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CHAPTER 2
    “Vomit. Puke. Throw-up.”
    Ms. Maxwell’s lecture voice boomed throughout the science lab, vibrating the paper jack-o’-lantern hanging above her head. “You know the smell, now you know the name: butyric acid. Used in the manufacture of plastics, butyric acid naturally occurs in sweat, rancid butter, cod liver oil, and, yes, good old vomit.” She pulled a stained lab coat over her fitted yellow T-shirt and signaled Lucy, in the first row, to pass out the Experimentation Documentation worksheets. “You, my inquisitive young scientists, will be working with butyric acid in today’s experiment.”
    Girly groans mixed with macho cheers as my class reacted to the news of another Mad Max Lab Day. What a way to follow up a two-and-a-half-day weekend! Science Concepts in Action was every bit as cool as I’d heard it would be. Last week we did an experiment where we lit potato chips on fire with Bunsen burners and measured how much grease dripped out. I didn’t eat chips for a whole day after that. The week before, we’d lobbed balloons filled with mustard off the roof to test Newton’s Second Law of Motion. What other teacher on the planet would let thirty-two eighth graders on top of a three-story building with balloon bombs? Max didn’t even get mad when the mustard splattered the fresh red paint on the walls of the school’s office. In fact, I would have sworn she was laughing behind her hand when it happened, not coughing. No wonder she was the most popular teacher in the whole school. It also didn’t hurt that she was totally hot.
    Butyric acid, huh? I did know the smell. Too well. The sour memory of Friday’s hot dog episode was still fresh in my nose. And Lucy had me scheduled for
eleven
HDBs in twelve minutes tomorrow after school, so I had a feeling I’d be on intimate terms with the raunchy stuff soon enough.
    Despite the cool gross-out factor, though, today’s Mad Max experiment was falling flatter than a pancake. Max explained the steps for the lab clearly enough, but she was cranky the whole time, snapping at us left and right. When she suddenly ripped into the guys at the table next to mine, I almost ducked under my chair.
    “What’s her problem today?” I whispered to my lab partner, Linus “Tater” Tate, after she’d stormed off. “Did someone let the rats out of their cages?”
    “We should be so lucky.” Tater had earned his nickname in fourth grade when he jammed four Tater Tots up his nostrils. That got him such a big laugh, he’d been doing it ever since. I guess everyone needed their claim to fame, but I just couldn’t look at Tater without staring at his nostrils.