------
Author's Note:
This fanfic has been written for MissWindy's Everwood Trek Title Challenge. Have a look at panfandom.com for more information. It is a one- shot, so do not expect any sort of sequel, second chapter, or further update. Instead, just read it, review it, and enjoy it.
It was written after reading 'The Long, Dark Tea-Time of the Soul,' by Douglas Adams, so it has a more whimsical bent than most of my writing. My apologies in advance for those put off by the abrupt change in style; it surprised the hell out of me too.
For those who have been attempting to keep in contact with me, my dridus.com e-mail has been inaccessible for a few months. Please send any personal messages to my backup address: darklordaran@yahoo.com
Cheers, folks.
Jack B. Nimble
Disclaimer:
Despite my best efforts, I still do not own the characters from 'Everwood.' Believe me, it's not for lack of trying. If the WB and Mr. Berlanti have a problem with my usage, I remind them in advance that I am poor; tearing up several thousand dollars in cash would be less effort than taking me to court.
If they decide to sue, however, and the litigation goes against me then I am fully willing to work off the settlement as an indentured servant to Gregory Smith.
------
Eventually, after months of inquiry and investigation, it would be determined that the utter destruction of the gymnasium at Peak County High School in the spring of 2004 was the result of a bizarre set of circumstances involving no less than three very surprised teenagers as well as two thoroughly incompetent adults, none of whom had the slightest idea that their small, unassuming contributions to the Tri-County Invention and Technology Show would initiate events that would end up on the front page of every big-city newspaper from Los Angeles to Boston, with the sole exception of the Denver Tribune, which was far too busy covering an exposé of the local air-quality index to notice the massive fireball off to their northwest.
Local residents, however, accepted it with their usual resignation and went about their business with hardly a second thought.
"You have a question about the tech show, Ephram?"
Ephram lowered his hand as the entire student body of Chemistry, Fourth Period, swiveled around to look at him. He didn't take offense at this herd-like gesture for two reasons: after a year-and-a-half of country life, he was still the new kid in town and he sat in the back row. Simple as that.
"Yeah," he said as he slouched in his chair. "Is this mandatory?"
Had an alien from outer space chosen at that moment to land on Earth and look through the second-floor classroom window at that exact moment, it might have come to the conclusion that a tennis match was taking place inside. Without rackets. Or a ball, for that matter.
Mr. Barnhardt, a short, bug-eyed man in his late fifties, marveled at the fact that it was only the second week of September and already he wished he'd gone into dentistry, as his mother had wanted. Standing up, he walked around his desk and paced back and forth in front of the class, most of which was tracking his movements with the vacant stares more commonly seen on deer illuminated by headlights.
"Yes Ephram, it is not only mandatory, it's a third of your final grade," he said as patiently as he could. He resisted the urge to turn around and look pointedly at the chalkboard where he'd written that exact information. It was an effort, but thirty years of teaching had trained him to conceal his true emotions. It was a matter of survival, you see. Showing weakness in front of high school students was not conducive to one's health and/or career.
Barnhardt looked around at the assorted teens in his class. Obviously this was going to require verbal reinforcement. He cleared his throat and leaned against his desk.
"Again: each of you has the choice of either creating an informational display or an interactive diorama for the show on the subject of chemistry as pertaining to invention. You will be graded on presentation as well as accuracy, but failure to participate will earn you a failing mark for one-third your grade," Barnhardt said, taking care to talk slowly and enunciate properly. When no one moved, he continued: "I have photo albums of past entries for those of you who would like inspiration; see me after class if interested."
He raised an eyebrow at Ephram, who nodded slightly as though in understanding. Good. At least he'd managed to get through to one of the students. That brought his daily total up to perhaps four. Not too shabby, considering it was before lunch.
"Hey, Brown!"
Ephram rolled his eyes as Wendell's voice cut through the cafeteria chatter. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn't get rid of that skinny little geek.
"Hello, Wendell," he mumbled tonelessly as the other boy slid onto the empty bench opposite him. It would be nice, just once, to have lunch without the school dork seated across from him. Might as well wish for the moon, though.
Ephram bent over his tray, concentrating on the rubbery, vaguely pasta-like gunk that fat guy behind the counter had slopped onto his plate. It was all right, he supposed, so long as he didn't think about what macaroni-and-cheese was supposed to taste like. The fact that the sauce had only a nodding acquaintance with the colour yellow was mildly disturbing, but could be safely ignored.
Wendell, never one to take a hint, started talking immediately. "Man, I can't wait for April, can you? Have you decided on a project yet? I'm thinking something spectacular or daring, myself. Black powder, maybe, or perhaps C-4. That'd be keen!"
There was a pause followed by a moist chugging noise; a moment later, Wendell slammed an empty milk carton on the table like a shot glass and continued as though he'd never slowed down. Ephram didn't bother looking up. He'd grown used his tablemate's foibles long before. Not necessarily comfortable, but Wendell's eating habits didn't surprise him any longer.
"Nah, too explosive," Wendell was saying. "The principal'd probably skin me alive. Maybe something a little more mundane, like nasal spray or Bakelite instead. I'm pretty sure I can come up with something exciting and safe at the same time."
Another pause.
"Ephram?"
Ephram looked up, belatedly realizing that Wendell had finished talking. He set down his fork and took a long swig of Pepsi before answering. The soda reacted harshly with the mutant macaroni somewhere in his middle and he had to stifle a belch before answering.
"Yeah, sounds great. Really...uh. Keen," he said, reaching for the can of soda again. His stomach was working hard to squelch the dispute between the Pepsi and his lunch and seemed to be winning; he decided to risk another mouthful. The macaroni had some sort of nasty aftertaste that not only wasn't going away, but was apparently setting up camp.
Wendell grinned at him suddenly, digging into his own tray of cafeteria fodder. Ephram considered warning him off the macaroni, but dismissed that idea out of hand. Maybe he'd shut up once he tasted it.
No such luck. "So what'll you do for the TITS?" the other kid asked between bites of something watery and chartreuse. Ephram dragged his eyes off the alleged food and looked blankly at Wendell. Surely he hadn't heard that right.
"For what?" he asked.
"TITS. Tri-County Invention and Tech Show."
"Oh," Ephram said. So much for that fantasy. "I dunno. Probably something boring compared to yours."
A familiar sound cut through his thoughts and he glanced over his shoulder, lip curled in disgust. Bright Abbot had a laugh like a tubercular horse. At least he was across the room. Ephram chuckled. Did he hear that right? Bright was going to do an interactive diorama about soap? He ducked his head, hiding his grin.
Man, how dull can you get?
Winter came and went as it usually does, unless one happens to be an Eskimo (or otherwise occupied north of the Arctic Circle) in which case it came and went an awful lot quicker than one would be accustomed to.
Springtime, Ephram noted, was a pain in the behind sometimes. After spending most of the ghastly winter indoors with various and sundry sprains thanks to Amy's ineffectual attempts at teaching him to ice skate, he found it difficult to concentrate anything requiring more than a handful of brain cells. It was actually hard to get moving sometimes, as though he'd settled into a vegetative state or hibernation or something.
Basically, winters in Colorado (with snow up to the eyeballs six days out of seven) made him lazy.
Unfortunately for Ephram, springtime came later in the mountains than it did on the East Coast. By the time April rolled around, there were still several feet of snow piled up in drifts, though at least it was starting to melt.
He looked down, rather proudly, at his contribution to the technology fair: a very detailed model of a skyscraper. The building itself, while impressive in it's own right, was not the point of the model. The gunpowder that was concealed inside: that was the point.
You see, Ephram had been subjected to several months of listening to Wendell going on and on and on about his 'really nifty' diorama in which he'd built a working model of a combustion engine completely out of Saran Wrap and aluminum foil. It certainly sounded impressive considering that not only was the gasoline a product of chemistry but the Saran Wrap and the aluminum foil were as well. By Christmas, Ephram had decided to go his friend (a term as loose as a veteran streetwalker) one better and produce a working model of a demolition site.
It had taken Ephram nearly three months to carve the Woolworth Building out of polymer modeling clay and bake the individual pieces. Another several days were devoted to painting and detailing the thing, which stood about three feet tall, and a further week or so to put the finishing touches on the surrounding lot.
Everyone around the Brown house pitched in, too. Nina had been the one to show him how to form and bake the clay so that it was textured exactly like concrete and steel. Delia collected lichen and moss from the trees in the neighborhood so Ephram could have realistic-looking grass and trees surrounding the building. Even Andy got into the act; he picked up a hammer, wood, and fiberglass to make a safe viewing box so that people could view the detonation from a close distance without being sprayed with fragments of the building. And that was his contribution to the conflagration that engulfed the gymnasium. Certain types of fiberglass, it seemed, were quite flammable. Others are very brittle. Andy had the poor luck to choose one that was both.
The end result was a finely detailed model of a venerable skyscraper with a very detailed explanation of explosives through the ages and how the refinement of such allows for creative control over demolition attached to the front panel. Ephram was quite satisfied with the outcome, but not quite finished.
After the model was completed, he gently lifted the roof off the building and peered inside. The interior of the model was an intricate web of lines and braces, set up to collapse under predetermined conditions. Ephram smirked and carefully - very carefully - took apart several M-80s and, salvaging not only the gunpowder but also the detonator cables, wired the whole model to explode.
When the Tri-County judges, including that freakishly creepy Mr. Barnhardt, came around to inspect his display, he'd squeeze the detonator. If his calculations were correct (as it turned out, they were; unfortunately, however, no one would ever get a chance to see) then the building would collapse inwardly in a stunning simulation of how Dow Chemical made skyscraper demolition a snap.
Ephram shivered as he slipped out of the SUV. A muffled click at the rear of the vehicle let him know that his father had popped the trunk. Blowing on his hands, he stepped through a cloud of exhaust and opened the hatch.
"You need help with that?" Andy asked from the front seat. Before Ephram could answer, he unbuckled his belt and started to open the door. "Hang on," he said, "and I'll be right out."
"No, I've got it," Ephram grunted as he muscled the bulky stand out of the trunk. "Stay in here and keep the engine running."
Andy didn't object. For all it was springtime in the Rockies, it still got beastly cold at night and tonight was no different. At least the weather was supposed to be good for the exposition the next day. A couple thousand people were expected for the show and cold weather would make for a poor showing. Ephram slammed the hatch and picked up the box-like table containing his model. Once he had it upright, it wasn't so awkward to carry. With a heave, he started slogging up the steps to the gym. A gust of warm air wrapped around him and he peeked around the end of the model-box.
"Holy cow, Brown," Wendell said with a smirk. He was holding the doors open, which made Ephram inclined to be slightly more civil than usual. "You made that yourself?"
"More or less," he panted as he passed into the building.
Wendell followed him into the gymnasium, where Mr. Barnhardt was directing kids about like Wellington at Waterloo. The teacher looked up and scowled. Not at Ephram, but at his arrival with yet another large, bulky object. It seemed that the other three high schools participating in the show had already unloaded their exhibits in the gym - there was hardly room to move without bumping into boxes and posters and displays of all sorts.
"Where do you want this, Mr. Barnhardt?" he asked politely. His arms were starting to shake from the strain of hugging the box, but he did his best not to let it show. The chemistry teacher looked around in dismay.
"Bother. Go set it in that corner, I suppose. See me tomorrow morning and I'll let you know where the final location will be." The small man dismissed him and turned around to shout at one of the football players who had been assigned to assist him. Ephram decided to drop off his building and get out of there before Barnhardt decided to rope him into helping.
He worked his way through the room, noting in the back of his mind that Wendell was still following him. When he finally set the table down and stretched his arms, he glanced over at the scrawny nerd.
"What?" he asked as Wendell leaned over for a closer look.
"Man, that is groovy. What's your project about, anyway?"
Ephram had set down his display with the information side turned to the heating duct on the wall to protect the lettering. Apparently the other boy hadn't noticed. "You'll see tomorrow," he said with just a hint of smugness.
Wendell nodded and pointed over Ephram's shoulder. "That's mine, behind you."
Wow. He hadn't been kidding. Plastic wrap and tinfoil and...
"Is that a propane tank?"
"Sure is," Wendell said with note of pride in his voice. "It's an inexpensive one. Very thin metal, but it works. I rigged it to put out gasoline. There's ten gallons in that sucker and I think it'll make my engine run all day. See that switch?" He tapped a large, red button on the front of his display.
Ephram nodded. The switch was rather hard to miss. Not only was it the size of a silver dollar, but it was also labeled 'Start.'
"I modeled it on the old Duryea horseless carriages of the late 1890's. It's a starter button. Just press and go, man." The grin on his face lit up the room. Ephram could tell that Wendell was seriously into this whole invention thing. No surprise, though. Wasn't Edison a geek in school? Or was that Ford?
He shook his head, clearing that idea from his mind as he remembered that his father was waiting outside with the SUV running. Skirting around Wendell, he started for the door. "I'll see you tomorrow, Wendell."
"Night, E."
Ephram rolled his eyes at the nickname and nearly tripped over a jug of something that sloshed. With a muffled curse, he looked down at the squat plastic barrel of liquid at his feet. The label said it belonged to Bright? Interesting. He bent down to look and smirked. Laundry detergent. So idiot-boy went through with it after all.
With a smile on his face, he left the building.
Mr. Barnhardt looked around the gym and ran a hand through his hair. It was after eight in the evening and he was anxious to get out of the school where he'd been since early that morning. It was a Friday night, after all, and he had a date with Irene Billingsworth, that charming vocal music teacher. Lovely woman. A bit large, perhaps, but that was to be expected. Irene had once sung in the opera at Carnegie Hall, after all.
His student assistants had all left the building within the last hour or so, leaving him alone in the empty school. Truth to tell, there wasn't much left to do with the layout. Certainly nothing that couldn't wait until morning. With a final glance around the large room, he flicked the lights out and left for his date, whistling tunelessly as he went along.
Sometime after midnight, according to Rocky Mountain Power and Light, the venerable heating system kicked in and almost immediately shut off. This caused a slight spike in the power grid since the school is a rather large building, but the grid was able to compensate in less time that it took to read this sentence. Since power fluctuation is normal, especially in older buildings such as the high school, nothing was noted as out of the ordinary.
When the school went up in flames less than an hour later the blaze was immediately spotted by no less than thirty-eight people, including Gilbert Finsterman, the night operator of the county emergency services hotline (e.g. 911) who had stepped out of the sheriff's office to walk across the street to the Texaco station for a cup of that newfangled espresso coffee the station carried and had just exited the building when the night was lit by a surprisingly large fireball just over the horizon.
Mr. Finsterman, unfortunately, had locked himself out of the office.
It took the old man nearly twenty minutes to think of calling the fire department direct from the pay telephone at the gas station, by which time it was too late for the gym and, indeed, for the student projects inside.
And those are the verifiable facts as best as can be told. Everything else is pure conjecture.
As near as anyone can tell, what happened next was this: the heating system, which was as old as the building, kicked in as normal for a chilly spring night. And shorted out. Presumably, the short caused the cardboard information poster on Ephram's exhibit to ignite, which in turn lit the now- dried moss and lichen, which in turn ignited the former firecracker powder, which caused the building to explode. The model building, not the gym.
The explosion, of which Ephram would have been quite proud, did what it was supposed to and fragments of the modeled clay building clattered against the fiberglass as the clay model slowly collapsed in on itself. The fiberglass, already weakened and, on one side of the display, burning shattered and ignited. One piece of clay or fiberglass managed to land precisely on the starter button of the ingenious engine that Wendell had created, kicking the little quarter-horsepower motor into gear and starting the flow of gasoline into the machinery, adding a rather loud growling noise to the crackling of fire.
The Woolworth fire burned merrily.
A second piece of fiberglass, with a sharp edge, shot out and neatly sliced through the huge jug containing Bright's project. The bottle immediately started chugging its contents out onto the floor in a steadily widening puddle. Later forensics would indicate that Bright had duped the chemistry teacher; the liquid turned out to be Tide With Colour-Safe Bleach rather than anything handmade. The Woolworth fire blazed higher and merrier than a frat brother on a panty raid.
A third and, one assumes, final shard of fiberglass shot out and pierced the cheaply-made tank underneath the Wendell's Saran Wrap engine. Gasoline (high-test, to be exact) started pouring out rapidly, turning the floor into a nastily sticky swamp of fuel and suds.
The Woolworth fire died out.
It should have ended there, with a tremendous mess on the floor of the gymnasium and the loss of three projects, two of which were well built. Unfortunately, it didn't.
Remember that Andy, the poor misguided man, had helped Ephram build the display case for his little pyrotechnic model. Andy Brown. The Great Doctor Brown. Notice the people do not call him The Great Carpenter Brown, or The Great Cabinetmaker Brown, or even (at the very least) The Regrettably-Mediocre-But-Still-Capable-of-Working-Wood-Properly Brown.
In short, there was a reason that Ephram had a repairman on speed dial in case of emergency.
The Woolworth fire died out.
And Andy's contribution, the wooden display cabinet, collapsed like a drunken sailor, falling forward into the clever motor which had taken Wendell the entire winter to craft out of plastic wrap and metal cooking foil and knocked it off the flimsy propane tank, coming to rest in the centre of that noxious puddle of gasoline and Tide With Colour-Safe Bleach where an ember tumbled off the remnants of the Woolworth Building's parking garage (or possibly the thirtieth-story balcony) and set the foul-smelling slime alight.
It's fairly well-known in certain circles that gasoline (or any refined fuel, really) and liquid detergent make a very passable sort of homemade napalm if combined in the right quantities and set on fire, and that is precisely what happened.
The quasi-napalm, in turn, set fire to everything in a fifteen-foot radius, most of which was conveniently occupied by cardboard and poster- board information displays or wooden dioramas. Some even had paint or oils or other flammable substances, which only made the fire burn brighter. This radius expanded rapidly to the walls, against which rested the bleachers. The wooden bleachers. The old, seasoned, wooden bleachers.
They burned quite nicely, according to the County Fire Department.
The fire was eventually put out, but the damage was done. There was no Tri-County Invention and Technology Show in Everwood that year. Nor did the Miners play any home games in their own court until the new wing was completed later that fall. People remember that springtime as one of the more exciting over the years, but nothing special.
Life, as they say, goes on.
Author's Note:
This fanfic has been written for MissWindy's Everwood Trek Title Challenge. Have a look at panfandom.com for more information. It is a one- shot, so do not expect any sort of sequel, second chapter, or further update. Instead, just read it, review it, and enjoy it.
It was written after reading 'The Long, Dark Tea-Time of the Soul,' by Douglas Adams, so it has a more whimsical bent than most of my writing. My apologies in advance for those put off by the abrupt change in style; it surprised the hell out of me too.
For those who have been attempting to keep in contact with me, my dridus.com e-mail has been inaccessible for a few months. Please send any personal messages to my backup address: darklordaran@yahoo.com
Cheers, folks.
Jack B. Nimble
Disclaimer:
Despite my best efforts, I still do not own the characters from 'Everwood.' Believe me, it's not for lack of trying. If the WB and Mr. Berlanti have a problem with my usage, I remind them in advance that I am poor; tearing up several thousand dollars in cash would be less effort than taking me to court.
If they decide to sue, however, and the litigation goes against me then I am fully willing to work off the settlement as an indentured servant to Gregory Smith.
------
Eventually, after months of inquiry and investigation, it would be determined that the utter destruction of the gymnasium at Peak County High School in the spring of 2004 was the result of a bizarre set of circumstances involving no less than three very surprised teenagers as well as two thoroughly incompetent adults, none of whom had the slightest idea that their small, unassuming contributions to the Tri-County Invention and Technology Show would initiate events that would end up on the front page of every big-city newspaper from Los Angeles to Boston, with the sole exception of the Denver Tribune, which was far too busy covering an exposé of the local air-quality index to notice the massive fireball off to their northwest.
Local residents, however, accepted it with their usual resignation and went about their business with hardly a second thought.
"You have a question about the tech show, Ephram?"
Ephram lowered his hand as the entire student body of Chemistry, Fourth Period, swiveled around to look at him. He didn't take offense at this herd-like gesture for two reasons: after a year-and-a-half of country life, he was still the new kid in town and he sat in the back row. Simple as that.
"Yeah," he said as he slouched in his chair. "Is this mandatory?"
Had an alien from outer space chosen at that moment to land on Earth and look through the second-floor classroom window at that exact moment, it might have come to the conclusion that a tennis match was taking place inside. Without rackets. Or a ball, for that matter.
Mr. Barnhardt, a short, bug-eyed man in his late fifties, marveled at the fact that it was only the second week of September and already he wished he'd gone into dentistry, as his mother had wanted. Standing up, he walked around his desk and paced back and forth in front of the class, most of which was tracking his movements with the vacant stares more commonly seen on deer illuminated by headlights.
"Yes Ephram, it is not only mandatory, it's a third of your final grade," he said as patiently as he could. He resisted the urge to turn around and look pointedly at the chalkboard where he'd written that exact information. It was an effort, but thirty years of teaching had trained him to conceal his true emotions. It was a matter of survival, you see. Showing weakness in front of high school students was not conducive to one's health and/or career.
Barnhardt looked around at the assorted teens in his class. Obviously this was going to require verbal reinforcement. He cleared his throat and leaned against his desk.
"Again: each of you has the choice of either creating an informational display or an interactive diorama for the show on the subject of chemistry as pertaining to invention. You will be graded on presentation as well as accuracy, but failure to participate will earn you a failing mark for one-third your grade," Barnhardt said, taking care to talk slowly and enunciate properly. When no one moved, he continued: "I have photo albums of past entries for those of you who would like inspiration; see me after class if interested."
He raised an eyebrow at Ephram, who nodded slightly as though in understanding. Good. At least he'd managed to get through to one of the students. That brought his daily total up to perhaps four. Not too shabby, considering it was before lunch.
"Hey, Brown!"
Ephram rolled his eyes as Wendell's voice cut through the cafeteria chatter. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn't get rid of that skinny little geek.
"Hello, Wendell," he mumbled tonelessly as the other boy slid onto the empty bench opposite him. It would be nice, just once, to have lunch without the school dork seated across from him. Might as well wish for the moon, though.
Ephram bent over his tray, concentrating on the rubbery, vaguely pasta-like gunk that fat guy behind the counter had slopped onto his plate. It was all right, he supposed, so long as he didn't think about what macaroni-and-cheese was supposed to taste like. The fact that the sauce had only a nodding acquaintance with the colour yellow was mildly disturbing, but could be safely ignored.
Wendell, never one to take a hint, started talking immediately. "Man, I can't wait for April, can you? Have you decided on a project yet? I'm thinking something spectacular or daring, myself. Black powder, maybe, or perhaps C-4. That'd be keen!"
There was a pause followed by a moist chugging noise; a moment later, Wendell slammed an empty milk carton on the table like a shot glass and continued as though he'd never slowed down. Ephram didn't bother looking up. He'd grown used his tablemate's foibles long before. Not necessarily comfortable, but Wendell's eating habits didn't surprise him any longer.
"Nah, too explosive," Wendell was saying. "The principal'd probably skin me alive. Maybe something a little more mundane, like nasal spray or Bakelite instead. I'm pretty sure I can come up with something exciting and safe at the same time."
Another pause.
"Ephram?"
Ephram looked up, belatedly realizing that Wendell had finished talking. He set down his fork and took a long swig of Pepsi before answering. The soda reacted harshly with the mutant macaroni somewhere in his middle and he had to stifle a belch before answering.
"Yeah, sounds great. Really...uh. Keen," he said, reaching for the can of soda again. His stomach was working hard to squelch the dispute between the Pepsi and his lunch and seemed to be winning; he decided to risk another mouthful. The macaroni had some sort of nasty aftertaste that not only wasn't going away, but was apparently setting up camp.
Wendell grinned at him suddenly, digging into his own tray of cafeteria fodder. Ephram considered warning him off the macaroni, but dismissed that idea out of hand. Maybe he'd shut up once he tasted it.
No such luck. "So what'll you do for the TITS?" the other kid asked between bites of something watery and chartreuse. Ephram dragged his eyes off the alleged food and looked blankly at Wendell. Surely he hadn't heard that right.
"For what?" he asked.
"TITS. Tri-County Invention and Tech Show."
"Oh," Ephram said. So much for that fantasy. "I dunno. Probably something boring compared to yours."
A familiar sound cut through his thoughts and he glanced over his shoulder, lip curled in disgust. Bright Abbot had a laugh like a tubercular horse. At least he was across the room. Ephram chuckled. Did he hear that right? Bright was going to do an interactive diorama about soap? He ducked his head, hiding his grin.
Man, how dull can you get?
Winter came and went as it usually does, unless one happens to be an Eskimo (or otherwise occupied north of the Arctic Circle) in which case it came and went an awful lot quicker than one would be accustomed to.
Springtime, Ephram noted, was a pain in the behind sometimes. After spending most of the ghastly winter indoors with various and sundry sprains thanks to Amy's ineffectual attempts at teaching him to ice skate, he found it difficult to concentrate anything requiring more than a handful of brain cells. It was actually hard to get moving sometimes, as though he'd settled into a vegetative state or hibernation or something.
Basically, winters in Colorado (with snow up to the eyeballs six days out of seven) made him lazy.
Unfortunately for Ephram, springtime came later in the mountains than it did on the East Coast. By the time April rolled around, there were still several feet of snow piled up in drifts, though at least it was starting to melt.
He looked down, rather proudly, at his contribution to the technology fair: a very detailed model of a skyscraper. The building itself, while impressive in it's own right, was not the point of the model. The gunpowder that was concealed inside: that was the point.
You see, Ephram had been subjected to several months of listening to Wendell going on and on and on about his 'really nifty' diorama in which he'd built a working model of a combustion engine completely out of Saran Wrap and aluminum foil. It certainly sounded impressive considering that not only was the gasoline a product of chemistry but the Saran Wrap and the aluminum foil were as well. By Christmas, Ephram had decided to go his friend (a term as loose as a veteran streetwalker) one better and produce a working model of a demolition site.
It had taken Ephram nearly three months to carve the Woolworth Building out of polymer modeling clay and bake the individual pieces. Another several days were devoted to painting and detailing the thing, which stood about three feet tall, and a further week or so to put the finishing touches on the surrounding lot.
Everyone around the Brown house pitched in, too. Nina had been the one to show him how to form and bake the clay so that it was textured exactly like concrete and steel. Delia collected lichen and moss from the trees in the neighborhood so Ephram could have realistic-looking grass and trees surrounding the building. Even Andy got into the act; he picked up a hammer, wood, and fiberglass to make a safe viewing box so that people could view the detonation from a close distance without being sprayed with fragments of the building. And that was his contribution to the conflagration that engulfed the gymnasium. Certain types of fiberglass, it seemed, were quite flammable. Others are very brittle. Andy had the poor luck to choose one that was both.
The end result was a finely detailed model of a venerable skyscraper with a very detailed explanation of explosives through the ages and how the refinement of such allows for creative control over demolition attached to the front panel. Ephram was quite satisfied with the outcome, but not quite finished.
After the model was completed, he gently lifted the roof off the building and peered inside. The interior of the model was an intricate web of lines and braces, set up to collapse under predetermined conditions. Ephram smirked and carefully - very carefully - took apart several M-80s and, salvaging not only the gunpowder but also the detonator cables, wired the whole model to explode.
When the Tri-County judges, including that freakishly creepy Mr. Barnhardt, came around to inspect his display, he'd squeeze the detonator. If his calculations were correct (as it turned out, they were; unfortunately, however, no one would ever get a chance to see) then the building would collapse inwardly in a stunning simulation of how Dow Chemical made skyscraper demolition a snap.
Ephram shivered as he slipped out of the SUV. A muffled click at the rear of the vehicle let him know that his father had popped the trunk. Blowing on his hands, he stepped through a cloud of exhaust and opened the hatch.
"You need help with that?" Andy asked from the front seat. Before Ephram could answer, he unbuckled his belt and started to open the door. "Hang on," he said, "and I'll be right out."
"No, I've got it," Ephram grunted as he muscled the bulky stand out of the trunk. "Stay in here and keep the engine running."
Andy didn't object. For all it was springtime in the Rockies, it still got beastly cold at night and tonight was no different. At least the weather was supposed to be good for the exposition the next day. A couple thousand people were expected for the show and cold weather would make for a poor showing. Ephram slammed the hatch and picked up the box-like table containing his model. Once he had it upright, it wasn't so awkward to carry. With a heave, he started slogging up the steps to the gym. A gust of warm air wrapped around him and he peeked around the end of the model-box.
"Holy cow, Brown," Wendell said with a smirk. He was holding the doors open, which made Ephram inclined to be slightly more civil than usual. "You made that yourself?"
"More or less," he panted as he passed into the building.
Wendell followed him into the gymnasium, where Mr. Barnhardt was directing kids about like Wellington at Waterloo. The teacher looked up and scowled. Not at Ephram, but at his arrival with yet another large, bulky object. It seemed that the other three high schools participating in the show had already unloaded their exhibits in the gym - there was hardly room to move without bumping into boxes and posters and displays of all sorts.
"Where do you want this, Mr. Barnhardt?" he asked politely. His arms were starting to shake from the strain of hugging the box, but he did his best not to let it show. The chemistry teacher looked around in dismay.
"Bother. Go set it in that corner, I suppose. See me tomorrow morning and I'll let you know where the final location will be." The small man dismissed him and turned around to shout at one of the football players who had been assigned to assist him. Ephram decided to drop off his building and get out of there before Barnhardt decided to rope him into helping.
He worked his way through the room, noting in the back of his mind that Wendell was still following him. When he finally set the table down and stretched his arms, he glanced over at the scrawny nerd.
"What?" he asked as Wendell leaned over for a closer look.
"Man, that is groovy. What's your project about, anyway?"
Ephram had set down his display with the information side turned to the heating duct on the wall to protect the lettering. Apparently the other boy hadn't noticed. "You'll see tomorrow," he said with just a hint of smugness.
Wendell nodded and pointed over Ephram's shoulder. "That's mine, behind you."
Wow. He hadn't been kidding. Plastic wrap and tinfoil and...
"Is that a propane tank?"
"Sure is," Wendell said with note of pride in his voice. "It's an inexpensive one. Very thin metal, but it works. I rigged it to put out gasoline. There's ten gallons in that sucker and I think it'll make my engine run all day. See that switch?" He tapped a large, red button on the front of his display.
Ephram nodded. The switch was rather hard to miss. Not only was it the size of a silver dollar, but it was also labeled 'Start.'
"I modeled it on the old Duryea horseless carriages of the late 1890's. It's a starter button. Just press and go, man." The grin on his face lit up the room. Ephram could tell that Wendell was seriously into this whole invention thing. No surprise, though. Wasn't Edison a geek in school? Or was that Ford?
He shook his head, clearing that idea from his mind as he remembered that his father was waiting outside with the SUV running. Skirting around Wendell, he started for the door. "I'll see you tomorrow, Wendell."
"Night, E."
Ephram rolled his eyes at the nickname and nearly tripped over a jug of something that sloshed. With a muffled curse, he looked down at the squat plastic barrel of liquid at his feet. The label said it belonged to Bright? Interesting. He bent down to look and smirked. Laundry detergent. So idiot-boy went through with it after all.
With a smile on his face, he left the building.
Mr. Barnhardt looked around the gym and ran a hand through his hair. It was after eight in the evening and he was anxious to get out of the school where he'd been since early that morning. It was a Friday night, after all, and he had a date with Irene Billingsworth, that charming vocal music teacher. Lovely woman. A bit large, perhaps, but that was to be expected. Irene had once sung in the opera at Carnegie Hall, after all.
His student assistants had all left the building within the last hour or so, leaving him alone in the empty school. Truth to tell, there wasn't much left to do with the layout. Certainly nothing that couldn't wait until morning. With a final glance around the large room, he flicked the lights out and left for his date, whistling tunelessly as he went along.
Sometime after midnight, according to Rocky Mountain Power and Light, the venerable heating system kicked in and almost immediately shut off. This caused a slight spike in the power grid since the school is a rather large building, but the grid was able to compensate in less time that it took to read this sentence. Since power fluctuation is normal, especially in older buildings such as the high school, nothing was noted as out of the ordinary.
When the school went up in flames less than an hour later the blaze was immediately spotted by no less than thirty-eight people, including Gilbert Finsterman, the night operator of the county emergency services hotline (e.g. 911) who had stepped out of the sheriff's office to walk across the street to the Texaco station for a cup of that newfangled espresso coffee the station carried and had just exited the building when the night was lit by a surprisingly large fireball just over the horizon.
Mr. Finsterman, unfortunately, had locked himself out of the office.
It took the old man nearly twenty minutes to think of calling the fire department direct from the pay telephone at the gas station, by which time it was too late for the gym and, indeed, for the student projects inside.
And those are the verifiable facts as best as can be told. Everything else is pure conjecture.
As near as anyone can tell, what happened next was this: the heating system, which was as old as the building, kicked in as normal for a chilly spring night. And shorted out. Presumably, the short caused the cardboard information poster on Ephram's exhibit to ignite, which in turn lit the now- dried moss and lichen, which in turn ignited the former firecracker powder, which caused the building to explode. The model building, not the gym.
The explosion, of which Ephram would have been quite proud, did what it was supposed to and fragments of the modeled clay building clattered against the fiberglass as the clay model slowly collapsed in on itself. The fiberglass, already weakened and, on one side of the display, burning shattered and ignited. One piece of clay or fiberglass managed to land precisely on the starter button of the ingenious engine that Wendell had created, kicking the little quarter-horsepower motor into gear and starting the flow of gasoline into the machinery, adding a rather loud growling noise to the crackling of fire.
The Woolworth fire burned merrily.
A second piece of fiberglass, with a sharp edge, shot out and neatly sliced through the huge jug containing Bright's project. The bottle immediately started chugging its contents out onto the floor in a steadily widening puddle. Later forensics would indicate that Bright had duped the chemistry teacher; the liquid turned out to be Tide With Colour-Safe Bleach rather than anything handmade. The Woolworth fire blazed higher and merrier than a frat brother on a panty raid.
A third and, one assumes, final shard of fiberglass shot out and pierced the cheaply-made tank underneath the Wendell's Saran Wrap engine. Gasoline (high-test, to be exact) started pouring out rapidly, turning the floor into a nastily sticky swamp of fuel and suds.
The Woolworth fire died out.
It should have ended there, with a tremendous mess on the floor of the gymnasium and the loss of three projects, two of which were well built. Unfortunately, it didn't.
Remember that Andy, the poor misguided man, had helped Ephram build the display case for his little pyrotechnic model. Andy Brown. The Great Doctor Brown. Notice the people do not call him The Great Carpenter Brown, or The Great Cabinetmaker Brown, or even (at the very least) The Regrettably-Mediocre-But-Still-Capable-of-Working-Wood-Properly Brown.
In short, there was a reason that Ephram had a repairman on speed dial in case of emergency.
The Woolworth fire died out.
And Andy's contribution, the wooden display cabinet, collapsed like a drunken sailor, falling forward into the clever motor which had taken Wendell the entire winter to craft out of plastic wrap and metal cooking foil and knocked it off the flimsy propane tank, coming to rest in the centre of that noxious puddle of gasoline and Tide With Colour-Safe Bleach where an ember tumbled off the remnants of the Woolworth Building's parking garage (or possibly the thirtieth-story balcony) and set the foul-smelling slime alight.
It's fairly well-known in certain circles that gasoline (or any refined fuel, really) and liquid detergent make a very passable sort of homemade napalm if combined in the right quantities and set on fire, and that is precisely what happened.
The quasi-napalm, in turn, set fire to everything in a fifteen-foot radius, most of which was conveniently occupied by cardboard and poster- board information displays or wooden dioramas. Some even had paint or oils or other flammable substances, which only made the fire burn brighter. This radius expanded rapidly to the walls, against which rested the bleachers. The wooden bleachers. The old, seasoned, wooden bleachers.
They burned quite nicely, according to the County Fire Department.
The fire was eventually put out, but the damage was done. There was no Tri-County Invention and Technology Show in Everwood that year. Nor did the Miners play any home games in their own court until the new wing was completed later that fall. People remember that springtime as one of the more exciting over the years, but nothing special.
Life, as they say, goes on.