A Problematic Paradox

by Eliot Sappingfield

  I rolled my eyes. “You’ve made your point; I’m sorry I was rude to you. Now, can you just tell me what my dad was up to? A lot of stuff has happened, and I’m a little scared. You don’t have to be hateful the whole time.” My voice cracked as I said it, and I figured I should stop talking in a hurry or I’d start bawling for no reason.

  Miss Hiccup looked at me with—was that sympathy? If it had been anyone else, I would have thought it was. “Listen, I really hope everything works out for you. I like you as much as a person can possibly like someone they don’t particularly care for. I mean that.”

  “Um, thanks?” I said. “Beehive! Turn here!”

  The beehive wasn’t hard to miss. Enormous didn’t even begin to cover it. I’ve consulted a thesaurus and have determined the best word would be Brobdingnagian. Roughly the size of a backyard shed, it had a perfect oval shape, like the beehives you see dropping on mischievous cats in cartoons. It was surrounded by a visible cloud of bees and was accompanied by a low drone that I wished I could not hear from three hundred feet away over the engine of the El Camino.

  Miss Hiccup had to slow down to make the turn, and I kept my eyes locked on the hive the entire time. How many bees were out there? My most conservative estimate was in the neighborhood of two to three billion.

  Miss Hiccup saw me staring. “They aren’t going to come get you, you big chicken. They’re happy guarding their hive over there.”

  “Oh, ha-ha,” I said, but it was good to be reminded that they weren’t about to swarm the El Camino.

  Then the bees swarmed the El Camino. I was never less happy to have an adult proven wrong. The bees were gargantuan by bee standards. Each one at least the size of my thumb, with huge multifaceted eyes and stingers the size of sewing needles. They also appeared to take much more notice of us than insects typically would. Within a few seconds, the car was at the center of a furious black-and-yellow storm. They started landing on the windows, crawling around to get a better look. I held my breath, and my heart stopped as one made eye contact and tapped its stinger on the window. Tap-tap-tap, like knocking on a door.

  And then, to make matters worse, Miss Hiccup started slowing down. I took a deep breath and attempted to address the situation with her. “WHAT ARE YOU DOING?” I screamed while helpfully smacking the dashboard. “GOGOGOGOGO!”

  Miss Hiccup had her own take on our circumstances. “THE BEES ARE ALL OVER THE WINDOWS. I CAN’T SEE ANYTHING. DO YOU WANT TO CRASH?”

  As a counterpoint, I offered forth a forecast of possible outcomes. “THEY’RE GOING TO GET IN AND EAT US. THEY’RE GOING TO STING YOU TO DEATH AND MAKE ME WATCH. THEY’LL STEAL YOUR WALLET. THEY’RE GOING TO CARRY THE CAR AND STUFF IT INTO THEIR HIVE AND TURN US INTO HONEY.”

  Then the bees were doing something. A perfectly circular space in the swarm had opened at the center of the windshield. In the middle was a single bee. It looked at each of us in turn, seemed to nod, and winked (can you wink a compound eye?), and the bees were gone in a blizzard of black-and-yellow fury.

  I was going to live. Miss Hiccup and I sat motionless and silent for a time. Eventually, she turned to me, her voice a bit hoarse from screaming. “Ah, so, um . . . do you need to change your pants?”

  “No!” I said. “God! Why? Do you?”

  She seemed to consider the notion and wiggled her hips back and forth tentatively—testing the waters, so to speak. “Nope,” she said. “Let’s hit it.”

  The El Camino started right up as if nothing had happened. We drove along the dusty, gravelly road in silence, seeming to agree that we didn’t need to discuss Beepocalypse One any further. At the peak of the next hill, there was a hard bump, and we found ourselves on a wide, smoothly paved street.

  The change in surroundings couldn’t have been more jarring. I’d been staring at cornfields and wheat fields and soybean fields for hours on end, and within a blink of an eye, we were in the middle of a town. An actual wooden street sign read, MAIN STREET.

  For the first time, I laid eyes on what was to become my new home. It was a small town, like countless others we had passed at a distance on the way, with the exception that most small towns in the Midwest have given up, either allowing their downtowns to fade into decay or giving them over to identical clusters of megamarts, chain restaurants, and gas stations.

  This little city was thriving. Each of the shops, offices, and other establishments was well lit, clean, and open for business. Colorful awnings and crisp flags flapped smartly in the light breeze. A large display of fresh fruit stood unguarded before a corner grocery store. The smell of apples permeated the car as we passed, and my mouth watered.

  Most of Main Street’s buildings were made from red brick or brightly painted wood. Intricately decorated gingerbread-style houses stood here and there along the street with more lining the side streets. Despite that, I did spot a few deviations from the theme—a sleek, modernist construction that would have done Frank Lloyd Wright proud stood at one corner. A perfectly cubical house lined on all sides with deep blue and green glass panes shifted to orange and red as we passed.

  The side streets also held a smattering of charming storefronts. I spotted a rainbow-striped candy shop, a music store that looked like a giant boom box, and a few larger, more respectable-looking buildings that could have been banks or offices. The streets themselves were clearly marked with white and yellow lines that looked as fresh as if they had been painted the day before. Every street was decorated with wrought-iron streetlamps, signs carved from real wood, and extra-wide sidewalks stocked with bike racks, drinking fountains, benches, tables, gazebos, and other pleasant amenities every few feet. I had to wonder: was this a town, or had we driven into some kind of theme park?

  “We have reached our destination,” Miss Hiccup said in her best GPS voice. We parked opposite a large brick-and-stone courthouse at the center of town. It shared the central square with a large park, replete with benches, picnic areas, and a couple athletic fields. Not far down the street, in front of the General Relativity Store, stood a large wooden display rack that held sketchbooks, pens, markers, small musical instruments, music players, digital cameras, some Frisbees that glowed eerily in the midday sun, and a couple pairs of roller skates that appeared to be moving slightly back and forth on their own. A sign on the display read only PLEASE RETURN WHEN FINISHED.

  Never had I seen a place so instantly charming and welcoming. It was the sort of place I could spend weeks exploring. I only wished they had had the foresight to put up a sign announcing the town’s name. A visitor would have no idea what this place was without one.

  I pored over the road atlas while Miss Hiccup fixed her hair in the vanity mirror. There wasn’t supposed to be a town here at all, if I was reading it correctly. According to Miss Hiccup, we were supposed to know what we were looking for when we got here. But here we were, parked on Main Street, staring at the Pi R Circle Bakery and Coffee Shop, Professor Dave’s Discount Hardware, and the Social Function Café, and the only obvious thing was that this town had some pretty bizarre ideas about what businesses should be named.

  There were more odd things I was starting to pick up on that hadn’t been obvious at first glance. For starters, nothing anywhere mentioned the name of the town. Even weirder, though it was almost 2:00 PM, the place looked empty. Like everyone in town had just recently decided to stop home for a morning nap and would be back in two shakes of a lamb’s tail. That’s corny, but I could imagine people living in such a place measuring time in lambs’ tail-shakes.

  Another mystery: apart from Miss Hiccup’s El Camino, I didn’t see a single car. Having absolutely no traffic in the middle of the day was unusual, even for the smallest of towns. On the other hand, the bike racks were stocked full with bicycles, as well as scooters and other contraptions I did not recognize. One such contraption was chained to the rack just in front of the car. It appeared to be a normal bicycle, with a small fa
n mounted to a tall, spindly pole above the back wheel. I wondered if it was for ventilation or if it was actually intended to provide thrust. Next to it was something that looked a bit like a metal backpack with short plastic legs. Farther up the sidewalk was a rack that held what was clearly supposed to be some kind of jet pack. Weird.

  Miss Hiccup consulted her directions again, as if they would somehow give her more information than they had a moment before. I could see her searching for signs and coming up just as empty as I had. She sighed grumpily and hiccuped at the same time.

  “Any ideas?” she asked.

  “None. Is someone supposed to meet us?” I asked.

  Miss Hiccup shrugged. “The directions just say ‘park on Main Street downtown’ and that’s all.”

  Try as I might, I could not shake the feeling that something incredibly bizarre was about to happen.

  I first saw it in the reflection of the Social Function’s windows. A large object sprouted from the lawn of the courthouse immediately behind us. I cranked down the window and craned my neck around in time to see something moving up and out. The thing resembled one of those big radio towers you see from the highway, with the red lights on top. Something that looked like a thick fluorescent light tube ran up its center. After rising about twenty feet into the air, the tower—which appeared to be mounted on a hinged, rotating base—tilted downward until it was pointed at the sky at about a forty-five degree angle. The tube glowed bright green a moment, then vivid blue, then green again. It went from green to blue faster and faster until it somehow became orange, and a streak of blinding golden light shot from the tip. The beam struck an impressively large metal platter that hung above an office building across from the town square. The platter glowed bright orange and emitted a sound like I’d never heard. It was a single note but somehow more beautiful in its purity than anything I had ever heard in my life. It echoed everywhere at once, like every inch of the town was making the sound, not just the platter. After about three seconds, the beam was cut off. The laser cannon, or whatever it was, stood erect once more and dropped back under the lawn of the courthouse, and everything was silent again.

  Then every door in town opened in unison. It was like the buildings had come down with a bad case of structure flu and were vomiting people. Things went from ghost town to bustling downtown in thirty seconds flat. Every sidewalk was clogged with people moving at various speeds. Actually, people was the wrong word. They were all children. The oldest was maybe seventeen, and most appeared to be about my age or younger. Some of them rolled on skates or skateboards, but most just wandered past, not looking terribly enthusiastic. One girl approached the bike rack in front of us and strapped the weird backpack thing onto her shoulders. The short legs immediately reached down, met the sidewalk, lifted her about an inch above the pavement, and strolled away. Several of the kids slowed to stare at Miss Hiccup and me. Miss Hiccup stared back, agape. I smiled and waved timidly at them, not knowing what else to do.

  “They’re zombies, aren’t they?” Miss Hiccup whispered, her hand on the ignition.

  “No,” I said. “They’re all kids.”

  “Ugh,” she said, cringing lower in her seat.

  Two girls strolled in front of the car. The younger one had brown hair cut into a smart bob and wore a tartan skirt and a T-shirt that read I solved Fermat’s Last Theorem and all I got was this T-shirt. She was tiny, like she might only be six or seven years old. When she glanced up at the car, her face lit up. “Hey! Nikola! Helloooooo!” she shouted, waving like a maniacal monkey. The older girl, who was about my age, looked so similar that she must have been the older sister, except that she had deep, naturally red hair. She glanced at us and rolled her eyes for our benefit. Then she calmly wet her finger in her mouth and stuck it into her little sister’s ear.

  “Eeeeeew!” the little girl protested.

  “Where’s your head, Fluorine? Leave them alone. You’re going to be late again.”

  Fluorine nodded and scampered through a door wedged between storefronts that read ENGLISH AND COMPANY, INSURANCE ADJUSTERS SINCE 1942.

  The older girl approached and crouched to speak through my open window, smiling apologetically at us. She was a bit shorter than average, with pleasantly full features. She had the sort of face that lets you know the person is friendly and nice without having to know anything about them. “Sorry, she’s completely out of order today—chronologically speaking. I’m Rubidia, and you’re probably looking for the courthouse right behind you. They must be waiting for you in there.” She turned to leave.

  “How do you know—hic!—know they’re waiting?” Miss Hiccup called.

  Rubidia glanced back over her shoulder and smiled, like it was a stupid question but an entertainingly stupid one, at least. “Because the bees didn’t kill you! Welcome to the School!” she called as she dashed through the door her sister had just entered.

  Just then the laser-cannon thing sprouted from the courthouse lawn again, shot its strange beam against its target, made another indescribable and gorgeous noise, and was gone. The streets were once more silent and empty.

  Miss Hiccup looked at me. “I don’t know what the hell any of that was, but I think you’re going to fit in around here perfectly.” She leaned over me, yanked at the rusty door handle, and shoved the passenger door open wide.

  I got out, grabbed my bag, and looked back into the car. Miss Hiccup wore a blank expression I couldn’t read. “Aren’t you coming in?” I asked.

  “Nope. It’s not on the instructions,” she said, holding up the tattered list we’d been staring at. “Send me a postcard, kid,” she said, reaching to close the door.

  How was I supposed to do that? “I don’t have your address or your actual name.”

  “No kidding?” she said with a laugh, and tried pulling the door closed.

  I held it open a second longer, reached in, and snatched the directions out of her hand. My dad had written them, and apart from an old photo tucked in my bag, they were all I had to remember him by.

  “Take care,” I said, slamming the door for her.

  “Hope things go better for you,” she said through the open window.

  “You too,” I said.

  It was weird, but I kind of meant it.

  Inside the building, I encountered a reception desk manned by a heavyset older man who was busy scribbling on papers with one hand and typing about eighty-five words a minute with his other. He wore one of those green accountants’ visors they used to wear to make text easier to read, but it was on backward. Without stopping either of his activities, he gazed up with a welcoming smile as I approached.

  “You are Nikola Kross.” A statement, not a question.

  “I am,” I said.

  The man coughed and scratched under his chin. He looked like a shaved Santa. “Welcome to the School. I’m Mr. Einstein—no relation—and you’re looking for Dr. Plaskington, room 204. Upstairs, staircase on the right.” He gestured to one of two identical staircases that bookended the little desk.

  At the top of the stairs was a stately wooden door with a brass plaque that read DR. PATRICIA PLASKINGTON, and, below that, PRINCIPAL, PROPRIETOR, PAL. I almost missed it, but below that, some clever person had scratched a single additional word: POO.

  I opened the door and found a rather plain and humble small office with light gray walls. The first thing that caught my eye was a poster tacked haphazardly to the wall above a metal filing cabinet depicting a familiar cat dangling from a familiar branch. The caption beneath read NATURAL SELECTION. A chess table stood under a window, and presiding over it was a rather frail-looking old lady who appeared to be in her early 300s, with a heavily lined face and a halo of wild, curly white hair. She looked like she weighed about seventy pounds, fifty pounds of which was cranium. A thick gold-and-ceramic necklace strained the structural integrity of her neck. A phone on the edge of her desk
was ringing, but she made no move to answer it.

  The old lady gestured at a chair. “Please stop thinking so loudly. It is rude, and I am trying to concentrate. Sit.”

  I sat. I was running out of whatever keeps a person going in the face of extraordinary circumstances. If I had had one wish at the time, I would have wished for one normal person who would give me some straight answers without any nonsense. Looking back, if I could now pass a message to myself at that time, it would be this: Get used to it.

  5

  THE SANDWICH INCIDENT

  Instead of greeting me, shaking my hand, asking me about my trip, or really doing anything socially acceptable, Dr. Plaskington stayed hunched over the world’s most beat-up chess set. Several of the pieces were broken, chipped, charred, or otherwise damaged in some way, and bore signs of hasty and shoddy repair. She held up a hand to silence anything I might say and said, “What are you planning this time, you malevolent snipe?”

  “I really haven’t settled on a plan at the—”

  “What?” she asked. “Oh, not you. I’m talking to her.”

  This was in reference to the person on the other side of the board. If there had been someone sitting there, I would have understood perfectly.

  She studied the chessboard with ferocious intensity. It was a full five minutes of silent deliberation before she made her move. I watched and waited. The phone stopped ringing.

  After careful consideration, the doctor reached into a drawer beneath her chess table and produced a long-necked butane lighter with a trigger grip, the kind you’d use to light a charcoal grill. She reached out and deliberately set the white queen on fire. Then she sat back in her chair and folded her arms with an air of complete satisfaction. “HAH! Ms. Botfly will never see that coming!”

  “Okay,” I said. “Say, if you’re not too busy, would you mind telling me where I am?”

  She seemed to really notice me for the first time. “Oh, you remind me of your father. I remember him sitting right where you are, still a little scared, demanding that my assistant remove the blindfold. ‘Who are you people? Where are my parents? Blah, blah, blah.’ He certainly had spirit, your father.” Dr. Plaskington shook her head with a wry smile. “We had more stringent security back in those days, you see. This particular campus was relatively new at the time, and we didn’t have the bees and all the other autonomous security measures we have today.”