Phineas L. MacGuire . . . Blasts Off!

by Frances O'Roark Dowell

  Or …

  And then it came to me.

  I am a genius.

  I called Ben. “You need to ride the bus home with me tomorrow,” I told him. “Get your mom to write a note.”

  “Okay,” Ben said. “Any reason?”

  “I’ll tell you tomorrow. But it’s pretty gross.”

  I could feel Ben grinning through the phone receiver. “Cool,” he said. “Then I’ll definitely be there.”

  The next day I brought two jars in my backpack. When me and Ben got off the bus, I held out one jar to Ben and said, “Spit, please.”

  Ben took a step back. “Spit? Why?”

  “Just do it, okay?”

  Ben shrugged. “Okay. No prob. I like to spit.”

  “Make it a good one,” I told him.

  He did. “Now, do you mind telling me what’s going on?” he asked.

  We started walking over to Mrs. McClosky’s house. “Remember when you thought we should do an experiment to test the difference between your spit and Lemon Drop’s?”

  Ben nodded.

  “Well, at the time I couldn’t see the point,” I admitted. “But on Saturday it hit me. I was thinking about how that mold was growing in Lemon Drop’s slobber jar.”

  “And Sheila’s,” Ben reminded me.

  “And Sheila’s. So obviously some mold spores got in their jars and started growing. But what allowed the mold to grow?”

  “Mold likes slobber?”

  “No,” I told him. “Mold likes bacteria. Spores got in the jar, and those spores were able to survive because they were feeding on the bacteria in Lemon Drop’s slobber.”

  “And Sheila’s,” Ben said.

  “And Sheila’s. Probably because we were able to get really good samples from them.”

  “Okay,” Ben said, “I’m following you so far. But I still don’t see what this has to do with me spitting in a jar.”

  We were getting close to Mrs. McClosky’s house. I could hear Lemon Drop barking. That’s something I always like about Lemon Drop. He gets excited whenever he realizes I’m in the neighborhood.

  “Remember when we first started talking about slobber, and you said you’d heard that dogs’ mouths were cleaner than humans’?”

  “Yeah, I remember.”

  “That’s what we’re going to find out,” I told him. “Let’s see whose slobber grows more bacteria.”

  Ben slapped me on the back, making me fall forward a few steps before I grabbed a shrub to steady myself. “Mac! You’re a genius! We’ll settle this question once and for all. We’ll be famous!”

  Unfortunately, when we got to Mrs. McClosky’s house, Lemon Drop wasn’t in a slobbering mood. There was only one thing to do.

  We called Aretha.

  Ten minutes later she showed up on her bike. “I don’t understand why you need me to make Lemon Drop salivate. Just give him some water.”

  “What can we say? You have the slobber touch, Aretha,” Ben said.

  Aretha nodded. “It’s true, I do an excellent job of getting dogs to drool into a jar.”

  “It’s a gift,” Ben agreed.

  As soon as Lemon Drop saw Aretha, it was like he got a big smile on his face. I know dogs don’t really smile, but that’s really how it looked. He even stood on his hind legs and put his front paws on Aretha’s shoulders so he could give her a big smooch on the nose.

  “Lemon Drop, I hate to say it, but you have got some foul-smelling breath,” Aretha told him.

  “That’s great news!” I exclaimed. “Halitosis is an indication of a very active bacteria population.”

  “And I brushed my teeth this morning,” Ben said. “Which I hardly ever do. But I bet that means my spit has hardly any bacteria compared to Lemon Drop’s.”

  We took Lemon Drop on a walk around the block, and when we got back, Aretha got him to drink about a gallon of water.

  We got half a jar of slobber, no problem.

  When my mom got home from work that afternoon, me, Aretha, and Ben were in the kitchen cooking up some nutrient agar jelly. You do it the same way you make regular Jell-O—put the agar in a bowl, add some boiling water, and stir. Sarah P. Fortemeyer, my Teenage Babysitter from Outer Space, was overseeing the project.

  “I hope you don’t mind,” Sarah told my mom after she’d explained what we were doing. “Mac said he thought it would be okay.”

  “Are you observing all kitchen safety rules?” my mom asked.

  Ben held up a spoon. “No sharp knives, Mrs. M.”

  Aretha held up a pot holder. “We have protected ourselves from burns and other injuries.”

  My mom nodded her approval. “Good job. I’m glad to see Mac has such responsible friends.”

  I thought Ben was going to explode from happiness when my mom said that.

  I don’t think anyone has ever called him responsible before.

  There is a reason for that.

  • • •

  When the nutrient agar had completely dissolved, we poured it carefully into four petri dishes—two for Lemon Drop’s slobber, two for Ben’s. We let it cool and thicken. Then, using an eyedropper, we added equal amounts of slobber to each dish.

  I have never felt so scientific in my life.

  “It shouldn’t take long, guys,” I said when we were finished. “I’d say four days tops.”

  “And then we will have solved the ageold mystery—whose mouth is cleaner, a human’s or a dog’s?” Ben said.

  Aretha got a thoughtful look on her face. “I wonder if there’s a badge for dental hygiene.” She stood up. “I better get home and check my Girl Scout handbook,” she said. “I don’t want to miss out on any possible badge advancement.”

  After Ben and Aretha left, I carefully carried the petri dishes up to my room and put them on my desk.

  Then I sat on my bed and watched them.

  I knew it would take a while before the bacteria started multiplying, but I didn’t care. I picked up the telescope that Carl had lent me and aimed it at the dishes. Through a telescope things up close look huge and blurry. I couldn’t see a thing.

  So I aimed the telescope out my window instead. Venus, the evening star, was just coming out underneath an almost invisible moon. It was a very satisfying feeling to sit there with a sky filling up with stars in front of me and petri dishes full of developing bacteria beside me. My slime mold was up on the shelves over my desk, and my collection of the Mysteries of Planet Zindar books was under my bed.

  Scientifically speaking, life does not get much better than that.

  chapter fourteen

  My name is Phineas L. MacGuire.

  But you can call me Mission Specialist MacGuire if you want to.

  In fact, I’d kind of prefer it.

  It’s what the guys on Team Gemini call me. Or at least it’s what they’ll call me when I get to Space Camp.

  Which should be in two hours.

  In case you were wondering, so far I haven’t thrown up on the plane, even if it is my first time riding on one. I think this is good news if I’m going to be an astronaut. The fact is Corey Anderson is not the first person to have thrown up in a space-simulator situation. It happens to a lot of people.

  But I really, really don’t want it to happen to me.

  When the plane lands, I will be picked up at the baggage carousel by Wanda J. Lupino, my mother’s college roommate, whom supposedly I met once when I was three and liked a lot. My mother says that Wanda J. Lupino and I bonded immediately, whatever that means.

  The important thing is I won’t have to ride in a taxi to Space Camp. For some reason I got nervous every time I thought about that. It’s one thing to ride in an airplane all by yourself. It’s another thing to get in a taxi and try to get somewhere. What if the taxi driver had never heard of Space Camp? What if it turned out I didn’t have enough money to pay him? What if he made me work at a restaurant washing dishes until I made enough money to pay him?

  In my book, Wanda J. Lupino is a life-
saver.

  “Now, Mac, be sure to ask the flight attendant to walk with you to the baggage claim,” my mom told me as we waited for my flight to be announced. “I’ve already talked with the airline people, and they say that’s no problem. If I know you, you’ll want to find the baggage claim yourself, but please don’t. Will you promise me that, honey?”

  “I promise,” I told her. I tried to sound annoyed, like I couldn’t believe she was making me do such a babyish thing. But really I didn’t mind. My only goal was to get to Space Camp without getting lost.

  Also, I preferred to get there without my mother having a nervous breakdown.

  “Do you think you have enough money, honey?” she asked, digging through her purse for her wallet. “Because you might want to buy a souvenir T-shirt or something.”

  “I’ve got money, Mom,” I assured her. “I have fifty dollars that Dad gave me.”

  My mom sniffled a little. “I can’t believe I’m letting you fly down there all by yourself.”

  Lyle put his hand on her shoulder. “Mac will be fine. He’s a sensible kid. And Wanda will be waiting for him. There’s absolutely nothing to worry about.”

  “Except if the plane crashes,” I pointed out.

  My mom burst into tears.

  Lyle sighed. “The plane isn’t going to crash, Mac. Flying is perfectly safe.”

  “I know that,” I said. “I have a better chance of having a heart attack and dying on the plane than the plane crashing. The odds are completely against it. I’m not worried at all. Besides, you fly at least four times a year, Mom. So you of all people should know how safe it is.”

  My mom sniffed and tried to smile. “That’s right, honey, it’s perfectly safe.”

  Fortunately my flight was announced before my mom could think up another good reason to cry. We all did a bunch of hugging, and my mom blew her nose a couple of times, really big honker blows, and then we waved and said good-bye, just like in the movies.

  It wasn’t until I was walking down that little hallway that leads to the plane that I remembered something very important. I ran back to my mom and Lyle. “Do you know those petri dishes that are on my desk?” I called out.

  “What about them?” my mom asked. She sounded suspicious.

  “Well, they’re full of bacteria, so would you mind cleaning them out and running them through the dishwasher?”

  My mom’s mouth fell open in a huge O. Lyle put his hand on her back to steady her. “Sure, Mac, no problem. I’ll take care of it tonight. Is it any kind of bacteria in particular? I mean, do I need to take any precautions?”

  “It’s just the kind that grows in slobber,” I said as I started to turn back for the plane. “I’m pretty sure it’s not dangerous. You might want to use gloves while you’re disposing of it, though, just in case.”

  Lyle gave me a weak wave. “Great, Mac. I’ll do that.”

  After I got on the plane and buckled in, I leaned back and thought about the bacteria growing in the Petri dishes back home. Sometimes thinking about germs can calm you down when you’re feeling nervous about stuff. Mostly I was nervous about getting sick on the plane. I really didn’t want to be known at Space Camp as the kid who tossed his breakfast on Flight 432. But once I started thinking about our slobber experiments, I forgot about throwing up entirely.

  When the bacteria had started growing in the petri dishes six days after we’d set up the experiments, we just couldn’t let it stop, even though we knew we’d have to get rid of it eventually. Bacteria isn’t like slime mold. It’s not like a plant you can keep around and enjoy to your heart’s content.

  Still, it’s pretty cool when you see it growing in a petri dish on top of your desk.

  The minute he heard the bacteria was growing, Ben rushed over with his camcorder. “I want to document this,” he said. “And then we can send it off to the Science Channel.” He moved closer to the desk and began doing his voice-over whisper. “Ladies and gentlemen, the great genius scientist Phineas L. ‘Mac’ MacGuire has finally proved something that no scientist before him has ever proved.”

  Then he looked over at me. “Um, what exactly have you proved here, Mac?”

  “Well, I can’t say I’ve proved it definitively, but what’s growing in these petri dishes certainly suggests that dogs’ mouths really are cleaner than humans’. That is, if you define clean as lack of bacterial growth.”

  Ben went back to his voice-over. “That’s right, folks. You heard it here first. Dogs have the cleanest mouths of all amphibians.”

  “Um, I think you mean mammals,” I said.

  “Right, whatever,” Ben said, waving my comment away. “I’m just trying to sound scientific for our documentary.”

  After filming for a few more minutes, Ben put his camera down, and we sat on my bed and ate some pretzel sticks I’d found inside my pillowcase. We were discussing whether or not the experiment would have turned out different if Ben actually brushed his teeth more than four times a week, when there was a knock on my door.

  When I said, “Come in,” Sarah P. Forte-meyer entered. In her hand was a white envelope.

  “You want to know what the return address says?” she asked, handing the envelope to me. “It says ‘Space Camp.’ Actually, it says ‘U.S. Space and Rocket Center.’ Pretty cool, huh, Mac?”

  I waited until Sarah left before opening it. “This is it, Ben,” I said. “This is when we find out if I got a scholarship or not.”

  “I bet you did,” Ben said. “I mean, who could be smarter than you?”

  If you ever wondered why Ben is my best friend, even if he isn’t a genius scientist, well, that’s pretty much it.

  I mean, your best friend should always think you’re the best. I think Ben’s the best artist; he thinks I’m the best scientist.

  Also, neither of us minds eating pretzels that have been stuck inside my pillowcase for the last six months.

  My hands were a little shaky as I pulled the letter from the envelope and started to read it. “‘Dear Phineas L. MacGuire,’” I read out loud.

  “That’s good news!” Ben exclaimed. “They’re calling you by your name. If it started out ‘To Whom It May Concern,’ that would be bad. But this is really good. Keep reading!”

  I kept reading. “’Because of the many strong academic scholarship applications we received this year, the Scholarship Committee has had to make some difficult decisions.’”

  “That’s bad news,” Ben said. “When they start out saying they’ve had to make a difficult decision, well, that can’t be good.”

  I glared at him. “Could you just let me read, please?”

  “Yeah, yeah, read, read. What’s stopping you? Go on!”

  I went on. “’We have decided to award several partial scholarships this year. While we are sorry we can’t offer you a full Space Camp scholarship, we hope that this partial scholarship will aid you in your efforts to attend camp this spring. Please contact our office with any questions or concerns.’”

  At the bottom of the page someone had written, “Great idea about growing tomatoes on Mars. Look forward to discussing this with you at camp!”

  It was signed Gene Cernan.

  Also known as the Last Man to Walk on the Moon.

  I had the personal autograph of a bona fide astronaut.

  My life would never be the same again.

  “Frame this letter, Mac!” Ben grabbed the letter from me and waved it around. “It’s gonna be worth, like, a million dollars someday.”

  I doubted it.

  But I knew I’d frame the letter anyway.

  After I called my mom at work to tell her about the scholarship, Ben and I went to tell Lemon Drop. Lemon Drop was an important part of my Space Camp adventure, and I felt that he should be one of the first people to hear my good news. The fact is without Lemon Drop I wouldn’t even be going to Space Camp. I wouldn’t have enough money to go.

  We were three houses down from Mrs. McClosky’s house when Lemon Drop starte
d barking. And then he came running toward us. He had his slobberball in his mouth.

  “You first,” I said to Ben, pointing at the ball.

  “Oh, no,” Ben said. “After you. I insist.”

  Lemon Drop dropped the slobberball in my hand.

  Guess who was going first?

  Mrs. McClosky stuck her head out the door. “Gustavus, would you boys like some cookies? Lemon Drop and I made them earlier this afternoon.”

  Ben and I looked at each other. Lemon Drop made cookies? Could he be an even bigger genius than we had guessed?

  “He did all the stirring all by himself,” Mrs. McClosky said proudly. “All I had to do was put the spoon in his mouth. Oh, he’s quite a remarkable dog, my Lemon Drop.”

  We looked at Lemon Drop slobbering all over the sidewalk.

  We looked at each other again.

  “No, thank you, Mrs. McClosky,” we said at the same time.

  Here are the facts: I am a scientist.

  I am willing to go to extraordinary lengths to understand the world around me.

  I am not willing to eat slobber cookies.

  Not even if they are made with the slobber of a truly genius dog.

  Although, it occurs to me that if dog slobber has as many beneficial properties as the research suggests, slobber cookies may actually be good for you.

  I’ll get back to you on that.

  First I’m going to Mars.

  MAC’S SCIENCE

  EXPERIMENTS

  IS THERE LIFE ON MARS?

  What you’ll need:

  - 3 jars (mayonnaise jar-sized)

  - sand

  - baking powder

  - salt

  - yeast

  - sugar water (one cup water mixed with a tablespoon of sugar)

  How to do it:

  Fill each jar halfway with sand. Put two teaspoons of baking powder in one jar, two teaspoons of salt in the next jar, and two teaspoons of yeast in the third jar. Don’t forget to label the jars! Refrigerate the jars overnight, so they get cold like Mars.

  The next day add warm sugar water to each jar and see what reaction you get. If there’s a slow, steady reaction, there’s life in the jar.