THE GENIUS JUICE
Martin had never seen my naked face before, so it took a moment for him to recognize me – but then his eyes lit up with delight. ‘It’s you, Sean! You’re back!’
His gaze moved to my chin and he gave a little frown. ‘Oh. So that’s why you’ve always had a beard.’
‘What? What do you mean?’ I asked self-consciously, bringing a hand to my chin.
Martin looked at me, then back at my chin. Then at my ears, then back at my chin. Then at the floor, then back at my chin. ‘Eh. Nothing,’ he said to my chin, a bit flustered. He did his best not to stare at it, but I knew what was going on.
You see, for as long as I can remember, my chin has been home to a large and rather strange-looking mole. Unlike human moles, IF moles are multicoloured, and mine was a bright lime green. There were two blue dots on its peak, and along with a few red hairs sprouting from its crown, it looked very much like a tiny face. When I was young, this face was my friend, and I named the mole ‘Gerald’. But as I got older, other imaginaries would laugh at Gerald and call us names like ‘Chin Face’, ‘Two Heads’, and ‘Moley-Moley-Mole-Mole’. So as soon as puberty* arrived, I decided to shield Gerald from those mocking eyes, and I hid him inside the finest forest of chin whiskers ever known. And there he stayed, in his handsome, hairy hideout, until now.
‘So, eh . . . what happened on the quest? Did you find the imaginary well?’ asked Martin, trying not to stare at Gerald.
‘Well, Martin, I’ve got good news and bad news.’
‘What’s the good news?’ he asked eagerly.
I paused. ‘Sorry, I didn’t think that through – I’ve actually only got bad news.’
Martin gaped at me (but mostly Gerald), looking like he’d been punched in the stomach. ‘Oh no . . . ! You didn’t find the Notion Potion?!’ He reeled around, devastated. ‘Now what am I going to do?! How am I going to come up with a brilliant invention without that genius juice? The Convention is just a week away, and we’ve got nothing but a burnt robot, a chopped-up coat, and some soggy firework boots! How’s that going to beat those snarky snobs from St Whimmion’s? How’s that going to get my face on the Winners Wall?’
‘It wasn’t my fault, Martin! Let me just tell you what happened!’
But Martin frowned, staring at my backpack. I thought he was just trying not to gawk at Gerald, but then his worried face began to brighten, and he looked at me with a broad grin.
‘Oh, you.’
‘Huh?’
He wagged his finger at me playfully. ‘Sean Murphy, you big joker. You totally had me there!’
‘What are ya talking about, buddy?’ I asked, baffled.
‘You big scamp! You cheeky monkey. You scallywag! You really got me that time! I totally believed you!’
‘You believed what?’
‘That you didn’t get the Notion Potion!’ he exclaimed, and plucked the glass bottle from my bag. This was the same bottle that the merchant had traded for my beard, but now it was filled with a dark green liquid.
‘All this time you had it right here, ya big trickster!’
I glanced at Wilbert, and we shared a worried look. ‘Eh . . .’
‘Is that mole part of the joke too?’ asked Martin, with a suspicious smile. ‘I bet it’s totally fake!’
He pinched Gerald and wiggled him about, trying to pull him off my face.
‘OWW!’ I yelped. ‘Stop that!’
Martin’s smile faded and he withdrew his hand. ‘Nope, not fake. Sorry about that.’
There was an awkward pause.
‘Anyhoo . . .’ he continued, turning his attention back to the bottle. ‘You found it! You found the Notion Potion!’
He pulled out the cork, and some strange, green steam puffed out of the bottle, wafting around his bedroom in clouds.
‘Oooh, steamy!’ he marvelled, his eyes dancing with excitement.
‘Hang on, buddy. It’s not what you think—’ I began. But before I could finish, Martin was already gulping it down!
Glug, glug, glug – the entire bottle disappeared down his gullet in seconds!
‘Martin, wait! You really don’t want to drink that – let me explain!’
But Martin just swallowed and cried out, ‘Wooooh! That. Is. Tangy*!’
He gasped, panting. ‘It’s like there’s a fizzy rollercoaster in my mouth. Made of butter and grapefruits and mackerel and sweaty cheese.’
‘Wow, that’s a really . . . complex flavour.’
Martin swished it around his mouth. ‘It’s also quite warm.’
Wilbert and I looked at each other uneasily.
Martin stood there for a moment, waiting.
‘I think something’s happening!’ he exclaimed suddenly. ‘It must be starting to work!’
‘Are you sure?’ I asked doubtfully.
He belched, jiggled his head, jumped in the air, and then yelped, ‘I’ve got it!’
‘Got what?!’
He cartwheeled over to his desk, grabbed a crayon from the floor, and suddenly began to scrawl on the wall!
In a wild frenzy, he scribbled down formulas, mathematical equations and strange squiggles and doodles. His hand was a blur as he feverishly covered the old wallpaper with complicated diagrams and blueprints for an invention.
I tried to interrupt a few times to explain what had happened on the quest, but Martin was lost in his thoughts, muttering to himself as he worked.
He didn’t stop until every inch of wallpaper was covered with his ideas. And after using up three crayons, two markers, and a pencil, he finally whispered, ‘It is done.’
Completely drained, he face-planted on to his bed and fell fast asleep.
