by Gary Urey
I reached out to grab one of them, but Vivian cuffed the tip of my nose.
“Stay away, Schnoz,” she said. “These sniffing sticks are the main component of your smell test.”
“Excuse me, Miss Know-It-All,” I said sarcastically. “Then why don’t you explain how this whole thing works?”
Vivian held up a DVD that came with kit. “Let’s watch this first.”
TJ popped the DVD into his laptop. The narrator was an old guy who called himself Professor Stickle. He wore a white lab coat and big, round glasses that nearly took up his whole face. We were surprised to learn that Professor Stickle originally designed the Odor Identification Nasal Kit to test members of the armed forces with olfactory-sensitive jobs.
“I’m the test administrator,” Vivian said when the DVD was over. “Schnoz, just like Professor Stickle says, we need to find a quiet, odor-free space for testing.”
“The Nostril should be fine,” Jimmy said.
“The Professor said it must be an odor-free space,” Vivian countered. “Your sweaty armpits smell like you just ran a marathon. TJ smells like he just took a bath in a garbage can, and Mumps’s breath reeks like he hasn’t brushed his teeth in a month.”
I nodded my nose. “She’s right, guys. You three stink pretty badly, but I kind of like it. In fact, Mumps’s breath is so uniquely rancid that I’m going to add it to my scent dictionary.”
“Gross,” Vivian said with a grimace. “Schnoz, let’s ride our bikes to the library and use one of the study rooms.”
We loaded the Odor Identification Nasal Kit into Vivian’s backpack and then headed to the Denmark Public Library.
The library had three private study rooms, all of which were in use when Vivian and I got there. You could only use the rooms for an hour at a time, so Vivian and I had to wait twenty minutes for one to open up. Vivian killed the time by researching anosmia on the Internet. I browsed the comic book section, poring over superhero stories for some guidance about my loss-of-powers problem.
I found some comfort in an issue of Uncanny X-Men when Storm lost her ability to control weather. The government shot her with a weapon specifically designed to neutralize the powers of mutants. She eventually got her powers back by spending a year on a parallel Earth and making a machine that restored her powers. Where could I find a parallel Earth to solve my problem? The only planet outside our solar system that I knew of was Apnea, and those snore suckers wanted to kill me!
“Our room’s opening up,” Vivian said.
We stepped into the study room and closed the door. The room did not offer complete privacy. Instead of four solid walls, one wall had a big window facing the reference librarian’s desk. Anybody walking down the hall could see right inside.
“The librarian can see exactly what we’re doing,” I said, plopping down at the table.
“So what?” Vivian remarked. “We’re not doing anything wrong. Just doing a little smell test, that’s all.”
Vivian unzipped her backpack and retrieved the Odor Identification Nasal Kit. The contents of the kit included sixteen different sniffing sticks, three sheets of paper with numbered little ovals to fill in like those on a standardized test, and a black blindfold.
“Why do I need a blindfold?” I asked.
“Because that’s what the instructions say. Put it on.”
I slipped the blindfold over my nose and then around my eyes. Everything instantly turned dark.
“Now, pay careful attention,” Vivian instructed. “I’m going to hold a series of three different sniffing sticks up to your nostrils. Two of the sticks are the same smell and one is different—but extremely minutely. All you have to do is take a whiff of each stick and then tell me which one has the different smell. Got it?”
I took a deep breath. “Ready when you are.”
“Okay. When you give me an answer, I’ll record the results on the data sheet. Here we go. Ready, sniff!”
With a big huff of my honker, the familiar scent of butanol, the basis for most French fragrances filled my nostrils.
Vivian then held up two more sniffing sticks to my nose.
“Which stick was different from the other?” she asked.
“Easy,” I answered. “I detect that Stick Two was not the same.”
There was a scribbling sound as Vivian filled in an oval on the data sheet. For the next forty-five minutes, Vivian held up different sniffing sticks to my nose. Each level of smell detection grew more difficult. When I had sniffed the last stick, my nose felt like it had been through a smell-a-thon.
As Vivian compared my responses with the test’s answer key, my heart raced like a bunny rabbit at a falconry festival. The consequences were as clear as snot running out of my nose on a bad allergy day—if I’d failed the test, my super sniffing powers were slipping away forever.
“Done,” Vivian finally said. “Do you want to hear how you did?”
“Yes!” I cried out so loudly that the reference librarian pounded on the window and held a finger to her lips.
“A perfect score is one hundred. Schnoz, I’m sorry to inform you that your score was …”
Time stopped; Earth ceased to rotate on its axis. Beads of sweat formed on my temples. My nostrils throbbed like an exposed artery. The next word from Vivian’s mouth would determine my entire future.
“One hundred!” Vivian screeched. “You got a perfect score. You don’t have odor-blindness. According to this test, your nose is in perfect working order.”
The librarian pounded on the window again, signaling us to be quiet, but I didn’t care. I raised my nose, sucked in a big nostril full of air, and let out the most joyful trumpet snort ever.
CHAPTER 5
THE BOY WITH A THOUSAND SCENTS
My booger blaster may have been in fine working order, but the secret ingredient in Strange was still unknown. I was beginning to think the smell might be one of the great mysteries of the universe. Like the origins of life or the cheeseburger Mumps keeps in his underwear drawer that still hasn’t decomposed after eleven months.
Thankfully, my nose had no problem flying. Whenever I got depressed about Strange, I slipped on my Super Schnoz costume, turned my nostrils into massive hot air balloons, and floated into the clouds. I buzzed over the town of Denmark and into the White Mountain National Forest. The burned-out remnants of Dr. Wackjöb’s Center for UFOs, Earthquakes, and Alien Abduction lay below me like a giant scar on the earth. Huge chunks of Apnean metal from when I blew up Robo-Nose littered the grounds. In less than a year, my nose had defeated an evil environmental company intent on destroying our town and saved the Earth from alien domination. Yet, one barely noticeable ingredient in a bottle of perfume was stopping my sniffer cold.
I was about to land and walk around the ruins of the compound when a familiar smell wafted into my nostrils. The scent was from an aerosol can of novelty fart spray. Just like the Gotham City Police Department uses the Bat Signal to summon Batman, the Not-Right Brothers and Vivian use the fart spray to contact me. I closed one nostril, banked sharply to the left, and flew as fast as I could to our secret hideout.
Dr. Wackjöb and the gang were waiting for me when I got there.
“We’re going to New York City!” Jimmy exclaimed.
“What are you talking about?” I asked.
“New York City, baby!” Mumps hollered, spewing more fart spray into the air.
Vivian fanned the rancid air away from her face. “Knock it off with the fart spray already. Schnoz is present and accounted for.”
“I’ve never been to New York before,” TJ added.
“Time out,” I said. “What’s all this about going to New York?”
“Remember my old friend, Pierre du Voleur?” Dr. Wackjöb asked me.
“Sure. He’s the guy who owns the Français Scent Company. What about him?”
“We spoke again this morning. I told him about your impressive olfactory skills, and he wants to meet you. He found tales of your probos
cis power very intriguing. Especially your extensive mental scent dictionary.”
My eyes lit up and my nostrils flared. “For real? An international French perfumer wants to meet me?”
“Absolutely,” Dr. Wackjöb said. “After I entertained him with tales of your sniffing adventures, he said, ‘I must meet le garçon aux mille parfums.’”
“What does that mean?” Vivian asked.
“It means ‘the boy with a thousand scents’ in French,” Dr. Wackjöb answered.
“More like the boy with a trillion scents,” TJ chimed in.
The news was overwhelming. A real person in the perfume industry wanted to meet me. Even though I didn’t know a thing about Pierre du Voleur or the Français Scent Company, the fact that a living, breathing creator of perfumes knew about my nose was an incredible honor.
“Why do we have to meet him in New York?” I asked. “Why can’t he come to see us here?”
Dr. Wackjöb smiled. “That is the best part! Pierre explained that an art show devoted exclusively to scent is opening in New York the week of October 12. The show is called the Art of Odor, the world’s first major museum exhibit devoted exclusively to recognizing scent as a major medium of artistic expression.”
“I know all about!” I exclaimed. “I’ve been reading about the show online. It’s going to focus on fifteen major perfumers and twelve works, including Jean Paul Puanteur. I’ll finally be able to meet the Mozart of odor, the Picasso of aroma, and ask him about the secret of Strange!
“Our weeklong school break is from October 12 to 16,” Vivian said. “Maybe we can go!”
“Count me and my nose in,” I gushed. “This is like a dream come true!”
“When do we leave?” TJ asked.
“This coming Monday morning,” Dr. Wackjöb answered. “We will be staying in New York for an entire week.”
“I doubt my parents will allow me to go for that long,” Vivian said.
“Mine too,” Mumps added.
“No need to worry, children,” Dr. Wackjöb reassured us. “I have already spoken to each of your parents. This will be a weeklong educational field trip to the most exciting city in the world. They were all very comfortable with me being your adult chaperone.”
Vivian and the Not-Right Brothers let out an enthusiastic cheer. TJ fired up his laptop and researched New York City tourist sites. The gang gathered around him, super-excited about all the places they would visit. Seeing Central Park and climbing to the top of the Empire State Building would be fun, but for me the week was more than just a field trip. I would finally rub noses with people obsessed with scents, just like me.
“Start packing,” Dr. Wackjöb advised. “I’m going to arrange our airline flights and hotel accommodations.”
“Go ahead and reserve our rooms,” I said, “but don’t worry about buying airline tickets.”
“Driving a car or taking the train will take way too long,” Dr. Wackjöb said.
I dragged out the harness I had used to fly everybody into the White Mountain National Forest when I battled the Apneans and booger blobs. Jimmy’s artful stitchwork on the fabric was still perfect, right down to the feathers that made me look like a pregnant turkey buzzard.
“What are you doing with that thing?” Mumps asked.
“We’re not taking an airplane to New York City,” I said. “I’m flying us all there with my nose.”
CHAPTER 6
UP, UP, AND AWAY!
Where’s Dr. Wackjöb?” Jimmy wondered, looking at his watch. “We all agreed to meet in front of the Nostril at six forty-five a.m. sharp. He’s already ten minutes late.”
Everyone milled around Jimmy’s backyard, anxious for our trip to New York. Mumps carried a big Denmark High School duffel bag. TJ and Jimmy lugged two overstuffed backpacks, and Vivian carted two pieces of luggage. She said one was full of clothes and toiletries; the other was what she called her “carry-on” bag, whatever that meant.
I didn’t care that Dr. Wackjöb was running late. My main concern was how my nose would get us off the ground with all the extra weight. Launching with just Vivian and the Not-Right Brothers was challenging enough. But I assumed I could carry them plus Dr. Wackjöb. I hadn’t thought about the extra weight of the luggage. My flying honker did not come with a standard operating manual, so I had no way of knowing if the harness Jimmy had stitched together could support everyone. Maybe we should have taken the airline after all.
Before expressing my concerns, a big Gecko Glue® and Snore Cure Mist® delivery truck backed into Jimmy’s driveway. Dr. Wackjöb and a driver got out of the truck, flipped open the roll-up door, and hoisted out a large wicker basket the size of a car. Luckily, Jimmy’s parents were at work so they didn’t see what was going on.
“What’s that for?” Vivian asked.
“One moment,” Dr. Wackjöb answered as he and the driver gently set the wicker basket on the grass.
“That thing looks like a picnic basket for a giant,” TJ observed.
“Or for Little Red Riding Hood on steroids,” Mumps added.
Dr. Wackjöb waited until the truck pulled out of the driveway and then said, “How do you like our gondola?”
Jimmy scratched his head. “A gondo … what?”
“Gondola,” Dr. Wackjöb repeated.
“But a gondola is a boat used on Venetian canals to row tourists around,” Vivian said. “My parents rode in one when they stayed at a hotel in Las Vegas.”
“That is true, young lady. A gondola can also be the name of a large basket suspended beneath a hot-air balloon.”
Vivian, the Not-Right Brothers, and I looked at each other with similar wide-eyed expressions.
“You want Schnoz to use this basket instead of the harness to fly us to New York!” TJ exclaimed.
“I don’t know about this,” I said. “Carrying all of you, the luggage, plus this huge basket looks a little overwhelming even for my giant flapping nostrils.”
“Gríöarstór Nef, if your nose can destroy an alien space ship intent on taking over the earth then it surely can propel us all to New York in a gondola,” Dr. Wackjöb said. “I will not travel with all of us smashed together in a canvas sack like a bunch of groceries. This gondola means we soar to New York in comfort and style!”
Vivian and the Not-Right Brothers tossed their luggage into the gondola and then climbed inside. I ran behind the Nostril, stripped off my street clothes, and pulled on my Super Schnoz outfit and Mardi Gras mask.
“I hope we don’t have to crash land in some farmer’s corn field,” I said, still unsure of whether I could carry all the extra weight.”
Dr. Wackjöb chuckled as he draped two thick ropes over my shoulders. “You’ll be fine, Gríöarstór Nef. I have complete confidence in your nose.”
“These ropes feel like Burmese pythons trying to suffocate me,” I groaned.
“They need strength and weight to keep us stable during flight,” Dr. Wackjöb said. He then attached the opposite ends of the ropes to the gondola and climbed inside with his suitcase.
“Let’s get this bad boy in the air,” TJ ordered. “I want to be in New York before noon.”
The breeze was light at first, but soon a hard gust of wind shot through Jimmy’s backyard. I sucked in as much air as humanly possible. My nostrils inflated like a giant bounce house at a kid’s birthday party. My toes lifted off the ground, cape fluttering in the breeze. I was hovering in the air, but the gondola didn’t budge an inch.
“This thing’s too heavy!” I hollered. “I can’t lift it off the ground.”
“Keep trying!” Vivian shouted to me.
“You can’t turn back now,” Jimmy added.
“Schnoz! Schnoz! Schnoz!” TJ and Mumps chanted, trying to encourage me.
I inhaled deeper. My nostrils had expanded to their maximum point. If they spread any further, my beak would burst apart and unleash gallons of snot all over my friends. Finally, the gondola ascended a few feet in the air. The sudden lurch
caused everyone to fall backward on their butts.
“This thing should have come with seat belts,” I heard Mumps complain.
The gondola and I were now engaged in a brutal game of tug-of-war. I was trying to defy Newton’s universal law of gravity, and the gondola was fighting to stay on the ground. I sniffed, huffed, and snuffled with all my might. Still, I was losing the battle. There was no way we’d get to New York at this rate.
“Use some of this!” Vivian shouted and then tossed me a jar of cayenne pepper.
“Why?” I asked. “Do you want me to blow something up?”
“Great idea!” TJ exclaimed. “Schnoz, sniff the pepper and turn your snot maker into a rocket!”
“TJ and Vivian are right,” Dr. Wackjöb said. “Just as the space shuttle uses a pair of solid rocket boosters and liquid hydrogen to initiate launch, you can use your pair of massive nostrils and cayenne pepper to propel us into the sky.”
“You have solid rocket boogers!” Mump screeched.
I quickly opened the jar of pepper, took two big snorts, and sneezed so hard I thought my nasal lining would hemorrhage. A fiery blast of red-hot mucous shot from my stinging nostrils. The ropes around my shoulders stiffened, and we thrust into the sky like an arrow shot from a bow.
“Up, up, and away!” I cheered as the clouds grew thicker and the town of Denmark disappeared below my feet.
CHAPTER 7
EENEY, MEENY, MINEY, MORE
Once we had reached an altitude of five thousand feet, I stopped sniffing the cayenne pepper and flicked off my solid rocket boogers. I was floating on the swirling breeze in a southwest direction. Every now and then, I looked down to check on the gang. From the smiles on their faces, they were having a great flight.
“There’s the Hudson River,” I informed them. “We just follow the river south all the way to our destination!”
“How long will it take to get there?” Jimmy asked.
I tilted my nose and gauged the wind speed. “The wind is gusting at about forty miles per hour,” I said. “New York City is sixty miles away. That means we’ll be there in ninety minutes.”
