Be Good Be Real Be Crazy (9 page)

“Sorry.” Bob scuffed his toe against the floor.

“Very sorry,” Jenkins added.

“I accept.” Mia kept her expression stern, but Homer could see the corners of her mouth twitch.

Except for the occasional cough and Bob's sneaker catching on the floor, the next few minutes were quiet.

When Einstein finally returned, the three of them couldn't get back to the Banana quickly enough.

Mia drove for three hours before she got tired and Homer took over. She crawled into the backseat to take a nap and Einstein moved up front.

After fifteen minutes of searching for a radio station that wasn't more static than music, Einstein turned the radio off completely, leaned his head against the window, and closed his eyes. Homer assumed he'd fallen asleep, too.

“What are you going to tell the dads when you call them later? About visiting Pillar College?”

“Oh man. I totally forgot we were supposed to do that.” Homer, remembering that Mia actually was sleeping, lowered his voice to a whisper. “I thought you were down for the count.” He glanced at Einstein. His little brother's eyes were still closed, but he was tapping his fingers. “I don't know. Guess I'll have to
hope that they don't ask. Funny”—Homer shook his head—“I was so focused on getting out of the shack that I wasn't thinking straight. Speaking of which, why'd you take so long back there? Mia and I almost got inducted into a cult.”

“Promise you won't make fun of me?” Einstein said.

“This better not be disgusting, because—”

“I was fixing their solar panels. They'd been set up wrong and it took a while to untangle all the stupid cords.”

Homer swallowed. “Wow.”

“Yeah.” Einstein took off his glasses and polished them against his shirt. “I mean, it wasn't hard. It was a basic circuit. I learned that stuff when I was eight.”

Homer formulated his response carefully. “Steiner, that was pretty awesome of you.”

“Yeah?”

Homer couldn't see his little brother's expression in the dusky light, but he could hear the smile in his voice. “Yeah. Pretty much the opposite of a social fail.”

Einstein slid down until he was low enough in the passenger seat to push his knees against the dashboard. “Do you think Jenkins and Bob will succeed?”

Homer stared at the yellow lines, noticing how they almost looked golden when the sun was low, thinking of an answer.

“Probably not,” he said as he flipped on his left blinker for the turn onto the highway. “But they'll be able to say they tried. Maybe that'll be enough.”

THE BOY GENIUS UNDERSTOOD STRING
theory, quantum mechanics, relativity, and why six of the seven Millennium Prize Problems in mathematics had yet to be solved. He did not, however, always understand other human beings.

Why did they talk so much, but rarely discuss Things That Matter: rogue artificial intelligence, meteor trajectories, the survival of humanity in an unpredictable future?

Why did old ladies bristle if he called them “old”?

Why did adults not appreciate being corrected even when they were stupendously wrong?

Why did kids his age roll their eyes when he talked and get annoyed that he walked away when they bored him?

The Boy Genius could no more help the way he was than a massive star could stop itself from exploding into a supernova.

What a gift
, said strangers.

We expect great things
, said his professors.

How proud you must be
, said family friends to the Boy Genius's dads.

And though his dads and brother tried their best to make the world let him be a kid first and a prodigy second, they couldn't protect him from things they weren't able to see.

At the university, he tried to make friends by building scientifically sound beer funnels for parties he couldn't go to and giving sorority girls in glasses and skinny jeans answers to problem sets he could finish in ten minutes. But it wasn't exactly a social win to be the youngest guy in the classroom—never mind the smartest.

The Boy Genius often thought that it would be so much easier if people made mathematical sense. If the two sides of the equal sign did in fact equal each other.

Sometimes, when he was walking alone across campus from one science building to the next, he liked to imagine that he was an undercover anthropologist from a distant universe—a member of an advanced species who had been sent to this blue-and-green planet to observe humanity.

Being an alien offered a reason for his isolation. It allowed him to objectively observe the strange gestures and poses of
Homo sapiens
, the odd social rituals and interactions.

Sometimes, the distraction worked.

A lot of the time, it didn't.

Even extraterrestrials, it turns out, get lonely. Even Boy
Geniuses who can easily understand the complex relationships among subatomic particles, stars, space, and the dimensions of time are lost when it comes to making sense of connections here on Earth.

“WHY DO I FEEL LIKE
we've stumbled onto a low-budget sci-fi set? This place is creepy.”

Homer nodded in agreement even though he was standing on the opposite side of the Banana and there was no way Einstein could see him. “It's the only rest stop we've seen since Maryland, so it's get money out here or leave you as collateral at the next tollbooth. That said, I think there's a strong possibility that the Otis Amos Chester Memorial Rest Stop and Museum doesn't have an ATM, which would make option two our only option.”

“Very funny.” Einstein paused before adding, “And, for the record, I was against stopping at a place where the bathrooms might be part of a historical exhibit.”

“Duly noted,” Homer replied before knocking the driver's-side door shut with his foot. He'd parked in front of a picnic area that looked both unused and worn. Three out of the four
picnic tables were missing legs, and one was so deeply sunken into the dirt that its benches rested directly on the ground. The scattered evergreens and bushes hid the ugliness of the highway but were poor barriers against the gritty sounds of traffic.

“What does the sign say?” Mia bumped her shoulder against the inside of the passenger-side door, once, twice, before Homer jogged around and yanked on the outside handle. “Thanks.” Mia scooted out, grabbing Homer's forearm to stand. “Phew. Watch out. Tadpole on board.” She squeezed Homer's arm right above his elbow for a heartbeat and a half before walking up to a sign at the edge of the picnic area. “I can't see the letters under all the bird poo. Can you guys?” She turned around without waiting for an answer and started walking in the direction of a squatty building surrounded by drooping pine trees. “I hope they have a vending machine. I would sell my shoes for some gummies.”

Einstein slid next to Homer. One side of his hair was smashed flat from napping against the window. “I'd like to point out that this place is pretty much what the world would look like after a robot apocalypse. Also, there are only three cars here and the Banana is one of them.”

“Yup.” Homer moved toward the small, brown building. After a beat, he heard Einstein scurry to catch up to him.

“Homer, you didn't lock the car.”

“You really think I need to at this place?”

“Touché.”

The parking lot was optimistically big. It was dotted with potholes, broken branches, soda cans, wrappers, and other typical roadside debris. If there had ever been white lines to indicate parking spaces, they had faded to invisible. The sign hanging off the side of the building drooped significantly lower on one side. “We're Open! Welcome to the Otis Amos Chester Memorial Rest Stop and Museum. Come on in. Please!” The “Please!” was written in red paint and glistened in places, as though it was still wet.

Homer held the door open long enough for Einstein to duck under his arm; then he followed his little brother inside.

It took a few moments for Homer's eyes to adjust to the dark once the door drifted shut behind him. When they did, he saw that the inside of the Otis Amos Chester Memorial Rest Stop and Museum was as broken-down as the outside.

The air in the small, square space felt compressed, like it was more densely packed than normal, breathable air. A water fountain between the uneven bathroom doors gurgled and sputtered. Mia and Einstein had immediately made their way to the vending machines against the far wall, and the machines' weak light made their two figures look more like fuzzy shadows than silhouettes. Displays cases lined the wall to the right, but the scratched glass covers made their contents difficult to see.

Homer's sneakers squeaked against the linoleum floor as he walked toward the closest exhibit, squinting until he could
see what was inside. When he did, he was instantly sorry he'd looked. “Holy—”

“Raccoon? Ha-ha. I wish. That's only a regular ole critter. Nothin' holy 'bout him.” The guy who appeared on Homer's right was dressed in brown leather pants and a matching shirt that was less a shirt and more like what people really mean when they say “tunic.” He had a fur hat pulled over shiny black hair, and an obviously fake beard stuck to his tan face. “Let me introduce myself. I'm Otis Amos Chester, America's first taxidermist, depending on whom you ask.” He stuck out his right hand. His fingers were long and thin; his wrist was knobby.

“Uh, hi.” Homer shook the stranger's hand. “I'm Homer.” Homer squinted. His eyes were still adjusting to the fluorescent lights. “Uh, do you guys have an ATM?”

“Ha-ha-ha! You people from the future with all your crazy technology!” Otis was practically shouting as he continued pumping Homer's hand up and down. “I'm afraid I have no idea what you're talking about. I'm from the eighteenth century and was one of the first people to settle the great state of Delaware, where I was definitely the first taxidermist. Some folks dispute the ‘first in America' honor, but I was definitely a pioneer in the Blue Hen State.” He glanced over his shoulder at a wooden door in the far-right corner. It was open just enough for a sliver of light to escape. When Otis turned back to Homer, his fake beard was askew and the fur hat low enough on his forehead to
touch his eyebrows. “Ha! Ha! Ha! Yes, I learned my craft in the Old Country, coming to this great land when I was just a young whippersnapper!”

“It's been nice to meet you, Otis.”

“Pleasure's all mine.”

“Okay. Well, we've got to get back on the road.” Homer pointed over the crazy guy's shoulder. Einstein was kicking at a vending machine's dispenser, while Mia pounded a fist against the glass. “Sorry, but can I have my hand back?”

Otis glanced at the wooden door again and then pulled Homer so close his fake beard tickled Homer's ear. “Help me,” he whispered through clenched teeth and a painted-on smile.

“What?”

Otis dropped Homer's hand. “Get. Me. Out. Of. Here. I have money. I don't care where you're—and then when I was twenty-one I stuffed my first bear.” His change was instantaneous. “At the old age of twenty-three, I married Miss Primrose Verity and had the privilege of preparing this fox for Benjamin Franklin's second cousin.” As Otis gestured at the displays, a man dressed in a similar leather ensemble strode into the room. He was definitely much older, but he wasn't wearing a beard and his hat was nicer. Seniority, apparently, mattered at the Otis Amos Chester Memorial Rest Stop and Museum.

“Regaling our visitor with tales of your brave early years, Young Otis Amos Chester?” The man slapped Young Otis
between the shoulder blades just hard enough to make him wobble for balance.

“Sure am, Old—I mean
Older
—Otis Amos Chester.” Young Otis's enthusiasm was about as real as cheese that comes in a can. “In fact, I was just about to show him the gopher that might possibly have been stuffed for Mr. George Washington.”

“Excellent. When you're done, I'll take our visitors to the—”

“No gummies. But they have these things called GoGo Beans.” Mia shook a box of candy over her head as she slid next to Homer. “Oh, hello.” If she noticed anything unusual about the two strangers' outfits, she didn't show it.

“Welcome to the Otis Amos Chester Memorial Rest Stop and Museum,” Older Otis said.

“Fank too,” Mia replied through a mouthful of GoGo Beans. “I lick err hasz.”

Both Young Otis and Old Otis both looked puzzled. After a pause, Old Otis smiled and nodded; then Young Otis tried to do the same, but his smile looked more like a grimace.

Old Otis bowed his head slightly and was about to say something when Einstein appeared between Mia and Homer. “Thanks for the super interesting
code
. Sorry, I mean information.” Einstein yanked the door open, grabbed Mia and Homer by the hands, and started tugging them outside. “We've got to get on the code—I mean the road—now.”

“Are your eyes okay?” Homer asked, trying to move so
Einstein didn't knock himself over. “Why are you winking like that?”

Einstein didn't answer. Instead he called over his shoulder, “Lots of coding to do in that yellow car parked by the picnic tables.”

Just before the door shut, Homer glanced back into the building. Young Otis was still smiling, and it might have been the poor lighting, but this time it looked like he meant it.

While they'd been inside the brown building, sap, needles, and a smelly greenish goop that they definitely didn't have in Florida had rained down from the tree branches onto the Banana. Mia had just slid into the driver's seat and turned on the windshield wipers when a body landed on the hood. “Ow.”

Homer stepped around the side of the car, some of the paper napkins he and Einstein were using to clean off the back window held up in each hand. Young Otis peered over the Banana's hood. He had a backpack over one shoulder and had changed into jeans and a sweatshirt. “That sounded like it hurt,” Homer said.

“I've done worse.” Young Otis glanced over his shoulder. “Listen, we better go. I only get five-minute breaks, and once Mr. Hearst realizes I'm not experiencing digestive distress he'll be looking for me.”

“Wait. What?” Homer started to drop his arms but then remembered what he was holding.

“I'm coming with you. He got the code.” Young Otis pointed around Homer to Einstein, who had accumulated a small mountain of used napkins at his feet.

When Homer caught his brother's eye, Einstein shrugged. “His note came out of the vending machine with my chips. I couldn't leave a guy who writes binary-code codes.” Einstein waved a slip of paper like it was a miniature flag.

“Solidarity.” Young Otis pumped a fist in the air, holding it there as though he expected raised fists in return. Without the beard and hat, he looked younger than he had inside.
Closer to Einstein's age
, Homer thought.

“Wow,” said Einstein. “You're even more socially awkward than I am.”

Young Otis considered this for a moment before dropping his arm and shrugging in a what-can-you-do? gesture. “I've been homeschooled since I was eight and working here since I turned fourteen. To quote the great Apollo Aces, ‘The universe is stacked against me. I've been down to up from the—'”

“‘Start. Time will tell if it's all been worth it. Livin's its own kind of art.'” Einstein's voice cracked on “been worth it,” but he was too in awe to try covering it with a cough like he usually did. “That's the third-best song on the album.”

Young Otis bounced with excitement as he spoke. “Every time I go with my mom to the mall, I sneak into the music store and listen to ‘Last Song of Our Lives' like a billion times. I can pretty much recite the whole album.”

“That is awesome.” Einstein shook his head as he scooped up the napkins at his feet and dumped them in a trash can next to the sunken picnic table. “Gross! Why do you have to listen at the mall?” Someone had written “O tush Sucks” in green spray paint around the bottom of the can.

Young Otis tapped a crushed soda can with the toe of his sneaker. “My parents are kind of strict.” He looked up from the asphalt. “Which is why I really, really,
really
need to go with you guys. I don't even care where.”

The driver's-side door swung open and Mia's face appeared over the Banana's roof. “Won't your parents be worried?”

“They're at a conference in Nevada. And my grandma says I need to get out more. You can even ask her. Wait. One second.” Young Otis dropped his backpack on the ground, stuck his arm in practically up to his shoulder, and started digging. He didn't seem to notice or care that a pair of jeans, two comic books, and a bunch of other knickknacks spilled onto the pavement as he hunted. “Aha! Got it,” he said, holding a large cell phone above his head like it was an Olympic medal. “One sec.”

Young Otis jabbed his finger against the screen, then held the phone to his ear, smiling hugely the entire time. “It takes her a while to press the answer button,” he whispered, covering the bottom half of the phone with his free hand. “Naniji?” he said, pulling his hand away and holding a finger up. “No, no. I have a question.”

While Young Otis paced and talked, Homer dumped his
napkins in the “O tush Sucks” trash can. He stood by Einstein and watched Young Otis pace, turn, kick at trash, and then nod vigorously before sprinting around the Banana and shoving the phone at Mia.

“My grandma wants to talk to you because she thinks pregnant ladies are more responsible and less likely to be serial killers.”

“Oh, that makes sense,” Mia said brightly before taking the phone. “Hello?”

Young Otis shambled next to Einstein and Homer, all three of them listening to the few words Mia got in.

“Sure. Okay. Uh-huh. Yes. Very safe. I'm not sure. Let me ask.” Mia put the phone against her chest. “Homer, Otis's grandma wants to know if you've ever gotten a traffic violation.”

“Not even a parking ticket,” Einstein shouted before Homer could open his mouth.

Mia nodded and held the phone back to her ear. “No, ma'am. Not even a parking ticket. Okay. Okay. Twice a day? I'll let him know. Okeydokey. Bye-bye.” Mia hung up and turned toward where the three guys were standing in line in front of the sunken table. “Done and done.” She knocked her knuckles against the Banana's roof three times. “You just need to be back before your parents are and call Grandma twice a day.”

“That easy?” Homer said, looking first at Mia, then at a beaming Young Otis. “Just like that? Your grandmother?”

Young Otis shrugged. “Like I said, she's extremely worried
about my—and this is how she puts it—‘real life skills.' Plus, this way she gets to watch all the American shows she doesn't get in India without any interruptions.”

“Why do you want to go so badly?” Mia asked kindly as she stepped around the open door and handed Young Otis his phone.