Other books by Frances O’Roark Dowell
Phineas L. MacGuire . . . Erupts!
Phineas L. MacGuire . . . Blasts Off!
Falling In
Shooting the Moon
The Kind of Friends We Used to Be
Chicken Boy
The Secret Language of Girls
Where I’d Like to Be
Dovey Coe
If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.” • ATHENEUM BOOKS FOR YOUNG READERS • An imprint of Simon & Schuster Children’s Publishing Division • 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020 • www.SimonandSchuster.com • This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. • Text copyright © 2007 by Frances O’Roark Dowell • Illustrations copyright © 2007 by Preston McDaniels • All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. • Atheneum Books for Young Readers is a registered trademark of Simon & Schuster, Inc. • For information about special discounts for bulk purchases, please contact Simon & Schuster Special Sales at 1-866-506-1949 or [email protected]. • The Simon & Schuster Speakers Bureau can bring authors to your live event. For more information or to book an event, contact the Simon & Schuster Speakers Bureau at 1-866-248-3049 or visit our website at www.simonspeakers.com. • Also available in an Atheneum Books for Young Readers hardcover edition. • Book design by Sonia Chaghatzbanian and Michael McCartney • The text of this book is set in GarthGraphic. • The illustrations for this book are rendered in pencil. • Manufactured in the United States of America • 0510 OFF • First Atheneum Books for Young Readers paperback edition June 2010 • 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1 • The Library of Congress has cataloged the hardcover edition as follows: Dowell, Frances O’Roark. • Phineas L. MacGuire… gets slimed! / Frances O’Roark Dowell; Illustrated by Preston L. McDaniels—1st ed. • p. cm. • Summary: When his new best friend, Ben, decides to run for class president, fourth-grade science whiz Phineas MacGuire reluctantly agrees to be his campaign manager in exchange for help with his latest experiment—cultivating exhibits for a mold museum. • ISBN 978-1-4169-0196-9 (hc) • [1. Molds (Fungi)—Fiction. 2. Science—Experiments—Fiction. 3. Elections—Fiction. 4. Schools—Fiction. 5. Friendship—Fiction.] I. McDaniels, Preston L., ill. II. Title. • PZ7.D75455Phi 2007 • [Fic]—dc22 • 2006014193 • ISBN 978-1-4169-9775-7 (pbk) • ISBN 978-1-4424-0665-0 (eBook)
For Will Dowell, Boy Genius
—F. O. D.
The author would like to thank Tom and Kathryn Harris, next-door neighbors extraordinaire, for sharing their tale of the frog in the toilet. She would also like to thank Caitlyn Dlouhy, and Clifton and Jack Dowell, for their support and patience.
PHINEAS L. MACGUIRE …
GETS SLIMED!
My name is Phineas Listerman MacGuire.
Most people call me Mac.
My Sunday-school teacher and my pediatrician call me Phineas.
A few people, mostly my great-uncle Phil and his cockatiel, Sparky, call me Phin.
Nobody calls me Listerman.
Nobody.
I mean not one single person.
Everybody got that?
I am currently in the fourth grade at Woodbrook Elementary School. On the first day of school my teacher, Mrs. Tuttle, asked us to write down our number one, two, and three goals for the year. Here is what I wrote:
To be the best fourth-grade scientist ever
To be the best fourth-grade scientist ever
To be the best fourth-grade scientist ever
So far this has not happened.
For example, I did not win the fourth-grade science fair. Me and my best friend, Ben, got an honorable mention. We made a volcano. It was a pretty good volcano, since I am an expert volcano maker. But these days it takes more than baking soda and vinegar to get a science fair judge excited.
I learned that the hard way.
Today Mrs. Tuttle asked us to take out our goal sheets and review our goals. She says the first week of November is a good time for goal reviewing. She also says most people who don’t meet their goals fail because they forget what their goals were in the first place.
“What is one step you can make this week that will help you meet one of your goals?” Mrs. Tuttle asked. She took a yellow rubber frog from the jar of rubber frogs she keeps on her desk and balanced it on the tip of her finger. “Think of one small thing you can do.”
I put my head down on my desk. After getting an honorable mention in the science fair, the only step I could take was to erase my three goals and start over. Maybe my goal could be to remember to take my gym clothes home on Friday afternoons.
Not that I would ever meet that goal either.
Aretha Timmons, who sits behind me in Mrs. Tuttle’s class and who won second place in the fourth-grade science fair, popped her pencil against the back of my head.
“Why so glum, chum?” she asked. “What goals did you put down, anyway?”
I held up my paper so she could read it. “Hmmm,” she said. “Well, it’s still pretty early in the year. You could do something amazing before Christmas if you put your mind to it.”
Ben, who sits one row over and two seats back from me, leaned toward us. “I’ve got two words for you, Mac: Albert ‘Mr. Genius Scientist’ Einstein.”
“That’s five words,” I said.
Maybe Ben’s goal should be to learn how to count.
“My point is, Albert Einstein, the most famous genius scientist of the world, flunked math about a thousand times. I don’t think he even graduated from high school. He was a complete birdbrain until he was thirty or something.”
“I didn’t flunk math,” I told him. “I just didn’t win first prize at the science fair.”
“See!” Ben shouted gleefully. “You’re even smarter than Albert Einstein.”
Ben is not a famous genius scientist, in case you were wondering.
He’s a pretty good friend, though.
“What you need is a good project,” Aretha said. “For example, if you could figure out a cure to a disease, that would be excellent. I’ve never heard of a fourth grader curing a disease before.”
“Or maybe you could rid the world of mold,” Ben said. “I mean, for a fourth grader, you sure know a lot about moldy junk.”
It’s true. I have always been sort of a genius when it comes to mold. Mold is like science that’s happening all over your house, unless your family is really neat and tidy and cleans out the refrigerator on a regular basis.
This does not describe my family at all.
“Not all mold is bad,” I told Ben, showing off my geniosity. “In fact, one of the most important medicines ever, penicillin, is made from mold.”
“So figure out how to get rid of the bad mold,” Ben said. “My mom would give you twenty bucks if you could get rid of the mold in our shower. That’s all she ever talks about practically.”
Rid the world of bad mold. It sounded like the sort of things a superhero would do in a comic book, if comic books were written by scientists with a special interest in single-celled organisms made out of fungus.
I could be Anti-Mold Man, Destroyer of Slime.
Not bad for a fourth grader.
I raised my hand. “Mrs. Tuttle, is it okay to chang
e our goals, at least a little?”
“Revising your goals is a part of the process,” Mrs. Tuttle said. “Sometimes we make goals that are unrealistic or not what we really want after all.”
“Great!” I took out my pencil and started erasing my number one, two, and three goals. When I was done erasing, I wrote:
To get rid of all unnecessary mold in Woodbrook Elementary School
To teach Ben how to count
To be the best fourth-grade scientist ever
Here is my routine after school is over: First I get off the bus and drag my backpack two blocks down the street to my house, which is located at 2505 Apple Blossom Road. The whole time I’m dragging my backpack, I’m thinking about what a dumb name Apple Blossom Road is, since not only are there no apple trees on my street, there are no other trees with blossoms either.
In fact, there are only seven trees on my street, and they are all oak trees.
The next street after my street is Cherry Tree Lane. Guess how many cherry trees there are?
I have no idea who thinks up this stuff.
After I finally get home, I open my front door and tiptoe to the kitchen, in case my sister, Margaret, who is two, is taking a nap. The last thing I want to do is to wake up Margaret, whose favorite game is trying to fit her dolls’ clothes over my head.
In case you were wondering, this is a very annoying game.
If it were up to me, I would go straight to my room the second I got home. My room is very comfortable. There are clothes everywhere, which gives it the lived-in look. I keep snacks in my underwear drawer and my top desk drawer, usually graham stick packs, snack-size potato chip bags, and chocolate pudding cups. My complete set of the Mysteries of Planet Zindar series is piled up next to my bed, so entertainment is not a problem.
In fact, I’m pretty sure if everyone else on the planet except me got sucked into a black hole, I could stay in my room and be fine for at least four months.
But I am not allowed to go straight to my room. There is a list of rules and regulations posted on our refrigerator, and under “After School,” in the number one spot, is “Check in.” So when I get home, I go to the kitchen, where I come face-to-face with the worst part of my day.
Her name is Sarah Fortemeyer.
She is the Babysitter from Outer Space.
Now, you would think, me being a scientist and everything, that I would like a space alien for a babysitter. Only, Sarah Fortemeyer is not the good kind of space alien—the kind who could tell you interesting facts about life on Mars, or who could give you lessons in advanced space alien laser beam technology.
No. She is a Teenage Girl Space Alien from the Planet of Really Pink Stuff.
“Hey, Macky Mac,” she said the minute I walked into the kitchen today, the same way she does every day. “Ready for your snacky snack?”
I sighed. As a rule, I do not like sentences that rhyme.
Especially when Sarah Fortemeyer says them.
Sarah got up from the kitchen table and began waving her fingers in the air. For a second I thought she was trying to put some Teenage Girl Space Alien spell on me, but then I noticed the bottles of nail polish on the table.
“What do you think?” Sarah said, coming closer, her fingers still fluttering around. “Today I did three different colors: Ravishing Raspberry, Simply Summer Strawberry, and Green Day Green.”
“No comment,” I said.
I am a scientist. I do not have opinions on fingernail polish.
“Margaret really liked the Green Day Green, so I put some on her toes,” Sarah said, walking over to the refrigerator. “You don’t think your mom will mind, do you?”
My mom would probably throw a fit the size of Mount Vesuvius. She is not one of those go-with-the-flow kinds of moms you sometimes see on TV, moms who just sort of roll their eyes and laugh when their kids do some crazy stunt like pour hair dye on the dog’s fur or draw pictures of pterodactyls on the living-room wall with permanent-ink markers.
My mom is a much more irritated mom than that.
I am sad to say, though, that she is under the spell of Sarah Fortemeyer and will not fire her, even if she did paint Margaret’s toenails mucus green. This is because Sarah has her driver’s license, always picks up Margaret from day care at exactly 2:45, and only charges five dollars an hour.
For five dollars an hour my mother has learned to live with things like green nail polish on Margaret’s toes.
Sarah pulled a cup of strawberry yogurt from the fridge. “How ‘bout some yogurt for a snack? It’s nutritious and delicious!”
“You forgot that I’m allergic to yogurt,” I said. “I would die from anaphylactic shock if that container even touched my skin.”
“Your mom says you’re allergic to nuts and cats, and that’s all,” Sarah said.
“My mom doesn’t know all there is to know about me and my immune system,” I said. “Besides, I’m not hungry. I’m going to go and do my homework.”
That is Rule Number Two on the After School list: “Homework first!”
Which doesn’t really make sense, since it’s the second thing on the list. But when I pointed that fact out to my mom, she got her Mount Vesuvius look on her face and I decided maybe I shouldn’t expect everyone to think in the same logical, rational way that me and my fellow scientists do.
“By the way, I tidied up your room for you,” Sarah called as I went up the stairs. “Your mom said she’d pay me ten extra dollars if I did. And there’s this really cute fuchsia scarf that I saw at Dillard’s, so I need the money.”
I sprinted upstairs. Sometimes Sarah acted like I was a fellow Teenage Girl Space Alien who was just dying to talk about clothes and makeup. If I didn’t lock myself in my room, she’d go on and on about a bunch of girl stuff that would make me feel like I had cooties just by listening to it. It was information I didn’t want anywhere near my brain.
As I opened my door, I closed my eyes, preparing myself for whatever was inside. With Sarah you get one of two kinds of room cleanings. Either you get the vacuum-dust-make the bed kind of cleaning, or you get the Teenage Girl Space Alien-Decides-to-Redecorate-Your-Room cleaning.
The second kind is the one you really want to avoid.
Fortunately, Sarah was not in a redecorating mood today, so mostly my room looked the same, only not so full of crumbs. And even I had to admit it was nice to have a little clear space on my desk so I could dump out my books from my backpack and not automatically lose them in a big pile of clutter.
A piece of paper followed my books out of my pack. Ben. Most people communicate through e-mail or instant messages or even the phone, but Ben communicates through comics. Ones he draws himself.
Ben is a genius artist. That’s the only thing he’s a genius at, but it makes up for all the rest of the stuff.
I unfolded the paper flat on my desk and read Ben’s comic strip. In the first panel there was a picture of him sitting on his couch in front of the TV. A thought bubble said, “I’m bored!” He certainly did look bored.
In the second panel there was Ben again, only now a bunch of lightbulbs were going off all around his head.
In the third panel he was thinking, “I’ll run for class president!”
And in the last panel he was holding up a picture of me. “But who will be my campaign manager?…”
I scrunched up the paper and threw it in the trash can. Ever since I’d known Ben, he’d had a bunch of really bad ideas, but running for class president had to be the worst. Here are the reasons:
To be elected class president, you either have to be someone like Stacey Windham, who is the right combination of mean and every once in a while nice, so that all the girls want to be her friend, or you have to be someone like Chester Oliphant, who is funny and pretty much everybody’s favorite person in the class. To be an annoying artistic genius like Ben is not going to win you any votes.
Ben would be a terrible president. He is unorganized and is always saying stuff that mak
es people mad, and he doesn’t care about anything like school spirit or making the cafeteria ladies serve pizza every day instead of just on Fridays. All Ben cares about is drawing comic books.
I don’t have time to be a campaign manager, and if Ben really wants to run for class president, he’s going to need a campaign manager. But I have already dedicated my life to ridding Woodbrook Elementary School of mold. This does not leave any room for politics.
That reminded me. I opened my door and yelled down the stairs, “Hey, Sarah, you didn’t clean out the refrigerator today too, did you?”
“Yeah, I did,” Sarah yelled back. “Your mom paid me twenty extra bucks to do that, which I really need because—”
I slammed my door shut. This was a real setback. Our refrigerator is one of the best sources of mold in the Western world.
I guessed I would have to go over to Ben’s. Because if our refrigerator was the best source of mold, his bathroom shower was the second best. I could go over there, run some preliminary tests with different household cleaners, and start taking notes.
And while I was there, I would convince Ben that he’d win the Miss America contest before he’d win the class president election.
And he’d win by a lot more votes, too.
“I’d make a great class president!”
Ben waved the remote at the TV set and let it do its magic. At my house we have a very strict TV-watching policy. You can only watch public-television cartoons, and then you can only watch the ones made for four-year-olds. At Ben’s house you can choose from about fifty different cartoon networks, and on every single one someone is always either saying something really sarcastic or shooting some sort of computerized gizmo that makes everything explode.
It’s awesome.
“Who told you you’d make a great class president?” I asked.
Phineas L. MacGuire . . . Gets Slimed! Page 1
