ALL DAY LONG, Liberty’s been texting her mom the same three words: not dead yet. Now, for the first time, as we’re speeding to Spineless Marvels, someone starts texting her back.
“What’s going on?” I ask.
“My mom.” She shakes her head, as if to shake off the thought. “She’s such a worrier!” Liberty shoves her phone in her jeans pocket. “I’m putting it away. Okay. Sorry.”
We jog down the path—we have to hurry—but before I know it, she’s stopped again, texting.
“What’s it about?”
She presses her lips into a tight line. “Nothing.”
We jog-walk a bit farther. Liberty’s abnormally silent.
“I’ve just been thinking: Why are cowards called spineless?” I ask, just for something to say. At this point, we’re almost through the children’s zoo, past clumps of kids petting goats. “And why do they say brave people have backbones?”
“I dunno. I think sometimes being brave is being flexible,” she says. “Think of how an octopus changes its shape. I’m not talking Spider-Man’s Dr. Octopus. Just regular octopi. I read about an octopus in Australia that contorted itself all the way down something like a half mile of drainpipe to escape out to the sea.”
“Wow.”
“Yeah. So spineless can be brave. There are definitely different kinds of strength,” she says. She exhales hard. “For instance, dealing with my mom? That definitely takes some crazy flexibility. And . . . I hope you can be flexible, too, Stan.” Her eyes are a darker, cloudier green than usual.
I frown. I want to ask what she means, but we’re already standing in front of the insect exhibit. “Well,” Liberty says, “we’re not here for octopi, Stanley. We’re here for bugs. Creepy crawlies. Spineless Marvels.”
Inside, in the dim light, all kinds of hairy-legged monsters scurry and lurk in their tanks. I don’t want to get too close. But Liberty coos at them like they’re kittens. She pulls me over to these little brown ants carrying green leaf parts above their heads like sails. Apparently they chew and spit out leaf gunk into holes underground, to ferment, like spitty leaf-beer.
Ugh.
“Just open your eyes and look at them! Honestly. They are adorable!” she says, yanking me over to the tank. “And look at this one!”
The sign says Jungle Nymph. It’s a bright green leaf eater from Malaysia, almost the length of my forearm. Apparently, it tries to impale enemies with its legs.
Nice.
“Liberty,” I whisper. “It’s already 3:45!”
“So?”
My stomach lurches. “Let’s find the answer to this clue and get out of here!”
“Okay! But would you look at this?” She points to a tank where a brown-shelled monster with a huge head, beady eyes, and tiny teeth rambles around like it’s on fully charged batteries. “Dragon headed katydid. Scariest-looking bug ever—but in reality, completely harmless and friendly.” She nudges me with her elbow. “See? Things can look scary, but actually be fine. Just like today!”
“Today’s not over yet,” I mutter.
Next to the horrific yet harmless katydid is a New Guinea stick insect. It’s got a big, long exoskeleton with barbs or points on it. The sign says they can snap their legs together, or curl their ovipositors—egg-laying parts—and even fling eggs at attackers.
“The ovipositors are overheating, Captain!” Liberty says, waving her arms around. “Eject the dilithium crystals!”
I can’t even laugh. This race against time is starting to get to me. I’m ready to lose it when the back door to the exhibit finally opens and a man in thick glasses and a white lab coat comes in. On his lapel is a name tag that reads Dr. Pym.
Now we’re talking!
“See his lab coat?” I whisper to Liberty. “You know who Hank Pym was, right? Ever hear of Pym Particles? They shrink matter down to microscopic and even submicroscopic size. This guy is the creator of Ant-Man!”
I say the name “Ant-Man” kind of louder than I mean to, and Dr. Pym glances over.
That clinches it.
“Go ask him, Liberty!” I whisper.
“No way,” she says, folding her arms. “I’m not covering for you anymore. Speak up for yourself.”
I try puppy-dog eyes and a little bit of whimpering, but she just folds her arms harder. And the time is ticking.
So I take a deep breath, and walk up to the man in the lab coat.
“Excuse me, sir. Invertebrates are spineless, and DC’s rival is Marvel, and we’re on the Trivia Quest. And it’s an honor to meet the creator of Ant-Man.” I wipe my sweaty palms on my jeans and hold out my hand. My heart is thumping, but it’s thumped so much today, I figure I might as well ignore it.
He shakes my hand, gives a little bow, and says, “Excellent work! You have it exactly right, indeed, young man. Why, in fact, Ant-Man is inside that exhibit right now, transmitting important information about the Comic Fest to his leaf-cutter allies.”
He says this so seriously, it’s almost like he believes it. Then Dr. Pym fishes in the deep pockets of his white lab coat, and pulls out a golden token and a small envelope.
“Well done, young entomologists,” he whispers. “You’ve done it! Best be on your way.” He looks at his watch. “It’s almost four o’clock. The time you’ve got left is, shall we say, shrinking dramatically.”