by Paul Tobin
“It’s possible,” Nate said. “Time can be slowed or accelerated by manipulating gravity. You and I are immune because of the micro-robots I have protecting us, but . . .” He looked over to Chester.
“We can’t just leave him!” I said, picking up a math textbook from Mrs. Isaacson’s desk, using it to push back some of the glass shards that were nearing Chester. “He’ll be caught in the explosion if he stays here!” I grabbed Chester’s arm again and starting pulling at it, but he wouldn’t budge.
“Hmmm,” Nate said. “Maybe if I can destroy the power source.” Then, he went down on one knee and stared at my legs.
“Nate?” I said. “What the piffle?”
“I’m gauging the amount of mustard on your leg.”
“Okaaaaay,” I said.
“If I can gather enough mustard, I could shoot it toward the machine that’s warping time, and destroy it by—”
“Whatever! As long as we’ll be able to move Chester again. But how will you shoot the mustard toward—”
Nate licked my pants.
On the mustard.
This was not something I expected, so I can hardly be blamed for how I jumped back, or for how my knee jerked upward and slammed into the side of Nate’s head.
“Guhh,” he said.
And then toppled over.
Unconscious.
“Oh dang,” I said, looking at Nate unconscious on the floor, with a smear of mustard on his lips, and at Chester frozen in place, and at the windows ever-so-slowly exploding inward, and at several members of the Red Death Tea Society running into the room and pointing their guns at me.
“Oh piffle,” I said.
“Time out!” I yelled, in case it would work.
It did not work. Instead, one the assassins fired his disintegrator pistol at me, and if I hadn’t spent so many hours practicing on my obstacle course to hone myself into “adventure” shape, and if I hadn’t also spent so many hours eating cake to fuel my body with so much energy that it’s honestly surprising I don’t glow, I think the ray would’ve hit me. As it was, it went whooshing over my shoulder with a sound not unlike a flock of gossiping ducks, and a wide swath of the incoming glass from the exploding windows suddenly ceased to exist.
“Time out!” I yelled again, because I really did want it to work.
It still didn’t.
So I kicked a desk toward the nearest of my attackers, a man in the usual red suit with black trim of the Red Death Tea Society. Honestly, if you’re going to be a secret society, you shouldn’t dress in matching uniforms.
The sliding desk hit his legs, and there was a pained grunt and then some impressive cursing and then he toppled to the floor, glaring at me. I dodged to the right when his gun came up, and then rolled to the left, and then I leaped out for the rope that was hanging in front of me.
“Piffle,” I said when I realized there wasn’t a rope hanging in front of me. That’s the problem with practicing for adventures on an obstacle course; you get used to the obstacles, and there’s a part of my practice where I do a dodge to the right and then a roll to the left and then I grab the rope hanging from my tree. Except there was no tree in Mrs. Isaacson’s classroom, and most definitely not a hanging rope, so I probably looked like some cartoon character who’s walked off a cliff, with that look of stupid realization on my face that I was about to fall.
I fell.
I bounced off the floor in a not particularly charming manner, and then rolled to a stop.
There was a note on the floor.
Addressed to me.
Written in Nate’s handwriting.
For once, it wasn’t folded, for which I was very grateful, because I was in the middle of a battle and didn’t have time for Nate’s intricate folding techniques, which can be a puzzle to unravel.
The note said,
"Delphine. According to my calculations, it's been 234 hours and 17 minutes since you've accidentally knocked me out, so it's ninety-nine percent probable to happen soon. By now I'm almost certainly unconscious and you're likely in a fight with the Red Death Tea Society, meaning you don't have time to unfold a note. That's why I didn't fold the note, even though I've found a way to fold paper into a seven-dimensional form, which you really should see at some time, so if you survive this battle, remind me!"
In the time it took me to read Nate’s explanation of how he was saving me time by not folding the note, I’d had to dodge seven disintegrator rays and five attempts to grab me, not to mention a desk that had been hurled at me, and do it all within the rapidly shrinking space where the oncoming explosion hadn’t reached.
Leaping behind Mrs. Isaacson's desk, I read more of the note. It said,
"Oh. I should hurry up. I get distracted. Sorry. I'll make it up to you by inventing a better pizza. But, for now, you have to wake me up. The easiest way is . . . I've put a packet of Expand-O-Water in your pocket. Just open it up and splash it on my face."
“Expand-O-Water?” I said, reaching into my pocket. There was indeed a small packet of something, wrapped in dark green tinfoil with an image of a raindrop. I opened it up and a small drop of water emerged, clinging to the edge of the tinfoil.
“Here she is!” a woman’s voice called out. She was standing on top of Mrs. Isaacson’s desk and carrying a disintegrator pistol. The gun was pointed at me, which unfortunately seems to be their natural state. I tried to scramble around the right side of the desk, but was blocked by somebody’s legs. So I tried to scramble around to the left, shuffling on all fours, but another of the Red Death Tea Society assassins cut me off.
“Heh heh,” one of them said.
“Ha ha,” said another.
“Hee hee,” said the third.
They were having an excellent time, but I was not.
It’s a good thing I created my obstacle course. I’m in very good shape these days. For instance, when I first started, I could barely hold on to a swinging rope. Now, I can easily Tarzan my way through a forest, swinging from vines. And I can jump hurdles and do handsprings, and I can open a door using my feet as long as I’m not wearing shoes. All very important skills. When I was first building my obstacle course, Dad asked why I needed to hone these abilities of mine.
I’d said, “College,” which made him happy, because he wants me to go to college, though I’m not exactly sure what college has an entrance exam where you have to open a door with your feet.
Anyway, my answer satisfied Dad and he let me build the course, which includes such things as an old bathtub where I’ve been practicing to hold my breath for long periods of time, and a limbo rope where, through long hours of exercise, I’ve been steadily decreasing the smallest space I can squeeze under.
It’s all paying off.
I slid under Mrs. Isaacson’s desk and out the other side.
“Where’d she go?” I heard a voice call out from behind me, because the members of the Red Death Tea Society did not expect me to be a limbo champion. I was still clutching the tiny packet of Expand-O-Water, and the droplet was still stubbornly clutching to the edge of the torn tinfoil. I raced first for Nate, but stopped when I saw that the exploding glass from the Slowstorm was only inches from Chester.
I had to do something.
He was caught in time, moving too slow for him to escape the blast. What I needed was for him to be moving as quickly as I was, but he didn’t have the tiny robots in his system, like me and Nate, so unless I could get him to speed up in some other way, he would . . . he would . . . hey.
Oh.
I grabbed the packet of “Speed Runner” pills from his fingers, tore open the packet, and tucked a pill inside Chester’s mouth.
His eyes blinked.
Slowly.
Then quicker.
And he said, “Delphine? What’s happening?”
“The bears aren’t real. We’re in a slow-motion explosion. The people with the guns are assassins from the Red Death Tea Society. I’ve accidentally knocked Nate unconscio
us. Your clothes do not match.”
“What?”
“Sorry, that last one slipped out. The important thing is that you should run.”
“Okay,” he said, and he ran right out of the classroom. It was, I must admit, refreshing. Usually if I tell Nate to do something, it takes minutes of explanation for why he should do whatever I’m asking, and then he likes to consider alternate solutions for whatever problem he’s up against, and it’s no wonder that I punch him so many times.
“Good job running!” I told Chester as he disappeared out the door.
Then I turned around.
To see all the Red Death Tea Society members pointing their disintegrator pistols at me.
“Bad job standing still,” I told myself. Then I dove forward toward their legs, hoping to maybe bowl a couple of them over, either to mess up their aim or at least give them a good knock on their shins, because that really hurts.
I had the open packet of Expand-O-Water in my outstretched hand.
It hit the floor first.
The waves hit me next.
BUHH-LOOOOOOOSHHHH
The moment the drop of water hit the floor, it expanded. Fiercely. It did not expand into two drops, or four, or eight, or any other trivial gradation like that. No, it exploded into an ocean of water. The entire classroom was instantly filled with raging water, with water surging out into the hall and bursting out from the windows, with all the desks and everything else hurled back by the force of the expanding water. I was thumped up into the ceiling on a geyser-like current. The Red Death Tea Society’s pistols short-circuited in tiny explosions that made all the assassins jerk and twitch with bursts of electricity.
They passed out.
So . . . it looked like I was going to win, except for the part where I was drowning, which would certainly be an asterisk to my victory.
The water was still expanding, making it very difficult to swim anywhere, since the current was roaring in all directions and it felt like riding a bike uphill against a fierce wind, with the addition of that part about the drowning. I’m sorry to keep mentioning the drowning, but it was a central part of my thought process.
Another important thought: Where was Nate? I’d managed to swim to the bottom of the classroom, but Nate wasn’t where I’d last seen him. Maybe he’d been washed out one of the windows? The currents were even stronger near the windows, because not only was the water still expanding, but it was gushing out through the windows, and every time I got too close to one of the windows it felt like a big watery hand was grabbing at me. I couldn’t just leave, though, because it’s considered impolite to knock a boy out and then abandon him in the middle of a submerged classroom. I needed to find Nate. My lungs were burning, though. It felt like they were being squeezed, or roasted over hot coals, or like a cat was using them for a scratching post. The desks were all jumbled together in one corner of the room, and I decided it was possible Nate was buried under them. I had to check.
My lungs HURT.
I moved a couple of the desks aside, but they just tumbled about, sinking back where they’d been. It was like trying to dig in sand.
My lungs were quivering and my throat was tight.
I picked up a desk and shoved it toward the closest window, where the current grabbed it and washed it outside.
I did it again with the next desk. And the next. And the next. My arms were tiring from all the effort. I would definitely have to add “desk-throwing” to my adventure training course. All the sounds in the classroom were muted, like that roaring hush you have when your head is underwater and the rest of the world sounds like a pounding drum, distant voices, the noise of your own heart beating in your chest, water rushing past your ears, a silence that is somehow an overpowering roar.
I kept digging through the desks. Hurling them toward the currents. Desks were flowing out the window in a surging stream. One after the other. But there was never anything beneath them but more desks.
C’mon, Nate! Where are you?
My whole chest felt like a block of wood. My heart was pounding. I was digging through the desks, but I couldn’t find Nate. I was almost entirely out of breath. If I didn’t leave soon, it would be too late.
I needed to leave.
I needed to.
I stayed.
Hurling desks.
The water seemed darker.
Thicker.
I could barely lift the desks.
The water was cold. So cold. Getting colder.
I felt like I was drifting.
Fading.
“Here,” Nate said. “Take this.”
“GRUB-BUBBLE!” I yelled, which is the sound you make when you’re trying to yell “Gahh!” . . . but ninety-two gallons of water surge into your mouth.
Nate was floating in the water next to me, entirely unconcerned with all the chaos. Frankly, Nate is rarely all that bothered by chaos, which is probably one reason the two of them hang out together so much.
He was holding a pill. Gesturing toward my mouth.
I was about to ask what the pill would do, but the moment I opened my mouth Nate flicked the pill through the water. It tumbled and turned and curved in the current, and then shot down my throat. I instinctively swallowed.
Nate smiled.
Almost instantly, my strength began to return. Energy flooded through my veins, surging into my muscles. I heaved a sigh of relief, which isn’t something you’re supposed to do underwater. But, somehow . . . I could breathe.
“Breathing pill?” I asked.
“ ‘Underwater Adventure’ pills,” Nate said. “But, yeah, pretty much the same thing. Except with these we can even talk underwater. I invented them by . . . GUFF!”
Nate’s words were cut off by impact. For once, it wasn’t a horrible impact, like falling from a helicopter or being swatted by a giant cat. This time, it was me. Hugging him. I’d thought I’d lost him. I’ve oftentimes wondered what life would be like without Nate, and the only possible conclusion is that it would be dumber. It would be boring, mundane, and utterly commonplace.
“I would miss you,” I said, accidentally aloud. The current was pushing us closer, holding us together. The water felt warmer than when I’d been searching for Nate. Probably a side effect of the pill I’d taken.
“I would miss you, too,” Nate said. The water was still whooshing around us, like the classroom was a series of geysers, reverse waterfalls, pressure jets, all of them whirling the waters so that it felt like we were dancing through the room. Nate was looking into my eyes. I’m not sure what he was seeing. Something that made him happy, though. There was a wonderful smile on his lips. Then, he moved his right shoulder forward, looking at it meaningfully.
“Why are you showing me your shoulder?” I asked.
“Because you always punch me when you get embarrassed.”
“I’m not embarrassed!” I said, punching him.
The act of punching Nate sent me floating backward in the water, floating just far enough for the violent currents near the door to grab me, so that I was washed out into the flooded hallway and sent speeding past the history room, and the teachers’ lounge, and whooshing past the English room where I was scheduled to read my short story wherein Frankenstein defeats Dracula in a game of checkers. There were musical instruments spewing out of the band room, caught in the raging currents, tubas and trumpets and flutes and so on. They were clanging together, rebounding off the walls, swept down the hallway. A saxophone whacked me on the side of the head. The water had filled the hall, and I began to wonder just how much water Nate had unleashed on the school . . . or even on the world. This could be a flood of epic proportions.
The current was carrying me toward study hall, in room 1A, the central area from where all the hallways branch off.
The big doors were open.
Maculte was standing there.
Luria was next to him.
The two leaders of the Red Death Tea Society.
“Uh-oh,”
I gurgled.
Sir Jakob Maculte is in his late fifties and his cheeks are sunken like potholes. He has gray hair and eyebrows like puffed-up caterpillars, and he mostly looks like a plant in bad need of watering.
Luria Pevermore, irritatingly enough, is quite beautiful. Her hair is red, but even darker than mine, and hangs straight down to her shoulders whenever it’s not doing that “shampoo commercial” thing of billowing outward in an entrancing fashion. She has high cheekbones, a good number of spotted freckles, and green eyes that shine like stained glass. She’s almost always smiling, but it never feels like a smile.
They’re both normally holding teacups, but right now they were clutching onto the frame of the double-wide study-hall doorway, fighting against the flow of the water, watching me as I was coming closer, ever closer, helplessly caught in the current.
I tried to swim the other way, but it was useless. The rushing current was too strong. I could see Nate swimming toward me, looking grim, and swimming much faster than I would have thought. Honestly, he’s a bit scrawny, but whenever it comes time to do something athletic, he seems to surprise me.
“How are you swimming so fast?” I asked as he caught up to me, slipping an arm around my waist.
“My shoes are submarines,” he said.
I said, “I must have heard wrong. I thought you just said that your shoes were submarines.”
“My shoes are submarines. Or at least my shoes work on the same principle as a submarine, creating propulsion by means of a steam turbine that’s powered by the nuclear reactors in—”
“Stop! I don’t want to know that you have steam-propelled nuclear sneakers. Just . . . tell me how we’re going to avoid those two!” I pointed to Maculte and Luria, who were braced against the sides of the door, struggling to hold their positions against the current, which was slowly drawing us closer to them.
