School of Fear (15 page)

“I don’t feel so good,” Lulu mumbled. “Madeleine, will you spray some of that stuff on me? My clothes smell awful.”

Madeleine stood over Theo and Lulu and sprayed them like a farmer dusting crops. Then, the girl turned with flushed cheeks
to Garrison.

“Would you care for some?”

“Sure.”

Madeleine savored the proximity to Garrison, standing closer to him than his own shadow.

“I think it works better if you stand farther back,” Garrison said.

“Oh, yes. I was trying out a new method, but it appears less effective,” Madeleine bumbled with embarrassment.

The door to the library creaked open and Mrs. Wellington exited with a cat under each arm.

“Are they okay?” Theo asked, upset at the sight of the animals.

“Of course; cats are carnivores. They love steak.”

“Steak?” Lulu asked. “That was steak?”

“Oh, yes. Sirloin steak circa 1990.”

“I’m sorry, but I don’t understand. What is the purpose of a library dedicated to smelly food?” Madeleine asked.

“That may have caused permanent damage to my esophagus,” Theo said seriously.

“Silly, silly boy,” Mrs. Wellington laughed. “And to answer your question, the Library of Smelly Foods is used to keep Schmidty
in line with the Casu Frazigu. Every time he complains, claiming he can’t bear another bite of it, I bring him in here. After
a few whiffs, his taste buds can’t wait to get back to the Frazigu. Plus it is rather helpful when I get a contestant terrified
of dairy products.”

“I think I inhaled deadly spores from that steak. A vegetarian dying from steak — the cruel irony,” Theo blubbered from the
floor.

“Dear boy, you have such an exasperating temperament,” she said with her lips darkening to an alarming shade of fuchsia, even
for her.

A
ll you need is fresh air. To the polo fields,” Mrs . Wellington said, leading the group down the Great Hall.

Madeleine simply wasn’t prepared to brave the polo fields. With tears brimming in her eyes, she caught up with Mrs. Wellington
and grabbed the old woman’s cold hand. “Mrs. Wellington, please. I don’t want to go outside. There are spiders, insects, and
such,” Madeleine explained politely, albeit with a strained voice.

“Outside? Dear, don’t be so narrow-minded. Not
all
polo fields are outside.”

“Then how’s the air going to be fresh?” Theo mumbled quietly to himself.

Mrs. Wellington proceeded down the hall with Lulu, Theo, and Madeleine trailing behind her.

Garrison, further behind everyone, scrutinized the doors along the way. He ran his fingers across a standard sized wooden
door, forgettable in every way except touch. Instead of sleek wood, Garrison felt the tight weave of a painter’s canvas. It
wasn’t a door at all, but rather a painting of a door. The crevices and indentations of the wood were mere shades of paint
tricking the eye.

“What’s with the painting, Mrs. Wellington?”

The old woman stopped walking, as always in unison with the clock, some ten feet ahead of him. She turned and stared into
his tan little face. The hall became uncomfortably quiet except for the clock and Madeleine’s repellent spray.

“Did you think it was a real door?”

“Yeah.”

“And it’s really only a painting of a door. Contestant Garrison, please tell me what you think that means in thirty seconds
or less.”

“That you ran out of doors?” Garrison said oafishly.

“You have much work to do on your elocution skills. All contestants should be prepared to answer questions intelligently in
thirty seconds or less.”

From behind Mrs. Wellington came Madeleine’s proper British voice: “Mrs. Wellington? If I may, I believe the door represents
that things aren’t always as they seem. On occasion, it’s necessary to inspect things, or people, a bit closer,” she explained
while staring directly at Garrison.

Mrs. Wellington nodded approvingly at Madeleine.

“I thought we were going to the polo field?” Lulu interrupted.

“A reminder to all, don’t stand behind the horses; it’s very dangerous,” Theo said seriously. “My mom knows a woman who was
kicked in the face by her horse. Her head swelled big as a basketball. After that she couldn’t remember anyone’s name, called
everyone ‘what’s her name,’ even herself.”

“Yeah, right,” Lulu said incredulously.

“It’s true,” Theo bellyached, “I met her at the Christmas party. She said ‘hello, I’m what’s her name. Pleasure to meet you.’
All because she walked behind a horse. If only I had been there to warn her,” Theo finished spectacularly.

“Excuse me, Cowboy Chubs? Are you finished?” Mrs. Wellington asked exasperatedly while standing in front of the red and white
gate.

The latch on the polo field gate was dated and rusty, seemingly from years of exposure. The lock squealed and grunted its
way out of the corroded slot. Theo bit his lip, ruing the decision to remove the tetanus shot from his first-aid kit. The
school nurse had claimed that rust didn’t cause tetanus; a cut from rust merely created an ideal habitat for bacteria to breed.
Of course, in the face of rust, Theo started to second-guess the nurse.

Unable to watch Mrs. Wellington jimmy the lock, Theo turned to the partial body of a 1959 DC-8 jet lodged in the wall opposite
the polo field. The red, white, and blue United Airlines logo was faded from years of wear and tear in the air. Theo pushed
his face against a small circular window, steaming it up with his breath. He spotted a snack cart, inciting a rabid desire
for salted peanuts. Maybe Mrs. Wellington left treats in the cart to create an authentic experience. Theo imagined hiding
out on the plane eating peanuts, missing his family, and sleeping. He would much prefer that to spending time with this group
of risk takers.

Mrs. Wellington finally dislodged the rusted lock, opening the polo field’s gate and releasing a wave of horse manure. Ripe
and earthy, the scent prompted Madeleine, Lulu, Garrison, and Theo to wince.

“Wow, that is … ,” Garrison mumbled.

“Nasty,” Lulu finished his sentence.

“This is supposed to help us get over the steak?” Theo scoffed.

“Manure is a natural cleanser of the olfactory glands. Didn’t you know that?”

“Nope,” Lulu said glumly, revolted by the latest affront to her nose.

“That’s why perfume counters often keep a small dish of manure for clients to sniff between scents.”

“I’ve never seen that before,” Madeleine said honestly.

“Don’t feel bad; that’s why you’re here. To learn,” Mrs. Wellington responded as she femininely sashayed onto the field.

It was approximately the size of half a football field with eight oddly tranquil horses standing in the center. Murals of
rolling hills and white clapboard fences surrounded the abnormally green lawn while sunlight poured through the plate-glass
ceiling. Although seemingly pastoral, it was also curiously creepy. Madeleine remained close to the door. Having inspected
the grass visually, she then did something extremely out of character. Madeleine touched the grass.

“Mrs. Wellington, is the grass artificial?”

“It’s AstroTurf, dear. The next best thing to the real stuff.”

“I’m afraid you’re mistaken, Mrs. Wellington,” Madeleine said assuredly, “it’s far superior. Bugs can’t live in plastic grass!”

“Are you starving these poor horses? No wonder they’re so tired. Look at them, they’re barely moving,” Theo exclaimed.

“Barely moving?” Mrs. Wellington responded. “Theo, they’re not moving at all. They’re dead.”

“Did you kill them?” Theo asked with his lower lip quivering.

“Kill them? Heavens no. I simply had them stuffed. Good job too — you can still ride them.”

“Then how did they die?”

“A strange mold on their hay. It was devastating. I was heartbroken at the idea of life without them, so I built the polo
field.”

“This mold you mentioned, did you find the origin of it? Is it toxic to humans as well?”

“Theo, please don’t concern yourself with that. To the best of my knowledge, Schmidty never cooks with hay,” Mrs. Wellington
said before pausing to glance at the ceiling, as if to think it over.

Meanwhile, Madeleine stopped spraying herself, instead focusing on the horses in the room.

“Not to be nosy, Mrs. Wellington, but were the horses’ coats treated for insects and other organisms?” Madeleine asked.

“Of course!”

Relieved, Madeleine turned to explore her new surroundings. Mrs. Wellington then shook her head and mouthed “no” to the other
students.

Lulu, Garrison, and Theo couldn’t help but wonder what else she had fibbed about.

T
he following morning Lulu, Madeleine, Theo, and Garrison cautiously settled into their silver desks and prepared for Mrs.
Wellington’s lesson. The night before the four children had discussed how they might escape from the school, but in the absence
of any good ideas, they went to sleep, hoping the next day would bring better luck. The fact that the day was beginning in
the classroom rather than the Fearnasium or any other crazy room in the house was a start.

“Contrary to the title, a beauty pageant isn’t all about beauty. There are a great deal of other things that come into play
— poise, personality, posture — just to name a few. And yes, I realize that none of you have the makings of pageant winners
— well, except for Lulu,” Mrs. Wellington said, “but there are still many important lessons that can be garnered from the
art of pageantry.”

“Mrs. Wellington, I can’t speak for Theo, but I am a boy. We aren’t into pageants. We don’t wear lipstick, tutus, or crowns.
Nothing pink,” Garrison said harshly.

“I sometimes wear pink,” Theo added before noticing Garrison’s incredulous look, “but only around Easter.”

“Trust me, Sporty, you of all people could use some pageantry in your life. And in case I hadn’t made it clear, my lessons
are not optional. I am like going to the dentist, school, or your grandparents’ house — a necessary pain. So please close
your mouth,” Mrs. Wellington said with crimson-spotted lips. “Now then, let’s begin with two of the most important skills:
the smile and the wave. These will help you throughout life, serving you well at the mall, on a date, or just hailing a cab.”

“I don’t get it. What do smiling and waving have to do with fears?” Lulu asked.

“What a sharp cookie,” Mrs. Wellington said, prompting Lulu to gloat at Theo, Garrison, and Madeleine with a smirk.

“The art of pageantry has absolutely nothing to do with fears. Not one little thing,” Mrs. Wellington said. “Each of you has
been given a pot of Vaseline.”

“I’m terribly sorry to interrupt, Mrs. Wellington, but why we are learning pageant protocol at School of Fear?” Madeleine
implored politely. “Wouldn’t that be more appropriate for a beauty school or modeling school?”

“Honestly,” Mrs. Wellington said before releasing a long and irritated sigh, “I haven’t seen the likes of this since the Spanish
Inquisition, which as you may recall started when Marcia de Sevilla tried to steal my crown at the Barcelona Hilton.”

“Actually, I believe it was started by Ferdinand II of Aragon and Isabella I of Castile —” Madeleine stopped mid-sentence
after noticing Mrs. Wellington’s darkening lips. “Or on second thought, maybe it did start at the Hyatt.”

“It started at
the Hilton
,” Mrs. Wellington said with exasperation. “Contestants today have no regard for history. Haven’t your parents taught you
the importance of education?”

The odd old woman then adjusted her wig, took a deep breath, and applied more bubblegum lipstick. “Now then, please dip your
index finger into the Vaseline and spread it slowly across your teeth,” Mrs. Wellington instructed. “Any excess Vaseline may
be wiped on the napkin or, if you’re hungry, eaten. Unfortunately, Schmidty did not have time to flavor the Vaseline with
Casu Frazigu, something about needing to sleep. Honestly, when men hit their eighties, it’s one excuse after another.”