At school, Prunella was bursting with the desire to tell her classmates and friends that Alan had phoned her, and was apparently alive. Yet she didn't dare, as she had promised Alan to keep the details of his departure a secret. The only person she would talk to about the subject was Fern, who already knew.
"So the basic idea is," said Prunella, "Alan gets to erase Tegan's personality from your mind, but only if he agrees to have it copied into his mind."
"Not even," said Fern with a chuckle. "Tegan's personality would not enjoy being inside a boy."
"Whatever you're planning to do to him," said Prunella fearlessly, "you'll have to get past me first, and I'm impervious to your Brainchild powers."
"It didn't look that way when Claire froze you to the spot with her telekinesis," Fern remarked.
In the cafeteria, Rattles and D.W. were standing by the wall near the entrance to the kitchen. Periodically Rattles glanced inside to see Mrs. McGrady, her back turned to him, putting together ingredients for a large batch of brownies.
"Here's what you do," said Rattles, holding out a silver bowl to D.W. "When Mrs. McGrady leaves the kitchen to go to the bathroom or whatever, you take this bowl inside, and dump it into the brownie batter."
D.W. curiously examined the bowl, which contained a dark brown, viscous fluid. "What is that stuff?" she inquired.
"Um, it's a special kind of chocolate," said Rattles, shaking the bowl to make the liquid wobble. "Adding it to the brownies will make them super-chocolatey."
"Mmm," said D.W., licking her lips. "Super-chocolatey brownies."
"Think you're up to it?" said Rattles, trying to push the bowl into her hands.
"I, uh, guess so," said D.W., looking back and forth between Rattles' glowering face and Mrs. McGrady's backside.
"Then don't let me keep you," said Rattles as he sauntered off.
Butterflies multiplied in D.W.'s heart as she gazed at the oblivious lunch lady and clutched the slightly warm bowl. Why am I afraid? she wondered. It's only chocolate.
Five minutes later Mrs. McGrady laid down her can of cocoa powder and muttered to herself, "Oh, dear, I've got shortening all over my hands."
As she strolled out of the kitchen, D.W. tiptoed in, breathing quietly. The blender loomed large above her. I'm six years old, but I'm still too short, she thought.
Seeing a wooden footstool nearby, she carefully placed the bowl of chocolate on the floor, and pulled the stool closer to the counter. When she looked at the silver bowl again, a disturbing thought struck her.
Why should I get detention for making the brownies more chocolatey?
It seemed like a contradiction—but it had to be right, since a sixth-grade expert on detention had told it to her.
Maybe it's not really chocolate, she thought. Maybe it's an evil potion…
She imagined Arthur and his classmates enjoying themselves at the fund-raising party, as various grownups including Ed Crosswire wrote checks for enormous amounts and deposited them into a paper bag marked DONATIONS.
After thanking Mr. Crosswire for his generosity, Arthur snatched up a brownie from a plate and took a bite out of it. As sooner as he had done so, his pupils shrank, his jaw dropped, and his arms flew up and pointed forward. "Must help prepare Earth for alien invasion force," he droned.
Naw, thought D.W. Where would Rattles get an evil potion?
In the ladies' room, Mrs. McGrady lathered up her hands and rinsed them for the fourth time. "Oh, my, there's still a spot of shortening," she said, and put her hands under the water again.
Maybe it's poison, D.W. theorized. Maybe Rattles doesn't care whether I get detention. Maybe he really wants to stop the school from building a new auditorium, because he buried his victims under the old one…
"Look at all these germs," grumbled Mrs. McGrady, staring at her hands. "It's a wonder I'm not constantly sick."
As she washed again, Rodentia Ratburn strolled into the ladies' room. "Excuse me, Sarah," she said to the lunch lady, "but could you please hand me a few paper towels?"
Mrs. McGrady looked over her shoulder at the rat woman, then looked back at her soapy hands. "I'm sorry," she said slowly. "I…I can't."
Anything could happen if I put this stuff in the brownies, thought D.W. Maybe I shouldn't do this—but I need the detention!
While the little girl agonized, Mrs. McGrady applied soap to her hands for the twenty-eighth time. "Stubborn little buggers," she groused.
I can't go through with it, D.W. told herself.
She wandered back into the lunchroom, still carrying the aluminum bowl. Intending to pour the chocolate concoction down the sink of the girls' room, she instead ran into Fern and Buster, who were kissing in the middle of the court.
"Hey, D.W.," said the rabbit boy. "Whatcha got in the bowl? Is that…chocolate?"
"Uh, yeah," D.W. replied, "but…"
She had no time to discourage Buster from sticking his finger into the chocolate mixture, then into his mouth to suck it off.
"Mmm, that's chocolicious," said Buster wistfully. "Try some, Fern."
"I don't know," said his girlfriend warily.
I'm a kid again, thought the Tegan part of her. I may as well live a little.
"I think you'd better wait and see if Buster starts mutating," D.W. warned her.
"Silly girl," said Fern, taking a dab of the chocolate on her finger and licking it off.
Anxious to dispose of the substance before anyone else was tempted, D.W. ran off to the girls' washroom.
"It's probably for the brownies Mrs. McGrady's making," Fern mused.
"Yeah," Buster agreed, and they kissed again.
Then, both at once, they felt an uncomfortable sensation. "Excuse me," they said to each other.
Leaping up from the bench, Buster made a beeline for the boy's room, Fern following close behind. Recognizing her mistake, Fern quickly stepped out of the boy's room and into the girls' room.
Unaware that she had averted a disaster, D.W. scowled while climbing into her mother's car after another hour spent in detention.
"You've been very bad lately," said Mrs. Read. "You're lucky I'm letting you go to the fund-raiser tonight."
"Don't worry, Mom," said D.W. emotionlessly. "I won't be bad anymore."
"I'm gonna hold you to that," said her mother.
They drove quietly together for a moment. "I guess I should tell you the truth," said D.W. "I wanted detention so I wouldn't have to take lessons from Dr. Fugue."
Mrs. Read gave her statement a second's thought, then began to chuckle.
"What's so funny?" asked her daughter.
"You," Mrs. Read replied. "That was a clever idea, D.W. Misguided, but clever."
"Not clever enough," said the little aardvark girl.
"But if you'd bothered to ask me," said her mother, "you'd know that Dr. Fugue doesn't want to teach you."
D.W. gaped in surprise.
"I called him today," Mrs. Read continued. "He told me that he only takes motivated students, and you're not motivated."
"Am too!" D.W. insisted. "Uh, what does motivated mean?"
"Of course, that's his opinion, not mine," said her mother. "I think you'll enjoy piano lessons, if you take them from a teacher who'll let you learn at your own pace."
"So I did those mean things for nothing," D.W. lamented.
"On Monday you should apologize to Beat and Molly," said Mrs. Read.
"I will," D.W. promised.
She had little time to ponder her good fortune, for when she entered the house with her mother, she saw Greta sitting on the couch with Arthur and Francine.
"Greta!" she cried. "You've come back!"
"Hello, D.W.," said Greta pleasantly. "By all means, come in and pounce on me."
Once D.W. had hopped into her lap, Greta made a gesture to Arthur and Francine. The four children marched dutifully up the stairs to Arthur's room, with D.W. riding gleefully on Greta's shoulders.
Once they had closed the door, the get-together took a serious turn.
"All right, Greta," said Francine. "What kind of help do you need from us?"
Greta gazed earnestly at the others. "You three are the only ones I can trust with my secrets," she told them. "That's why I want you to come with me tomorrow."
"Where to?" asked Arthur.
"Springfield," was Greta's reply. "Your friend Alan is in danger."
to be continued