“Edith Wellington, I’d know you anywhere! Well, maybe not there, but definitely here,” Basmati muttered with an accent best described as Daffy Duck by way of Jerusalem, Shanghai, and Berlin.
“Bishop Basmati,” Mrs. Wellington replied genially. “I’m sorry to arrive without proper notice, but I am in desperate need of your help.”
“Why didn’t you say so?”
“I thought I just did,” Mrs. Wellington replied logically.
“Just did what?” Basmati asked, curiously raising his sole eyebrow.
“I just told you I need your help.”
“But I don’t need your help.”
“Yes, I know that…”
“What do you know?” Basmati questioned a now visibly frustrated Mrs. Wellington.
“I know that I need your help, but that you don’t need mine.”
“I didn’t know you needed my help; you should have mentioned something sooner.”
“Yes, of course, you’re absolutely right,” Mrs. Wellington relented, giving in to the utter madness that was Basmati.
“Liar! You already told me that you needed my help!” Basmati responded forcefully while attempting to slam the large wooden door shut.
In a move that clearly demonstrated her desperation, Mrs. Wellington shoved her head into the fast-closing space between the door and its frame.
“Please! If my stepson, Abernathy, doesn’t forgive me in the next three days, I’ll lose everything. Well, except my looks, that is,” Mrs. Wellington pleaded feverishly with her head still jammed in the doorway. “Won’t you at least let me in so we can discuss this?”
“Let you in where?” Basmati asked, opening the door happily.
“No wonder you never married. Speaking to you is exhausting!”
“May I offer you some coffee then?” Basmati said kindly, almost normally.
“Oh, that would be lovely,” Mrs. Wellington said with a fatigued sigh.
“What would be lovely?” Basmati asked with a suddenly blank expression.
“Coffee would be lovely.”
“I detest coffee. I’ve never had a sip in my life! If you were really my friend, you would never have uttered that word in my presence,” Basmati screamed irrationally at Mrs. Wellington, shocking the students and Abernathy.
“In that case, I’ll leave,” Mrs. Wellington bluffed.
“Edith Wellington and company, won’t you please come in?” Basmati asked politely, motioning for the group to enter his eccentric residence.
The interior of the Contrary Conservatory could only be described as schizophrenic. So diverse and bizarre was the space that it nearly defied explanation. Immediately upon entering, the group was met with two large bronze statues: an elephant and a donkey. However, these were not just any old elephant and donkey; these were rivals, the mascots for the Republican and Democratic parties. Once past the animals, the children noticed the writing on the wall, quite literally. The empty room’s floor had been stenciled with the message, THIS IS THE CEILING, while the ceiling stated, THIS IS THE FLOOR, and—perhaps most bizarrely—the walls stated, I AM BOTH THE CEILING AND THE FLOOR, THEY ARE BUT MERE IMPOSTORS.
The group exited the room via a fourteen-foot metal tunnel guarded by two solid-gold figurines of a tortoise and a hare. Madeleine lagged behind to stare at the statues, utterly gobsmacked by the sight of such opulence at the Contrary Conservatory. She also couldn’t help wondering about the worth of such items in light of the recent increase in the price of gold.
“Forget it, Maddie, they’re too heavy; we’ll never be able to get them out of here,” Lulu joked as she grabbed Madeleine’s arm and pulled her into the tunnel.
The dark, damp, and dreadfully dreary passageway fed directly into a room known as the Hospital for Spreading Contagious Diseases.
“This is the first institute of its kind, a place built solely to aid healthy people in getting sick,” Basmati explained proudly as Theo ran ahead, desperate to exit the germ-ridden facility.
“Celery doesn’t get it—why would anyone want to get sick?” Hyacinth asked Basmati.
“So they can get better! There is nothing better than feeling well after being sick. But of course you can’t feel better if you never felt sick…”
Following the Hospital for Spreading Contagious Diseases were the Racetrack for Snails, the Atheist’s Church, the Court of Lawlessness, and finally the Standing-Room-Only Sitting Room.
“Won’t you please have a seat?” Basmati asked graciously as they entered, seemingly oblivious to the state of the room.
The moderately sized space was filled with a grand leather sofa, two matching wing chairs, and a large mahogany coffee table, only they were all overturned, with their legs facing the ceiling.
“I think we’ll stand,” Schmidty replied, surveying the furniture.
“Am I to understand that you are taking a stand against sitting in the Standing-Room-Only Sitting Room?” Basmati inquired irritably of Schmidty.
“Let’s hang back here,” Garrison whispered to Abernathy, Lulu, Hyacinth, and Madeleine. “Probably best not to get too close to this guy.”
Theo, on the other hand, charged full speed ahead, squeezing in between Schmidty, Mrs. Wellington, and Basmati.
“I hate to be nosy—actually, that’s not true; I’ve always enjoyed being a bit of an amateur sleuth. Anyway, bottom line: Did you really marry a lima bean?” Theo asked curiously, pondering the legality of a legume nuptial.
“Mister Theo,” Schmidty interrupted, “I implore you to use some common sense, or at the very least think before you speak.”
Ignoring Schmidty, Basmati stepped closer to Theo, bent down and positioned himself mere inches from the boy’s face, and whispered, “Did you marry a lima bean?”
“No way! I don’t even like lima beans. I could see myself with a french fry or grilled cheese sandwich, maybe, but never a lima bean,” Theo replied most illogically.
“How dare you talk about my wife that way?” Basmati bellowed angrily into the boy’s round face.
“So you did marry a lima bean?” Theo replied with the zeal of Sherlock Holmes solving his first case.
“Absolutely not! Everyone knows lima beans are gold diggers!”
“Oh, enough about lima beans!” Mrs. Wellington hollered. “I need your help with my stepson! Please, Basmati!”
“Is the boy married to a lima bean your stepson?” Basmati asked, motioning to Theo.
“I already told you, I didn’t marry a lima bean! I’m not even old enough to get married,” Theo huffed under his breath.
“No, Theo is not my stepson. Although I’m flattered you think I’m young enough to have one his age. I knew that do-it-yourself face-lift would work,” Mrs. Wellington said with a satisfied smile before turning solemnly toward Abernathy. “No, my stepson is that man over there.”
The simple act of Mrs. Wellington pointing at Abernathy elicited an irate grunt from the man. Standing between Hyacinth, Madeleine, and Garrison, Abernathy exposed his teeth, narrowed his eyes, and emitted brutish animal sounds. The ferocity of the noise instantly depressed Mrs. Wellington, causing a pathetic frown to take hold of her face.
After explaining her terribly dire predicament to Basmati, Mrs. Wellington pursed her lips and prayed the man would agree to help.
“We’re a dying breed, Edith Wellington. The need for schools such as ours remains, yet we continue to disappear,” Basmati said sadly. “I wish I could help. I honestly do, but I have a much bigger problem. They’ve stolen Toothpaste…”
“We can buy you more toothpaste,” Mrs. Wellington declared assuredly.
“Toothpaste is my canary. He’s the only one in the world who disagrees with everything I say. And you know how much I need that. Every morning I wake excited to say ‘hello,’ only for him to respond ‘goodbye.’ But now Toothpaste’s gone. They came in the middle of the night and took him.”
“He named his canary Toothpaste,” Hyacinth scoffed quietly to Lulu.
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“You named your ferret Celery; you’re hardly in a position to judge,” Lulu whispered before turning to catch an engrossed Theo grabbing Basmati by the arm.
“Who took him? The Mafia? The CIA? The FBI? The Bermuda Triangle?” Theo questioned Basmati absurdly, instantly intrigued by the animal abduction.
“No, my students—Fitzy, Bard, and Herman! They didn’t like my lessons, so they stole the one thing I care about. Toothpaste is my sole weakness. They’ve promised not to hurt him as long as I let them do whatever they want. I even gave them matches.”
“But what if they eat him? I mean, Fitzy drinks hair spray. I wouldn’t even be surprised if he had eaten his own arm in the womb. If you know what I mean,” Theo babbled.
“Celery doesn’t know what you mean,” Hyacinth said as she and the others crept closer.
“Neither do I,” Lulu seconded, “but it sounds gross.”
“I think it’s something to do with Fitzy having eaten his own flesh,” Madeleine said with a look of disgust. “Honestly, Theo, such a comment is highly distasteful, even for you.”
“I didn’t mean Fitzy actually ate his arm. I just meant he and his cronies seem weird. I wouldn’t put a little bird barbecue past them.”
“I think I understand,” Basmati said grimly as he looked into Theo’s brown eyes. “You know something, don’t you? Did you help them? Did you kill my bird? You did, didn’t you? You’re a bird killer!”
“No! I’m a vegetarian! I love animals. They’re my best friends! Just ask Macaroni! Actually, he doesn’t speak English. But if he did, he would tell you I love animals!”
“You hate animals! It’s written all over your face,” Basmati answered Theo.
“What? No! That’s just my natural expression. I swear,” Theo replied nervously. “Did I mention I volunteer at a squirrel-cide hotline? I talk suicidal squirrels off the ledge. Would an animal hater do that?”
“Chunk, get a grip,” Lulu muttered quietly to Theo.
“Okay, maybe I made that last part up, but I really do love animals. I would never hurt Toothpaste. As a matter of fact, I’m not leaving here until I rescue him. Toothpaste is the Lindbergh baby of our generation!”
“That is a dreadful analogy, Theo. The Lindbergh baby died,” Madeleine explained morbidly.
“Fine, then he’s our Patty Hearst!”
“Who’s Patty Hearst?” Garrison asked.
“Patty Hearst is an heiress who was kidnapped, brainwashed, and forced to take part in a bank robbery. She subsequently went to prison but was eventually freed and pardoned. Now, while Patty lived, I must disagree with this analogy as well. I highly doubt Toothpaste is being brainwashed and trained for larceny.”
“Would you stop with the historical facts? The important thing is that my inner activist is back! Free Toothpaste! Free Toothpaste! Free Toothpaste! Free Toothpaste!” Theo chanted animatedly.
“Chubby, have you completely forgotten about saving School of Fear? We don’t have time to rescue Toothpaste! We need to rescue ourselves,” Mrs. Wellington snapped in disbelief.
Basmati gazed intently at the School of Fearians, looking each and every one of them over before closing his eyes. After a few seconds, he opened his eyes and began humming rather loudly. This was a most unusual sort of humming, as it was fast-paced and frenetic in style, almost operatic. The School of Fearians watched with perplexed expressions as Basmati then began conducting himself, waving his arms rapidly back and forth as his humming reached a crescendo.
“He’s actually pretty good; I would totally hire him for a party or bar mitzvah or something,” Theo mumbled to Madeleine as the odd man finished.
Mrs. Wellington watched Basmati closely, unsure how to interpret his musical interlude. After all, it certainly wasn’t every day that a man broke into a humming opera in the middle of a conversation. But for Basmati, humming was a means of clearing his mind before making an important decision.
“If you promise to bring back Toothpaste, I’ll handle your stepson,” Basmati announced unemotionally while staring at Mrs. Wellington.
The old woman turned and assessed Theo, Lulu, Garrison, Madeleine, and Hyacinth. They were the strongest students she had ever had, and as such she trusted them implicitly.
“I give you my word: we will find Toothpaste and bring him home.”
EVERYONE’S AFRAID OF SOMETHING:
Ophidiophobia is the fear
of snakes.
The sleeping arrangements at the Contrary Conservatory proved exceptionally limited due to the high number of guests and peculiar use of space. Much like the first floor, the second floor had a bevy of bizarre rooms, such as the Greenhouse for Dead Plants, the Brightly Lit Dark Room, and the Reverse Tanning Booth for Turning People Pale. However, nowhere in the entire residence was there a single bedroom. As he had his whole life, Basmati slept in a bathtub, considering cold porcelain to be the height of comfort. With this in mind, it was hardly a surprise that he had sent the Contrarians to sleep on the old wooden pews in the Atheist’s Church.
After much hemming and hawing, Basmati finally decided upon the School of Fearians’ sleeping quarters. He placed Mrs. Wellington in the Greenhouse for Dead Plants, Abernathy and Schmidty in the attic, and the children in the basement. His logic was as follows: Mrs. Wellington was so old she could go at any second, and if she did in fact die, the greenhouse would be the perfect place to store her body. As for Schmidty and Abernathy, the attic possibly contained a bunk bed suitable for the duo, but most important, there was little of value up there to break. (Basmati was concerned that Schmidty’s portly frame could do damage to some of the house’s more delicate items.) Lastly, Basmati offered the children the choice of either the Hospital for Spreading Contagious Diseases or the basement, two rooms he deemed capable of handling the wear and tear of children and animals. Rather understandably, as no one was interested in contracting a contagious disease, the children thought the basement a better bet.
After bidding good night to the others, Mrs. Wellington made her way to the greenhouse. The glass-encased room, filled with hot, dry air, was designed to literally dehydrate plants to death. Overflowing with mounds of brown foliage and dried flowers, the dreary space did not contain one stick of furniture. So, after lying on the hard floor and finding herself unable to sleep, Mrs. Wellington grabbed a few dead plants to use as cushions. And while the slight pricks of the thorns did not bother her, the incessant crinkling drove her mad. The noise conjured up images of Macaroni gobbling kibble, saliva spraying everywhere. As much as Mrs. Wellington loved Macaroni, she loathed the sound of him eating.
Situated directly next to the greenhouse was a copper-plated elevator on the verge of dilapidation. This was the sole means of accessing the attic. Fatigued after a long’s day journey, Schmidty and Abernathy halfheartedly shoved their bodies into the narrow cart and closed the cagelike door. While the elevator sputtered toward the attic, Schmidty’s tremendous polyester-clad stomach pressed awkwardly against Abernathy’s side. It was a most unfortunate scenario, as Schmidty was nearly as sensitive about his stomach as he was about his comb-over. Regardless of what he told Theo, he too was ashamed of his protruding midsection. For this reason, he had long pulled his black slacks up to his armpits, desperate to create an optical illusion.
Eager to escape the close confines of the elevator, both Schmidty and Abernathy darted out upon reaching the attic, where they were greeted by an impenetrable wall of debris. Broken furniture, boxes, and much more created a daunting obstacle between them and the bunk beds they’d been more or less promised. (Basmati had confirmed and refuted the existence of the bed more times than either Schmidty or Abernathy could count.)
“This reminds me of when you were a boy, and I would search the grounds of Summerstone for you,” said Schmidty to Abernathy. “Sometimes it took hours to track you down, but when I did, you always smiled, and then I couldn’t stay mad at you. Do you remember those days?”
“Of course. You were
always so kind to me… not like her,” Abernathy squeaked, digging through the rubble of the attic.
“Oh, it wasn’t all bad with Madame; don’t you remember when she took you to the circus? You were so fond of that monkey—what was his name?”
“Garfunkle. And I wasn’t fond of him, Schmidty, I was handcuffed to him.”
“Yes, now that you mention it, that does sound familiar. Of course, Madame was only trying to stop you from running away. She knew you wouldn’t get far with a monkey on your arm.”
“Schmidty, do you recall how that night ended?”
“With ice cream sundaes in the kitchen?”
“Garfunkle tried to kiss me!”
“Perhaps this wasn’t the best memory to bring up, although in Garfunkle’s defense, you had spent the whole night together; he might have thought it was a date.”
“I don’t blame Garfunkle, I blame her. She’s the one who stole my father and ruined everything,” Abernathy muttered in a most resentful and childlike manner.
“You seem to forget that your father fell in love with Madame as much as she did with him…” Schmidty trailed off as he ineffectively tried to move a large brown box from his path.
At that moment Abernathy was grateful to be hidden between an old dresser and a trash bag full of clothes. Pain contorted his face as he processed Schmidty’s words. The same alarming, yet logical, thought had slipped into his mind many times over the years. And on each occasion, Abernathy found it too agonizing to even entertain. He had built his life upon the premise that his father was good and his stepmother was bad, and he had no intention of reevaluating the notion now.