Pennybaker School Is Headed for Disaster Read online

  TRICK #5

  MAKING SOMETHING OUT OF A CHEESE PUFF NOTHING

  “It’s all about fooling the eye,” I said for the millionth time in the two weeks since I started at Pennybaker School. “It’s about making you look over here”—I wiggled the fingers on my left hand to take their eyes away from the grape in my right hand—“to keep you from seeing what’s going on over here.” I had already deposited the grape into my lap and opened my right hand with flourish.

  “Is it true you know how to make an invisibility cloak?” Wesley asked. “Like in Harry Potter?”

  “Well, not exactly like in Harry Potter, but kind of, yeah. That’s a little more complicated. I’ll have you over some time to show you.” Although the very thought of Wesley the actor coming anywhere near Chip Mason the costumer made my eye twitch a little. For all I knew, Wesley and Chip Mason could show up in matching Shakespeare socks.

  Louis XIV: Bored to death by Shakespeare.

  “But, yeah,” I continued, making the grape reappear and popping it into my mouth. “I can make stuff disappear by bending light using convex lenses. So it’s kind of like an invisibility cloak.”

  “Whoa,” Flea breathed. He had barely touched his lunch and had been sitting, mouth gaping at me, ever since we started talking. Just like every day. Flea thought owning a didgeridoo was normal, but magic was crazy to him.

  The truth was I hadn’t ever exactly perfected the invisibility cloak. I’d been trying for years, ever since I found the incomplete plans for a “ghosting device” taped to the bottom of Bill’s food dish. Grandpa Rudy had been working on an invisibility cloak way ahead of his time, but he must have either given up or died before he could finish it. I’d been trying ever since to perfect it, but while I could make a small object here and there disappear, the idea of shrouding someone into hiddenness was just beyond me.

  But it sounded cool, so I went with it.

  “Could you make a helicopter disappear?” Flea asked.

  I shrugged. “David Copperfield made the Statue of Liberty disappear.”

  “Can you make my Nationwide History Day project disappear?” Owen asked. Owen was a computer whiz who happened to like to wear a spaghetti strainer, or sometimes an aluminum mixing bowl, on his head because he thought it increased his Internet speed. But he was terrible at history. Once, when Mr. Faboo asked if anyone could name one of Louis XIV’s greatest accomplishments, Owen answered, “Invented the corn dog.”

  Not for nothing, but my answer—“Created neck-torture devices”—was considered no more correct than Owen’s corn-dog hypothesis.

  “I wish,” I said. “I still haven’t even decided on a subject yet. I’m definitely not doing the history of the necktie. I was thinking about maybe researching the history of Louis XIV’s enemies. Like the ones who really, really hated him and thought up ways to maybe torture him a little or something.”

  “Nah, that’s boring,” Owen said. “Mr. Faboo doesn’t like boring.”

  “What’s boring about enemies? I bet if Mr. Faboo had enemies, he wouldn’t think they were boring at all.”

  Owen waved his hand. “It’s just that kings’ enemies are, like, normal history. Mr. Faboo doesn’t like normal history.”

  “Okay. Fine.” I thought for a second. “How about the history of Louis Pennybaker?” I asked.

  “Been done,” Flea said.

  Owen nodded, popping a whole cookie into his mouth. He crammed it into one cheek, took a huge swig of milk, and added, “Been done so many times, Mr. Faboo has officially banned it as a topic.”

  “Louis Pennybaker, born August eleventh, eighteen forty-two,” Wesley began in his stage voice.

  “Moved to Fair Play, Missouri, in eighteen eighty-six,” Flea continued.

  Owen swallowed, looking on. “And then to Liberty in eighteen ninety-five, where he—”

  “Followed his dream of building a school for kids just like him,” Wesley finished.

  Flea got up and stood on his chair, one finger in the air. “Kids who were gifted in unique ways. Didgeridoo players.”

  Wesley stood on his chair. “And thespians, lovers of the theater.”

  “And computer wizards,” Owen said, adjusting the strainer on his head. They all looked at me pointedly, waiting.

  “And magicians?” I finally said.

  “Grand, old chap,” Wesley said, coming down from his chair and clapping me on the back. “Just grand.”

  “So Louis Pennybaker is out,” I said. “Maybe I should do …” I searched, then brightened. “The history of the Heirmauser head of horror.” I hooked my fingers into claws, rolled my eyes back so only the whites were showing, and growled all monster-like. Which I thought was pretty funny. Erma would have laughed until her guts busted out.

  But Wesley, Owen, and Flea, not so much. They all sucked in great gasps of air, then, in unison, turned toward the foyer with their hands over their hearts.

  “What? It’s just a joke.”

  “You shouldn’t joke about that,” Wesley whispered.

  “We take the head very, very seriously around here,” Flea agreed.

  “Mrs. Heirmauser is no laughing matter,” Owen added.

  “But that thing is super creepy,” I said. “It looks like a zombie. A grandma zombie. Grombie.” I rolled my eyes back again and moaned. “Braaains … math braaains …”

  Wesley bent toward me, grabbing my hand and pulling it down to the table. “You could get kicked out for saying something like that.”

  “Kicked out of life,” Flea added. He swept his finger across his throat.

  “Sorry. I was just being silly.”

  “No worries, mate! You’re new and all. Forgiven.” Wesley was trying out his Australian accent again. Flea and Owen didn’t look so sold—they shook their heads at each other somberly, like they weren’t sure they could forgive what I’d said as easily as Wesley had. “We just have to get you thinking outside the box.” Wesley licked his fingers, which were covered with orange dust. “Hey, I know! You could do cheese puffs!”

  “Cheese puffs?”

  He nodded, wiggling his half-licked fingers at me. “It’s brilliant. I wish I’d thought of it for myself.”

  “Cheese puffs.”

  Owen had begun eagerly tapping away on his laptop keyboard. “Yes, yes. Everyone always focuses on boring old leaders who’ve been done over and over again. What about the creator of the illustrious cheese puff? I mean, where would we be without him?”

  “Or her,” Flea added.

  “Or her,” Wesley agreed. “Think about it—there could be a whole unexplored world of cheesy foodstuff innovation. Why let the uninteresting characters in history get all the glory? The inventor of cheese puffs was an American hero!” He licked his thumb clean for emphasis.

  “I don’t know,” I said. It seemed like a risk, pitting the inventor of cheese powder–sprinkled snacks against people who championed animal rights and saved orphans and invented vaccinations or computers or business models. Mom would kill me if I blew my very first Pennybaker School project. I would for sure be going on a Grounded until Christmas Adventure.

  Yet, at the same time, Wesley had a point. Cheesy snacks may not have saved the world, but then again neither did Louis Pennybaker. And if I wanted to get all technical about it, cheesy snacks had certainly saved the lunches of millions of kids for generations.

  Plus, I didn’t have any better ideas.

  “Okay,” I said. “I’ll do it.” I slurped my chocolate milk.

  “Great!” Wesley said. “Now, with that solved …” He pulled the straw out of his milk and held it up. “Has everyone been working on their aim?”

  Owen and Flea groaned, but Wesley already knew that I had been working on mine—not because of the upcoming battle in October, but mostly because it was something to do. I’d flung more spitwads at tiny targets than I could even count, including one that actually flipped the switch to turn out the light in Lexiconical Arts when Mrs. Codex stepped out t
o use the restroom. “Whoa,” Wesley had breathed. “You could put an eye out from a hundred feet!”

  And another that landed square in the head of horror’s mouth. Wesley didn’t congratulate me on that one; he just grabbed my arm and ran, his face really red and sweaty.

  “Okay, Thomas,” Wesley said, pushing the still-dripping straw into my hand. “You land one in the nostril of Miss Pancake’s potato nose, and I’ll officially put you in as team captain. I brought this.” He pulled out a straw that was wrapped in brightly colored duct tape. A special team captain straw.

  I swiveled in my seat so I could see Miss Pancake, art teacher slash creative free thinker. She was sitting at the kindergarten table, where she had taken everyone’s uneaten mashed potatoes and was carefully sculpting them into the shape of a giant nose. The nostrils were about the size of golf balls. Totally doable. But the kindergarten table was across the aisle and two tables away, and Miss Pancake was sitting so that she was facing us, which made the task a bit more challenging.

  But I was going to have to be up to the challenge if I wanted to be team captain. And if I wanted that straw.

  Oh, I so wanted that straw.

  I tore a tiny piece from my napkin, stuck it in my mouth, and began chewing. Soon I had a soaked napkin-pellet on my tongue. I brought the straw to my mouth, pushed the pellet into it, took a deep breath, and …

  Someone screamed.

  TRICK #6

  FLASH! BANG! PANIC!

  At first, nobody moved. All eyes turned to me.

  “What?” I asked, the straw falling out of my mouth, spitwad still lodged inside.

  “What did you do?” Wesley whispered.

  “Nothing. I didn’t even blow yet. See?” I turned the straw around to show the slobbery blockage inside.

  “He’s right,” Flea said. “I think the scream came from out there.” He was pointing at the lunchroom door, toward the vestibule.

  Sure enough, there was another sound—like a low moaning—and all heads in the lunchroom turned.

  “No need to panic,” Mr. Cheeksbear, the drama teacher, said, standing in the middle of the room with his arms spread out wide. He sounded like Wesley when Wesley was trying on his game-show-host voice. “I’m sure everything is just fi—”

  But he didn’t get to finish, because another scream pealed through the air, and within seconds, everyone was running.

  Not running toward the sound, of course. Sure, a couple of people were running that way, but it appeared to be completely by accident. Instead, people ran every which way, bouncing off each other and the tables, the walls, the milk cooler. Someone knocked over a bench. Another person upended an entire tray of meat loaf. We all stopped to watch the slab of gray hamburger bounce like a rubber ball, right onto the feet of three really mean-looking kids. One picked up a hunk, snarled, and threw it. It landed with a splat on the back of a girl’s neck. She squeaked, picked up a handful of Jell-O, calmly walked to another table, and slapped it on top of a boy’s head. Next thing we knew, food was flying in every direction.

  “Panic! Panic! Panic!” Flea was screaming, running in circles, Owen’s metal pot on one foot. “Panic! Panic! Panic!”

  “No! Stop that!” Wesley was yelling, though his eyes were very wide, and he was using a plain-old Wesley voice without any acting at all. “You heard the man. There’s no need to panic. No need! We should remain calm and rational. Relaxed, even. Let’s all breathe in and out slowly together. In through the nose. Out through the mouth. Just like an opening-night warm-up.” His face started contorting into frowns and manic-looking stage smiles. “Happy-angry-sad-happy. Happy-angry-sad-happy. Happy-angry-sad-happy.”

  “Panic! Panic! Panic!”

  Owen had pulled open his laptop and was studying the screen intently, having never moved from his seat. “Actually,” he said, squinting at me, “I think the best thing to do is to evacuate in an orderly fashion, beginning with the youngest and then going in alphabetical order until we reach grade fi— Would you make him stop doing that?”

  “Panic! Panic! Panic!” Flea had somehow stepped in the potato nose and was leaving mushy white splotches everywhere.

  I climbed up on top of the table, unsure how I was going to get everyone’s attention. Then it dawned on me. I had two spark ejectors, locked and loaded with flash paper and batteries, in my pocket. As magicians tend to have.

  I pulled them out, took a deep breath, and yelled, “Everyone stop!” I held my arms out with a flourish, threw my head back, and … showstopper.

  Or not.

  Nothing happened, other than a weak buzzing sound and a little plop of light that might just as easily have been a dying firefly.

  Nobody noticed. Not even Owen, whose slice of rubber meat loaf was currently resting under the toe of my penny loafer.

  “I’ve got nothing,” I said, but only I was listening. I climbed off the bench and sat down. Someone had flung a half-eaten cheese puff in my direction. It skittered across the table and came to a stop right in front of me. I picked it up and munched on it. From what I could tell, this school’s most unique gift was being annoying.

  But just as I swallowed my cheese puff, Milly and Hilly, two ponytailed fourth graders, appeared in the lunchroom doorway.

  “Terrible happening, everyone!” Hilly said. The lunchroom went instantly quiet.

  “Heirmauser’s elegant art donation … happened about second … before everyone’s eyes, nearly,” Milly said, her voice hitching on the last word.

  “Swiped, taken, or lifted even now!” Hilly screeched.

  There was a long pause while everyone seemed to be calculating in their heads. And then there was a collective gasp and a mass exodus toward the vestibule.

  “What happened?” I asked.

  “The horror!” Wesley responded in a horror-movie voice, whisking past me.

  “What’s going on?”

  Flea clunked by in his pot-boot, not even acknowledging that he heard me speak.

  Owen got up and started that way as well. I grabbed his arm. “Can you please tell me what’s happening?”

  “Didn’t you hear Hilly and Milly?”

  “Yeah, but they made no sense.”

  He rolled his eyes. “They speak in acrostic. It’s their gift.”

  I shook my head, still not understanding.

  “You don’t know what an acrostic is?” He looked impatient. “It’s a poem style where the first letter of every word spells out a new word. ‘Terrible Happening, Everyone.’ T-H-E. ‘Heirmauser’s Elegant Art Donation.’ H-E-A-D. ‘Happened About Second.’ H-A-S. ‘Before Everyone’s Eyes, Nearly.’ B-E-E-N. ‘Swiped, Taken, Or Lifted Even Now.’ S-T-O-L-E-N.” We stared at each other for a moment, then he grasped my shoulders and shook me. “Don’t you get it, man? During second period, someone stole Helen Heirmauser’s head!”

  Owen looked horrified at having said the actual words aloud. He pressed one hand over his mouth and raced toward the vestibule, leaving his prized laptop on the table where he’d been sitting.

  TRICK #7

  VANISHED!

  Sure enough, the head was gone. In its place on top of the pedestal was a round spot of darker paint that had been shielded from sunlight beneath the head. Miss Munch was crumpled to the floor next to the pedestal, holding a tissue in one fist.

  “It’s gone,” she whimpered over and over again. “It’s gone.”

  Several students in various states of distress and sadness gathered around her. Some of the girls were draped over the shoulders of their friends as if they might faint at any moment.

  “Who would do such a thing?” Owen whispered, gaping in awe at the empty pedestal. “Who would want to steal the head?” He tapped some calculations into his watch and still came up with nothing.

  “Exactly what I was thinking,” I said, only I don’t think I meant it in the same way that he did.

  “Maybe one of the custodians took it for polishing,” Principal Rooster said, shoving his way through t
he crowd. I hadn’t really seen the principal of Pennybaker School much yet. I had only heard his voice over the intercom, reciting the Pledge of Allegiance and the Pennybaker School pledge:

  UNIQUELY GIFTED STUDENTS ARE WE.

  WE HAVE A TALENT, OR MAYBE THREE.

  LOYAL TO OUR SCHOOL WE WILL ALWAYS BE.

  WITH PRIDE, WORK, AND HONESTY

  BEFITTING OUR FOUNDER, WHOSE NAME WAS LOU-EE.

  Principal Rooster reminded me a little bit of Grandpa Rudy. He was kind of short and squat, with soft-looking cheeks and a ring of gray fringy hair. The lights reflected off the top of his head and his glasses, making him look like a walking lightbulb. He had the kind of mouth that always looked like it was smiling, and it was hard to imagine him bringing down the hammer on a bad kid.

  Maybe they didn’t have bad kids at Pennybaker School. Maybe Principal Rooster’s job was a really long Nothing to Do Adventure.

  “Yes, yes, it’s being cleaned,” he said, shoving his hands into his suit pockets and rocking back on his heels, as if he’d solved a major crime. “It has been a while since her forehead was buffed. I’m sure of it now. Miss Munch, gather the custodians, please. We’ll get to the bottom of this.”

  Miss Munch looked up miserably from where she sat on the floor. Her nose was red and runny. “Byron’s out today.”

  “Well, gather the others, then,” Principal Rooster said. “We’ll have this whole matter straightened out in no time.” He helped Miss Munch off the floor, patted her shoulder a few times, then clapped twice. “Now, the bell should be ringing at any moment. Everyone go ahead and move on to your next class.”

  I started to go and almost plowed right into the kid in front of me. Like everyone else, he didn’t move a muscle. They all just kind of stood there, looking at each other with their mouths open. A slice of cheese fell off someone’s shoulder and landed with a splat on the floor.

  “Go on,” Principal Rooster commanded, waving his hands around like he was shooing bugs away. “To class.”