The Perpetual Motion Club (14 page)

That was going through his mind and Elsa knew it even though all he said was ‘But.’ She hurried to change the subject.

“So what’s with those anti-Rifs? They’re such Luddites. I don’t get their point.”

“I guess they don’t like that everyone’s being monitored.”

“Everyone’s not being monitored. They only use it to track people when somebody goes missing. That’s not the same as being monitored.

“It’s a violation of rights.”

“What rights? Freedom of Speech? How so? Freedom of Assembly? How so?”

“Well . . . ”

“You don’t know. Nobody knows. People just protest because they’re bored and need something to fight against. These RFIDs save lives. You know this.”

“I suppose, but they can theoretically be used to control us.”

“Theoretically, sure. Like how traffic lights control us, or the school lunch menu, or speed laws. It’s a fact of life, might as well accept it.”

Jimmy shrugged. Neither one of them said anything for a few minutes. Then Elsa spoke: “Are you one of them?”

“One of what?”

“Them. The anti-Rifs.”

“Do I look like one?” He was wearing a white farmer’s shirt with a Koh-i-noor logo. His knickers barely covered his checkered socks. His loafers were more like slippers and his Artarama beret was cocked to the side.

“No,” Elsa laughed. “But you sound like you’re being persuaded.”

He shrugged again. “I don’t have time for that kind of stuff.”

“Well, good, cuz they’re a scary bunch. You know what happened to that kid, right? Bled to death after they cut out his bug. They all do it for initiation. They have to go into hiding while they heal. That’s why they drop out. If you go missing for a few weeks, I’ll know what you’re up to.”

“Thanks for caring,” Jimmy said, “But I don’t have a chip. Never did.”

Elsa jumped off the stool. “I know. Your parents were hippy dippies. Didn’t believe it. Still.” She turned towards the door. “Thanks for joining my club. I’ll let you know what we’re going to do once I figure it out.

She left the room to go find May and tell her the good fortune of the third member.

Jimmy spent the remainder of the lunch hour repositioning the skull so the light would hit it appropriately. Fortunately there were no windows with which to register a changing light pattern from the sun’s movement. Still, working with the single bulb was hard enough. At the very last minute before the end of the period, a sculptor rushed in for his class in the far corner. Sad, really. There was no teacher and the class in fact was independent study. He didn’t need to rush and knock the skull off the chair where it cracked on the floor.

***

“Why don’t we post notices around school?” May suggested on their walk home from school. “I mean, I don’t know anybody else that would join.”

“That is so ma—” Elsa said. “Actually, that is so slice. Nobody does that. Everybody just posts at myFacePage when they want something. We can put them up at all the InternetConnect stations. We’ll plaster them right on the screens so they can’t be avoided.”

“Kids’ll get pissed. They’ll get ripped down.”

“Sure, but they’ll be visible for a while. I’ll repost every few days. How many students does Northawken have?”

“I don’t know. Five hundred or so, I think.”

“There’s got to be at least two people in the school that might be interested.”

“Don’t bet on it.”

“Two people who aren’t so slice that they don’t need a listing on their resumes.”

“Right.”

So Elsa put together a bunch of hard copy posters with her texting ID on tearouts at the bottom of each one. She taped one on each of the stations in the school and then those out in the yard. She even posted on a few booths further down on Lambert. She would have done the same on Empire but there was a group of anti-Rifs across from the CVS store so she skipped those for the moment.

Once she was done outside, she popped five minutes of iHigh and returned to the school. She still had a few posters left so she headed for the science wing. Skipping the areas with the big blinking Jetstream signs she chose instead quiet corners by ads for Wikipedia. Perfect. Inquiring types would no doubt find them there.

***

Five days passed and no one emailed.

Dean Williams insisted the school could not sanction the Perpetual Motion Club unless it had five members. Elsa replaced the posters every other day with what she thought were new, brighter messages, more enticing and to the point. She started with the simple and straightforward: “Join The Perpetual Motion Club,” and moved on to: “The Perpetual Motion Club wants You!”, and finally, “Be all that you can be in the Perpetual Motion Club.” No one showed any interest and in fact somebody took a Sharpie and wrote “Plagiarism” across the last one.

There was a slight light showing at the end of the tunnel, though. Back in the throes of December, May had grown up. Maybe it was the attention from the creepy Ralph. Maybe her hormones kicked up a notch. Whatever. Somehow she felt a tug in her midsection. She fixed herself up. She began wearing nail polish that matched her lipstick, which in May’s case would be white. She added a Celtic cross tattoo to the back of her left hand and a yin yang symbol to her neck. She donned a tight-fitting bodice over her flowing blouses.

It worked.

Some time after the New Year had bestowed its good will toward mankind, a garage rocker decked out in Zildjian- and ASCAP-sponsored wear discovered the Wiccan goddess one day when the restrooms in the rock wing at school were closed for cleaning. He was hopelessly lost in the science wing searching for the toilet. He saw her in her diaphanous glow of sweet, innocent, pure white. She happened to be cursing at a jammed locker at the time.

jWad fell instantly in love. The two began a serious courtship marked by her attendance at one of his band’s all-ages gigs. The shows were held down at a coffee house that had formerly been a factory that made neoprene gloves before the industry went South. Sometime after the move twenty years ago, the area surrounding the old warehouse complex had gentrified and now the building housed art galleries, book stores, and reading rooms for Christian youth. On weekends the garage rockers held shows on a stage constructed on the old assembly line.

Elsa was hurt of course. When had May grown up? How had she done it without Elsa’s help? She accepted the situation grudgingly as all best friends eventually do. She was too busy with the club to be sullen about it and it turned out to be to her advantage anyway.

On January 12, jWad’s band broke up due to artistic differences. Apparently the lead singer wanted his lyrics heard but the rest of the band didn’t. The members parted their ways leaving May and jWad with nothing to do for mating rituals. May suggested the Perpetual Motion coven. jWad sneered of course, and May took that as an assent. He showed up at the first monthly meeting.

Not particularly interested in perpetual motion in the abstract, or a resume designed to get the holder into a spiffy college, jWad spent the entire meeting in a disruptive mood. Elsa, furious with May for bringing him, came around when he signed his name to a membership.

“Four down,” May pointed out. “One to go.”

The image of Jason Bridges flitted across Elsa’s brain screen, but before she could start seething and lose track of her thoughts, the image jarred something loose. Something about being blatant, unapologetic, pushy maybe. She got an idea.

The following set of posters stated in large black letters: “Soon to be sanctioned: The Perpetual Motion Club.” Underneath in a smaller, teasing size she placed the line: “Good for your resume,” unabashedly hinting that something was going on.

The new tagline cinched it. Ten prospective members ripped the e-mail address tags from the bottom and contacted Elsa. She excitedly answered all queries detailing the aims of the club and date for the next meeting. A few even showed up, but they declined membership when they saw the sorry state of the club: no sponsors, no freebies, no tickets to the skateboard park, no endorsements from famous online bloggers.

Elsa remained undaunted. She gave the night’s demonstration on buoyancy devices and closed the meeting in a happy state. She’d actually finally gotten a response. She was learning.

Another round of posters and by the following week a fifth member had been dragged in: Christine Carlisle, a sickly freshman with an average academic record. She carried a wadded up Kleenex in her hand wherever she went and was often absent from school. She had a small sponsorship with Claritin and an even smaller one with an online health site called Medline. With no hopes for a respectable resume, she figured she should join up. After Elsa, May, and Jimmy graduated, and jWad dropped out, she’d be the sole member and could appoint herself president. Now that would be something for the resume she figured.

Elsa sent the paperwork in to Dean Williams for the sanctioning of the club and a date was set for a hearing: January 31. Elsa would be required to defend her argument for Northawken’s need for a Perpetual Motion Club in front of a board of two faculty members plus the dean herself.

And who would the faculty members be? Elsa nodded graciously when the dean told her Ms. Phelps, the art teacher was one and the dean was another. But then the skies turned dark. The third member of the tribunal was Mr. Brown.

CHAPTER TWELVE

The day before the big showdown, Elsa stayed late in the library to research the finishing touches of her presentation. She needed a quiet place away from Lainie’s cyncism as well as a big table to spread out her ideas and appliances on. She might even need some of the old reference books that nobody ever used. Thus, the library.

Tucked between a bank of InterConnect boxes and the Autolibrarian, the library’s centrally located FlatSurface was perfect. Elsa placed her lap pad, cell, locator watch, and pocket page in a semi-circle at one end. In the middle of the techware, she laid out an old-fashioned pen and pad of paper.

She began her investigation by double checking the facts and quotes and historical precedents that formed the basis of her argument. She then brainstormed on details, like torque and friction, that might trip her up tomorrow, looking up anything questionable to make sure she got the particulars right.

Once that was done, she used the phone search app to find groups like hers and started a list in her lap pad notes of any that seemed remotely related. The list would prove this idea of hers was not so radical or different. If she needed to verify geographical locations, she used the watch which precluded a need to surf away. Likewise if she needed to look up a word. If she wanted to check something with a real live entity (like Dad) she texted using her pocket page.

She keyed pieces of evidence into the lap pad. After several hours she had a mess of one liners, unconnected quotes from the founding fathers and references to unquestionable authorities such as the Koran, Bible, and D&D rulebook. The pen and paper was used to draw a flow chart on how everything connected to everything. The first chart was a mess, she tossed the paper to the incinerator chute. The second was a mess, she did the same. Finally, the third made sense and was factually correct.

By eight p.m. she felt sure she’d exhausted all avenues of argument. She closed down her tech gear, folded up the final flowchart, and stowed everything in the backpack. She was ready.

As she packed up, the table sensed her movement and stated, “Please be aware it is unlawful to leave unattended bags and packages in this library. Check to make sure you have all your belongings. Anything untended will be subject to search and possible disposal.”

As she installed the bag on her back, the table added, “Have a nice day.”

The hallway outside the library was desolate. It was located on the third floor of the rock music wing, and as usual everyone was out shooting a video. The only movement came from the iVroom down at the far end as it made passes back and forth, vacuuming the floor. Once in a while the WallSpido came out from behind the now darkened Nike, Coke, and Jetstream signs as it cleaned the in between spaces. Without their glow, the signs were no longer decipherable. They were dreary in their colorlessness and it was hard to even tell what they were advertising.

Elsa’s footsteps echoed down the empty corridor as she headed for the stairwell. She was half way to the exit when the door to the boys restroom burst open and a gang of laughing, smoking, and possibly drinking, larger than life, teenagers rushed out. Anti-Rifs.

Elsa stopped and then cursed herself for losing momentum. The group blocked her way to the stairs, the only way off this floor. Should she return to the library? She heard the door click locked and state, “The library is now closed. You may return tomorrow morning at seven a.m.”

The front man for the group of anti-Rifs was wearing a purple bowtie and a checkered shirt under his leather vest. A metal Wrigley’s wrapper belt held his nanofiber pants up. His socks matched the belt. He was a big boy. At least 18 years of age and with a pot belly the size of a truck driver’s. She had no idea who he was. Couldn’t even fake a “Hey, Jack,” to calm her nerves. She let out a little “huh” in greeting. He no doubt didn’t hear it. She searched the halls for the floor autoguard. Something that recorded all activity and would be a deterrent to harassment.