The Genius Factor: How to Capture an Invisible Cat

by Paul Tobin

  The next day, Liz Morris and I were sitting in the lush green courtyard in front of the Piltdown Mall, where we saw a man carrying the distinctive pink box of the Abracadabra Cake Shoppe, which is known to have the finest cakes in all of Polt. Cake makes me basically turn into a monster, much like a werewolf when it catches sight of the moon.

  What I mean is I really like cake.

  The man with the cake was wearing a black suit with red trim, and was possibly in his fifties. He had sunken cheeks, a gaunt appearance, a teacup in one hand, gray hair, heavy eyebrows, and the cake.

  That man had cake.

  This was a problem. I like cake, and it was Saturday, and on Saturday I am supposed to have cake. This is the rule. Saturday is the day of my weekly Cake vs. Pie club meetings, where my friends and I sit down and discuss the infinite merits of cake, and the admittedly delicious but much lesser merits of pie. And, at each meeting, some of us eat cake. The more foolish choose pie.

  But the meeting had been canceled. Wendy Kamoss was at a family reunion. Buenaventura León, who we all call Ventura, was helping her mom with a garage sale. Stine—Christine Keykendall—had gone with her mom to choose a new bike, promising to keep my suggestion of “something with rockets” in mind. With Wendy, Ventura, and Stine out of the picture, that only left me and Liz Morris, meaning it would be far too dangerous to hold the meeting.

  Liz is my best friend, but she is absolutely the enemy when it comes to cake versus pie, and Mom got mad the last time Liz and I debated one-on-one, even though the table was fine once we put it back into place and Liz’s glasses didn’t break when I knocked them off with the pillow and the bite mark on my shoulder cleared up after only a couple of days.

  Liz ignored the man with the cake.

  “So you were hanging out with Nate in the park? With Nate?” she asked.

  I’d told Liz about meeting Nate. About the balloon. About Bosper. Well, at least I’d told her parts of what had happened, keeping the weirder parts to myself, meaning I’d barely told her anything.

  Although, apparently even that had been too much. Liz was suspicious. I tried to give her a blank look.

  “Hmm. Might there have been something more?” Liz said. “I can sense there’s something you’re not telling me. I have special best-friend powers, you know.”

  It was true. Liz and I could often read each other’s minds, the way twins are supposedly able to do, even though we are not twins. She has short brown hair, while I have long red hair. My eyes are green. Hers are almost purple. Her ears stick out, but it’s adorable. I have freckles, but they’re equally adorable. I have a superhero lunch box, while Liz has one of a unicorn fighting Bigfoot. She’s four feet nine inches, two inches taller than me. She is good with chopsticks, while I am not, as I’m sure the other regular customers at the Black Phantom Noodle Emporium will testify. Most telling of all, Liz prefers pie, while I prefer cake.

  There is no way we are twins.

  “No comment?” Liz said. “You’re giving me the silent treatment?”

  It had been less than a single second since she’d asked me about Nate, but Liz is impatient when it comes to secrets.

  I said, “Nate is just—”

  “Too late!” Liz interrupted, grabbing my phone. “Let’s see if you two have been texting!”

  “Gahh!” I said. “Liz!” I shrieked this loud enough that the man with the cake, disappearing into the distance, paused and looked back, so you would think that it would have been loud enough for Liz to hear it, since she was sitting right next to me. But, it was like she didn’t even hear my first howl of protest, or the second one, or the third one, which I have to point out was one of my all-time best.

  “Whoa,” Liz said, looking at my phone, raising one eyebrow. “He is texting you.”

  It was true. There were two texts from Nate. The first was entirely blank, and the second one said, Sorry. That was from Bosper.

  “Nate’s dog sent you a text?” Liz asked.

  “Nate’s just joking,” I said.

  “He never seems like much of a joker in class,” Liz said.

  It’s true that Nate usually keeps to himself in school. I used to think he was shy, or that he didn’t have anything to say, but now I knew better. All those times I’d thought he was just being quiet, it’s because he was almost certainly devising incredible inventions or solving unfathomable equations. He was being secretly … smart.

  It was interesting to know he had secrets. But it was strange that I needed to have them now, too. From Liz.

  During our walk home, I stole Liz’s phone and looked up all the people she’d been texting.

  This was entirely fair.

  She’d done the same to me.

  Unfortunately, there were no juicy secrets to be discovered on her phone. This meant that I was the only one with secrets, and that the man at the mall had been the only one with cake.

  This was entirely unfair.

  The walk home was nice, though. It only took us about a half hour. Polt isn’t a very large city. But it’s beautiful, with the hills, the trees, the river, and all the people who wave back when Liz dares me to wave at them. The weather tends to drizzle here, of course, so that Ventura says it’s like the whole valley has the sniffles.

  Luckily, it wasn’t raining, so there were lots of people out, and we saw some cool robot paintings in a gallery window, and we saw police horses, and …

  Nate.

  He was walking along, wearing red goggles, with Bosper at his side, moving through the crowds on Gollow Avenue. It’s the blocked-off street that’s been turned into a pedestrian mall, where all the street performers play their banjos, or ride around on bicycles while wearing gorilla suits, or do circus gymnastics, or stand so still that it’s like they’re statues. Liz and I once earned twenty-four dollars making drawings of people for one dollar each. We’d given all the money to a woman with a trained turtle. It could sit on command, and it could … well, that’s all it could do, but I like turtles and wanted to encourage further performances.

  Weirdly, everyone seemed to be ignoring Nate, even though he had a measuring tape and was walking right up to people, measuring them and making notations in a little notebook. It was like he was invisible. I watched Nate walk up to a man in a checkered coat, measure the length of his coat, the length of his legs, and even the length of the burrito the man had just bought at a food cart. There was a woman in a blue sweater talking on a cell phone, laughing, expertly putting her hair into a ponytail with one hand. Nate held his measuring tape to the base of a nearby tree, and then Bosper—with the end of the measuring tape clamped in his mouth—padded over to the woman’s legs and measured the distance. Nate seemed to think it was meaningful. He jotted something in his notebook, wrote something on his pants, and then began measuring the width of the bricks in the sidewalk.

  Bosper saw me and yelled out, “Hello, the Delphine girl! Bosper is not talking in public because the dog is not supposed to!”

  He was very proud of doing as he was told. Nate looked up and saw me, and he took off the strange red goggles and started to say something, but then he looked at Liz and paused, and he and Bosper turned around and walked off quickly in the other direction.

  Weird.

  “Wasn’t that Nate?” Liz asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Hmm,” she said.

  “What?”

  “Usually you babble. But you only said ‘Yes.’ Just that one word.”

  “I don’t usually babble. I just generally have stuff to say.”

  “A lot of stuff,” Liz said.

  “Piffle,” I said.

  I looked off down the block.

  Through all the people.

  To where Nate was receding into the distance.

  I wondered when I would see him again.

  chapter

  2

  Two hours later, I received an invite from Nate.

  Liz had gone home and I was running an errand for my brothe
r, Steve. He wanted to buy flowers for his latest girlfriend but didn’t know which ones to buy, so he gave me seventeen dollars and thirty-five cents and threatened to tell Mom about the shaving cream thing if I didn’t help him out. I had no choice but to go to Pioneer Square, where my favorite flower seller was working. Her name is Judi and the first time I ever saw her she was wearing a T-shirt with a drawing of an apricot and the words, “This is an apricot.” I decided that I wanted to be her, or at least have her shirt, whichever was easier.

  Judi is the set designer for all the plays at Polt Middle, Polt High School, and even the Polt Paramount Theater. She’s the one who designed all the fake rocks for our school’s production of Captain Crater-Maker, painted the background scenes for Bigfoot vs. the Math Problem, and of course she supplied all the roses and sunflowers for the dramatic ending of The Ninja Who Needed a Hug.

  Judi and I were debating Steve’s flowers when I looked down to see a precisely folded and hand-labeled note at my feet. It was triangle-shaped and had “Delphine” written on it with the most elaborate letters I’d ever seen, full of flourishes and swooping lines.

  “What’s this?” I said, picking up the note.

  “Garbage,” Judi said. “Trash can over here.” She nudged a trash can with her boot.

  “It has my name on it,” I said.

  “Really? There aren’t many girls named Delphine. Even fewer boys. The note must be for you.”

  “Did you put it here?” This was exactly the sort of thing Judi would do. She’s quirky. One time she came to work with all her clothes inside out, just to see if anybody would say anything. I did. I was the only one.

  “Not me. Sure you didn’t drop it?”

  “I never had it.”

  Judi said, “Stop me if this is crazy, but maybe you could … read it?” She was snipping stems off the flowers. She does this so fast that I make sure to keep my fingers away from her. I don’t want there to be any confusion.

  I unfolded the note. A quarter fell out.

  “The note came with a quarter,” I said.

  “Why is there a quarter?” Judi asked. We both thought about it. We both came up with nothing. Judi tapped on the note and said, “Read it.”

  I did.

  It said:

  Delphine, this is Nate. Nate Bannister. The one with Bosper? Remember? The dog that grabbed the balloon? In the park? I put on that mechanical nose? Remember? We’re going to be friends, so I hope you remember.

  I mumbled, “Yes. Hello? Of course I remember! Talking dogs. Mechanical noses. How could I forget something like that?”

  The note said:

  I’m writing to invite you to my house. To my room. Is this socially awkward? I’m no good at being social. Here’s my address. 417 NE 38th. It’s the corner of 38th and Pouch. It’s pronounced “pooch.” Like a dog. I have a talking dog. Remember?

  “Your friend has a talking dog?” Judi asked. I’d forgotten I was reading out loud. This was not good.

  “No,” I said. It was perhaps the most brilliant cover-up in the history of espionage.

  “He’s inviting you to his room?” Judi asked. She was braiding several flowers into a wreath.

  “He’s not like that,” I said.

  “Sure.”

  “He’s just … socially awkward.”

  “That’s a boy for ya,” Judi said. She was smiling in a way that meant she thought Nate was being a typical boy, but I knew he wasn’t. He was being Nate. Entirely different.

  “What’s that?” Judi asked. She was pointing to the back of the note, where there was another message—one I’d lost in all the folds.

  It said:

  Oh. Also, according to her blog, your brother’s girlfriend likes peonies and snapdragons, so try to work some of them into a bouquet!

  How did he know about the flowers? I wondered as I walked from Judi’s flower cart to the bus stop. I looked at the bouquet of peonies and snapdragons. How did he know where to put the note? The number 32 bus pulled up in front of me, and that’s when I noticed something.

  There was a note taped to the side of the bus shelter.

  It had my name on it.

  Delphine.

  The note said:

  I’m not watching you or anything. I just have a formula for where you’re most likely to be at any given point, what direction you’ll be looking, and so on. I have similar charts for almost everyone.

  I stepped up into the bus and put two dollars in the fare slot. The bus driver frowned at me.

  “The fare is two dollars and twenty-five cents now,” she told me. Her hefty shoulders shrugged. “Changed a couple of weeks back.”

  “Piffle,” I said. I’d completely forgotten. “I only have two dollars. Could you please just … ?” I stopped because she was shaking her head.

  “I’m really sorry, but management has been cracking down on—”

  “Wait! I do have another quarter!” I reached into my pocket and produced the quarter I’d found in Nate’s first note. Relieved, I slid it into the fare-taking machine-thingy, then found an empty seat.

  I sat down.

  Adjusted my backpack.

  And then I saw a note taped to the side of the bus, just beneath the window.

  It said “Delphine” on it.

  I opened it up.

  It said:

  I calculated a strong possibility that you would forget the fare increase. This is because you’re out of cereal and it’s cloudy. Dead giveaway.

  There were three more notes on my way home from school. One was on the bench at Plove Park, where I always get off the bus because I like to sit and look at the lake. Another was on the sidewalk half a block from my house, and the last was strapped to the Bakers’ dog, Smoochy, who always runs out to see me. Together, the notes explained that Nate was having a serious problem and needed a friend to watch his back. He also wondered if I’d ever made out a will. The second note added that he was only joking about making out a will, and that the problem wasn’t as dangerous as he’d made it sound. The third note apologized for being so vague in the first notes, and stated that the probability of my meeting an unfortunate end while helping him with the problem was no more than thirteen percent.

  Thirteen percent.

  chapter

  3

  Maybe it was reckless, but there are only so many chances in life to become friends with a talking dog. So I found myself walking to Nate’s place, amazed by what had happened so far and wondering what would happen next. Because clearly, anything was possible and, let’s face it, you can’t suddenly find yourself in a world with talking dogs without wondering what other oddities are out there.

  It was exciting.

  It really was.

  Some people don’t like firsts. But for me, it’s like an amusement park ride. You’re twisting and turning and suddenly finding the bottom pulled out from under you, and all the time you’re grinning and wondering, “What’s next? What’s next?” That’s how I felt walking to Nate’s house. I was whistling. I don’t whistle very well, but I am enthusiastic, and that should count for something.

  Nate met me at the door holding what looked like a crossbow that shot croquet balls, and a steaming cup of hot chocolate. He was looking everywhere, as if he was afraid I’d been followed. Bosper was on the roof, barking.

  The house was two stories tall. There were quite a few trees. One of them, rising up from the backyard to loom in giant-like fashion over the house, had a treehouse with several different rooms. The treehouse had picture windows and a multitude of antennae. A model train track circumnavigated the treehouse’s exterior.

  “Were you attacked?” Nate asked. It was clear he believed this was a perfectly normal question.

  “That’s not a perfectly normal question,” I said.

  “Hold on. I need to shoot a ball of catnip.” He strode across the front yard, aimed his crossbow at the street, and pulled the trigger. There was a shoomp-ing noise, and a grassy ball shot off from the
crossbow to splatter all over the street.

  “And that was most definitely not a normal thing to do,” I told Nate.

  “Hot chocolate is normal, though, right? I’ve warmed it to exactly one hundred and sixty-two degrees Fahrenheit, which I believe is the optimal temperature for warm beverages.” He was handing me the hot chocolate, practically forcing me to take it.

  “How did you know where to put all the notes?” I asked. The hot chocolate smelled fantastic. Steam was wafting up from the cup.

  Nate was walking backward across his lawn, beckoning me to follow, keeping a watchful gaze for … what? I didn’t know. But there was fully a thirteen percent chance of it being horrible.

  “I didn’t exactly know where to put the notes,” he said. “I just calculated the highest probabilities. I left the same notes in several areas. Whichever ones you don’t find are either collected by Bosper or Sir William.”

  “Sir William?” We’d almost reached his house, but Nate stopped and pointed to the sky. There was a gull flying around.

  “That’s him,” Nate said. “The robot gull.”

  “Robot?” I peered closer.

  Then it happened.

  Out on the street, there was a screeching sound. Scraping metal. A muddy Ford truck shook, then tipped onto its side.

  “Get in the house!” Nate yelled, grabbing my arm and tugging me in through the door, nearly spilling my hot chocolate. The door closed behind us with a vacuum seal–like sound and Nate entered a code (I swear there were, like, sixty digits) and the entire house shivered.

  “Safe!” Nate said. “Let’s get lemonade! I get to be a host! I’ve never … I’ve never had a friend in my house before! This is exciting! Everyone else thinks I’m too strange to be friends with. Hold on to this crossbow, will you?” He handed me the crossbow and disappeared into the kitchen, leaving me behind as I wondered how in the world anybody could think Nate was strange. Nope. He was perfectly normal. Nothing to worry about. Cars suddenly flip over for no reason at all. Most of my friends have crossbows. The world is simply full of robot gulls.