Flounder was a kid who sat one row over, hunkered in his desk much like Edgar was, like a turtle inside his shell.
Edgar watched him from the corner of his eye. Flounder kept his hands folded in front, palms-down on the desk in a display of calm, eyes forward to the front of the room, and didn’t dare turn around to look at Weedy.
Edgar knew exactly how he felt.
“Flounder,” hissed Weedy, “it’s called ‘soap.’ Jesus Christ, man! Don’t you have any respect for yourself?”
“And while we’re on the subject,” continued Weedy, turning to Edgar, flashing a bright, over-the-top, far-too-happy smile. “What’s with this new guy? The Nitro King?” His smile melted into a snarl. “Who’s this big, dumb hick from Jawja?”
Edgar’s face flushed bright red. His gut churned with anger and humiliation. He could feel every eye on him now.
“Alabama, actually,” corrected Edgar, matter-of-factly. “Not Georgia.”
“Oh. Pardon me. That’s fascinating,” said Weedy, pretending to nod off to sleep. And then, as he awakened, his bright smile returned and he said, “Hey! Nice lunchbox!” That’s when he pointed to the green Bass Pro Shops lunchbox beneath Edgar’s desk, and cackled loudly. Suddenly Weedy’s friends were joining in, falling into hysterics, all the JV football players and a few nearby girls, and even a few bookworms chimed in. Edgar tried to keep his cool. He let them laugh as he stared at his desk.
“Yeah,” he said, as the laughter finally died down. “It is decent. My dad used it on his oil rig back home in Alabama. I always thought it was pretty cool, especially since he left it to me after he died.”
The room quieted immediately and a heavy silence hung in the air.
“Cancer,” added Edgar, his voice overcome with sadness as he allowed his head to droop and continued to stare at his desktop, trying to muster every sad thought he could possibly think of. He even gave the lunchbox a slight tap with his heel for good measure. “Lung cancer,” he whispered. “And he didn’t even smoke.”
All eyes were now on Chris Weedy. The curly-headed tyrant leaned back in his seat, studying Edgar. He put two hands behind his head and nervously ran them through his golden, curly hair. Then he began to chuckle. Softly at first, testing the waters, then increased in volume.
“What a redneck,” he blurted. “He’s such a liar. You don’t believe him, do you?” he asked the room. “His dad didn’t die of cancer! He’s lying.”
Chris surveyed his friends faces. “Come on. Don’t let this fool trick you.”
Dr. Van Rossum, who came shuffling in, was seemingly oblivious to the strong tension in the room.
“Good morning, ya little rascals!” he sang, dropping his lunch box clumsily on his desk at the front of the room.
He rummaged absent-mindedly through his cluttered desk for reading glasses and slipped them on. Upon looking up, he found Edgar Dewitt’s hand raised high in the air.
“A question? So soon?” the teacher marveled, his brows climbing to an arch. “I haven’t even taught anything yet! What can I do for you, Mr . . .?”
“Dewitt,” said Edgar, clearing his throat. “How do I calculate the distance of a falling object using time?”
Snickers rang through the rows.
“What a nerd,” whispered Weedy.
Dr. Van Rossum motioned for quiet. “Cool accent you have, Mr. Dewitt.” He blinked at Edgar expectantly.
“Yes sir, I’m from Alabama.”
“Ah!” said Dr. Van Rossum. “The Deep South!” He then whirled around and, with both hands, began measuring the distance between Alabama and Washington on a world map that hung beside the dry erase board. He pulled his hands away and demonstrated it to the class.
“It’s almost two feet of map!” he said excitedly. “What a long way you’ve come!” He nodded enthusiastically to his outstretched hands. “What brings you this far from Alabama, Edgar?”
Edgar glanced at Weedy and smiled. If he was about to enrage the biggest bully in school, he might as well go down taunting him. “My dad got a job at the Department of Transportation here in Mount Lanier. So we had to move.”
Murmurs and muted laughter trickled throughout the class.
“I told you he was a liar,” said Weedy. “What did I tell you?”
“Christopher,” interrupted Dr. Van Rossum, waving a hand in the air, dismissing Weedy’s remark. “Don’t interrupt.”
“Oh, Christopher, is it?” Edgar whispered, grinning wide. Weedy opened his mouth to speak then snapped it shut and gave Edgar the finger.
Dr. Van Rossum popped the cap from a dry erase marker and turned his body to the board.
“Now,” he said, “Edgar, from Alabama, let me ask you this: if I were to drop a piano and a baseball off a roof, which do you think would hit the ground first?”
“The piano,” guessed Edgar.
“Wrong! They would both hit the ground simultaneously.”
Edgar frowned in confusion. “So . . . how does that help me?”
“What a dumbass,” snorted Weedy, sending ripples of laughter throughout the room.
“Christopher, can you try not to be a complete and utter buffoon for once in your life? See me after class,” Dr. Van Rossum barked at Weedy, then turned his attention to Edgar once again. “So, Edgar,” said Van Rossum, “since you seem to be the only person in class today who is passionate about learning something new, I’ll indulge you for five minutes or so, but just this one time, as we need to get started on other assignments. Here’s the formula you’re looking for.”
At that, Dr. Van Rossum turned and filled the dry erase board with a string of numbers and letters and formulas so indecipherable that Edgar hopped up and moved two seats closer so he could get it all down.
F=Gm₁m₂/r², it began.
With a scowl of concentration, Edgar scribbled furiously.
Five
After school, on the way home, Edgar noticed Shay Sinclair walking through town.
OK, fine. He was following her.
She was a good distance in front of him, strolling casually down the opposite side of the street, saying hello to all the shop owners as she passed. They all smiled back, each of them greeting her warmly. Some even called her by her name.
As she reached town center, she came upon a little girl who was sitting criss-cross-applesauce in the grass, fretting over a giant mess of kite string. The girl, about six or seven years old, wore a blue ribbon in her hair. Her mother sat nearby rocking a baby carriage and waved at Shay as she approached.
The little girl folded her arms and huffed at the mess of string.
“Hello, Liz’beth,” said Shay. “What have you got there?”
“A mess,” moaned the girl, who lifted the string to Shay for help.
Shay smiled and dropped to her knees, gathering it up. As Edgar lingered behind a light pole, totally not trying to be creepy, but probably appearing so anyway, he listened to Shay’s soft laugh carry on the breeze. He ran a nervous hand through his sandy brown hair and knew it was now or never. Mustering up his courage, he finally moved out from behind the pole and walked over to them.
“Hi there. I’m Edgar,” he said to the little girl, holding his arms out toward the kite. “Can I try?”
Shay looked up and smiled. She blocked the sun from her eyes with a forearm and studied him for a long, lingering moment.
“Sure,” she said, her eyes squinty. “You can try.”
The little girl giggled again, looking up at Edgar.
He kneeled down and took the jumbled mess of string from Shay’s arms. Then, combing through the knots, he began to work. He tied a loop around the spool to prevent more unwinding and massaged one clump of string through a gap in the tangles.
“I used to work for my uncle at Gulf Shores,” he explained through pursed, unmoving lips. He closed an eye to study a particul
ar tangle. “He had a fishing charter and we went out every Saturday.” Edgar navigated the spool through a tricky loop, then allowed it to dangle free for a moment so that gravity could do its work.
“The biggest part of my job,” he continued thoughtfully, “was untangling lines for stupid tourists who drank more beer than caught fish.”
The girls giggled.
Suddenly, the ball of string fell free as the spool danced and spun in the air before the little girl’s eyes, like a wound-up yoyo. She leapt to her feet and squealed, snatching the kite from Shay’s lap and running off across the square.
“Thank you, thank you, thank you!” she shouted, as the kite bounced violently behind her on the grass.
“Whoa, little girl,” muttered Shay to Edgar. “Bet that kite doesn’t last the day?”
“Yeah,” Edgar laughed, who stood and reached out a hand to her to help her up.
Shay smiled, clasped her hand in his, and pulled herself up. For a moment, as they stood face to face, he totally forgot to let her hand go. It was the most wonderful, electrifying thing he’d ever touched in his life.
“Pretty nifty lying back there in Van Rossum’s class,” she said, turning toward the south of town. He released her and cursed himself for being an idiot, and together they walked for a while. “I was beginning to feel sorry for you for a minute, with that stuff about your dad.”
“Yeah, well, Weedy and his goons have been on my ass ever since I got here. I had to do something.”
“Well, yeah. That’s what they do.”
Together the two walked up the road to the edge of town, and as they did, she asked about his life back in Alabama. He talked about his old fishing job and the heat, and how the last month was the rainiest month they’d ever had.
“Bon Secour was the name of my hometown,” he explained. “It’s way different than this place.”
“Yeah? Different how?”
“Well, for starters, it has beaches and bays and an ocean. The beach is . . . man, I really miss it. It’s packed with fine, white sand and has a gentle surf that’s good for boarding.” Edgar paused. “The fishing is great, and it’s warm all the time. Southern people are known for being very nice, too, you know.”
Shay studied him.
“I’ve been trying to figure out how to get back home,” he said softly, studying the mountains to the west. “To help my family get back home, you know.”
“Oh Edguh,” she teased, suddenly poking him on the shoulder. “Edguh with ya Suuuthen accent n’all! Y’all’l fit in round he-ah, ‘ventually!”
“Ugh,” Edgar muttered, slapping a hand to his face. He smiled at her and shook his head. “Never do that again. That’s the worst Southern accent I’ve ever heard.”
She giggled. “Where,” she asked, smiling wide as she poked him again, “is your ‘Bass Pro Shops’ lunchbox from earlier? I don’t see it with you.”
“Oh, yeah, that,” Edgar replied, sheepishly. “Well, lunchboxes are for kids, and Bass Pro Shops lunchboxes, in particular, are for chicken-brain-eating, redneck hicks, didn’t you know?”
“Oh, are they?” she laughed. “Well, just to let you know, my dad took me once to a Bass Pro Shops in Calgary and you know what happened? Later that afternoon, I caught a twenty-two-inch brownie.”
“You caught . . . what?”
“A brown trout,” she explained.
Amazing. Shay Sinclair knows how to fish. Can she get any hotter?
When they arrived at her street, she pointed to her house, which was as big as a governor’s mansion. Maybe even bigger.
“That’s mine,” she said, sort of embarrassed. The house was truly gigantic. Shay, it appeared, was super rich.
“Dang . . . That’s somethin’ alright.”
She turned, blushing. “Hey, I’ve been wanting to thank you for helping me beat that jerk Weedy yesterday in Nitro Streak. It was awesome.”
Edgar shrugged. “Well, you could’ve beat him by yourself, you know. You’re a much better driver than he is. Just don’t pick the Miata, even though you like it. Never pick a convertible in that game. Bad wind resistance, you know.”
“Yeah?” she asked playfully, nudging him with a shoulder. “So which one should I choose?”
“You should always pick the Nissan 370Z, if you want to win.”
“But isn’t that your car, Edgar?”
“Yeah,” he said. “But you can have it, if we ever play again.” Edgar smiled shyly, hoping his flirtation tactics weren’t too obvious.
“Goodbye, Edgar,” Shay said, turning toward her driveway.
“Goodbye,” he said, entranced as he watched her. Her long, flowing brown hair dusted the top of her jeans as she ascended the porch steps. Her small, narrow waist and shapely legs made her look older, more mature. She was the most beautiful girl he’d ever seen.
On the walk home through the hills of Mount Lanier, Edgar almost seemed to float on air.
Maybe this place won’t suck so much, after all.
Six
After school the next day, Edgar was back at the hole, this time with a small box in his hands, as well as a notebook filled with calculations. He placed the box at the edge of the hole and popped it open. Inside was a small turtle he’d caught down by the brook. He lifted it into the air and inspected it.
“If I’m wrong about this,” he muttered, “it will suck to be you.”
He hoisted the turtle over the hole and, with a bit of hesitation, dropped it into the vastness. The turtle’s head seemed to retreat as it fell from view. Poor little guy. Please let me be right.
“It’ll be OK,” he said, more to himself as he started the stopwatch on his Pathfinder.
Then he ducked outside and chose a large boulder to sit on. He yanked out his notebook and, on a clean sheet of paper, wrote the number “8000.”
This was the diameter of the Earth in miles, as Dr. Van Rossum had told him earlier when Edgar lingered around after class.
“Why don’t you just Google this stuff, Edgar?” the teacher had asked. “I know a lot, but I’m not the physics teacher.”
“Because it’s complicated,” Edgar explained. “Yeah, they have formulas online, but you can teach it in a way I can sort of understand. Also, Mr. Norman is totally weird and not as cool as you.”
Van Rossum reclined in his chair and folded his hands behind his half-shiny, balding head. He smiled slyly at Edgar and rocked a bit. “Alright, alright. You don’t have to suck up. What’s this all about, boy?” he asked.
“What do you mean?”
“Oh come on, Edgar. What’s with all these formulas and calculations and the constant preoccupation with gravity and falling?”
The professor’s big, white bushy eyebrows rose in expectation.
Edgar shrugged, then exhaled in surrender.
“It’s for extra credit. It’s for the Science Fair.”
Van Rossum rolled his eyes and howled.
“Science Fair?” he said, finally composing himself. “Man, Christopher Weedy is right. You are a big liar.” He shook his head. “Just know,” added the teacher with sincerity, “if you’re building a time machine, I’d like a lift back to the seventies.”
__________
Out on the boulder, in the hot baking sun, just below the number eight thousand, Edgar scribbled his first formula:
F=Gm₁m₂/r²
Using a conversion scale in the back of textbook he found in the library, along with his cell phone calculator for calculating, Edgar discovered that 8000 miles is actually 12,755,660 meters.
He wrote it all down.
From there, he tapped four other formulas into the phone: Newton’s Gravitational Law, the Density and Volume of a Sphere, Knowledge of Gravity Inside a Spherical Mass, and the Simple Harmonic Oscillator Equation.
The Harmonic Oscillator he’d
taken to his father the night before, since it involved square roots. Edgar wasn’t very good with them, but his dad was pretty much a math genius.
“Physics?” his father had asked, sliding on his glasses.
“Yeah. It’s for extra credit.”
“Yes, sir,” corrected his dad.
Mr. Dewitt withdrew his glasses and wiped them on his sleeve, then slid them back onto his face before squinting at the complicated equations before him. “Isn’t this stuff a little advanced for a freshman?”
“Dad,” sighed Edgar, “this is Washington, remember? It’s like mom’s been saying. It’s two and a half times more advanced than Alabama.”
“More than two and a half,” his father corrected him with a smile, submerging himself in the numbers.
“So what is the Simple Harmonic Oscillator?” Edgar prodded.
“Well, if you take a spring and compress it, the harder you push the spring together, the more it pushes against your fingers. It always wants to return to its original state. I guess you can think of it as a clock, or a pendulum. It’s the principle that explains how a pendulum swings back and forth, see?”
__________
The Secret Island of Edgar Dewitt Page 4
