surprised by how easily the lie came out. As if that small, bad part of him that had stolen the Twinkies and the cat had now been given free rein to shoot up to the surface and slither out of his mouth whenever it wanted.
He stared at the transplant pager on her nightstand, that useless chunk of plastic that so steadfastly refused to help them. âAnywayââ
A loud roar sounded from downstairs. Max caught the words âson of a bitch,â followed by something worse, followed by something
much
worse.
His mother struggled to sit up. âWhat was that? And what are you doing?â
Max was surprised to find that his mouth was open, and a strange, sustained âlalalalalaâ was coming out of it.
âSinging,â he explained.
She frowned. âWhatâs going on down there?â
âUmââhe looked up at the ceilingââitâs this new game Audie brought over. Itâs called . . .
Swearstorm
.â
Thereâs no way in hell sheâs going to buy that,
he thought, but sheâd finally taken a bite out of the quiche and was set adrift in cheesy, hammy, eggy heaven. âMmmm. Audieâs here? Tell her I said hi.â
âOh, she already left. Had homework to finish.â He began to make his way toward the door. âAnd I do too. So Iâm just gonna goââhe stuck his head out the door, yelled âTURN OFF THE
SWEARSTORM,
â looked back at his mother, and smiled sweetlyââand study.â
She looked back at him with a confused expression, fork posed over the last bites of her meal. âMaybe go a little easy on the quiche next time, Maxter. Too much egg can addle the brain.â
He kissed her good night and flew back down to the basement, only to discover to his horror that the door to the storage area was open and Burg was inside, standing at Maxâs workshopâa.k.a. the old Ping-Pong table Max had commandeered to work on his secret dinosaur projects.
Not so secret anymore,
he thought upon seeing Burg, who was holding Secret Project #17 in his hand.
âWhat are you doing in here?â Max asked.
âThose rotten video games of yours keep telling me I lost, so I was looking for something to smash the TV with.â He held up the item. âThisâll do.â
âNo! Put that down,â Max said. âGingerly.â
Burg dropped it to the table with a crash. âWhat is it anyway?â
Max picked up the pieces of the project heâd been painstakingly sculpting out of wire mesh, papier-mâché, and plaster. âItâs supposed to be a T. rex skull.â
âLooks pretty real.â
âA true scientist always strives for accuracy,â Max said.
âA
truuue
scientist always strives for
aaaccuracy,
â Burg said, mimicking him in a high-pitched little-girl voice. âYouâre such a nerd.â He walked farther down the Ping-Pong table and grabbed a rough curved object that somewhat resembled a talon. âWhat about this one?â
Secret Project #11. âThatâs a replica of a fossil found up on Ugly Hill about ten years ago,â Max said, taking it from him and turning it over in his hands. âLast year I emailed the professor who found it, and he sent me a couple of high-definition photos, and Iâve been working off of those. No one knows what it isâDr. Cavendish was beginning to theorize that it came from some bird-dinosaur missing link. But he died a few months ago, and everyone was starting to think he was a crackpot anyway. Now nobody cares but me.â
Burg squinted at the talon. âThatâs not from a bird.â
âA
prehistoric
bird. They were different. Bigger.â
Burg shrugged. âIs that why you were digging up on the hill?â
âYeah. Iâve always thought I could find more by myself, but . . .â
It sounded so idiotic when he said it out loud. Why was he saying it out loud anyway?
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