Doctor Proctor's Fart Powder, Page 2

  “If you lie anymore, you’re going to go to hell,” Eva said, sneaking a quick peek at the bottom of the slice of bread.

  Nilly hopped down from the chair. “Fine with me, as long as they have a band there,” he said, “and I get to play the trumpet.”

  “You’re never going to get to play in any band!” Eva yelled after him. “No one wants a trumpet player who’s so small, he doesn’t even come up to the top of the bass drum. No band has uniforms that small!”

  Nilly put on the itty-bitty shoes that were sitting in the hallway and went out onto the front steps, stood at attention, pressed his lips together, placed them against the trumpet, and blew a tune his grandfather had taught him. It was called “Morning Reveille” and was designed to wake up sleepyheads.

  “Attention!” Nilly yelled when he was done, because his grandfather had taught him that, too. “I want to see both feet on deck and eyes front! Everyone ready for morning inspection, fall in and prepare for the playing of the royal anthem. Attention!”

  The movers obeyed, snapping to attention on the gravel walkway and standing stiffly with Nilly’s mom’s five-seater oak sofa between them. For a few seconds it was so quiet that all you could hear were cautious birds singing and a garbage truck that was making its way up Cannon Avenue.

  “Interesting,” Nilly heard a jovial, accented voice say. “There’s a new Commandant on the street.”

  Nilly turned around. A tall, thin man was leaning against the wooden fence of the house next door. His white hair was just as long and unkempt as the grass in his yard. He was wearing a blue coat like the one the wood shop teacher at Nilly’s last school had worn, and he was also wearing something that looked liked swim goggles. Nilly thought he was either a Santa Claus who’d lost weight or a crazy professor.

  “Was I bothering you?” Nilly asked.

  “Quite the contrary,” the bushy-headed man said. “I came to see who was playing so well. The sound brought back wonderful memories of a boat trip on a river in France many, many years ago.”

  “A boat?” Nilly asked.

  “Precisely.” The man closed his eyes dreamily, facing the sun. “A riverboat that was carrying me, my beloved, my motorcycle, and a bunch of goats. The sun was just starting to set, the wind was picking up, the water was a little choppy, and then the goats started bleating so vigorously. I’ll never forget the sound.”

  “Hi,” Nilly said. “I’m Nilly. I’m not sure what to say to that.”

  “No need to say anything,” the man replied in his accent. “Unless you want to say something, of course.”

  And that’s how Nilly met Doctor Proctor. Doctor Proctor wasn’t Santa Claus. But he was kind of crazy.

  The First Powder Test

  “I’M DOCTOR PROCTOR,” the professor said at last. His accent was guttural, making his voice sound like a badly oiled lawnmower. “I’m a crazy professor. Well, almost, anyway.” He laughed a hearty, snorting sort of laugh and started watering his unmowed lawn with a green watering can.

  Nilly, who was never one to say no to an interesting conversation, set down his trumpet, ran down his front steps and over to the fence, and asked, “And just what makes you so sure that you’re almost crazy, Mr. Proctor?”

  “Doctor Proctor. Did you ever hear of a professor trying to invent a powder to prevent hay fever but ending up inventing a farting powder instead? No, I didn’t think so. Quite a failure … and pretty outrageous, isn’t it?”

  “Well, it depends,” Nilly said, hopping up to sit on the fence. “What does your farting powder do? Does it keep people from farting?”

  The professor laughed even louder. “Ah, if only it did. I could probably have found someone to buy my powder, then,” he said. Suddenly he stopped watering the grass and stroked his chin, lost in thought. “You’re on to something there, Nilly. If I’d made the powder so it kept people from farting, then people could take it before going to parties or funerals. After all, there are lots of occasions when farting is inappropriate. I hadn’t thought of that.” He dropped the watering can in the grass and hurried off toward his little blue house. “Interesting,” he mumbled. “Maybe I can just reverse the formula and create a non-fart powder.”

  “Wait!” Nilly yelled. “Wait, Doctor Proctor.”

  Nilly jumped down from the fence, tumbling into the tall grass, and when he got up again, he couldn’t see the professor—just his blue house and a side staircase that led down to an open cellar door. Nilly ran to the door as fast as his short legs could carry him. It was dark inside, but he could hear clattering and banging. Nilly knocked hard on the door frame.

  “Come in!” the professor yelled from inside.

  Nilly walked into the dimly lit cellar. He could vaguely make out an old, dismantled motorcycle with a sidecar by one wall. And a shelf with various Mickey Mouse figurines and a mason jar full of a light green powder, with a label in big letters that read DR. PROCTOR’S LIGHT GREEN POWDER! And underneath, in slightly smaller letters: “A bright idea that may make the world a little more fun.”

  “Is this the fart powder?” Nilly asked.

  “No, it’s just a phosphorescent powder that makes you glow,” said Doctor Proctor from somewhere in the darkness. “A rather unsuccessful invention.”

  Then the professor emerged from the darkness with a lit flashlight in one hand and a snorkel mask in the other. “Wear this for safety during the experiment. I’ve reversed the process so that everything goes backward. Shut the door and watch out. Everything is connected to the light switch.”

  Nilly put on the face mask and pulled the door shut.

  “Thanks,” the professor said, flipping the light switch. The light came on, and a bunch of iron pipes that ran back and forth between a bunch of barrels, tanks, tubing, funnels, test tubes, and glass containers started trembling and groaning and rumbling and sputtering.

  “Remember to duck if you hear a bang!” Doctor Proctor shouted over the noise. The glass containers had started simmering and boiling and smoking.

  “Okay!” Nilly yelled, and right then there was a bang.

  The bang was so loud that Nilly felt like earwax was being pressed into his head while at the same time his eyes were being pressed out. The light went off and it was pitch-black. And totally silent. Nilly found the flashlight on the floor and shone it on the professor, who was lying on his stomach with his hands over his head. Nilly tried to say something, but when he couldn’t hear his own voice, he realized he had gone deaf. He stuck his right index finger into his left ear and twisted it around. Then he tried talking again. Now he could just barely hear something far away, as if there were a layer of elephant snail slime covering his eardrum.

  “That was the loudest thing I’ve ever heard!” he screamed.

  “Eureka!” Doctor Proctor yelled, leaping up, brushing off his coat, and pulling off the glasses that Nilly now realized weren’t swim goggles but motorcycle goggles. The professor’s whole face was coated in blackish gray powder except for two white rings where his goggles had been. Then he dashed over to one of the test tubes and poured the contents into a glass container with a strainer on top.

  “Look!” Doctor Proctor exclaimed.

  Nilly saw that there was a fine, light blue powder left in the strainer. The professor stuck a teaspoon into the powder and then into his mouth. “Mmm,” he said. “No change in the flavor.” Then he gritted his teeth and closed his eyes. Nilly could see the professor’s face slowly turning red underneath the black soot.

  “What are you doing?” Nilly asked.

  “I’m trying to fart,” the professor hissed through his clenched teeth. “And it’s not working. Isn’t it great?”

  He smiled as he tried one more time. But as we all know, it’s very hard to smile and fart at the same time, so Doctor Proctor gave up.

  “Finally I’ve invented something that can be used for something,” he said, smiling. “An anti-fart powder.”

  “Can I try?” Nilly asked, nodding toward the st
rainer.

  “You?” the professor asked, looking at Nilly. The professor raised one bushy eyebrow and lowered the other bushy eyebrow so that Nilly could tell he didn’t like the idea.

  “I’ve tested anti-fart powder before,” Nilly quickly added.

  “Oh really?” the professor asked. “Where?”

  “In Prague,” Nilly said.

  “Really? How did it go?” the professor asked.

  “Fine,” Nilly replied, “but I farted.”

  “Good,” the professor said.

  “What’s good?” Nilly asked.

  “That you farted. That means there isn’t anything that prevents farting yet.” He passed the spoon to Nilly. “Go ahead. Take it.”

  Nilly filled the spoon and swallowed a mouthful.

  “Well?” the professor asked.

  “Just a minute,” Nilly mumbled with his mouth full of powder. “It sure is dry.”

  “Try this,” the professor said, holding out a bottle.

  Nilly put the bottle to his lips and washed the powder down.

  “Whoa, that’s good,” Nilly said, looking in vain for a label on the bottle. “What is this?”

  “Doctor Proctor’s pear soda,” the professor said. “Mostly water and sugar with a little dash of wormwood, elephant snail slime, and carbonation…. Is something wrong?”

  The professor looked worriedly at Nilly, who had suddenly started coughing violently.

  “No, no,” said Nilly, his eyes tearing up. “It’s just that I didn’t think elephant snails really existed …”

  Bang!

  Nilly looked up, frightened. The bang wasn’t as loud as the first one that made him deaf for a minute, but this time Nilly had felt a strong tug on the seat of his pants and the cellar door had blown open.

  “Oh no!” Doctor Proctor said, hiding his face in his hands.

  “What was that?” Nilly asked.

  “You farrrrrrted!” the professor yelled.

  “That was a fart?” Nilly whispered. “If it was, that’s the loudest fart I’ve ever heard.”

  “It must be the pear soda,” the professor said. “I should have known the mixture could be explosive.”

  Nilly started filling the spoon with more powder, but Doctor Proctor stopped him.

  “I’m sorry, this isn’t appropriate for children,” he said.

  “Sure it is,” Nilly said. “All kids like to fart.”

  “That’s absurd,” Doctor Proctor said. “Farts smell bad.”

  “But these farts don’t smell,” Nilly said.

  The professor sniffed loudly. “Mmm,” he said. “Interesting, they don’t smell.”

  “Do you know what this invention could be used for?” Nilly asked.

  “No,” Doctor Proctor said, which was the truth. “Do you?”

  “Yes,” Nilly said triumphantly. He crossed his arms and looked up at Doctor Proctor. “I do.”

  And that was the beginning of what would become Doctor Proctor’s Fart Powder.

  But now Nilly’s mother was standing on the steps, yelling that he had to hurry because this was his first day at his new school. And that’s what the next chapter is about.

  The New Boy in Mrs. Strobe’s Class

  THE BIRDS WERE chirping and the sun was shining outside the classroom, but inside it was dead quiet. Mrs. Strobe nudged her glasses down her unbelievably long nose and peered at the new boy.

  “So, you’re Nilly, then?” she said in a slow, raspy voice.

  “Yup, what of it?” Nilly responded.

  A few people laughed, but when Mrs. Strobe did her signature move, slapping her hand against her desk, it got dead quiet again in an instant.

  “Could you please stand up straight, Nilly,” her voice rasped. “I can hardly see you sitting there behind your desk.”

  “I’m sorry, Mrs. Strobe,” Nilly said. “But I am sitting up straight. The problem, as you can see, is that I’m tiny.”

  Now the other students were laughing even louder.

  “Silence!” Mrs. Strobe fumed. She nudged her glasses even farther down her nose, which she could safely do because there was still plenty of nose left to go. “Since you’re new, why don’t you please tell us all a little bit about yourself, Mr. Nilly?”

  Nilly looked around. “New?” he said. “I’m not new. If you ask me, you guys are the ones who are new. Apart from Lisa, that is. I’ve met her already.”

  Everyone turned around to look at Lisa, who mostly wanted to sink down onto the floor.

  “Besides, I’m ten years old,” Nilly said. “So, for example, if I were a pair of shoes, I wouldn’t be new at all. I’d be extremely old. My grandfather had a dog who got sent to the old age home when she was ten.”

  Mrs. Strobe didn’t make any attempt to stop the snide laughter that followed, but just looked at Nilly thoughtfully until the laughter had subsided.

  “Enough clowning around, Mr. Nilly,” she said, a thin smile spreading over her thin lips. “Considering your modest size, I suggest that you stand on your desk while you address the class.”

  To Mrs. Strobe’s surprise, Nilly didn’t wait to be asked twice, but leaped up onto his desk and hoisted his pants up by his suspenders.

  “I live on Cannon Avenue with my sister and mother. We’ve lived in every county in Norway, plus a couple that aren’t in Norway anymore. By which I mean, they were in Norway during the Ice Age, but once the ice started melting, big pieces broke off and drifted away in the ocean. One of the biggest pieces is called America now, and over there they have no idea that they’re living on a chunk of ice that used to be part of Norway.”

  “Mr. Nilly,” Mrs. Strobe interrupted. “Stick to the most important details, please.”

  “The most important,” Nilly said, “is playing the trumpet in the Norwegian Independence Day parade on May seventeenth. Because playing the trumpet is like kissing a woman. Can anyone tell me where I can find the nearest marching band?”

  But everyone in the classroom just stared at him with their mouths hanging open.

  “Oh, yeah. I almost forgot,” Nilly said. “I was there this morning when one of the world’s greatest inventions was invented. The inventor’s name is Doctor Proctor and I was selected to be his assistant. We’re calling the invention Doctor Proctor’s Far—”

  “Enough!” Mrs. Strobe yelled. “You can take your seat, Mr. Nilly.”

  Mrs. Strobe spent the rest of the class explaining the history of Norwegian Independence Day, but none of the children in the classroom were listening. They were just staring at the little bit of Nilly they could see sticking up over his desk. Then the bell rang.

  AT RECESS NILLY stood by himself watching the other children play tag and hopscotch. He noticed Lisa, who was also standing there watching. Nilly was just about to go over to her when two large boys with crew cuts and barrel-shaped heads suddenly stepped in front of him, blocking his way. Nilly already had an idea of what was coming next.

  “Hello, pip-squeak,” one of them said.

  “Hello, O giants who wander the earth with heavy footsteps, blocking out the sun,” Nilly said without looking up.

  “Huh?” the boy said.

  “Nothing, pit bulls,” Nilly said.

  “You’re new,” the other boy said.

  “So what?” Nilly asked quietly. Even though he already knew more or less what the answer to the so-what question would be.

  “New means we dunk you in the drinking fountain,” the other boy said.

  “Why?” Nilly asked, even more quietly. He knew the answer to that, too.

  The first boy shrugged. “Because … because … ,” he started, trying to think of the reason. And then all three of them—the two boys and Nilly, that is—all exclaimed in unison, “because that’s just the way it is.”

  The two boys looked around, obviously checking if any of the teachers were nearby. Then the bigger of the two boys grabbed Nilly’s collar and lifted him up. The other one took hold of Nilly’s legs, and then the
y carried him off toward the drinking fountain in the middle of the playground. Nilly hung there like a limp sack of flour between those two, studying a little white cloud that looked like an overfed rhinoceros up in the breathtakingly blue sky. He could hear how it got quiet around him as children joined the procession, mumbling quietly in anticipation. He watched them fight for a chance to plug the openings of the other fountains with their fingers so that only one, powerful stream of water was left, shooting almost ten feet into the air. Nilly felt himself being lifted up and could feel the cold gust of air next to the stream of water. People started cheering.

  “We christen you … ,” said the guy holding Nilly’s legs.

  “Flame Head the Pygmy,” the other said.

  “Nice one, dude!” the first one yelled. “Guess we’d better put out his flame!”

  The boys laughed so hard, it made Nilly shake up and down. Then they held him over the fountain of water, which shot Nilly right in the face, hitting his nose and mouth. He couldn’t breathe, and for a second he thought he was going to drown, but then the hands lifted him up out of the stream. Nilly looked around, at all the children near the drinking fountains and at Lisa, who was still standing by herself at the edge of the playground.

  “More, more!” the kids yelled. Nilly sighed and took a deep breath. Then they dunked him down into the water again.

  Nilly didn’t put up any opposition and didn’t say a word. He just closed his eyes and mouth. He tried to imagine he was sitting at the front of his grandfather’s motorboat with his head hanging out over the side, so the sea spray hit him in the face. Nice.

  When the boys were done, they set Nilly down again and went on their way. Nilly’s wet red hair stuck to his head, and his shoes squished. The other kids crowded around and watched, laughing at him, while Nilly pulled his T-shirt up from between the suspenders.

  “Weak drinking fountains you guys have here,” he said loudly.

  It got quiet around him. Nilly dried his face. “At Trafalgar Square in London they have a drinking fountain that shoots thirty feet straight up,” he said. “A friend of mine tried to drink from it. The water knocked out two molars and he swallowed his own braces. We saw an Italian guy get his wig knocked off when he went to take a drink.”