Ghostbusters (18 page)

Their senior guidance counselor, Mrs. Rice, had urged them to enter a project in the fair because it could help them nail down scholarships at the University of Michigan. Erin saw another side of it: simplifying their work for a lay audience was a way to organize and gain perspective on the gains and shortcomings of their research. In the year since she and Abby had met, they had accumulated a wealth of factual information and had assembled what they felt was a rational theoretical groundwork to account for spectral intrusions into this plane of existence.

Entering the cavernous building, they were met by Mr. Puccini, who stood just inside the doorway behind a little folding table, bow tie askew. He didn't try to hide his frown when he saw them. As he handed Abby their location assignment, he glanced at the contents of the shopping cart, and through a forced smile said, “Good luck with that. I think you'll find there's some real tough competition this year.”

“Thanks for that information, Mr. Puccini,” Abby said brightly, then turned to Erin and gave her “the look,” which involved extending her tongue to its absolute limit, crossing then rolling her eyes. Erin had to choke back a giggle.

Their science fair project was largely incomprehensible to the Honors Physics teacher. Even though they tried to explain it to him twice, he got lost trying to follow the Lagrangian mechanics and gauge field theories that attempted to describe what they termed the “spectral ether”—the predicted medium through which spirits interact with our world. The second time they went through it with him even more slowly, but before they finished he threw up a hand and walked away, angry and red faced. Mr. Math-Macho Puccini didn't like being upstaged by a couple of teenage girls.

“Let's do check out the competition before we set up,” Abby said.

“Sure, why not.”

They pushed their cart down the middle aisle between two rows of long tables lined up on the basketball court. Students were busy assembling components of their projects, plugging in power cords, and sotto voce practicing scripted explanations for the judges.

The high points were: a three-foot-tall papier-mâché volcano complete with plastic palm trees and native huts—presumably prepped to erupt, it was somehow connected to a discussion on global warming; a multilevel, clear plastic maze stocked with glow-in-the-dark mice; chemical extractions of local plants to make fabric dyes; and a science of refrigeration demonstration—which Erin thought bordered on cheating, since the student involved was the daughter of a local heating and air-conditioning contractor.

“
This
is strong competition?” she said.

“Why don't you save time and strain, Gilbert,” Carl Lund said from the next table in line. “Push that junk straight to the Dumpster out back.”

Abby fake-laughed, but they both stared at his project as they rolled past.

He and his cohorts had constructed a pair of remote-controlled, robotic fighting machines. The combatants faced off on the tabletop. “Blade Face” featured parts scavenged from a five-and-a-half-inch power saw and had an extendable single claw hand, like the Terminator. The legend on the project poster said Blade Face seized hold of its opponent, pulled it close, and then gave it “the kiss of death.” Its opponent was “Señor Pain,” whose weaponry consisted of a hatchet wielded by a single arm swinging through 180 degrees of arc. According to the poster it could cock back and deliver twenty-five to thirty crushing blows per minute.

“Shit,” Erin said under her breath.

“Come on,” Abby told her. “Our spot's near the end of the row.”

Erin began helping her unload the cart onto the empty table. She didn't want to say it, but she was sure they were going to lose. Their exhibit consisted of a series of posters and drawings with titles like “Spectral Foam,” “Positive and Negative Ethereal Polarization,” “Proton Countermeasures,” and “Gauge Theory for Dummies.”

Written across the top of the biggest poster: “A significant coupling may well exist between spectral and Standard Model particles—a total of twelve gauge bosons: the photon, three weak bosons, and eight gluons.” The rest of the surface was covered with line after line of equations describing Lagrangian mechanics.

Reading the expression on Erin's face, Abby said, “It'll be okay. Don't worry, we've got our secret weapon.” She took a boom box from the bottom of the shopping cart. “Spooky ghost sounds!”

Abby was so excited she was practically jumping up and down. Erin couldn't help but crack a smile. The cassette tape in the machine was a copy they'd made of sounds supposedly recorded at the sites of documented ghost appearances. Kind of like
The Blair Witch Project,
a film they had memorized, only without the video.

By 10
A.M.,
the gym had filled with parents and students, who milled up and down the center aisle. Fifteen minutes later the volunteer judges made their entrance. Mr. Puccini handed them clipboards and pens. Shouting over the din to get the everyone's attention, he introduced them to the assembly. Two were adjunct professors from Kellogg City College's Science Department, and the third judge was the science writer for the
Battle Creek Enquirer
.

Erin and Abby had to man their booth, so they couldn't see exactly what was going on at the other end of the aisle. The judges stood in front of contestants' tables listening to their explanations and asking questions.

The three were standing about a yard back from the volcano when it erupted with a roar. Then the back of the cone blew off with a dull pop, sending cold oatmeal “lava” shooting across the court and into the bleachers.

Screams rang out and the audience retreated en masse to the fire exits.

Mr. Puccini rushed forward, waving his arms for calm. “Do not be concerned. There's nothing hazardous,” he shouted. “The lava is organic. Our janitorial staff is on hand to clean up the mess…”

On his signal, the custodian crew sprang into action with mops and buckets. The excitement was over. People resumed browsing; the judges resumed their task.

When they got to Carl's project, the übernerd gestured for them to step around his table. Waving for people to move back, he and his project partner cleared a wide space between the aisle and the bleachers. Then they unrolled a heavy circular mat, presumably to protect the hardwood from saw and hatchet misfires.

As the audience began to crowd in around the makeshift ring, Carl and his nerd buddy donned crash helmets.

“You know we can't miss this,” Abby said. And they abandoned their posters for a spot at ringside.

Carl picked up Blade Face and his partner grabbed Señor Pain. They put the machines facing each other on the mats about four feet apart. Carl and his nerd bud held game controllers in their hands.

“Imagine a not-too-distant future,” Carl bellowed at the audience, “where robots fight the wars and we are their slaves!” On his count of three the machines charged each other and music blasted out of a speaker under the table—a rousing hip-hop beat.

“
This is not America
…” the chorus repeated over and over.

“That's from the movie
Training Day,
” Abby said while the crowd cheered and whooped. “‘American Dream,' sung by David Bowie and P. Diddy.”

Erin decided she couldn't root for either machine; she wanted them to mutually self-destruct. Or better yet, go berserk and chase Carl out of the gym.

Much to the amusement of the audience, which was moving to the music, Señor Pain drew first “blood.” Apparently it had more mass, because their initial collision turned Blade Face sideways. Before Carl could recover, Señor Pain did a hatchet job on its foredeck, landing a rain of blows.

To Erin, it looked like game over. Señor Pain was going to batter its opponent into smithereens without even getting a scratch. She had to admit that watching Carl Lund so quickly and easily defeated by one of his minions came a close second to seeing Señor Pain chop off the odd toe.

Then in a perfectly timed move, Carl/Blade Face used its hand to snatch hold of the hatchet's handle just below the ax head as it swung down, pinning the sharp edge into the mat. The audience gasped as Blade Face used the power of its arm to drag its torso into attack position. The saw blade whined shrilly and sparks flew as Blade Face planted the vaunted kiss of death, then quite efficiently cut poor Señor Pain in two.

The judges and audience applauded and cheered, dancing and laughing as the music reached its crescendo and faded out.

One of the professors clapped Carl on the back as he removed his crash helmet. “You have a great future in robotics, my boy,” he said.

Carl looked over at Erin and Abby and shot them a smug, nasty grin. Then he mimed a hanging, yanking up on an invisible noose around his neck, sticking out his tongue like he was choking to death.

Erin pulled her partner aside. “Abby, we're going to get totally creamed unless we do something quick.”

Abby nodded, her expression chagrined. “My bad. I thought we dumbed it down enough.”

“The judges are five tables away. Think of something!”

“Clearly we can't change any basic elements at this point,” she said. “But we can sure spice up the presentation. Give it some punch. Carl and his crew have music, but so do we.”

Abby popped the cassette out of the boom box and slipped in a different one.

“It's our planet dance!” Erin cried.

It was a hip-hop mix tape they had danced to in Abby's bedroom a million times, whirling around like planets and then bustin' their moves. They hadn't done it in forever.

“Remember how jiggy we got?” Abby said. “We were so awesome in the mirror. We know all the cool steps and have our explanation down pat—we can rap it to the judges!”

“But let's dumb it way down,” Erin said. “Way, way down. Wait, I thought of something else…” She turned over one of the posters and wrote on the back in huge letters with Magic Marker: “There is a barrier keeping ghosts out, and if they are let in they will destroy the world.”

“Oh my god,” Abby exclaimed, “that's perfect!”

As soon as the judges were in position in front of their table, Abby cued the music and they let it rip. At first Erin couldn't focus on the audience's faces because her dancing was so jerky and violent, and she was concentrating so hard on her footwork. She really got into it. So did Abby. And they hit their marks on the rapping, too.

When Abby dropped down low for her break-dance solo, Erin took in all the people frozen around them, mouths hanging open.
Yeah,
she thought,
you can't top this!

They finished their routine and the music faded out. There was dead silence in the gym. The looks on the judges' faces ranged from perplexed to horrified.

From the rear of the crowd, a familiar voice sneeze-yelled, “Bull-shit!”

“Do you have any questions for us?” Abby said, panting for breath.

More silence.

Finally one of the professors broke the impasse. “No,” he said, “I think we have all we need from you.”

The panel of judges retired to the boys' locker room to confer. It didn't take them long to make their decision. The robot fighters won unanimously and would move on to the county finals.

Carl Lund pumped his fists over his head and did a mad toe dance-in-place, shouting, “Yes! Yes!”

“Damn!” Erin said over the din of applause.

“Don't sweat the small stuff,” Abby said. “Look at all we've accomplished in just a year. And we're both moving on to the University of Michigan—a bigger stage with better equipment.”

“And maybe a more intelligent audience.”

Mr. Puccini and another male teacher had hoisted Carl Lund onto their shoulders and were marching him around the gym, through the cheering crowd.

“Mos' def,” Abby said.

*   *   *

At their headquarters, Erin smiled wistfully as she studied the science fair photograph. “Oh, I wish we still had the presentation. It was fantastic.”

Abby raised a Spock-like eyebrow as she smirked knowingly. “Patty's wish might just be granted.”

Patty shook her head. “No, that wasn't my wish—”

“You still have it?” Erin cried. “What?”

Abby reached behind the buffet table and pulled out the title board of their project. She set the poster on a table and plopped an old cassette tape recorder down beside it. The poster was decorated with pictures of ghosts cut from books and magazines and pasted in place. But Abby wasn't finished. She took a box out from under the table. She opened it and whipped out two more blasts from the past—their black turtleneck sweaters—and they hurriedly put them on. Abby's looked a little tight, but Erin's fit fine.

“Okay, per Patty's request,” Abby said, reaching over to push play.

Patty waved her hands. “No, I can't express enough that I don't—”

Abby and Erin stood side by side in their matching pullovers, very serious as they gazed into each other's eyes and silently counted down.

“Good evening,” they said, hitting their mark in unison.

“Oh lord,” Patty groaned, but she was clearly amused.

Holtzmann smiled, then opened two beers and handed one to Patty. “I've only heard about this,” she said. “Never actually seen it. This is history.” Holtzmann winked at Patty and then downed her beer.

“Prepare for takeoff into the unknown,” Abby and Erin chanted. “Five … four … three … two … one.”

Abby hit play on the recorder. What they had thought back then was the coolest science fiction music ever ooh-wee-eww'ed from the little speaker. Erin still remembered their moves, and they began waving their arms dramatically, orbiting like planets, with Abby spinning around her.

“The universe is mysterious,” Erin said in a mysterious voice.