“Gym, grocery store, and a meeting about next week’s bake sale.”
“Bake sale?”
“For Maggie’s softball team.”
“You also said you’d pick up my acne medication,” I reminded him.
“Right,” Father said, snapping his fingers. He pulled out his phone and added the errand to his schedule. “You know, you could do that yourself if you learned to drive.”
The syrup-less bite of pancake in my mouth grew even drier. “I don’t want to discuss that right now.”
“Honey,” Mother said to me, “I really wish you’d give the myTality line of acne products a chance.”
“I’d prefer to stick with dermatologist-recommended options,” I told her, for what must have been the tenth time.
“Well, think about it,” she replied. “I’m off now! Someone needs to wake up Ishmael.”
She moved around the kitchen doling out kisses before grabbing her briefcase and venturing forth to sell questionable health products to the masses.
“Which one of you wants to wake your brother?” Father asked.
“Not it,” Maggie replied instantly.
I sighed. “Why should we bear the responsibility of getting Ishmael out of bed? He’s seventeen. If he can’t wake up for school, he should face the consequences.”
“That’s true,” Father agreed. “But then how will you get to school?”
Point taken.
I grudgingly stood, bracing myself for the Herculean effort of getting Ishmael out of bed.
“Hey,” Father said before I left the kitchen. “You still need a ride from debate team this afternoon?”
I didn’t look him in the eye. “Today’s meeting was canceled.”
“Wasn’t last week’s canceled too?”
Canceled only in the sense that I’d skipped it to work on my seismograph.
“I think you’re misremembering.” Before he could call me on the lie, I said, “I better get Ishmael now.”
“Ask him what he plans to blow up today!” Maggie called as I hurried from the room.
Interview
Subject #2, Magdalene (Maggie) Hofstadt: Of course I knew my brothers blew up the field. I figured it had something to do with one of Gideon’s experiments. And I wasn’t the only one who thought so, by the way. No one believed that meteor story. No one.
Event: Immediate Aftermath (Cont.)
When I stepped through the doors of Irving High School, I still hadn’t gotten a chance to check my seismograph reading. Maybe that was for the better. I should forget the explosion. It was much more important to concentrate on my studies—more important than ever, since Sara Kang’s GPA had alarmingly surpassed mine, jeopardizing my chances of being valedictorian.
Unfortunately, it turned out ignoring the explosion wouldn’t be simple. When I checked my phone between second and third periods, I had a text from Cass. (Cassidy Robinson, age sixteen, my longtime best friend.)
CR: A METEOR CRASHED INTO YOUR HOUSE LAST NIGHT???
I stopped in the middle of the hall and briefly shut my eyes.
Ishmael.
Ishmael, who’d never managed to keep his mouth shut about anything. How many people had he told? What exactly had he told them?
I fired off a text to Cass saying no, that was not the case, and I’d explain at lunch. Then I opened my phone contacts and sent another message.
Text Conversation
Participants: Gideon Hofstadt, Ishmael Hofstadt
GH: Are you telling people about last night?
IH: no1
IH: i mean
IH: kinda
IH: but just like 2
GH: Two? Two what? People? Classrooms? Hordes?
IH: ppl
GH: Could you please not do that anymore?
IH: dude
IH: you srsly need to chill
1 To my chagrin, Ishmael had turned off autocorrect on his phone because it “suppressed his individuality.”
Event: Immediate Aftermath (Cont.)
I did not “need to chill.”
I needed to evaluate the situation and prepare for every possible outcome.
In my brief moments of free time between classes, I researched legal implications of the explosion. Unfortunately, the information I found online was contradictory and muddled.
According to one website, making homemade explosives was only criminal in certain contexts. For example, if I was planning to sell the explosives, it was illegal. If the explosive wounded someone, it was ultra-illegal. Neither of those stipulations applied to me.
On the other hand, a different site claimed that in some states, one could receive jail time for “combining raw materials into a mixture capable of creating an explosion.” I tried to search Pennsylvania-specific laws to no avail. The closest thing I discovered was that Pennsylvania allowed the sale of fireworks containing up to fifty milligrams of explosive material, which roughly equated to one roman candle.
The explosion in my yard was not caused by a Roman candle.
Basically, either Ishmael and I were in the clear, or we’d end up sharing a cell.
It was my own fault. I shouldn’t have let my brother participate in the experiment. After all the practical jokes I’ve endured from him, I should’ve known his sudden interest in science had a punch line.
Truly, I shouldn’t have even broken the rule (The Rule: Ishmael was not to come within fifty feet of my lab for any reason, at any time.) I’d put into place last year, after he spilled orange soda all over a circuit board I was working on. (He claimed it only happened because Kepler had clawed him.)
My worries weren’t alleviated as the day went on. Six separate individuals approached me before lunch to inquire about the “meteor.” This was especially concerning because there were some weeks when I didn’t speak to six different people.
By the time I slid into my usual seat in the cafeteria, my body was a network of tension. Shoulders tight, head pounding, teeth beginning to ache. Stress made me clench my jaw, which in turn sent pain radiating outward.
There was no one at the lunch table yet, and I hoped for a quiet day. Sometimes our table filled up with random acquaintances. Other times, when everyone was off doing various activities, it was only me, Cass, and Arden. (Arden Byrd, age fifteen, a recent transplant to Lansburg following her parents’ divorce.)