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The problem with being a genius like Artie “The Brain” Miller was that the rest of the world was basically living in slow motion. And the problem with being Artie’s best friend was that I, Leo Henderson, usually ended up holding the bag—or in this case, the five-gallon bucket of industrial-strength vinegar.

“Leo, keep it level!” Artie hissed, adjusting his glasses, which were sliding down his nose from the sheer humidity of the Cedar Creek Middle School gym. “If the acidity drops by even point-five percent, the reaction won’t have the ‘theatrical velocity’ required to win the trophy.”

“Forget the trophy,” I groaned, my arms shaking. “If I drop this, the gym is going to smell like a giant salad for the next three years. Besides, look at Miller’s project. He’s got a drone that delivers snacks. How do we beat a snack drone with a volcano?”

Artie looked at the snack drone with the kind of pity you’d give a dog trying to do long division. “It’s a gimmick, Leo. A shiny, salty gimmick. But our volcano? It’s science.”

It was science, alright. Artie had spent three weeks mixing a secret chemical compound that he promised would create a “controlled, spectacular plume of neon-purple foam.” He’d even rigged a remote detonator. We weren’t just making a volcano; we were making a statement.

The statement, unfortunately, was “Run for your lives.”

Everything was going perfectly until Principal Higgins walked by. Higgins was a man whose primary hobby was finding new and creative ways to give me detention. He stopped at our table, eyeing the six-foot-tall paper-mache mountain with deep suspicion.

“Miller. Henderson,” he barked. “I assume this thing is up to code? No open flames? No pressurized gases? No… whatever happened last year with the motorized unicycles?”

“Strictly chemical, sir,” Artie said, flashing his most innocent “I-definitely-didn’t-rewire-the-school-intercom” smile.

“Good,” Higgins muttered. “Because if one drop of purple foam touches the new gym floor, you’ll be scrubbing it with a toothbrush until you graduate high school.”

He turned to leave, but his briefcase caught the edge of Artie’s remote detonator.

The volcano didn’t just erupt. It screamed. A low, rumbling sound like a hungry grizzly bear started deep in the paper-mache. Artie’s eyes went wide.

“Leo,” he whispered.

“Yeah?”

“I might have over-calculated the velocity.”

“How much?”

“About four hundred percent.”

Before I could drop the bucket, the top of the volcano didn’t just let out foam—it launched a pillar of purple goop straight into the rafters. It hit a ceiling fan, which was spinning at high speed.

It was like a purple snowstorm, if the snow was sticky, smelled like pickles, and was currently covering Principal Higgins’ expensive Italian suit.

“Henderson! Miller!” Higgins roared, wiping a glob of neon slime from his forehead.

Artie didn’t skip a beat. He grabbed his clipboard and started scribbling. “Fascinating. Leo, take note: the centrifugal force of the fan increased the distribution area by forty feet. We’re going to need more vinegar.”