Science Fair (34 page)

T
HE PRESIDENT
, now that his emergency broadcast to the nation had been hijacked, was no longer sitting at his desk in the Oval Office. He was a few doors down, in the office of the communications director, who was on the phone. Also in the room was the president’s chief of staff, talking on another phone and furiously scribbling notes.

The president was watching a bank of six television monitors. Each was tuned to a different network, but al showed the same picture: a man sitting at the president’s desk in the Oval Office, wearing the president’s suit, the same suit the president was wearing now. But the head sticking out of the suit was not the president’s. It was, instead, the head of a large man with a puffy red face, a thick beard, a low forehead, and smal , close-together eyes peeking around an enormous red nose.

The man on the screen wasn’t talking. He was simply staring into the camera, as he had been doing for several minutes now—ever since the satel ite had been hijacked. The president was glaring back at the man wearing his suit. The president was very,
very
unhappy.

The chief of staff hung up the phone.

“Wel ?” snapped the president.

“Okay,” said the chief of staff, glancing down at his notes. “The State Department says this guy”—he pointed at the screen—“is Grdankl the Strong.”

“Who the
what
?” said the president.

“Grdankl the Strong,” said the chief of staff. “He’s the president of Krpshtskan.”

The president frowned and said, “Is that the one with the hole?”

“No, that’s Fazul,” said the chief of staff. “Krpshtskan is next door.”

The president glared at the screen again. “And can anybody explain,” he asked, “how on earth the president of Krap…Karp…Kapa…”

“Krpshtskan,” said the chief of staff.

“…of this dirtbag little nation is being broadcast to the entire world while sitting in my office,
wearing my suit
?” said the president, his voice straining.

“At the moment, sir, no,” the chief of staff admitted. “But—”

“Wel , can we at least shut the satel ite down?” said the president, aiming his glare at the communications director.

“Apparently we…
cannot
…sir,” he answered.

The president took another breath, trying to calm himself. “So,” he said, “you’re tel ing me that in the biggest crisis of my presidency, in the most powerful nation on earth, we can do nothing about the fact that I can’t communicate to the American people BECAUSE
MY
HEAD, ON
MY
BODY, HAS BEEN REPLACED BY THE HEAD OF A FOURTH-WORLD

DICTATOR WITH A NOSE THAT LOOKS LIKE A TOMATO?”

The chief of staff and the communications director looked at each other but said nothing. Neither wanted to inform the president that, minutes earlier, he had had the head of an attractive teenage girl. Now both men cringed as the president prepared to bel ow something. But before he could start, he was interrupted by a new voice.

Grdankl the Strong had begun to speak.

Al three men turned to the bank of TV screens. “Turn it up!” said the president. The communications director increased the volume, and the room was fil ed with the harsh sounds of the Krpsht language.

“What’s he saying?” snapped the president.

“I’l find out,” said the chief of staff, reaching for a phone.

“Wait,” said the president. “I’m hearing English.”

A new voice was coming from the speaker, talking over Grdankl’s voice. The new voice spoke English with a thick accent, apparently translating Grdankl’s words.

“People of the United States of American,” the voice said. “I am Grdankl the Strong, president of Krpshtskan, son of Bmepl the Brave, grandson of Kminkt the Good at Remembering Names. I wil tel you now why my country, Krpshtskan, wil destroy your country.” The president turned to the communications director and snapped, “Is this being broadcast everywhere?” The communications director nodded. The president rubbed his face with both hands.

“In Krpshtskan,” said the Grdankl translator, “we have a saying. We say, if you steal the goat of a Krpsht, you are stealing a goat from
all
Krpshts. And you, United States of American, you have stolen a Krpsht goat.”

“We stole their goat?” said the communications director.

“Shut up,” said the president.

“Five years ago,” said the translator, “a young Krpsht man came to your country with a big hope in his heart. You told him, ‘Welcome! We are liking you very much!’ But these were lies, United States of American. You were laughing at him. Big funny ha-ha American joke. But this joke was not funny to this young man. You stole the goat of his hope. And now, for this, you wil be destroyed. But first you wil see one last time a brave son of Krpshtskan. Enjoy this, people of American. It is the last thing you wil see.” On the screen, the president body/Grdankl head disappeared. It was replaced by a brightly lit stage. On it was a smiling young man with long, floppy hair.

“Who is
that
?” said the president.

Both the chief of staff and the communications director shrugged.

An unseen piano began to play. The melody sounded familiar to the three men, but none of them could quite place it.

Then the young man began to sing:

“Spring was never waiting for us girl…”

The chief of staff snapped his fingers. “That’s ‘MacArthur Park,’” he said.

“The one about the cake?” said the president. “In the rain?”

“Yeah,” said the chief of staff.

The president, his eyes on the screen, said, “What was it he said? The Grdankl guy? That this is the last thing we’re going to see?”

“Yeah,” said the chief of staff.

“Al right,” said the president. Beads of sweat had formed on his brow and upper lip. “We need to find out
right now
who this kid is, what the heck we supposedly did to him, and how to communicate with Mr. Tomato Nose. We are putting an end to this now.”

“Right,” said the chief of staff, grabbing a phone.

The president turned to the communications director. “And
you
,” he said, “need to find out how long this song is.”

T
HREE MINUTES AND TWENTY-SEVEN SECONDS
. That was the precise length of the version of “MacArthur Park” that Prmkt was now broadcasting to the world from the utility room next to the Hubble Middle School gym.

Prmkt looked at his watch. The song had been going for thirty seconds. Just under three minutes to go. When the song ended, he would start the final sequence.

Some kind of commotion had erupted in the gym; Prmkt could hear muffled shouts through the utility-room door. He thought about checking to see what it was, but decided he should focus on the task at hand.

He glanced at his watch again. Just over two minutes left.

Prmkt flexed his fingers over the keyboard, getting ready.

“G
AH YAFOO OUMA MOUF,”
said Tamara.

“What?” whispered Toby.

“I said get your foot out of my mouth,” said Tamara, giving Toby’s sneaker a shove.

“Sorry!” said Toby, shifting position.

The two of them were crouched under one of the science-fair exhibit tables, hidden from view by the cloth that was draped over each of the tables. They’d been here for several minutes, listening to running feet tromp past and to the shouts of their pursuers, directed by Lance Swingle. They heard other voices, as wel , coming from the crowd gathered around the TV set. People were reacting with alarm to something, but Toby and Tamara couldn’t tel what it was.

Toby pul ed the drape aside and peeked out. He and Tamara were almost at the end of one of the rows of tables. At the far end, he saw Jason Niles and Coach Furman, one on each side, methodical y going from table to table, lifting the drapes and looking underneath. Toby ducked back.

“They’re looking under the tables,” he said.

“What do we do?” said Tamara.

“I dunno,” said Toby. “Maybe we could crawl under the tables until we get to the ME projects—but I don’t even know which way that is.”

“Okay,” said Tamara. “So get out and look for them.”

“They’l see me,” said Toby.

“Not if you’re invisible,” said Tamara.

“The iPhone!” said Toby, reaching down to turn it on. “I forgot!”

“Duh,” said Tamara.

“Uh-oh,” said Toby, looking at the phone’s screen.

“What?” said Tamara.

“The battery’s low.”

“Then you better get going,” said Tamara.

“What about you?” said Toby.

“Don’t yew worry ’bout me, podner,” said Tamara. “Ah’l hold ’em off long as ah kin.”

“What accent is that supposed to be?” said Toby.

“Cowboy,” said Tamara.

“Needs work,” said Toby.

“I’l practice in jail,” said Tamara. “Get going.”

“Okay,” said Toby. He reached for the drape, then said, “Seriously, what are you going to do?”

“I’ve got a bold and daring plan,” said Tamara.

“Which is?”

“I’m going to scream like a girl.”

Toby, despite the seriousness of the situation, smiled. He looked for a moment at Tamara—his oldest and, now that he thought about it, his closest friend—who had stuck with him right to the end of this basical y insane effort. He realized this was probably the time to say something meaningful.

“What are you waiting for?” she said.

“I’m, uh…I just…”

“You’re not going to say something meaningful, are you?” she said.

“’Course not,” said Toby.

“Good,” she said. As she said it, she touched his hand for part of a second, and they both blushed.

“Okay,” said Toby. His finger hovered over the magic wand on the iPhone screen. He noticed the sunglasses icon next to it. Back before everything had gone horribly wrong, Sternabite had said to use the sunglasses icon to summon him.
Probably too late now
, Toby thought, but he touched the sunglasses anyway. Then he touched the wand, and he disappeared.

“See you,” he said, ducking out through the drape.

“Good luck,” said Tamara from under the table.

Toby stood up and looked around. Jason and Coach Furman were getting closer; they’d reach Tamara’s table in a minute. In the next aisle over, Swingle was looking under tables and directing his lackeys to do the same. Beyond them, at the end of the gym, Toby saw the crowd gathered around the TV; over the buzz of the crowd Toby heard a wavery voice singing about a cake in the rain.

Weird.

Toby trotted away from the searchers to the back of the gym. His plan was to do a methodical search for the ME kids’ projects. He went to the end row, rounded the corner, and…

“Micah!”

Micah spun to look but saw nobody.

“Toby?” he said.

“Yeah,” said Toby. He made himself visible as he trotted up to Micah, who was standing next to his project, which was between Tamara’s and Brad Pitt Wemplemeyer’s projects.

“Listen,” said Toby, “have you seen…”

“Fester’s okay,” said Micah, holding up his frog.

“Great,” said Toby. “Listen, have you…”

“I had him on a timer,” said Micah, pointing to his project. “He was going up and down, up and down, like, a
foot
. It must’ve been awful. I’m gonna turn it off.” He reached for the knob that control ed the power to the fusion reactor Sternabite had lent him. Toby grabbed his arm.

“Micah,
listen
,” said Toby. “I need to find the ME kids’ projects! Do you know where they are?”

“Yeah,” said Micah. “I was going to tel you as soon as I got Fester…”

“WHERE ARE THEY?” shouted Toby, grabbing Micah’s shirt.

“Right there!” said Micah, pointing at the tables to the right of his.

“Why didn’t you
tell
me?” said Toby, letting go of Micah’s shirt. He looked around for something he could use to trash the ME kids’ projects. His eyes fel on Tamara’s project, on the table to the left of Micah’s. It was labeled PACKAGING—THE DEADLY KILLER IN YOUR HOME. On the backboard were vivid photographs showing a shard of plastic packaging being used to decapitate a Rol erblade Barbie dol . Displayed on the table was the headless Barbie herself, wearing tiny pink Rol erblades with flint wheels that sparked when they were rol ed.