Phineas L. MacGuire . . . Gets Slimed! (8 page)

“Forget it.”

Aretha popped her pencil on her desk about ten times, like she wanted us to understand how serious she was about saying no.

“Number one,” she said, “I have no interest in politics. Number two, I am much too busy with extracurricular activities, such as trombone lessons, Girl Scouts, and soccer. And number three,
I am not the vice presidential type.”

Aretha had a point. She is not exactly the sort of person who takes orders from other people.

Especially other people like Ben.

“I'll trade you something for it,” Ben said, leaning over from his desk. “I could do an awesome drawing of you. A vice presidential portrait. They could hang it in the principal's office. Or you could give it to your mom for Christmas.”

For a minute it looked like Aretha was considering this. Having a good drawer offer to draw a picture of you is hard to turn down. Also, it's a bonus not to have to figure out what to give your mom for Christmas. A couple of years ago, for example, I couldn't think of anything to give my mom. I ended up buying her a big jar of red wiggler worms so
she could compost all of our trash in a bucket under the kitchen sink.

Scientifically speaking, this explains the humongous population of red wiggler worms that now live in the dirt out by our swing set.

But Aretha turned Ben's offer down. “Can't do it,” she said. “The election is at the end of next week. There's no way you could get enough support to win by then, even if I was on your ticket.”

Ben chewed on his pencil. He got a very sad expression on his face.

It was his fake sad expression, but Aretha didn't know that.

“Fine,” Ben said. “I guess I'll just drop out of the race, then. I can't win without somebody like you, a person that everybody likes and respects and admires, on my ticket.” He sighed. “I guess I'll just
call my dad tonight and tell him that I'll be letting him down.”

Aretha looked at Ben. “Does it really matter to your dad that much?”

Ben nodded. “It's what's keeping him alive. See, he's got this mysterious illness—”

I cut Ben off. “What Ben is saying is that his dad has been sort of down in the dumps lately. Ben's campaign is keeping his mind off of his troubles.”

That was a lie too, but it was less of a lie than Ben's lie about his dad's mysterious illness.

“My dad's depressed,” Ben said. “He got fired from his job last week.”

Great. Lie number three.

“How come?” Aretha asked.

“He stole a hundred thousand dollars from the cash register.”

“Your dad worked at a place where they keep a hundred thousand dollars in the cash register?”

“Uh-huh,” Ben said. “He works at a bank. He's a bank teller.”

“He's a bank teller and he stole a hundred thousand dollars? And all they did was fire him?” Aretha asked.

“His trial is in two weeks,” Ben said. “That's the other reason he's so depressed.”

Aretha shook her head. “I know you are making this story up, Ben. I know you are trying to make me feel sorry for
you. Well, I guess your plan has worked, because I feel sorry for anybody who has to make up a bunch of lies just to get somebody else to help him out. That's pathetic.”

“I know,” Ben admitted. “But I thought it was worth a try.”

Aretha straightened up in her seat. “Here is the deal. I will run as the vice presidential candidate on your ticket, but I want something in return.”

She turned to me. “I want you to help me make penicillin.”

“Penicillin? Me?” I asked. “Why? Can't your doctor give you a prescription?”

“It's for a Girl Scout merit badge,” Aretha said. “It's called A Healthier You. What's healthier for you than penicillin?”

“I don't know the first thing about how to make penicillin,” I said.

Ben leaned over and punched me on the shoulder. “Come on, Mac! You could figure it out. Just buy a kit off the Internet or something!”

“What do you say, Mac? It's a hard-to-beat deal. I'll help out your friend if you'll help me out.”

I sighed. “I guess we could try. But isn't there an easier way for you to get a merit badge?”

“I don't do things the easy way,” Aretha said. “I do them the Aretha way.”

Then she turned to Ben and held up her hand. They slapped high fives. “Okay, Ben,” she said, “we've got a lot of work to do.”

They
had a lot of work to do? What about me? I had to figure out how to make penicillin, the most important medical invention of the twentieth century.

In case you were wondering, penicillin production is not a normal part of the fourth-grade science curriculum.

Unless you are Aretha Timmons.

Here is the list of everything I have to get done this weekend:

But before I got started on my list of things to do, I had to go with Sarah Forte-meyer, Teenage Girl Space Alien babysitter, to Goodwill to get my worms back.

Sarah was waiting for me in the driveway when I got home from school on
Friday. She was leaning against my mom's minivan, jingling the keys. My mom and Lyle had taken Lyle's car on their trip, leaving the van for Sarah in case there was an emergency situation.

“Hop in the van, Stan,” she said. “The Goodwill people called five minutes ago. Somebody found your worms when they were sorting through clothing donations. Lucky for us, the manager your mom talked to was working, so he called right away.”

This was the best news I'd heard all week. It almost made up for having to spend twenty-four hours straight with Sarah Fortemeyer.

Almost, but not quite.

“Let's go!” I yelled. I threw my backpack on the front steps and jumped in the van. Margaret was already in her car
seat and looking at her favorite book,
Mr. Monkey Makes a Milk Shake.

Before I became a scientist,
Mr. Monkey
was my favorite book too.

This is not something I advertise.

For a Teenage Girl Space Alien, Sarah Fortemeyer is an okay driver. The only problem about being in the van with her is that she has this sort of purple smell, which is either her perfume or her natural Teenage Girl Space Alien scent. Either way it makes me itchy. Fortunately, we made it to Goodwill before my body broke out in red, scratchy hives. My weekend was already going to be rotten. There was no need to add hives to the mix.

When I got my worms back at Goodwill, ten of them were missing. “They must have fallen out of the box when the lid was taken off,” the manager said. He
shrugged, like ten missing dried worms was no big deal.

To me, it was a big deal.

Do you know how hard it is to find dried worms? Oh, maybe if you live in Australia, it's not a problem. But where I live, finding a dried worm is a major event. Especially if it's not smushed beyond recognition.

“I've got to find those worms!” I said. “They're scientifically important to me and to worm collectors everywhere!”

“I'm sorry,” the manager said. “Only Goodwill employees are allowed in the sorting areas.”

“You don't understand!” I yelled, but the manager just shook his head. You could tell he wasn't going to budge.

“Don't worry about it, Mac,” Sarah said. “I personally guarantee that I'll find
you ten worms this weekend to make up for the ones you lost.”

“Dried worms?” I asked.

Sarah nodded. “Dried worms.”

“Okay,” I said. At least that would keep Sarah out of my hair. She'd have to spend the whole weekend searching high and low.