Carson High School seniors Scott and Davey don’t have much common ground—that is, until all universes begin collapsing into their school. Soon, the avowed loner and the mean-girl cheerleader realize that something is very wrong, and they’re the only two who are aware of what’s happening. Demon versions of their teachers roam the halls, a cowboy sloth appears sporadically, and some students randomly burst into flames, while angry interdimensional counterparts of other students destroy everything in sight.
Now it’s up to two seniors from opposite sides of the social spectrum to defeat this scourge and save not only their high school but also the world. Armed with little more than school supplies and Scott’s trusty copy of The NEW Multiverse Theory, can these unlikely heroes put their differences aside and stop the total chaos? If they can’t, the end of the world may just be beginning.
Carson High School seniors Scott and Davey don’t have much common ground—that is, until all universes begin collapsing into their school. Soon, the avowed loner and the mean-girl cheerleader realize that something is very wrong, and they’re the only two who are aware of what’s happening. Demon versions of their teachers roam the halls, a cowboy sloth appears sporadically, and some students randomly burst into flames, while angry interdimensional counterparts of other students destroy everything in sight.
Now it’s up to two seniors from opposite sides of the social spectrum to defeat this scourge and save not only their high school but also the world. Armed with little more than school supplies and Scott’s trusty copy of The NEW Multiverse Theory, can these unlikely heroes put their differences aside and stop the total chaos? If they can’t, the end of the world may just be beginning.
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Overview
Carson High School seniors Scott and Davey don’t have much common ground—that is, until all universes begin collapsing into their school. Soon, the avowed loner and the mean-girl cheerleader realize that something is very wrong, and they’re the only two who are aware of what’s happening. Demon versions of their teachers roam the halls, a cowboy sloth appears sporadically, and some students randomly burst into flames, while angry interdimensional counterparts of other students destroy everything in sight.
Now it’s up to two seniors from opposite sides of the social spectrum to defeat this scourge and save not only their high school but also the world. Armed with little more than school supplies and Scott’s trusty copy of The NEW Multiverse Theory, can these unlikely heroes put their differences aside and stop the total chaos? If they can’t, the end of the world may just be beginning.
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781941758670 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Inkshares |
| Publication date: | 04/19/2016 |
| Pages: | 240 |
| Product dimensions: | 5.90(w) x 8.90(h) x 1.10(d) |
| Age Range: | 12 - 18 Years |
About the Author
Nick Scott writes and lives in Dallas, Texas. When he isn’t improvising at Dallas Comedy House, he is working on training his dog to ghostwrite for him. It’s not going well. You can
follow him on Twitter at @Nick_Scott.
Read an Excerpt
Practical Applications for Multiverse Theory
By Nick Scott, Noa Gavin
Inkshares Inc.
Copyright © 2016 Nick Scott and Noa GavinAll rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-941758-67-0
CHAPTER 1
SCOTT
It didn't start with anything big. No explosions, no praying mantis creatures terrorizing the hallways, no sentient goo dissolving anyone. We'll get to stuff like that in a second, sure, but not at first. I mean, the story would be way cooler if it did start like that. Like if the first line of the story was something like, "Holy shit, I'm being attacked by bees!"
Alas, it started, as I imagine most things do, with something mundane. In this case, a can of Dr Pepper. Or Hawaiian Punch. Who even knows anymore? You're probably thinking, How could this guy not know which one? Let me set the stage for you.
This was not any ordinary day. And I'm not just saying that because it was homecoming week and it was '80s Spirit Day. Each day during homecoming week was a different theme, and students were expected to wear outfits congruent with that theme. But this day was not special because of the amount of low-rent Madonnas with fishnet leggings and crosses around their necks or Sonny Crockets with white suits and loafers with no socks roaming the halls.
Normally I would bring my lunch. But it was Tuesday. Tuesday is crispito day in the cafeteria. I stood in queue with all the other students that had B lunch, sandwiched between two students wearing Frankie Say Relax T-shirts (a reference they probably didn't even understand), waiting to get a tray of those tubes of deliciousness that were crispitos. For those of you who don't know, a crispito is essentially a crispy burrito, filled with the lowest-grade beef available and covered in whatever cheese product the government deemed appropriate for public school students to eat.
The lunch lady, Becky, according to her name tag, was here every Tuesday. She wore the same red polo and khaki pants that were the uniform for all cafeteria employees. Her expression, or lack thereof, was flat and unchanging. Her hair threatened to burst out of the hairnet that trapped it. She used a spatula to move the crispitos onto the trays and put the trays out for students to grab, her movements mechanical.
I'm not one to smile at someone, or initiate any sort of social contact, but this was the exception. Each week I couldn't help but smile at Lunch Lady Becky as she placed the crispito-filled tray in front of me, and this week was no different. I smiled at her, and her face remained stoic. How could someone dispense something that made so many people happy and not have joy about it? I think maybe she did but just didn't show it. I could understand that. I try not to show any. High school kids can be vicious at the first display of any sort of genuine emotion, and she probably already dealt with enough having the (unfair) stigma of being a lunch lady. I liked to think that her joy was like a little secret that was just between us.
Anyway, where was I? Oh yeah. The Dr Pepper. There is nothing better to wash crispitos down with than a cold Dr Pepper, and thanks to schools being strapped for cash, they let all the major soft drink companies sell their carbonated sugar in the cafeteria. I grabbed a Dr Pepper out of the large can-shaped drink display full of ice. I handed the cashier lunch lady my school lunch card, and as the transaction processed, I decided to pop open that Dr Pepper. The cool metal touched my lips, and as the liquid hit my tongue I tasted ... fruit punch. Hawaiian Punch to be exact. The fruit flavor was such a shock that the sip got stuck between being spit out and swallowed, and I ended up choking on it a bit and coughing instead. I held the can away from my face and, sure enough, looking back at me was that freckled guy with the weird red antler hair. I stood frozen for a minute, the taste of fruit punch still in my mouth.
"Well, are you gonna stand there, or are you gonna take your lunch?" asked the cashier lunch lady. Donna, her nametag said.
"Sorry. I must have grabbed the wrong drink" But something was off. I didn't think the school even sold Hawaiian Punch. "I meant to grab a Dr Pepper."
Lunch Lady Donna raised one eyebrow. "Son, that is a Dr Pepper."
I gave her a confused look, but when I looked down at the can, sure enough, a Dr Pepper was in my hand.
"Oh ... I ... uh ... never mind, then" Dazed, I placed the can on my tray and headed toward the library, where my few friends and I normally eat lunch. I figured I was just tired or stressed or something. Or maybe the delicious (but probably toxic) fumes from the crispitos had overloaded my brain. I was wrong. Way wrong.
Something dripped down my upper lip and into my mouth as a metallic taste hit my tongue. I set my tray down on the nearest empty table. A quick touch to my upper lip left my fingers red with blood. A nosebleed. I hadn't had a nosebleed in ... I couldn't even remember the last time I had a nosebleed. Wary of leaving my crispitos unattended but knowing I needed to stop bleeding, I rushed over to the table where the plastic knives, forks, and spoons and paper napkins were kept. The handful of brown made-from-recycled-paper napkins I grabbed felt rough against my face and scratched the inside of my nostril, but they did their job.
I threw most of them away, saving one to shove up my nose to keep it clogged in case the bleeding started again. The good news was my tray was still on the table where I left it. The bad news was that someone used my few moments of physical vulnerability (well, it's not like I'm some muscle fortress normally, so maybe I should say "my few moments of higher-than-usual physical vulnerability") to swipe my crispitos. A lone can of Dr Pepper sat on a red plastic tray. They didn't even bother to take the whole tray. They literally just swiped my crispitos. Shoulders slumped, I walked over and picked up the can. At least I still had my "Dr Pepper."
I turned to continue my trek across the lunchroom to the library and collided with an oblivious perfumed object of some sort. The thing — most likely a person, as my brain quickly deduced — wore a tight pink shirt, one of those low-cut T-shirts that all teenage girls seem to have that show just enough cleavage. A brown, sugary stain was spreading across said cleavage. The can of soda in my hand felt considerably lighter.
"Ohmygod, watch where you're going," she said, her hands raised, palms open in a "why would you do this?" position. "Uh, hello? Scott?"
I realized that I was just staring at her chest. Not at her cleavage, I want to be clear here, but at the brown stain. It was less boob related and more me taking time to mourn the loss of my soda and, to an even further extent, my crispitos. She pulled her bright-pink '80s-interpretation shirt up to more thoroughly cover herself — not that that is what I was looking at, again, just to be clear. I raised my eyes to hers, and it was just as I feared. My eyes met those of Davey Burgess. I ruined the costume of the girl who was, relatively, the homecoming czar, whose idea it was in the first place for this ridiculous spirit day.
At the time she was born, I'm sure her parents thought Davey was an adorable, spunky name for a girl. I bet they literally used the word spunky when deciding to call her that. Now it just sounds less cute and more like something the movie Juno threw up. I didn't really know her that well, just that she was a cheerleader, that she dated some bag of douche on the football team, and that she had an all-around reputation for being a serious bitch (and I don't use that word lightly, as I generally think it's disrespectful, but if the shoe fits ...). In fact, I had only really had one interaction with her ever, and it wasn't exactly pleasant. We were scheduled to have peer mediation later in the week to "resolve our differences." All from just that one interaction.
"Sorry for —"
"Whatever. Luckily I have a backup in my cheer bag" Her eyes widened. "Oh, gross" she said, noticing my tissues. "You better not have gotten any of your nose blood on me."
"I think you're clean, I mean, besides the Dr Pepper," I said, but with the tissues back in my nose it came out as "Ash tinky lean, ah men, beefhides ha toctor peppah."
"Whatever" She stormed off toward the gym and the cheer locker room.
I shook it off and looked at the lunch line. It still stretched around the corner, and lunch was halfway over. I would never get back through in time. Hungry and denied the pleasure of crispitos and sugary bubbles, I headed to the library, certain that my day could get no worse. That there was no greater pain than having crispitos dangled in front of your face, then taken away. I was wrong.
CHAPTER 2DAVEY
Idiot. Weird idiot. Weird idiot weirdo jerk, oh my God, did I hate Scott Simmons. Peer mediation thanks to ... the incident, and now he ruined my shirt. Ruined my entire '80s Spirit Day outfit that I had worked so hard on. I took homecoming week seriously, he had to know that. I took this homecoming incredibly seriously. This would be the year I was crowned queen. This was my year.
I wondered if this was some kind of quiet protest like Occupy Wall Street, where people just show up and irritate you to the point where you have to change your whole life just so they'll stop. At this point, Scott was a low-grade stalker.
Scratch that, Scott was a social terrorist: peer mediation, the great Dr Pepper spill of Tuesday, and my probably being late to AP biology. He was ruthless. There was no way I was going to go to class with a huge stain right on my breasts. There was the attention you got from wearing V-necks, then there was the attention and commentary people were magically granted when something (writing, a necklace, or Dr Friggin' Pepper) was right around there. I scrambled to change into the practice clothes I kept in my locker and get to class as quickly as I could. I didn't need more trouble.
Despite appearances, I wasn't a bad student. You don't get good grades, you don't get to participate in sports. You get a bunch of write-ups and suspensions, you don't get to participate in sports. You don't participate in sports, you don't get a crown. I'd already been late to AP bio a couple of times this term. One more and I'd be back in the office, and that captain badge I had worked so hard for would come right off my uniform. Nope. No, thank you. I was not about that life.
I slid into class right after the bell rang and got a "so disappointed in you" look from Dr. Mallone, creepily dressed as a cutrate Ghostbuster. I shrugged it off and sat down at one of the lab tables in the front, the only seats left. Loser row. After I got that peer mediation under my belt, I was going to have Aaron pay a visit to Scott. Giant idiot beats tiny idiot any day. Metaphorically.
Froggie Funday, Dr. Mallone had written on the board. In the syllabus, he designated dissection days as fundays, which I didn't really care to analyze on any more than a surface level. "Don't try to dig too deep into people" was my motto. Underneath, there was never anything pleasant.
Dr. Mallone called several people to the back room to help distribute frog corpses, which was, until much later, what I thought would be the worst thing I might ever see. The worst phrase I would ever say. Worse would happen, worse would be said. Soon.
A worn metal tray clattered in front of me. A sad frog lay pinned, prone. I wrinkled my nose at the sight, and more at the smell. AP biology would get me a college credit, but it meant more time spent at high school. I thought I could handle anything. Idiot.
Dr. Mallone gingerly handed out scalpels, tweezers, and pins.
"After labeling your frogs, open to page ninety-eight in your book. There you see a diagram of the abdomen and chest of the adult frog. Today we'll be examining the inner organs of the abdomen, and identifying them. Please follow the instructions carefully, then sketch and label your frog's inner workings on page fifty-three in your workbooks. Questions?"
A homemade Marty McFly raised his hand. "Do we get to keep the frogs when we're done?"
"You do not. They will be incinerated."
"Do we get to incinerate them?"
"You do not, Mr. Travis."
"If we were to —"
"The door to the back room is always locked. You steal a frog, I will know, you will go straight to the vice principal. Any questions unrelated to insipidly lame crime?"
Silence fell over the room.
"Excellent. If you have questions throughout, ask them. Begin."
I opened my book and started reading through the directions when I first heard it. A faint whisper from my left.
"Please, please, don't do this."
I turned my head slightly and asked Annie Dwyer what she said.
"I didn't say anything, Davey."
I turned back to my book, back to my frog. I set the scalpel on his (her?) tiny, disturbingly dry chest.
His head twitched a little, and his mouth popped open. He gasped.
"No, please, I have a family. My twins are starting college this year, I just took out another mortgage to pay for it. I'll give you anything you want, just let me go."
I could not have seen that.
I stared, horrified, knocking the scalpel into the air. I tried to catch it, like an idiot, and it sliced into my palm, dropping my blood onto the nightmare on the tray.
"I don't have a lot of money, but I'll ... I don't know, a lot of frogs have three mortgages these days. I can get whatever you need. Just don't. Cut. Me."
I leaned back against my chair and rubbed my hands over my face. I did what I always do when I'm stressed — took a couple of deep breaths and leaned forward. I thought that the formaldehyde was really getting to me.
The frog was craning his tiny head forward, trying to meet my gaze. I snapped my head to Annie's frog — still. Cody's frog was still and silent on my right. Nothing. I faced my frog again.
"My name is McTavish. Your name is ..." He looked to the label on the side of the pan. "Davey? Davey, what a beautiful name. Oh, you're so beautiful, you must be kind too? What do I have to do to convince you that my life has value?"
I made a noise not unlike the sound a whoopee cushion might make if an eighteen wheeler ran over it. I shoved the pan away, and it clattered to the floor. Dr. Mallone came rushing over.
"Did you cut yourself? My God, you have blood on your face, Davey."
"No ... no ... no, I'm okay." I was breathing hard. I wiped the blood off my face with the edge of my practice shirt. Another one bites the dust.
"Sorry, Dr. Mallone, I have a ... a cut on my hand from yesterday. Must have opened."
Dr. Mallone nodded, raising an eyebrow. He picked up McTavish's tray and set it back down in front of me. McTavish was screaming now.
"Oh God, it hurts. Oh, this is agony. Please. Let me free or let me die".
I shoved my chair back, terrified, and slammed my hand over my mouth to keep myself from throwing up.
"Ms. Burgess, do you have a moral or religious issue with dissection?"
"I don't think it's dead," I said, backing up against the lab table behind me.
"Ms. Burgess, they've been soaking in formaldehyde for weeks. I assure you, this frog is very dead."
McTavish groaned. "I am dead at heart, old man. I see the end. I wish for the release of death."
"He's moving, Dr. Mallone."
He looked at me suspiciously and poked McTavish with the scalpel. I winced, waiting for the inevitable screams.
Nothing.
Nothing happened.
McTavish was still. He was as he had been when the tray was delivered to me. His eyes were closed, his mouth was shut and sealed with a waxy sort of paste. Nothing. Nothing.
"Please come with me, Ms. Burgess."
I followed Dr. Mallone into the hallway, trying not to shake, feeling the stares of the rest of the class rise as rapidly as the hot blush working its way up onto my neck. He shut the door behind us, blessedly closing us off.
"Are you all right, Ms. Burgess? You didn't look like you were doing well when you came in. Is it your cut?"
"I'm fine. It must be the fumes or something."
"It's totally normal to have an aversion to dissection. I mean, there are two kinds of people in the world — those who can dissect and those who can't. I can find an alternative assignment if this one proves too emotionally difficult."
"All due respect, sir, but I said I'm fine."
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Practical Applications for Multiverse Theory by Nick Scott, Noa Gavin. Copyright © 2016 Nick Scott and Noa Gavin. Excerpted by permission of Inkshares Inc..
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