The Perpetual Motion Club (15 page)

“No guard tonight, chickie,” the front man said. He stepped aside and pointed to a gray box with an “out of order” sign hastily written with a red Sharpie. Its darkened LED readout panel showed a profound lack of power.

An ugly knot formed in Elsa’s stomach. She was alone with these people and they seemed to want more than silent protest at the moment. Her mind raced with half-formed self-protection training instructions. Nothing gelled.

“She’s the one arguing with Nails the other day,” a girl with a red tattoo of a computer chip on her left cheek said. She wore a bustiere that matched the tattoo and nanofiber hip huggers. Elsa didn’t have a chance with such nicely put togethers.

“So you like the little chips, eh, chippie,” the front man said. “Sure you don’t want to have it removed?”

Elsa backed away, nausea rising in the back of her throat. She opened her mouth to speak but nothing came out.

“Hey, Elsa,” a voice in the back said.

She instinctively turned and as soon as the darkness in her peripheral vision cleared she watched the crowd part.

Jimmy Bacomb stepped forward.

Elsa’s lip quivered but emitted no sound.

“What are you doing here?” Jimmy asked.

“I’m . . . ” She looked to the library. “ . . . working.” She raised her eyebrows unconsciously.

“You want company?” The front man said.

“No!” she answered without thinking, and then amended herself. “I mean, I’m on my way home.”

Jimmy was already grabbing her elbow to turn her towards the stairs.

“Watch out,” the girl in the red tattoo said. “She’s brainwashed.

Without breaking his stride, Jimmy turned his head to the girl and said, “Elsa? Hardly.”

Elsa gladly followed along. The world’s colors were by now returning to her vision, the black around the edges dissipating.

When they were out of the building and well on their way home, her breathing finally slowed to normal. “What the hell were you doing with those . . . people?” she asked.

“They want some graphic work done. They’re really unorganized and the stuff they’re using is crap. I’m volunteering to help with the—”

“What?”

“I’m going to help them.”

“Why? Those people are—”

“No they’re not.”

“Did you hear what they said to me? Those are probably the ones that murdered that—”

“Elsa, come on!” Jimmy stopped and reached for her arm as if assuring her she was on the wrong track and he’d set it right for her. She pulled violently away and kept walking. He followed.

“Even if they weren’t going to, you know . . . ” she imitated a straight razor cutting her jugular, “ . . . they’re drug addicts, you can see it in their faces. And their ideas are stupid.”

“Stupid? Why? Because you don’t agree with them?”

“No, they don’t make any sense. We need those chips. Look what happened tonight. I was alone and the hall monitor was broken. Nobody was around.”

“You have a chip and it wouldn’t have stopped them. Besides, Elsa, they were teasing you. No law against that.”

“Some tease. Sadistic. They threatened to cut me.”

“They asked if you’d like it removed. Don’t fall for the PR bullshit.”

“Bullshit?” She held out her arm across his stomach to stop him, like a parent protecting a child in the car. She turned to him open-mouthed and met his eyes. “You’re joining them, aren’t you?”

He shrugged.

She looked at his hair under the beret, the freckles, the ears too large for the head, the chin and unsmiling lips.

“Well, I guess you won’t have time for perpetual motion then, will you?”

“Of course I will,” he said. “Besides I’m not planning on joining them.”

She ran off then and shouted back at him. “We’ll see.”

He hung back and let her go.

“Twerp,” she said, under her breath.

***

January 31: Breakfast. Off to school. Morning classes. Lunch. Afternoon classes. The final bell. three p.m. Time for the Inquisition.

“You may go in,” the automated office assistant stated. Robert, the door to Dean William’s office, opened for her. “Come in, Ms. Webb,” the dean called. She smiled warmly at Elsa as she entered the room.

Dean Williams sat flanked by Mr. Brown on one side and Ms. Phelps, the fine arts teacher, on the other. The Dean and Ms. Phelps were smiling. Mr. Brown played with a pencil, tapping it on a sheaf of papers balanced on the right side of his lap.

The seats the tribunal sat on were usually reserved for parents called in to receive instruction on disciplining their child. Designed to make the users feel off-balanced, uncomfortable, at a disadvantage, the chairs put the three in a bad mood.

Dean Williams ordered Elsa to stand in the middle of their semi-circle just in front of the desk. Elsa desperately wanted to lean on its edge for support, but just as desperately wanted to appear earnest. Leaning might make her look cavalier. She felt earnest, but was unsure it would come off. She also felt faint and was in danger of hyperventilating.

As she took her place before the teachers, she managed a small “hi,” so quiet, the word almost never left her mouth. She nodded and attempted to smile as she said it, but her lips merely quivered, unconvinced.

“We’ve reviewed your application, Elsa,” Dean Williams started. “Now we’d like you to tell us in your own words why this school needs a Perpetual Motion Club.”

Elsa had already given the answer to that question at length in the application. But being a trained child of the institution known as school and therefore used to doing what she was told even if there is an easier, faster, better way to do it, she dove in without asking questions.

“Well, um, perpetual motion is the best way to study, um, well, it can be used to apply, um, arithmetic, er, math and lots of other things we have studied. It has a long and colorful history with people like Leonardo Da Vinci, um . . . ”

The investigators patiently waited. Mr. Brown turned his head from one side to the other as if its weight was too much and he needed to relieve the muscles on one side of his neck by using those on the opposite side. Ms. Phelps raised her eyebrows, truly interested in whether or not Elsa could answer. Dean Williams smiled harder in a coaxing kind of way.

Elsa took it all in and gathered her courage as well as her steam.

“ . . . well, he left notes from his work. Incomplete notes, but proof that it interested him. Although most people and scientists believe it is impossible, that is not necessarily the case. The first and second laws of thermodynamics have not been proven either. Whether or not you believe it is possible is not important. The study of its history and possibility, almost because it is fruitless, makes it worthwhile.”

Ms. Phelps nodded her head. Mr. Brown coughed. Dean Williams beamed.

“The fact that you will never make a perpetual motion machine puts the practice in the realm of art,” Elsa continued. “It is one way we can reconcile art and science. In times past, art and science were one and the same, but these days, we separate them out. To make money with science, you use reason alone—not beauty. To make art, you don’t use the scientific method with its yes or no answers. The Perpetual Motion Club will give students a chance to meld art and science.”

“And how do you propose to do that?” Ms. Phelps wanted to know.

“Well, we’re going to build some of the historic machines, and try to invent new ways of creating perpetual motion. We’ll communicate with some of the modern followers that work with new techniques and use updated materials and theories . . . ”

“Do you yourself believe in the possibility of perpetual motion?” Mr. Brown interrupted her with the meat, the point. Leave it to Brown to give her a trick question. Her answer to his question would make or break the whole effort.

“It doesn’t matter what I or anybody else believes,” she answered stoutly. “The point is to work at something that is bound to fail. The process is what’s important. What we will learn from it is important.”

“But what will you learn, Elsa?” Mr. Brown wanted to know. “Besides what we’ve already taught you.”

“It’s one thing to learn from a book and another to put what you’ve learned into practice.”

“Were you aware, Elsa, that many people waste their lives on this sort of thing?” Mr. Brown said. “They become addicted to the idea of proving established science wrong. They think they’ll become rich and famous with an invention. Hundreds of people file patents every year and get laughed out of the office. They go home and try again and again and again. They lose their jobs, their lives, Elsa. Is that how you want to wind up?”

“Those people don’t have the benefit of the education we have here. They haven’t studied basic physics. If they’d learn the physics, they’d see easily why they fail. They . . . ”

“Are you saying we don’t have a good physics program here?” Ms. Phelps asked.

“No, of course not, but . . . ”

“But you want to test it,” Mr. Brown folded his arms across his chest.”

“No, that’s not the point. I’m saying we have the benefit of a good education here. We know why PMMs fail.”

“PMMs?” the dean asked.

“Perpetual Motion Machines,” Elsa and Mr. Brown answered as one.

“So you know everything already, and can’t possibly fall under the spell of fame and fortune. You don’t even need us anymore,” Dean Williams said.

“No, I didn’t mean that either. With the guidance of our school, we won’t go down that path. We are interested in the phenomenon for its beauty and what it can teach us.”

“It seems like a narrow subject,” Ms. Phelps said.

“Well, it is,” Elsa said. “But we can expand on it and follow anywhere it leads. The idea would be to give students an avenue to question, well, not question, but study old theories, new theories, artistic endeavors, really. Anything we come across, I guess. It would be a work in progress. The club itself would be a work of art.”

Ms. Phelps pursed her lips in a way that indicated she could see the possibilities. “Your application doesn’t say anything about artistic endeavors or being a work in progress,” she said.

“Well, that’s what I intended,” Elsa ad libbed.

“You may need to redo that section,” Ms. Phelps said. “That may make a difference. Who will your advisor be?”

“Advisor?”

“All clubs need an advisor from the faculty,” Dean Williams answered. “It’s required.”

Elsa stole a quick glance at Mr. Brown. His arms were still folded. His lips stuck out in a pout and he was staring at the ground, lost in angry thought. Would he be flattered if she named him, or would he use it to snarl that he had no interest in such foolery. What if he agreed. No way, she thought.

“I would say Mr. Brown, but he’s already advising the Science Society, so I think, maybe Ms. Curnsom would be good. Or maybe even Ms. Phelps?”

“Ms. Curnsom in physics would indeed be good,” the dean said. “Or maybe both Curnsom and Phelps since this is an interdisciplinary project.”

Ms. Phelps gave a slow nod of acceptance. Not altogether unenthusiastically.

“But we can see about that later,” Dean Williams continued. “What we need to determine first is whether or not Northawken High really needs this club. Do you have anything else to say, Elsa?”

Time for the clincher.

“I think this club, being the only one of its kind, could really put Northawken on the map. We’ll be the first to have . . . ”

“So you think Northawken needs to be put on the map?” Mr. Brown cut in. “We don’t have a good reputation?”

“Oh no, it’s just that . . . ” Elsa stopped. She had no idea what “just that” would be. Everything seemed so obvious before, now it all seemed merely selfish. She looked to the floor for answers, saw her scuffed shoes with frayed laces against the immaculate composite parquet of Dean Williams’ office. She had never felt so out of place in her life.

“Thank you for your consideration,” she mumbled.

“Thank you for coming in, Elsa,” Dean Williams answered. “We’ll let you know in a week or so what we think.”

She left the office and as the door closed behind her she heard a little sound from Ms. Phelps and an angry reply from Mr. Brown. “Harold, you can’t blame her for trying,” Dean Williams clearly said.

Out in the hallway, the “r” of the Jetstream logo was blinking to dim. Soon the sign would say “Jetsteam.” Elsa pondered the imperfection, the utter wretchedness of humanity’s efforts and how it all turns to crap sooner or later.

A group of basketball players exiting the gym drew her attention momentarily. They laughed and joked unaware of the misery everywhere. They used words and voices she could barely decipher as if they were aliens from another country. Jason stood out—taller, brighter, but he too comprehended nothing of the desolate state of things.

She stood frozen before the Jetst eam sign, listening and watching. The athletes engulfed her on their way, not stopping their conversation as they flowed around her as if she wasn’t there. And then they were beyond her and out the door, moving to their various vehicles in the parking lot. She followed at a distance and waited until they had all made it out into traffic before she continued on her own way.

At the corner May and jWad and Jimmy Bacomb huddled, waiting for news of her success. May was hugging herself for warmth. jWad leaned against a light post. Jimmy stood squarely with his arms folded. She took a deep breath as she approached them, wondering if she should be fake optimistic or truthful.

“Well?” said May. “We’re freezing to death here.”

Elsa opted for optimism. “I think it went well,” she lied. “Brown’s an asshole, but—”

“Brown’s all right.” Jimmy and jWad said it at the same time.

“Yeah, I guess,” Elsa lied again. “Come on. Let’s go get a hot chocolate.” She hustled her group to the Wendy’s stand across the street where they stayed and talked for an hour. Elsa’s mood of false optimism could not cut through the gloom she truly felt. They broke up early and went their separate ways. Actually May and jWad went in one direction, Elsa and Jimmy in another.

“You know it doesn’t really matter if the club doesn’t get sanctioned,” Jimmy said as they set off for home.