The Last Chapter

IT HAD BEEN a loooooong Independence Day, and there was still a little of it left.

The afternoon sun shone lazily on the pear tree in Doctor Proctor’s yard, and Lisa and Nilly sat underneath it, each in their own chair, clutching their stomachs. Along with the professor, they’d polished off a five-foot-long Jell-O, and now they were so full that the professor had gone inside to rest a little.

“You did great today,” Lisa said.

“You didn’t do so badly yourself,” Nilly admitted. “But it was all thanks to you.”

“You think?” Lisa smiled, closing her eyes to the rays of sunlight that filtered through the leaves.

“Yeah,” Nilly said. “You’re the smartest girl I know. And even more important, you’re the best …”

It got quiet and Lisa opened her eyes and was surprised to see that Nilly’s face had become really red. And she thought he might have gotten something stuck in his throat because he had to clear it three times before he was able to continue in a slightly hoarse voice.

“You’re the best friend anyone could have.”

“Thanks,” Lisa said, her whole body feeling warm. “So are you.”

And then neither of them knew what to say, so maybe it was just as well that there was a bang. Because there was. There was a final bang on this loooooong Independence Day, and they both turned toward Doctor Proctor’s cellar. Because this didn’t sound like Doctor Proctor’s normal fart powder.

“Oh no,” Lisa said, dismayed.

“Not the fartonaut powder … ,” Nilly said.

“No,” said Doctor Proctor, appearing in the cellar doorway. His face was black with soot and oil. “Just a faulty muffler on a motorcycle that hasn’t been started in twelve years. But that just needed a little lubrication to run, well, like it had been lubricated.”

And with that the professor drove his motorcycle and sidecar out of the cellar and through the high grass, stopping in front of them. There was a brown, worn leather suitcase in the sidecar.

Nilly and Lisa stood up.

“Where are you going?” Nilly asked.

“Where do you think, my fartonaut assistant?” the professor asked, beaming under his hockey helmet and motorcycle goggles.

“You’re going to Paris,” Lisa said. “You’re going to try to find Juliette Margarine.”

“Wish me luck,” Doctor Proctor said. “And lock the cellar and keep an eye on my house until I get back.”

“Good luck,” Nilly said.

They walked ahead of the motorcycle and opened the gate.

The professor revved the engine and it gave a satisfying growl.

“And if you go through Sarpsborg … ,” Lisa said.

“Yes?”

“Then you can say hello to my second best friend.”

And the last rays of sunlight shone on the pear tree, on Nilly’s red hair, on Lisa’s smile, and maybe on a tiny tear as Doctor Proctor’s motorcycle and sidecar drove away down Cannon Avenue.