapped his hands twice, and the picture appeared.
There, in all of her plucked-eyebrow, two-hours-of-makeup-and-wardrobe glory, sat Hesper Breakahart. Actually, she wasn’t sitting; she was lying in a hospital bed. Both legs were elevated, both arms were in casts, and most of her head was bandaged.
“Yes,” she was sobbing, “this is the price one must pay for fame (and having such clear skin).”
The camera zoomed in to a close-up as tears streamed down her face. “But tomorrow I will find the courage to return to school and face my attacker. There I will offer her the olive branch of forgiveness.”
“Can you believe this?” Tuna moaned.
Herby thwacked.
Hesper continued, getting her voice to tremble, her bottom lip to quiver, and her eyes to water all at the same time. (She’s a professional; what did you expect?) “And perhaps the two of us can live together in world peace and harmony.”
Suddenly the beam
shot from the pen.
“Got
it!” Herby shouted in triumph.
“Oh no,” TJ moaned in defeat.
Because, even now, as she stared at the TV and her thinker began thinking more thoughtfully . . .
TRANSLATION: It took a moment before all of her brain cells were finally up to speed.
Thelma Jean Finkelstein realized the war with Hesper Breakahart wasn’t over—not by a long shot.
CHAPTER EIGHT
School Daze
TIME TRAVEL LOG:
Malibu, California, October 12
Begin Transmission:
Subject insisted Tuna and I stay home. How zworked. If she’s lucky, she will return from school safe. Then again, we all know about her luck.
End Transmission
There’s another little difference between Missouri and Malibu. In Missouri, they don’t have television crews running all over the place with cameras.
To be fair, the crew really wasn’t running all over the place; they were just running all over whatever places Hesper Breakahart was being wheeled around.
Wheeled around, as in . . .
“What’s she doing in a wheelchair?” TJ asked Naomi as they entered the hallway. Everywhere they looked there were lights and crew members—except directly in front of the camera, where Hesper sat. “I mean, she just has a broken nose.”
“Just a broken nose for you,” Naomi said as she pulled out a makeup mirror and checked her face. “But for Hesper Breakahart, it’s a gold mine.”
“What do you mean?”
Naomi put the mirror away. “Follow me.”
They pushed their way through the crowd until they got close enough to see dear, darling Hesper, smiling bravely as she wheeled herself toward her locker. It was a touching scene that even had TJ choking up (or gagging), until an older guy with a goatee (which looked more like a hairy patch of bread mold) shouted, “Cut! Cut! Cut!”
Suddenly Hesper’s brave, darling smile turned into an angry snarl. “What’s wrong with that?” she yelled.
“I need tears, babe,” the man said, “lots more tears.” He turned around and shouted, “Makeup!”
“Cooming, I em cooming.” A woman responded with a French accent (and more hair under her arms than the man had on his face). She dabbed some sort of oil under Hesper’s eyes and they immediately started to water.
Meanwhile two other people worked on Hesper’s hair.
“It’s all for publicity,” Naomi explained, pretending to be bored. (She might have pulled it off if she wasn’t madly brushing her hair, touching up her lipstick, and applying eyeliner . . . all at the same time.)
Finally the makeup woman shouted, “Vee half tearz! Vee half many, many tearz.”
“All right, folks!” the man yelled. “Let’s take it from the top. Places, please. And action!”
Once again, darling Hesper rolled toward her locker. But this time she bravely smiled through her many, many tearz.
TJ could only shake her head in disgust, amazement, and—even though she hated to admit it—awe.
An hour later, they were back in Mr. Beaker’s science class.
The good news was TJ had convinced Tuna and Herby to stay home and work on their time-travel pod.
The bad news was, well, that Tuna and Herby had stayed home and worked on their time-travel pod.
She had no sooner sat down beside Chad (which was a good thing ’cause her knees were still a little weak around him) when the door opened and in rolled Hesper.
“Oh, Hesper!” Elizabeth, her best friend since forever, cried. “You’ve joined us!”
Hesper looked up and smiled bravely (she was getting a lot of mileage out of smiling bravely) when another student rose to her feet and started to clap. Another student also stood and clapped. And then another and another, until the entire class was on their feet giving Hesper Breakahart a standing ovation.
It seemed a little over-the-top, even for Hesper, until TJ noticed the film crew coming in the door behind her.
“Thank you.” Hesper bowed her head humbly. “Thank you.” Then she looked up and gave (what else?) a brave smile. “Thank you; oh, thank you, thank you, thank you.”
When everyone was finished and finally took their seats, things returned to normal—well, as normal as anything can be with a TV star, a TV crew . . . and an old, wannabe actor.
That’s right. You see, Mr. Beaker was still standing. In his hands he held a clipboard. And on the clipboard was what looked like a script that he pretended not to read:
“Dear sweet and lovely Hesper.” (He obviously needed a few more acting lessons.) Mr. Beaker looked up and searched the class until he found Hesper sitting right in front of him. He cranked up his mouth into what was supposed to be a smile. The camera moved in closer as he looked back at the clipboard, pretending not to read what he was obviously reading.
“You are so brave returning to my class so soon after all you have been through.” He looked up and gave her another smile.
Hesper returned the smile, which seemed to be wilting as his awful performance continued.
“You are so brave returning to my class so soon after all you—” He frowned and pretended not to search the clipboard until he pretended not to find his place.
“Dear sweet and lovely Hesper—” More frowning and more pretending not to search. “Oh,” he said, pretending not to put his finger on the script so he’d not lose his place. “Your absence has been so greatly appreciated and felt— No, I mean, your absence has been so greatly felt and we appreciate your returning so soon.”
“Psst.” The man with the hairy chin waved. “Faster, faster!”
Mr. Beaker nodded and glanced back down at the clipboard. “As a token of our appreciation, I have re-assigned you to your old lab partner to continue what I’m sure will be an award-winning science fair pro-ject.”
Once again the class broke into applause.
Mr. Beaker looked up and smiled. “Thank you.” He seemed uncertain what to do, so he snuck in a quick little bow. “Thank you.”
Hesper wiped her eyes in gratitude (either for the reassignment or because the man’s performance was finally over). Bravely, she rolled toward Chad.
TJ couldn’t believe her eyes (or the number of times she’d heard the word brave).
Chad raised his hand. “Mr. Beaker?” he asked.
The teacher glanced to him, then down to the script, looking for his place.
Chad continued, “What about BJ, er, JT?”
Mr. Beaker looked up. “Who?”
“The new kid.”
The class grew so quiet you could hear a press-on fingernail drop.
“What about her?” Mr. Beaker asked.
“Who will be . . . ?” Chad swallowed. He seemed uncharacteristically nervous about the TV camera (and Hesper’s eyes boring into him). “Who will be her lab partner?”
TJ’s face reddened. The class murmured. And Mr. Beaker madly searched his script for an answer.
Fortunately, another student was there to help.
Unfortunately, the other student was looking longingly at TJ while sniff ing, snuff ing, and wiping his nose on the back of his hand.
“I don’t have a partner,” Doug Claudlooper said. “She can be mine.”
The rest of the class period was about the same, except for the part about it being a whole lot worse.
First there was the problem of Doug Claudlooper. TJ had spent all period listening to him explain the robot kitten he was completing (actually, they were completing) for the science fair.
“This gear is connected to this (sniff) gyro, which is connected to this (snuff) girder, which is connected to this . . .”
Eventually, his voice became nothing but a blur of words:
“Connected current battery (sniff) electrical of the parallel to the cells servo (snuff) motor wiring interconnected circuits . . .”
Then it became a blur of sounds:
“Stateoftheartengineering(sniff)connectedthroughopticalportaloptions(snuff)inwhichcasethey
mustbein perfectphaseandalignmenttothe . . .”
But through sheer politeness, TJ managed not to fall asleep and to actually “Mm-hm,” “I see,” and “Uh-huh” her way through his explanations until the bell finally rang.
Unfortunately, Doug wasn’t exactly finished. Which meant following her into the hall, sniffing, snuffing, and “It’scooltofinallyfindsomeonewhoknowsandunder standswhatI’mdoingespeciallygirlscausesomeofthem aren’tsosmartas—”
“Uh, listen, Doug,” she interrupted. “I need to go to the restroom.”
“I can wait,” he sniffed.
“No, that’s all right.”
“Oh, well, maybe I’ll see you later,” he snuffed.
“Yeah, right,” she muttered, turning for the restroom, “after I graduate, go to college, get married, have kids, and have a hundred grandkids . . .”
“Funny,” Doug called after her.
She turned to him.
He was trying to smile, but it was obvious he’d overheard her. “About the grandkids,” he said.
TJ felt her face grow hot. “Oh, Doug, I didn’t mean—”
“No, don’t worry about it,” he said, still trying to smile. “I get that all the time.”
“Doug, I didn’t mean—”
“No (sniff) problem,” he said. “Guess I’ll see you in class tomorrow.”
“Doug . . .”
He turned, gave a little wave, and (snuff) disappeared into the crowd.
Great, she thought, just great. What else could go wrong?
But as you’ve probably already guessed, she was about to find out.
Everybody in Malibu Junior High bought lunch (or had it catered in by their private chefs). Everybody, that is, except TJ.
“A penny saved is a penny earned,” Dad said. “It all adds up.”
TRANSLATION: TJ and her sisters always brown-bagged their lunches to school.
