The Magic Factory

“There?” his mom exclaimed.

Chris let out one of his bark-laughs. Oliver glared at him. Dad just tutted and shook his head.

“He’s a strange boy,” he said flippantly, to no one in particular. Then he let out an exaggerated sigh, as if this whole disagreement had been very trying for him. “But if he wants to sleep in the corner, let him sleep in the corner. I’m beyond knowing what to do with him.”

“Fine,” Mom said, exasperated. “You’re right, though. He’s getting more peculiar every day.”

The three of them turned away, heading toward the kitchen. Over his shoulder, Chris grinned at Oliver and whispered, “Freak.”

Oliver took a deep breath. He wandered over to the alcove and placed his case on the floor by his feet. There was nowhere to put his clothes; no shelves or drawers, and next to no space to fit his bed—assuming his parents even got him a bed. But he would make do. He could hang a curtain for privacy, make some shelves out of wood, and construct a pull-out drawer for under his bed—the bed he hoped to get—so there was at least somewhere safe to store his inventions.

Besides, if he were to look on the positive—something Oliver always tried his hardest to do—he was right beside a big window, which meant he’d have plenty of light and views to gaze out at.

He rested his elbows on the ledge now and gazed out at the gray October day. It was very windy outside, with rubbish blowing across the street. Opposite his house was a damaged car and a rusty washing machine that had been dumped there. It was definitely a poor neighborhood, Oliver decided. One of the worst they’d ever lived in.

The wind blew, making the glass of the windows rattle, and a breeze came through a gap in the woodwork. Oliver shivered. For October, the weather was much colder than it usually was in New Jersey. He’d even heard a report on the radio of a huge storm coming. But Oliver loved storms, especially when there was thunder and lightning.

He sniffed as the smell of cooking swirled in his nostrils. Turning back from the window, he ventured around the corner to the kitchen area. His mom was standing at the stove, stirring a big pot of something.

“What’s for dinner?” he asked.

“Meat,” she said. “And potatoes. And peas.”

Oliver’s stomach grumbled in anticipation. His family always ate simple meals, but Oliver didn’t mind that much. He had simple tastes.

“Go and wash your hands, boys,” Dad said from where he sat at the table.

From the corner of his eye, Oliver caught sight of Chris’s mean grin and already knew his brother had another cruel torment up his sleeve. The last thing he wanted to do was get trapped in the bathroom with Chris, but Dad looked up again from the table, his eyebrows raised.

“Do I have to say everything twice?” he complained.

There was no way out of it. Oliver left the room, Chris right on his tail. He hurried up the stairs, making a beeline for the bathroom in an attempt to get the hand-washing over and done with as quickly as possible. But Chris was right there in pursuit, and as soon as they were out of their parents’ earshot, he grabbed Oliver and shoved him into the wall.

“Guess what, squirt,” he said.

“What?” Oliver said, bracing himself.

“I’m really, really hungry tonight,” Chris said.

“So?” Oliver replied.

“So, you’re going to let me have your dinner, aren’t you? You’re going to tell Mom and Dad you’re not hungry.”

Oliver shook his head. “I already gave you the bedroom!” he refuted. “Let me have my potatoes, at the very least.”

Chris laughed. “No way. We’re starting a new school tomorrow. I’ve got to be strong in case there are other pipsqueaks like you I need to pick on.”

The mention of school sent a new wave of trepidation washing through Oliver. He’d started so many new schools in his life and each time it seemed to get a little worse. There was always a Chris Blue equivalent who was able to sniff him out, who wanted to pick on him no matter what he did. And there were never any allies. Oliver had long ago given up on making friends. What was the point when he’d just be moving again in a matter of months?

Chris’s face softened. “Tell you what, Oliver, I’ll be kind. Just this once.” Then he grinned and burst into maniacal laughter. “I’ll give you a knuckle sandwich for dinner!”

He raised his fist. Oliver ducked away, missing the flailing fist by mere millimeters. He bolted downstairs for the living room.

“Come back, toe rag!” Chris yelled.

He was right on Oliver’s heels, but Oliver was fast, and he hurried to the dining table. Dad looked up at him as he stood there panting, recovering from the sprint.

“Are you two fighting again?” He sighed. “What about this time?”

Chris skidded to a halt beside Oliver.

“Nothing,” he said quickly.

Suddenly, Oliver felt a sharp pinching sensation at his waist. Chris was digging his nails in. Oliver looked over at him, at the look of triumphant glee on his face.

Dad looked suspicious. “I don’t believe you. What’s going on?”

The pinch got stronger, the pain radiating through Oliver’s side. He knew what he had to do. There was no choice.

“I was just saying,” he said, wincing, “that I’m not feeling very hungry tonight.”

Dad looked at him wearily. “Mom’s been slaving over that stove for you and now you’re saying you don’t want it?”

Mom looked over her shoulder from the stove with a wounded expression. “What’s the problem? Don’t you like meat anymore? Or is it the potatoes that are the issue?”

Oliver felt Chris’s pinch deepen even more, sending an even sharper pain through him.

“Sorry, Mom,” he said, his eyes watering. “I am grateful. I’m just not hungry.”

“What am I supposed to do with him?” Mom exclaimed. “First the bedroom, now this! My nerves can’t take it.”

“I’ll have his extras,” Chris said quickly. Then in a sugary voice, he added, “I don’t want all your efforts to go to waste, Mom.”

Mom and Dad both looked at Chris. He was bulky and getting ever bulkier but they didn’t seem concerned. Either that, or they didn’t want to stand up to the bully son they’d raised.

“Fine,” Mom said, sighing. “But you have got to sort out that brain of yours, Oliver. I can’t be having this sort of fuss every evening.”

Oliver felt Chris’s pinch release. He rubbed his sore side.

“Okay, Mom,” he said, sadly. “Sorry, Mom.”

As the sound of cutlery and crockery clinked behind him, Oliver turned from the dining table, his stomach growling, and walked back to his alcove. To block out the smells that made his hunger even more pronounced, he distracted himself by opening his suitcase and taking out his one and only possession, a book about inventors. A kind librarian had given it to him several years ago after noticing that he kept coming in to read it. Now it was dog-eared, well-worn from the million times he’d leafed through it. But no matter how often he read it, he never got bored. Inventors and inventions fascinated him. In fact, one of the reasons Oliver wasn’t that sad about moving to this neighborhood in New Jersey was because he’d read about a factory nearby where an inventor named Armando Illstrom built some of his finest creations. It didn’t matter to Oliver that Armando Illstrom was included in the Zany Inventors section of the book, or that most of his contraptions failed. Oliver still found him very inspirational, especially his booby trap device which was designed to scare away raccoons. Oliver was trying to create his own version to ward off Chris.

Just then, he heard the sound of clinking cutlery coming from the kitchen. He looked up to see his family sitting at the table, preoccupied with their dinner, Chris slurping up Oliver’s helping.

Frowning at the unfairness of it all, Oliver discreetly took his invention pieces out of his suitcase and laid them on the floor before him. The booby trap was in a state of half completion. It was a kind of slingshot mechanism that would activate when a lever was pressed underfoot, catapulting acorns into the face of the intruder. Of course, Armando’s version was for a raccoon so Oliver had had to scale it up in order to fit the much larger dimensions of his brother, and he’d replaced the acorns with the only thing he had on hand, which was a small plastic statue of a soldier. He’d managed to get most of the mechanism constructed, as well as the lever. But every time he pressed it down to test it, it didn’t work. The soldier would not be flung. It just sat there, gun poised.

With his family distracted, Oliver got to work on it. He set all the pieces out, laying the trap. But he couldn’t figure out why it wouldn’t work. Perhaps, he thought, this was the reason Armando Illstrom was considered zany. None of his inventions worked very well. If at all.