Drop the Egg (Part 2)

In retrospect, using a hand-cranked bingo machine is a pretty insane way to try to prevent a cosmic war. But there I was, a third-grader holding out my hand as a man in a ridiculous burgundy three-piece suit churned the balls until a golden one fell out into my outstretched palm.

They called me “The Common Man’s Ambassador to the Princess of —————” or something like that. As a kid, I couldn’t even pronounce the name of the planet. By the time I was old enough to think that maybe I should try to figure out how to wrap my mouth around the syllables, it didn’t matter anymore.

Peace had arrived for humanity.

* * *

“Fifteen minutes left!”

I stared at the strange contraption in front of me on the lab table. All around our creation, piles of aerospace-grade foam, unused compressed carbon rods, tubs and tubes of non-toxic superadhesives, and thin oxyglass panels created the impression of an astronaut and spaceship torn to grisly shreds by some kind of interstellar monstrosity. Next to me, fully focused, Nelle stood on her tiptoes, stretching so she could crane her head over the top of our egg container.

“Got it!” she said triumphantly. “Can you hand me the adhesive and then hold it in place?”

I stepped closer, giving Nelle the requested tube. I placed a finger carefully on top of the final transparent panel that would complete the object we’d been working on since Tuesday, keeping it from shifting as Nelle carefully applied the adhesive on each of its three sides. Although neither the substance nor its fumes were harmful, the chemical smell was nasty, enough to make the lunch I’d eaten right before the class—a deliberately chosen, perhaps overly stuffed, egg salad sandwich—churn a little in my stomach.

When she finished and recapped the adhesive, we both sighed in relief.

If I had been allergic to eggs, I was now fully protected from this one. Suspended in the middle of our container by several rods, each tipped by a small stack of the dense foam pads, it looked like the center of some kind of sci-fi energy generator. If the source of the generator was, for some reason, edible and extremely fragile.

Someone whistled behind my left shoulder, and I turned to see Deji examining our container, his oak brown eyes appraising.

“So you guys made a ball for your egg container, too, huh?”

“I told you before. It’s not a ball. It’s a geodesic polyhedron.”

The explanation came from the girl walking up behind Deji, the flat bangs of her crimson hair shifting along the top of her silver glasses’ round frames.

“Pera!”

Nelle circled around Deji and I to greet her fellow Experimentation and Analysis Club member with a hug. I watched Pera raise her arms and pat Nelle’s back twice before dropping them back to her side.

“That’s right,” I said, turning my attention to Deji. “It’s a geodesic polyhedron.”

He gave me a skeptical look.

“Don’t act like you knew what it was before I explained it to you, Annin,” Nelle said, releasing Pera. “You were all like, ‘Won’t a ball just bounce?’”

“Hey!” Deji said, smacking my arm in a gesture of camaraderie. “I said the same thing!”

I groaned.

“Don’t put me on your level. I had a good reason for being worried. Bounces mean more impacts.”

“Yoooo!” he said. “That’s smart. I was just afraid it would roll downhill and crash into something.”

I tried not to feel too devastated by the complete authenticity with which the worst student in the physics class had complimented my intelligence.

“Yes,” Pera said. “Roll down the hill of the flat schoolyard. A major concern.”

“I was trying to help!” Deji said, turning his back on me to confront Pera. “Come on, Pera. You have to admit it could have been a problem if we were dropping them on a hill.”

“I don’t see how that would be a problem with you around to chase after it. Maybe you’d trip and go rolling down the hill yourself.”

“Hey, you’re not imagining another way I could die, are you?”

For the first time since she arrived, a small smile manifested on Pera’s flat mouth.

“Not at all.”

Before Deji could protest further, a clap from the front of the room silenced the conversation around us. Mrs. Wynchis stood at the classroom door, ushering a pair of our classmates and their egg container out.

“Those of you who are done, bring your containers out into the hall. Only come if your adhesive is fully dried.”

“Let’s go,” Pera said, turning on her heel. Deji followed her, continuing to plead his case.

“Why does Pera always partner up with Deji?” I asked Nelle as she rejoined me at the lab table, frowning at the still setting adhesive on the top of our geodesic polyhedron of carbon rods and oxyglass triangles. She shrugged, her focus remaining on the egg container.

“You’ll have to ask her that. I don’t question Pera’s choices.”

I considered the dangers of engaging with Pera’s sharp tongue and made the self-preserving decision to let the topic alone.

“It’ll be done setting one minute before the deadline,” Nelle said. “I hope.”

“You hope?”

“Cutting the foam took longer than I expected.” She blew out a breath. “It’ll be close.”

We stood silently as the classroom gradually emptied around us, growing quieter as more people made their way out into the hall. The minutes passed, and I looked at Nelle. From the side, I could observe the gentle contours of her profile, its delicate dignity accentuated by the silence of her concentration. Her hands pushed into the pockets of her mint-colored bouclé cardigan, stretching out the fluffy fabric.

A slight flush of impatience danced on her cheeks, although her breaths were steady and her blinks regular. Absently, a hand came up to run its fingers through the hair below the tie of one of the twintails resting on her shoulder, the only sign that she was more anxious that she let on.

In moments like this, I could almost forget that I waited side-by-side with the princess they said saved humanity from self-annihilation via cosmic war. I could almost see her as the ordinary, science-obsessed nerd she was now. Maybe even an ordinary, science-obsessed nerd I could let myself fall for.

But only almost.

Isn’t it selfish to want the princess who saved the world to myself?

Isn’t my role just to stand by her, not to be with her?

That’s what it means to be an ambassador, after all.

Still, in these stolen seconds of selfishness, I found myself wishing the adhesive would set as slowly as possible.

Finally, she pushed up her left sleeve to check her watch.

“One minute left. Let’s go.”

“Are you sure?”

“It’ll be fine. We’ve still got the walk to the roo–”

My gaze collided with Nelle’s, her eyes going wide in a way that said I wasn’t the only one who had forgotten a certain upcoming—no, now immediately impending—reality.

To the roof.

“One minute left, you two!” Mrs. Wynchis stuck her head back into the classroom. “Failing grade if your container isn’t out here in 55 seconds!”

“Mrs. Wynchis!”

My gaze swung back from our teacher to the girl beside me, whose mouth was already beginning to form words she wasn’t going to be able to take back.

Uh oh.

“Annin’s got a stomachache! He’s not feeling well enough for the experiment.”

“Is that so?” Mrs. Wynchis paused for a moment, looking at me. “In that case, get yourself to the nurse’s office. Ms. Rondar can complete the experiment for you.”

She disappeared out the door.

“What are you thinking?” I hissed, turning toward Nelle, who was reaching for something on the lab table. “I feel fine! I can’t just pretend I–”

“Sorry about this!”

“Wha–!?”

Before I could finish my question, the princess who stopped the war whirled from the table and shoved an entire tub of uncovered, noxious superadhesive right into my face.

I’ll let you guess what happened after that.