“Me, too,” said Ms. Dhabanandana.
“Moi aussi!” Napoleon added.
Principal Birdwhistle raised her hand to halt the outbursts. “Go on, Antoinette.”
“Okay,” said Antoinette Brede. “Here’s what I did. First I crushed up different brands of chips. Then I mixed them into a paste of saliva.”
“How revolting!” said Mrs. Brede.
Antoinette Brede pushed on. “I tested each solution using a pH strip and found that the average plain potato chip solution has a pH that’s as neutral as water—meaning a seven. Seasoned chips, however, are a whole different story.”
She tapped a chart on her poster. “As you can see, the salt ‘n’ vinegar chip solution registered a pH of four-point-five.”
“That’s about the same acid level as acetic acid,” sputtered Dr. Parmigiano. “And people wonder if potato chips are dangerous.”
“Lemons have a similar pH,” Antoinette Brede countered. “If you’re thinking of banning potato chips, you’ll have to ban lemons and limes, too.”
“Let’s not be hasty,” Mrs. Brede cut in. “I can’t imagine my recipe for lobster à la Brede without a splash of lemon juice.”
Mr. Sparks surveyed the exhibit. “Zesty work, Antoinette. You—and your mother—should be very proud.”
“Yes, well, I suppose,” Mrs. Brede allowed.
With that small but unexpected endorsement, Mr. Sparks quickly moved on, pleased that one parent, at least, was mildly less critical of potato chips and even, perhaps, of him.
THIRTY-NINE
Cantennas, Spud Guns,
and Dresses Made of Foil
Not all the science fair projects made use of potato chips. But the ones that didn’t—the baking soda volcano (Lumpkin’s contribution to the study of the natural world), the tin foil solar system, the kidney bean plantings born inside Baggies—received a lot less attention than the exhibits that incorporated thin-sliced deep-fried tubers.
“Whatcha got for us, Thomas?” Mr. Sparks asked, eyeing the second bedsheet-covered exhibit.
“Well,” said Thomas Warchowski, “I decided to investigate the science of resonance. That’s the study of sympathetic vibrations.”
“Could you put that more simply, Thomas?” asked Principal Birdwhistle.
“Sure thing. I built an antenna to extend the wireless signal on my mom’s laptop. Antennas can cost more than a hundred dollars at the store. But using stuff I found around the house, I made my cantenna for six dollars and forty-five cents.”
“What a clever boy,” said Mrs. Brede.
“Not bad,” said Lumpkin, Sr.
“Now that’s more like it,” said Dr. Parmigiano. “A science project that is practical, economical, and wholesome.”
Thomas Warchowski’s parents looked on proudly as sympathetic vibrations of a non-acoustical variety spread throughout the gym.
“Excuse me, Thomas,” said Principal Birdwhistle. “Did I hear you correctly? Did you say cantenna?”
“Yup.”
“What is the difference between an antenna and a cantenna?” asked Dr. Parmigiano.
“Well,” said Thomas Warchowski, “let me show you.” He whipped off the bedsheet to reveal his homemade frequency extender.
“You got to be kidding me!” exclaimed Lumpkin, Sr. “More potato chips!”
“No,” said Thomas Warchowski. “I didn’t use potato chips. I used a potato chip can.”
“Who’s responsible for this?” Dr. Parmigiano demanded angrily.
“Thomas is,” said Mr. Sparks.
“And if you pipe down, we might all find out how his invention works,” said the short, round man with the briefcase.
The rebuke silenced the dentist.
“Thanks,” said Thomas Warchowski. He returned his attention to the exhibit. “As we learned from Mr. Sparks, metal is an excellent conductor. If you look closely at this chip can cross section, you’ll see the metal coating on the inside of the tube wall. That coating touches the metal on the bottom of the can and forms a supereffective reflector.
“Using a few locknuts, six inches of aluminum tubing, some copper wire, and a bunch of other stuff—including a potato chip can—I was able to build a cantenna that hooks up to the wireless port of any computer. When properly adjusted”—Thomas Warchowski fiddled with the position of the can—“my cantenna can extend the range of a wireless frequency by more than five hundred feet.”
“What does that mean in practical terms, Thomas?” Mr. Sparks asked.
“It means that if I point my cantenna just the right way, I can link this laptop to the school’s internal computer network.”
“You had better not,” Principal Birdwhistle said firmly. “I think we’ve seen enough.”
“Very elegant, Thomas,” said Mr. Sparks. “Truly first-rate.”
“Florence Pontevecchio Parmigiano! How could you?”
A parental outburst drew attention to the adjacent table.
“I’m just trying to be scientific, Dad,” Flossy Parmigiano told her father, who was shaking his finger angrily at a poster that said POTATO CHIPS AND TOOTH DECAY: MYTHS AND FACTS.
“You want facts, young lady?” sputtered Dr. Parmigiano. “Fact: Potato chips are carbohydrates. Fact: Carbohydrates stick to teeth! Fact: Foot particles rot teeth! Fact: Tooth decay is the most widespread noncontagious disease in the whole entire world!”
“Sorry, Dad, but that’s not exactly true. Check out my research.” Flossy Parmigiano pulled a Trimore Towers bedsheet off her exhibit and grabbed a big white plastic tooth wearing eyeglasses. “Let’s hear what Mr. Molar the Wisdom Tooth has to say, Dad. Fact: Potato chips are a non-sweet carbohydrate. Fact: Non-sweet carbohydrates do not produce fermented sugars. Fact: Fermented sugars are the real dental time bombs—the number one cause of tooth decay.”
Dr. Parmigiano’s brow furrowed. He was clearly taken aback by his daughter’s counterargument. “Where’s your proof?” he challenged.
“Right here,” said Flossy Parmigiano. She put down Mr. Molar and picked up two jars. One was labeled TOOTH IN SODA (AFTER TWO WEEKS). The other said TOOTH IN POTATO CHIP SOLUTION (AFTER TWO WEEKS).
“Where’d you get the teeth?” asked Dr. Parmigiano.
“Where d’ you think?” his daughter answered, smiling broadly to reveal two gaps in an otherwise perfect set of choppers.
Dr. Parmigiano inspected the jars. The one filled with soda contained a tooth eroded beyond recognition.
“Looks like an olive pit,” Maria remarked.
As for the jar filled with the potato chip solution, its tooth appeared to be perfectly intact.
“I must admit,” said Dr. Parmigiano. “Mr. Molar the Wisdom Tooth does make a pretty convincing case.”
Pleased by the turnaround, Mr. Sparks moved the group to the next table, where a formless shape was rustling underneath a Trimore Towers bedsheet. He bent over and whispered, “Lily-Matisse? Is that you under there?”
“Yes.”
“Mind telling us what your project is?”
“I decided to study the benefits of recycling,” came the muffled reply.
“How admirable,” said Mr. Sparks. “But Lily-Matisse? We’re all waiting to view your exhibit, so Ollie-ollie-oxen-free.”
“Actually,” said Lily-Matisse, “I’d like Principal Birdwhistle to unveil me.”
The principal reluctantly grabbed a corner of the bedsheet and gave a yank.
“Oh, my goodness!” she exclaimed.
“Chip chip hooray!” cheered Emma Zeisel.
“Wow!” said Mr. Sparks.
“Oh, brother,” said Lumpkin, Sr.
Lily-Matisse stood up on the table and spun around with gymnastic grace before hopping down.
“She made everything herself,” said Regina Jasprow.
“Not completely, Mom.” Lily-Matisse corrected her. “You showed me how to do the straps.”
“True,” said Regina Jasprow, “but you wove them on your own.”
“That’s the first time I’ve ever seen a student wear a science exhibit,” said Principal Birdwhistle.
“It makes me hungry just looking at her,” said Frau Haffenreffer.
Lily-Matisse was dressed, head to toe, in clothing made from recycled potato chip bags. She wore a foil dress and foil slippers and clutched a foil purse.
Mrs. Brede approached to scrutinize Lily-Matisse more closely. “Your use of Mylar is simply divine, and that purse! It’s absolutely darling!”
“Is it possible,” said Emma Zeisel, “that these exhibits are chipping away at your objections?”
“Perhaps,” said Mrs. Brede.
“I didn’t make all this stuff to be divine or darling,” said Lily-Matisse. “I did it to make a point about recycling. Guess how many dresses we could produce with all the tossed-away potato chip bags.”
No one ventured a guess.
“Try fifty million!” said Lily-Matisse. “A billion potato chip bags are trashed every year, and it only took me twenty bags to make this dress.”
“A billion divided by twenty is fifty million,” Mr. Sparks explained for the less mathematical parents.
“You could dress every woman in Haiti!” said Napoleon.
“Plus every señorita in Peru!” said Maria.
“And all Fräuleins in Austria!” added Frau Haffenreffer.
“Hey, Mr. Sparks! Principal Birdwhistle!” P.W. shouted.
“Want to see an exhibit that’ll really blow you away?”
“Heaven help us,” mumbled Principal Birdwhistle as she led the way. “I’m afraid to ask,” she said, gazing down at the next bedsheet.
“No reason to be afraid,” P.W. said cheerfully. He uncovered a wooden board on which he had mounted an apparatus fashioned from potato chip cans, black electrical tape, and white plastic plumbing pipe.
“What in heaven’s name is that?” asked Principal Birdwhistle.
“This,” said P.W. “is the crown prince of potato propulsion systems.”
“A spud gun!” exclaimed Lumpkin, Sr., suddenly taking an interest in the fair.
“I prefer the term ‘potato delivery apparatus,’” said P.W. “I call this particular model the Extermitater.”
“The exterminator?” Principal Birdwhistle said with obvious concern.
“I believe the boy said Extermi-tater,” said the short, round man.
The correction only heightened the principal’s agitation, which Lumpkin, Sr., raised further still.
“Doesn’t the school have rules about guns?” he asked.
“The Extermitater is not a gun,” P.W. was quick to point out.
“It’s not?” Principal Birdwhistle said dubiously.
“No,” said P.W. “Guns use gunpowder. All the Extermitater requires is plain old hair spray.” He pointed to a can of AquaNet.
“I’m not terribly convinced,” said Principal Birdwhistle. “Please reassure us that your terminator is not charged.”
“Of course it isn’t,” said P.W. “And it’s pronounced ‘ex-term-ih-tay-ter,’” he added patiently.
“Could you give us an overview of the apparatus?” Mr. Sparks asked.
“Glad to,” said P.W. “Let’s start with the muzzle—see how I have added a beveled ring of plastic? That allows the user to slice down oversized potatoes, making for a nice snug fit—not that potatoes are the only thing the Extermitater can deliver.”
“Go on,” Mr. Sparks prompted.
“After I’ve filled the Extermitater,” P.W. continued, “all I have to do is spray some aerosol into the ignition chamber and push this bright red button.”
Napoleon raised his hand. “Tell us, Monsieur Pay Dooble-vay, what happens when the bright red button is pushed?”
P.W. smiled. “Same thing that happens at the end of the Incredible Hulk, volume one, number two-twenty-nine.”
“I’m not familiar with that work,” said Principal Birdwhistle.
“Allow me to demonstrate.” P.W. cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted: “KA-BOOM!”
Principal Birdwhistle shook her head. “Would you mind telling us the scientific value of this extirpator?”
“Of course,” said P.W., resisting the urge to correct her once more. “As we learned last year, while studying the Crusades, ammunition is generally made of stone, wood, or metal. Slingshots fling rocks. Bows launch wooden arrows. Guns use powder to shoot bullets. The beauty of the Extermitater is its versatility.”
Mr. Sparks provided another prompt. “Can you explain?”
“Absolutely,” said P.W. “Basically this apparatus will propel anything.”
“Anything?” asked Lumpkin, Sr.
“Anything,” P.W. confirmed. “Here, take a look.” He turned to a poster board that included a data chart.
“Now I know where all those appetizers kept going!” said Mr. Dhabanandana.
“I don’t think your sister would be happy if she knew about item two,” added Ms. Dhabanandana.
“I have another concern,” said Mr. Sparks. “The potato calculations at the bottom of your chart are not very precise.”
“I know it,” P.W. acknowledged. “But the potatoes flew so wicked far they whizzed off the roof and down into the street!”
“Are you saying you simply eye-balled the distance?” Principal Birdwhistle asked critically.
“Of course not,” said P.W. “I calculated the distance based on trajectory and triangulation.” He pointed to a set of figures at the bottom of the poster board.
Mr. Sparks double-checked the calculations on a piece of scratch paper.
“Well?” said Principal Birdwhistle.
“The final number may not be precise,” said Mr. Sparks, “but the method he used to obtain it is flawless. Excellent work, P.W.”
FORTY
The Four Domes of
the Universe
The science fair was going as well as could be expected. Two of the most vocal critics of potato chips—Mrs. Brede and Dr. Parmigiano—were considerably less hostile to Mr. Sparks and his single-substance curriculum. Still, the battle wasn’t over. Leon would have to pull a rabbit out of his hat to neutralize Lumpkin, Sr., and to win over Principal Birdwhistle.
He had set up at the last exhibit table, for tactical reasons. He now waited for his turn to fulfill the potato chip pact.
“So, Leon?” said Mr. Sparks when that fateful moment came. “What are you serving us?”
“I’m quite certain we all know what Leon is serving,” said Principal Birdwhistle.
“I doubt it,” said Leon. He pulled back his bedsheet to reveal four domed food warmers, on loan from the Trimore Towers coffee shop. “My science fair exhibit tells the history of the universe.”
“Well, I’ll say one thing for you,” said Principal Birdwhistle. “You’re certainly ambitious.”
“Thousands of years ago,” Leon began, “before we had telescopes and satellites, people thought the earth, and the whole universe, was shaped like this.”
He lifted the first of the four metal domes to reveal a pancake.
“The little stinker cooked it all himself,” Frau Haffenreffer announced proudly.
Leon blushed. “The pancake theory lasted a really long time—all the way up until the Greeks. But then, around A.D. 150, Claudius Ptolemaeus—alias Ptolemy—hypothesized that the universe had a different shape. He believed it looked like this.”
Leon lifted the second of the four metal domes.
“An onion?” said Principal Birdwhistle.
“Yup,” said Leon. “Ptolemy thought the earth was at the center of a giant onion-shaped universe, and that all the planets, as well as the sun, circled around the earth in orbits that resembled the layers of this onion.”
“What about the stars?” Mr. Sparks asked.
“The stars were stuck onto the outer layer,” Leon said, tapping on the onion skin.
He stepped in front of the third metal dome. “Now, fast-forward to 1609. That’s when Galileo u
sed a telescope to find a bunch of moons no one had ever seen before. Galileo also confirmed that the earth was not the center of the universe. Fast-forward again. Relying on Galileo’s work, twentieth-century astronomers decided that the universe might not be shaped like an onion, after all. They figured it was shaped like this.”
Leon lifted the third of the four domes.
“A glazed doughnut?” sneered Lumpkin, Sr.
“Well, they didn’t say the universe was glazed,” said Leon. “But they did argue that it was shaped like a big fat ring—which they called a ‘torus’ to sound more scientific.”
Mr. Sparks nodded knowingly, but did not say a word.
Leon took another step and planted himself in front of the fourth and final dome.
“That brings me to the theory of the universe I think is the coolest—the one first proposed by Einstein. He hypothesized that the universe has a negatively curved surface.” Leon reached for the fourth of the four domes but was stopped by a sudden challenge.
“A negatively curved surface?” Lumpkin, Sr., bellowed. “Give me a break!”
“Mr. Lumpkin, please,” said Principal Birdwhistle. “Do allow the boy to complete his presentation.”
“What’s to complete? I mean, come on. Pancakes? Onions? Doughnuts? Is this a science exhibit or a grocery list? You’re not really buying this negative curve crud, are you, Teach?”
“Actually,” said Mr. Sparks, “Leon’s overview of the universe is grounded in complex higher mathematics.”
“You don’t say,” Lumpkin, Sr., said sarcastically.
Mr. Sparks finally had had enough. “I do say, Mr. Lumpkin. And what’s more, I say someone needs to be taught a lesson—about mathematics and manners!”
Lumpkin, Sr., cracked his knuckles. “Go ahead, Teach,” he snarled. “Educate me.”
“Gentlemen, please,” Principal Birdwhistle said nervously.
Her remarks went unnoticed. Mr. Sparks let loose:
Leon and the Champion Chip Page 20
