The Last Invention Read online

  Part 1

  The Body Builder

  I got my nickname in three distinct and horrible stages.

  In third grade my group wrote a skit about a puppy who went on a great adventure to find its favorite squeezy toy that had run away to avoid further pain. I played the puppy. I was in a group with all girls, and they dressed me up in a shaggy wig and put eye shadow on me. After that, all my friends called me “Puppy.” That name stuck for a long time.

  Last year in sixth grade I spent a lot of time trying to get people to stop calling me that. I faked an obsession with dinosaurs for most of the winter in hopes of becoming Rex or Thunder Lizard. I would even accept Triceratops. But all that happened was “Tough” got added to the beginning of my nickname. After that I dropped the dinosaur thing and accepted it. Sometimes you just have to move forward. Tough Puppy. I could handle that.

  Now I’m in Seventh grade. At the beginning of the year Mr. Greenbaum, my English teacher, was doing a lesson on capitalizing proper nouns. He told us not to capitalize “the” if it’s in the middle of a title. For example, “War of the Worlds.” (“of” doesn’t get capitalized either). But he said “the” would get capitalized if it’s at the beginning of a title. For example, he said, gesturing to me, “The Tough Puppy.” My face got warm, and I just wanted to get run over by a bulldozer right there in class. Teachers aren’t supposed to know nicknames.

  So I became “The Tough Puppy.”

  After that I lived in fear. What if I spilled salad dressing on myself at lunch? Would I become The Tough, Zesty Puppy? Where would it end? When I’m 40, The Tough, Zesty, Rich, Racecar-Driving, French-Fry-Loving, Married-With-Three-Kids, Ferrari-Owning Puppy?

  My last strategy was to form a club called TTP (The Tough Puppy initials). That way my nickname might become just TTP, kind of like when Kentucky Fried Chicken became KFC when fried food started getting a bad rep.

  I used to wonder if that new nickname would impress Melanie. She had been my math tutor since I was in fourth grade. When I last checked, our relationship was doomed because she was fifteen and I was twelve, but she thought I was cute. Little boy cute. I knew this because she often squeezed my cheek and said, “Adrian, you’re so cute!” I worried that if my nickname changed to TTP, maybe she wouldn’t think I was cute anymore—after all, it sounded like the name of a gang that wore lots of bling and had cars that bounce. On the other hand maybe she would think I was more grown up. Old enough, say, to make our relationship not so doomed. It was a tough call.

  I hadn’t had trouble with math for a long time, but I faked being stupid just to have Melanie come over and rescue me. I knew that in 2x + 4 = 8, x is equal to 2, but I would sometimes say 4 just to make Melanie feel useful. She’s a hottie. Bigtime. Even if I never became her boyfriend, the cute thing and cheek-squeezing was something. Sometimes you just have to appreciate what you have. Like I could have been a slave in ancient Greece waving a fan at some fat guy all day.

  Looking at Melanie is like looking at the sun—if you don’t turn away you’ll sneeze. My greatest dream is to kiss her perfect lips, even though doing so will probably hospitalize me with third degree burns. The Tough, Quivering, Melted, Puppy. Oh yeah, she also smells like blueberries. I think it’s a perfume or something. Sometimes when she was teaching me, I would lean near her and close my eyes for protection. It was like being in a meadow on a hot summer day.

  Now I have to tell you a big thing. I hope you’re sitting down. I don’t think I’m a bad person or anything—the worse crime I ever committed before last month was stealing a Tootsie Pop from the supermarket—but soon I might be going to jail.

  For real.

  Because of Melanie.

  There’s going to be a big trial and everything. My parents got me a lawyer that smells like cabbage. I have to talk to a psychiatrist with a big hairy mole every day, and I live in a padded room in the psychiatric ward of some prison in New York City. That’s where I’m narrating this story from. I don’t know why I’m telling you all this. Maybe you don’t even care about me. But I woke up the other day and just felt like telling my story. So here goes…

  The big stuff started about a month ago. I was cutting through the graveyard on the way home from school, like I always did. I’m not scared of graveyards like most people. I like the peace and quiet. It’s also fun to read the headstones and find out what other people’s nicknames were. Most of them are pretty boring, like Jebediah Smith—baker, and Phyliss Cooper—mother of three. But there are some good ones in there. My favorite is Ed Stone. His inscription reads, “Under this headstone lies Ed Stone. Stubborn as a rock.” That’s how I want to be remembered, so I can make people smile for eternity.

  Anyway, that day I spotted a sign taped to the chest of an armless statue. It read, “Garage Sale, 9 a.m. – 4 p.m., Caretaker’s Cottage, Bric-a-Brac, something for everyone.” Melanie wasn’t coming over until 3:30, after her debate club, so I followed the arrow on the sign down an overgrown path. I’d never noticed that trail before, probably because Mom had made me paranoid of getting bitten by ticks and getting Lyme disease. I pulled my socks over the bottom of my jeans and pushed the branches out of the way.

  Soon the trees and bushes became so thick that I lost sight of the cemetery. A maze of thorny vines grew more complex as I walked, until it completely surrounded me and formed a dark tunnel. Birds and insects scattered as my sneakers crushed decaying bits of nature. I thought about turning around—what if I was late for my meeting with Melanie? Or worse, what if I brought a tick back and, while she was teaching me, it jumped from me to her in an acrobatic leap? I would never forgive myself for ruining her perfect, healthy body.

  Just then I saw a bright light coming from the end of the tunnel. I ran toward it, ducking to avoid the clawing tree branches. I burst through a giant fern and came out onto a bright green lawn. Strange. I had never spotted that lawn before, and I had been through every inch of the cemetery. The sprawling meadow curved down into a valley, covered by perfectly cut grass. Ponds, gazebos, and waterfalls blanketed the landscape. A stone cottage sat at the base of the valley, with white smoke curling out of its chimney. A green sun sizzled overhead, making the meadow look even greener.

  Another sign read, “Yard sale. Up ahead. Knick-Knacks and Odds-and-Ends. Cheap.” I walked down the green hill toward the house, wondering how many customers had actually bothered to come all this way. I didn’t see any footprints. The hill seemed to grow steeper as I stumbled down it, and I felt like a speck in the middle of the world’s largest golf course.

  “If a boy walks through a 3 mile long meadow at 2 miles per hour, how long will it take for him to get to the garage sale?” I imagined Melanie asking me.

  “That’s easy, 1.5 hours,” I replied.

  “Oh Adrian, you’re so smart,” she said, squeezing my cheek. “Kiss me, you fool.” She pulled me close to her, and we got tangled in each other’s arms.

  Suddenly, I noticed that I was standing right before the stone cottage. Weird. I didn’t remember walking the whole way. I also noticed that the cottage was in ruins—there was no smoke coming from the chimney at all, since the fireplace was wrecked and lay in a big heap next to the house. A man wearing shorts, a tank top, and a large straw hat rocked back and forth in a rickety chair at the edge of a stone patio. He had a scraggly gray beard, and flies buzzed around him. Large blue veins zigzagged across his skin, covering every visible inch, twisting and knotting around each other. Deep canyons of wrinkles cut through the veins on his face.

  “Who were you just smoochin’ right then?” the old man asked, waving a warped cane. “Never seen a boy hug himself and kiss the air before.”

  “Nobody,” I said, my face getting warm. “Is this the garage sale?” I l
ooked around for the merchandise, but all that was scattered around the yard were muddy boxes and dark green mounds surrounded by buzzing insects.

  “Don’t see no garage,” the man said. “Even if I did, don’t think you could afford to buy it.” Suddenly, a large green pig wandered around the edge of the cottage and sniffed the ground. It began to dig a hole with its feet.

  “Well, the first sign said it was a garage sale,” I said, wondering what species of pig that was, and if it belonged to the old man. “Is this a yard sale, then?”

  The man smiled, revealing rotting brown teeth. “Ha! You couldn’t afford to buy the yard, either.” The pig jammed its snout into the hole it had dug and made snorting noises. “Oinkleberry, quit messing up the yard! This boy wants to purchase it. If you’re going to dig, at least find something for me to eat for dinner. Restless pig.”

  “Is this the caretaker’s cottage?” I asked, wondering what Mom would say if she found out I was talking to a stranger with a radioactive pig. A horrible smell wafted up from one of the green mounds, and I had to hold my nose to stop from puking. I wondered if there was more of that green stuff in the boxes that lay around.

  Rusty screws came loose from the man’s rocking chair as he swung violently back and forth. “Care? Take a good look at this cottage, boy? Does it look like anybody takes care of it? Wouldn’t you agree, Oinkleberry?” He ran his hands through his beard, causing small dead flies to fall out and land on his lap. He picked one up, pulled off the tiny wings, and casually ate it. The blue veins popping out of his hands squirmed a little whenever he bent his fingers.

  The pig grunted as it continued to dig its hole. Soon it uncovered the edge of a brown box buried in the ground. It gripped the cardboard with its teeth and tried to pull the box out, but it was stuck tightly in the Earth. The pig continued digging around the edges with its front feet.

  I thought my head was going to spin around. Melanie was probably already at my house, and here I was talking to a senile old guy with a green pig. Obviously, I was absent from school the day we learned about making good choices in Life Skills.

  “Well, is any of this crap for sale?” I asked impatiently, gesturing to the cluttered yard.

  “You couldn’t afford the poop either,” the man said, waving his cane at one of the dark green, insect-covered mounds. I suddenly made the horrible realization that those giant mounds were the pig’s droppings!

  “Ok, look, I’m sorry I bothered you, Mister,” I said, backing away. “I have to be home. I just never came down this way, and…”

  At once the green pig let out a loud “Oink,” yanked the box out of the ground, and dragged it over to the old man. He leaned down and pulled a shiny black device out of it.

  “I’m just jestin’ with ya, boy,” the man said, carefully examining the mysterious black object. He placed it back in the box and tossed it among the others. “The name’s Ricky, and this here’s my flea market.” He took off his straw hat and began scratching his gray hair wildly. He let out squeals of laughter as he swung back and forth in the rocking chair. One by one the rusty screws fell out of the chair, and then it burst apart, sending Ricky crashing to the ground in a cloud of splinters and dust. Oinkleberry waddled over and jammed its snout into Ricky’s face. The pig licked his blue veins until they were moist and shiny.

  “Really, Sir, I mean, uh, Ricky,” I stuttered. “I have to go. I shouldn’t be talking to strangers.” I glanced at my watch. 3:45. Melanie was not going to be happy. She had been getting mad at me a lot lately, and this wasn’t going to help. I should have just picked a rose in the cemetery and sprinted home. I would have to pout up a storm to make her forgive me.

  “I guess there aren’t many stranger than me,” Ricky said, sitting up. “Tell me, how much money you got, anyway? Maybe I can find something for ya, after all. This here’s really a moving sale, by the way, since you seem so interested in names.”

  “Where are you moving to?”

  “Don’t’ know. Wherever our business takes us. Probably near another one of them caves.” He pointed to a dark cave mouth cut into a hillside at the edge of the meadow. Strange. I hadn’t noticed it before. When I stared at it, I felt like a gravitational force was pulling me toward it. The cave seemed to grow larger, until I couldn’t see anything but the black, swirling cave mouth. And there was a groan. A deep, long wail from the darkness, which sounded like all the monsters in the world rolled into one.

  Ricky slammed his cane against the ground and brought me back to reality. “Didn’t your mother never tell you not to stare at caves too long? Now how much you got, out with it!”

  “I have a dollar,” I said, holding out a crinkly bill in my shaking hand. What did it matter if I had a hundred dollars? The guy was obviously nuts. But Ricky stood up, brushed himself off, and grabbed the bill before I could put it away.

  “Pick a box,” he said, pointing to the dozens of cardboard containers that lay scattered around. “It’s almost closing time, so this is your lucky day.”

  Curious, I reached down and picked up one of the muddy boxes. I undid the flap and noticed a shiny pen inside, covered with strange buttons and flashing lights. I cautiously lifted it out of the box, but just when I was about to press one of the buttons, Oinkleberry let out a loud “Oink,” leapt high in the air, and snatched the pen out of my hand with its mouth.

  “Oinkleberry says that one’s not for sale,” Ricky said calmly.

  The pig waddled over to the box it had recently dug out of the ground and pushed it over to me with its snout. I reached down and opened the box flap. I got a closer look at the shiny black device that Ricky had handled earlier. It looked like a cross between the cell phone that my parents won’t let me get, and the Playstation Portable that they didn’t buy me last Christmas. The bubble letters “The Body Builder” were scrawled across its shiny plastic case.

  “Good choice,” Ricky said, handing me a small piece of paper. “Here’s your receipt.”

  “Well, I gotta go,” I said, jamming the paper into my pocket. “Thanks for the deal. Good luck with moving and everything.”

  “Tell all your friends about us,” Ricky said. “Oinkleberry, how about some lemonade to celebrate our second sale? That’s right, honey, you earned us another dollar!” The pig bleated wildly and rolled around in the grass.

  At about the same moment the old crusty guy referred to his smelly green pig as “honey,” I booked away from that moving sale with all the power my body could muster. I hiked back across the huge lawn and through the dark path, until I was safely back in the cemetery. Holding the box in one hand and my backpack in the other, I sprinted home, hoping Melanie wouldn’t be too angry with me. What a strange afternoon! A mysterious old guy, a green pig, a cottage that has a cozy fire one minute, and is wrecked the next. A dark cave. Had I stumbled into the Twilight Zone?

  When I got home that day, Melanie was sitting at the kitchen table wearing a pink mini-skirt and sipping tea. Her golden brightness filled the whole room. My legs instantly felt weak. Goddesses have that effect on people—it’s so you’ll kneel down in front of them. Last year I read in a mythology book that a human boy named Ganymede was brought up to Mount Olympus to be cupbearer to the Greek gods, pouring nectar and ambrosia into their golden chalices for eternity. I would so be Ganymede for Melanie.

  “Do you want me to pour you some more tea?” I asked.

  “Adrian, where have you been?” she questioned, turning around and slamming her teacup down. “Why are you kneeling?”

  I put the cardboard box and my book bag on the ground and shoved them over to the wall. Then I forced myself up and limped over to Melanie. I didn’t look her in the face. Too risky. I just sat down and bowed my head. “Sorry.”

  “I’ve been sitting here for half an hour waiting for you!”

  “I lost track of time in the cemetery. I didn’t change my watch for daylight savings time.” She reached over and pulled my sleeve up a little and looked at my watch.
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br />   I knew she would do that.

  “Your watch is right, Adrian. You know I’m going to have to tell your mom about this. You’re lucky she didn’t call. Why won’t you look at me?” She reached over and turned my head so I would face her.

  I knew she would do that too.

  She looked me right in the eye, which was a big mistake. It made me sneeze. All over her.

  “Adrian!” My heart raced as I shot to my feet and got a tissue. I tried to dab the gook off her face, but she just grabbed the tissue and cleaned herself. Smooth Adrian. Real smooth.

  “Sorry.”

  “Just sit down and let’s get to work. I don’t know why you can’t look at me without sneezing. It’s very insulting. I can’t go through this every time I come over here.”

  I sat down and stared at the textbook while she rambled on about the algebra that I already knew. Did she mean that she was thinking about quitting? I couldn’t handle that. An hour went by, and then I got up enough courage to ask her the question I had been practicing for weeks. It was now or never.

  “Melanie, do you want to get a cup of coffee some time?” I learned that line from TV. It’s a pickup line. Like, “Do you want to come back to my place and watch Oprah.” Only I’m already home so I can’t use that one.

  “Do you drink coffee?” she asked.

  “No.”

  “Neither do I, so what would be the point?”

  “Do you want to watch Oprah?”

  “Adrian, your mom isn’t paying me to watch TV or drink coffee.”

  She wasn’t getting the picture.

  “Melanie, would you ever consider, y’know, being my girlfriend.” I came right out with it. My face got really warm, but I looked her right in the eyes without sneezing. The perfect blueness mesmerized me, until one of my contact lenses dried up and fell out. But I didn’t care. I had said it.

  “Oh Adrian, you’re so cute,” she said, squeezing my cheek really hard. “But you’re 12. You’re just a little boy. I’m fifteen. Our relationship would be inappropriate.”