Somebody on This Bus Is Going to Be Famous (12 page)

“Whatever. Then you peel the skin from the skull and throw the skull away.”

Spencer is intrigued in spite of himself. “Why don't you keep it?”

“Okay, you keep it if you want a nice pencil holder for your desk. But for the skin, first you boil it till it shrinks to about half-size, then turn it inside out and scrape all the flesh off and let it dry for at least a day. Then you sew the mouth and eyes closed and stuff it with hot rocks to make it shrink even more. After about three days—”

“Okay, okay,” Igor interrupts. “It's not for real, right?”

“Of course it's for real. That's how they did it—do it.”

“But you're not going to get a real head and—”

“I think beheading is against the law,” Spencer points out.

“Definitely,” Jay agrees.

“Uh-huh,” Bender says. “Ever hear of medical schools? And morgues?”

Of course, everybody hears about Bender's project from Igor, and at least it steals interest from Spencer's pathetic little mouse maze. He wishes he'd never even thought of the idea now—it's totally lame. Or maybe if he'd started it sooner…but how could he, with track and extra credit reading in social studies and the glee club Christmas show? And by the way, how smart was that, to let the music teacher talk him into glee club as a way of “branching out”? During the second session of Youth Court this month, he got in a shouting match with one of the defendants and had to be suspended (“recused”) from the case by Mr. Pearsall, who later asked him if he was feeling stressed.

He'll probably get a good grade on the science project, as well as encouraging remarks and reminders—lots of them—that research is one part inspiration and nine parts perspiration. Also that Thomas Edison tried, like, three thousand six hundred seventy-two different filaments before he came up with the one for his incandescent lightbulb. But still, boring as a box of rocks, as his dad says, even though some girls will think the mice are cute.

“There's always next year!” his mom says brightly.

But actually, science fair is only a symptom of the real problem.

The real problem is Spencer is starting to think he's not genius material after all. Only smart enough to get into the gifted and talented program where, instead of math drills and spelling tests, you do group projects and enrichment circles (which are really easier but that's a secret nobody tells).

His doubts began with the physics camp in St. Louis last summer. It was a little over his head, but that was only to be expected since most of the participants were one or two grades above him. One of the speakers was an astronomer from McDonald Observatory who took them to the Science Center Planetarium and talked about supernovas and black holes. To tell the truth, Spencer couldn't follow a lot of it, but the parts he did understand sounded really cool. The guy kept mentioning this book:
A
Brief
History
of
Time
.

So when Spencer got back from camp, he checked out the book from the library. It's by this guy Stephen Hawking, a physicist with ALS. That's a disease that twisted his body so he looks like a pretzel. But ALS didn't affect his brain.

Chapter One was okay, but Spencer read Chapter Two twice and felt even dumber the second time. Of course, he was only twelve and lacked a few basic concepts (as his mom said) so he returned the book to the library and forgot about it…

Until the morning he passes Matthew on the bus and happens to notice he's reading a book and immediately recognizes the cover because Stephen Hawking is hard to mistake:
A
Brief
History
of
Time
.

He stops so abruptly Jay runs into him. “Hey!”

Spencer is staring, which he knows is rude but he can't help it. “Do you get that book?” he blurts out.

Matthew looks up, startled. “Huh?”

“That book. Do you understand it?”

“Yeah…mostly.”

“Move it, dude,” Jay says behind him. Spencer moves, but it's like he's sleepwalking.

Matthew understands! Matthew and Stephen Hawking are homies! Matthew the weird, the silent, is just possibly a genius. Don't they say Einstein was kind of a weird kid too?

“What's up with you?” Jay asks. “You mad at somebody?”

“No.” But actually, yes.

It bothers him so much that that afternoon, after the bus has emptied and its passengers are scattering, Spencer catches up to Matthew at the bend of Courtney Circle, where Meadow Lane runs to a cul-de-sac.

“So,” Spencer says, panting, “are you doing a science project on that book or what?”

Matthew glances around like he's looking for an escape. “Why?”

“I just want to know. Because…because I read it last summer.”
Stupid
, he thinks. If Matthew asks him anything about it, he's dead in the water.

“I'm interested,” Matthew says, and after a pause, “Is that okay?”

“Sure it is. I just wondered if you were doing anything with it.”

Matthew's expression changes from irritated to cornered again. “What if I am?”

“Nothing! I just—” Spencer has to stop. What does he
just
, after all? “Well, are you?”

“Only if my mother makes me,” says Matthew. “Bye.” He stalks away toward his house on the south side of the cul-de-sac. Spencer lingers a moment, telling himself to chill.

But Rude Shock Number Two awaits him at home: Marie, one of the mice in his control group, has expired. In other words, croaked. She's lying in a corner of the cage with her tiny claws curled up while Lucy sniffs around interestedly, like she might take a nibble. “I can't believe this! Do real scientists go through mice this fast?”

“I'm sure they do.” His mother, drawn from her desk by his cry of dismay, shakes her head in sympathy. “Dozens of them. Maybe you should have started a month earlier and set up a breeding operation in the garage so you'd have all the mice you needed. But hindsight's 20/20.”

“It was a stupid idea. I wish I'd never even thought of it.”

“It was a good idea, Spencer. It just needed a little more setup time.”

“I was busy.”

“You were too busy. I was afraid you'd get overcommitted with Youth Court and glee club, and it looks like you did. Next year, you'll have to set some priorities and—”

“I don't want to do this next year. I don't want to do anything!”

“Come on, sweetie. Every scientist has setbacks. Genius is one part inspiration and—”

“I'm
not
a genius!” Spencer throws his jacket, which catches the mouse cage by one corner and knocks the lid askew. Then he picks up the maze and slams it on the table top, jarring some of the walls loose.

“Spencer! What's gotten into you?” his mother yells. “Stop that right now! It's not like you have all the time in the world to put it back together.”

“Who says I'm putting it back together?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, I am not entering this inane project!”

“Yes, you are!” She throws herself between him and his maze, her red hair blazing. Along with the rest of her. Though he's tall enough now for them to see eye to eye, she more than matches his determination. “I did not raise a quitter!” She's practically screaming. “This was your idea, and what you start, you finish!”

This is more excitement than the mice have seen in all their short, experimental lives and much more than Spencer wants. After realizing he can't punch his mom, he unclenches his fists. “Okay.
Okay
. I'll finish the stupid project, but I'll probably get a C on it, and I don't even care.”

“Don't use that snarky tone with me, young man. Go to your room!”

She hasn't sent him to his room since he was ten. He rolls his eyes as he goes, and an hour later, he refuses to come out for dinner. “Fine!” snaps his mom, flouncing away from the door. The soles of her Nikes, which must have picked up something sticky in the kitchen, squelch angrily down the hall. Spencer tunes them out as he lies on his bed, staring up at the phosphorescent stars he and his mom stuck on the ceiling years ago.

Reputations are hard to lose once you have one. For instance, everybody labels Bender as a bully, not without reason. But Bender also has an amazing number sense that people don't see because they're not looking for it. Or Igor is supposed to be dumb because his grades are poor as dirt. But he can strategize with the best, as Spencer knows from playing
World at War
with (and losing to) him. And Jay's the typical average student, but since his grandfather taught him to play chess, he's won two school tournaments and beats Spencer three times out of four.

“Everybody is smart in their own way,” his mom likes to say, even though she obviously thinks his way is the best: letter-, number-, book-smart. Straight-A-smart. But not genius-smart. In fact, genius probably has nothing to do with the kind of smart Spencer is. How much longer can he get away with it?

A knock comes about seven o'clock. “
What?
” Spencer says.

“What yourself?” says the voice outside.

Spencer sighs, sitting up on the bed. “Come in, Dad.”

The doorknob turns and his father glides in, one hand gripping the neck of an acoustic guitar—a Martin, not top of the line, but close. He closes the door behind him. “So what's the drama queen scene around here?”

“Didn't Mom tell you?”

“Well, yeah—if you want to call it ‘telling.' With all the dashes and exclamation marks and hah!—hah!—” Here his dad imitates perfectly the sharp, angry sighs Mom uses for punctuation when she's upset. “With all that, I'm not sure I got the whole story.”

Spencer has to smile, a little. “You probably got most of it.”

His dad ambles across the carpet and sinks down on the bed. Chuck Haggerty is still good-looking, as dads go—Shelly, who takes guitar lessons from him, once told Spencer his dad was
hot
. Which is not a word that should apply to a parent, but that's just Shelly. Chuck tosses a lock of wavy brown hair out of his eyes with a sideways jerk. “Mind if I tune while we talk?” Spencer shrugs, and his dad plays a soft chord, frowning at the sour tone. Tightening one of the keys, he asks, “So what's the deal, genius?”

“Don't call me that!”

“Whoa, man.” (
Twannnng!
goes a string.) “What's the matter, pushed your hot button? You find somebody smarter than you?”

Spencer is so startled he answers honestly. “Uh, yeah. Maybe.”

His father nods, plucking the opening bass riff from “Heartbreak Hotel.” “Right. Word of wisdom from your old man: get over it.”

Spencer swallows. “That's three words.”

“Who's counting? Listen, I was just a few years older than you when I decided I was going to play the greatest guitar since Jimi Hendrix.”

“Who?”

Chuck shakes his head. “Kids today. You're talkin' guitar hero?” He hunches over the Martin, and his right hand swoops down on the strings, ripping out a series of chords. “That was Jimi. My one ambition: good as him. Or better, that would be okay too.”

“Is there some kind of…Jimmy Henderson Guitar Olympics you could compete in?”

“
Hendrix
. As a matter of fact, there is. The annual Hendrix Last Man Standing Play-offs in Seattle. Jimi's hometown.”

Sometimes Spencer suspects his dad is making stuff up. “Let me guess. You were not the last man standing.”

“Buddy, I didn't even get to Seattle.” Absently, Chuck strums a series of bluesy chords. “Bunch of us got together in Des Moines to put a purse together for the winner to go to the big show. All-night jam in the Rough House Club, winner by acclamation. I came in third. In
Des
Moines
.” His fingers still strumming, his eyes go somewhere else.

“That's tough,” Spencer says after a minute.

The faraway eyes return. “That's life, buddy. Win some, lose some.” (
Ta
da!
sing the strings.) “And there's always compensation. Like you.” Chuck Haggerty reaches forward, claps a hand on Spencer's head, and tousles his red hair, something he hasn't done since Spencer was maybe nine. “Hey, now I've got her tuned, you want to take her for a ride?” He means the guitar.

“I don't think so. Not now—”

“Yes, now. Music hath charms, y'know. To soothe the savage beast.”

Chuck hands over the instrument, and Spencer has to take it. Sighing, he plays a G chord. Then plays it again, note by note. “The C string sounds a little off.”

“Good ear.” His dad nods. “See if you can get it back on.” Spencer tightens the key, plucking the string continuously until it sounds right to him. “That's it. Now wing off.”

Spencer plays a succession of C, G, and D—all the chords he knows. He plays them again in a different order, then allows his dad to show him an easy fingering pattern for stepping between the chords. It's kind of fun, actually.

“Cool!” says Chuck. “Let me grab the Gib, and we'll jam.” The Gib is his prize Gibson that only he is allowed to play.

Spencer quickly hands over the guitar. “Not now, Dad. I've got a big algebra test tomorrow, and I'm so behind I'll probably have to study for it.”

“Yeah…okay.” Chuck takes the instrument reluctantly, remembering what he came in for. “And this science fair thing? Think you ought to finish what you start 'n' all that?”

“Yeah. I'll finish it.”

“Rockin'.” His dad socks him gently on the shoulder before standing up. “Next year? Do something without mice. They stink, man. And remember we still love ya, even if you don't turn out to be a boy wonder.”