THE PAPER RIVALS
Dr. Naffziger himself opened the door at the front of the lecture room – not the usual assistant. Mitchell Connor put his pen back together, sat up, and watched intently. Dr. Naffziger dug intently through an overstuffed binder of papers before he extracted a sheaf, flipped shut the cover, and placed the sheaf on the lectern. He stood at the front of the room, meshing and unmeshing his pudgy fingers in front of his short, outdated tie.

“Well, it looks like we’re all here today, so let’s get right to the point. As you know it’s been my tradition for many years to give an award for the best midterm and term paper as well as runner up,” the professor droned. Mitchell wondered how such a distinguished doctor of biochemistry could take so long to get to the point. Mitchell had won the award for both papers in last year’s class with this professor. None of his classmates had become diligent in the meantime, so he figured he’d get this one, too. Naffziger was still talking. “... and I think that for someone rather new to our school, he’s done a pretty good job.” He punctuated the last two words by bobbing his head forward like the hammer on a piano. “And so, I’m happy to announce the winner as Kumal Dasgupta,” he said. “Is Kumal here today?”

Heads all over the room swiveled towards a seat at the far right end of the front row. “Come on up here,” Naffziger growled grandly, beckoning with one hand as his large head bobbed in agreement.

Mitchell’s mouth was open. Josh, his best friend, twisted around and snickered. “You should see your face.”

“I’m gonna kill him.”

“I guess you’ll just have to be one of us mortals for a few days,” said Josh. “Does his being a foreign exchange student make it better or worse?”

“I don’t know how he did it. He’s only been here one semester.” Mitchell glanced back to the front, where Kumal was walking back to his seat. Dr. Naffziger folded his hands again.

“Let me have your attention again for just a minute. I’ll let you out early today, but first I have another announcement. I think this one’s a real treat,” he said, hammering ‘real treat’ with his head. “Dr. Ernest Bloomfield, a renowned drug researcher, was here in Lakeview yesterday and I spoke with him and he agreed to come and do a guest lecture next period. Not only that, but we’re going to do some lab work with botulinum.”

Mitchell’s eyebrows popped up.

“For those of you in the back, that means that you’ll get to inject small animals with Botox,” said Dr. Naffziger.

The murmur of whispers swelled to a dim roar as everyone quit listening. “Seriously?” said Josh, “That’s awesome!”

“Maybe we can use some on his face,” Mitchell said without smiling. “Or his assistant’s. I swear she’s got to have the record for oldest grad assistant.”

Josh grinned. “Yeah, I know. Let’s go to lunch early. Actually, let’s go see Mr. Foreign Smarty-pants.”

Mitchell scowled but followed Josh over towards Kumal.

“Congrats on the paper,” said Josh, “My friend Mitch here thought he was gonna get it. That’s why his face is like that.” Mitchell stabbed Josh in the back with a pen. “Ow!”

“Yes, thank you, thank you,” smiled Kumal. “I think Mr. Mitch’s face is good.”

“Actually,” said Josh, “He said he’s going to kill you.”

Kumal’s eyes popped open wide as he stepped back and exclaimed, “Oh no, sirs.”

“Calm down, it’s an idiom,” said Josh.

“A what is it?”

“An idiom; an American expression.”

“Shut up, Josh,” said Mitchell, who had been skimming Kumal’s paper. “We’ll see you later.” Mitchell put it down and pulled Josh towards the door.

“What’s the deal?” Josh whined.

“You’re just confusing him. Let’s go eat lunch.”

The cafeteria was just starting to fill up when they got their plates. Mitchell scanned the room several times before making eye contact with Elise. She motioned them towards her table.

“Hi, honey,” she said. “How’d you get to lunch so fast?”

Mitchell Josh pulled out their chairs and sat down.

“Naffziger let us out early.”

“How come?”

Mitchell mumbled something at his plate.

“Paper awards today,” said Josh. Mitchell glared at him.

Elise started to grin but smothered it. “I take it you didn’t get it.”

“Nah, some new foreign exchange kid got it,” replied Mitchell.

“It’s OK, dear; you always do a good job. You’ll get the next one.”

“You bet I will,” he said, but his tone wasn’t confident. He took another bite and chewed thoughtfully. “You know, it’s not the end of the world. I still got an A, and it’s not like anyone will ever care about those awards anyway.” He stabbed his chicken harder than was strictly necessary before continuing. “We should do something this week.”

“Like what?” asked Josh.

“I was actually asking my girlfriend, but it has been a while since we all did something.”

“Oh. Sorry.”

“It’s ok, Josh. Mitch, what were you thinking?” asked Elise.

“I dunno. Just something to get us away from here for a while.”

She smiled. “Well, there’s always a movie, but someone here can’t watch those without nitpicking every other scene.”

“Not my fault directors can’t make a movie without plot holes the size of a beach.”

Josh made a face. “The size of a beach?”

“Beach, barge, bus – pick one,” said Mitch. “You’d just think that with millions and millions of dollars they could hire someone to spot stuff like that.”

Josh laughed. “They should just hire you. You could get paid to nitpick and interrupt people’s movies all day.”

“You’re very funny, but that’s not what I want to be doing in ten years.” The words were sarcastic, but the corners of Mitchell’s mouth twitched. “So um…how about bowling?”

“I’m good with that,” replied Elise, glancing at Josh.

“You really don’t have to take me,” he said, “but I wouldn’t mind going.”

Mitchell balled up his napkin and stuffed it in his empty glass. “It’s OK; we’ll all go. How about Thursday night?”

“Tomorrow? Works for me,” said Elise.

“Yeah, most of my stuff is due earlier in the week,” said Josh. “I’m pretty much caught up.”

“I’ll call about a reservation and then send you guys an e-mail,” said Mitchell. “Josh will have to pay for himself.”

“Aw, but Baby…” whined Josh in falsetto.

“You wish,” said Elise with a snort. “He’s mine. I’ve got to go to class.” She stood up and gathered her dishes.

Thursday’s classes came and went. At 7:00pm, the group of three walked towards Josh’s car. “Baby, you’re mumbling again,” said Elise gently.

Mitchell cleared his throat and said loudly, “Ok, I forgot to get reservations. Somehow it just slipped my mind. So we’ll have to walk in and maybe wait a bit for a lane.”

Josh unlocked the car door. “Don’t worry about it, Mitch. We’ll survive.”

“Hey, it’s not too bad in here,” remarked Elise as they walked into the bowling alley. “There’s no line for shoes.”

“You guys are next in line, so just hang out near the counter and I’ll call you,” said the tired-looking guy behind the counter. “You can get shoes now if you want.”

“Thanks,” said Elise.

Josh fiddled with the laces on his dark red shoes. “I love the way bowling shoes feel. They’re so cool and dry and smooth, and they’re heavier than they look.”

Mitchell grinned slightly. “You could put a bowling ball on your foot. Those are cool and dry and smooth and heavier than they look.”

“We should try batting a ball down the lane,” said Josh.

“Um, that’s stupid.”

“Actually,” said Elise, “I had a friend who did something like that. Her mom ran over our baseball with the lawn mower, so we tried using a soccer ball instead. But we had an aluminum bat, and it bounced.”

“The bat bounced?” asked Mitchell.

“Yeah, right back into her head. She had a terrible concussion.”

“I love the sound aluminum bats make,” said Josh. “That would have made a cool double ping sound.”

“Ew. Something’s wrong with you,” said Elise.

“See, he’s worse than I am,” said Mitchell. “I only kill mice and such, and you give me a hard time.”

“Some of that lab testing just sounds awful,” replied Elise.

“Tomorrow should be cool, actually. We’re gonna get to play with Botox.”

“Ooh, you wanna get me some?” she laughed.

“No, Honey, your face is beautiful just the way it is. We’re gonna kill frogs with it, I think.”

“Kill? I thought it was just fat you inject.”

“It’s actually a neurotoxin. It gets rid of the appearance of wrinkles by paralyzing the muscles underneath. It’s either the first or second most toxic substance known to man. Four or five kilograms could wipe out all of mankind.”

“Wow, Botox suddenly sounds really unappealing,” said Elise. “Please don’t die or come back frozen tomorrow.”

“Not a chance, Honey,” he said. “As long as Josh doesn’t eat it we’ll be fine.”

“Hey, I quit eating paste a long time ago!”

“Uh, excuse me, you folks can head over to lane six now,” said the tired guy’s voice behind them.

They walked together to the lane, where Mitchell began fiddling with the ancient scoring computer and Josh started pawing through the bowling balls. Mitchell looked up and suddenly made eye contact with Kumal, who was standing at the little table two lanes down, holding a ball and talking with another student. Mitchell’s face darkened. Kumal instantly dropped the ball and ran, or tried to run, in his slippery bowling shoes. The ball fell directly onto a large, disposable cup of Sprite and rolled off the table with a crash and a splattering of pop. Kumal had managed to skid his way out the front door by the time the tired guy got out from behind the counter.

“Mitch, what on earth was with that guy?” asked Elise, totally bewildered. “What happened?”

Josh couldn’t help himself. “Did you see that cup? It didn’t have a chance. It collapsed like the Soviet Empire!”

Elise glanced at him sideways. “You’re insane.”

“I don’t feel well,” said Mitchell. “You guys go ahead.” He sat down at their little table.

“What’s the matter, Baby?” asked Elise.

“Nothing, I’m just tired. I’ll just watch you.”

“Well, OK. Let me know if you want to go home – er – back to school.”

Mitchell seemed his usual self by the following afternoon. Dr. Naffziger gave Dr. Bloomfield a windy introduction as they donned their protective clothing. Bloomfield gave a short lecture from a stepstool in the lab, saying that he wanted to get right to the lab work and stressing that they follow his instructions especially carefully. Mitchell looked around, trying to find Kumal, but didn’t find him amidst the crowded knots of masks, coats, and safety glasses.

Mitchell walked slowly around the counter where Dr. Bloomfield had culture dishes labeled with many brightly colored warnings. The students moved through the lab in stages, lab journals in hand. Mitchell ranged himself near a dumber student as they prepared their solutions and loaded them into small syringes. When Dr. Bloomfield was observing the other, less competent student, Mitchell tugged at his right glove with increasing franticness until it finally came off. He quickly stuck the tip of his middle finger into the toxic bacteria culture and jammed the glove back on before Bloomfield turned around.

Seamless, Mitchell thought to himself. He still couldn’t find Kumal. He must not have come to class. After the lab was over, Mitchell disposed of his gloves and managed to evade the hand washing station. He also tossed the empty glass vial, which he had decided he didn’t need.

He returned to the dorms and looked up Kumal’s room number in the directory, then walked up the stairs and stepped into an unfamiliar hall. He hesitated at an open door before entering. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea.

The main room was empty, but the bathroom door was closed. He stepped towards a desk with photographs that looked plausibly Indian and surveyed it. A laptop was closed on the desk with a cup of hot, pungent tea sitting next to it. Folders, textbooks, notebooks, and binders stood in orderly symmetry on the shelves. Boxes of paper clips, staples, and binder clips were stacked by size.

I’m glad this is so organized, he thought as he began pulling out folders and binders one by one, thumbing through them, and carefully replacing them. His brow furrowed as he concentrated on one folder, until finally his jaw clamped hard and he pulled out one stapled bundle and glared at it. He glanced down for a split second. With a shrug, he swirled his middle finger in the tea. The toilet flushed in the tiny bathroom. Mitchell started towards the door but heard footsteps in the hall. Turning back, he dived behind a low bar of hanging clothes. This was not what he had planned. Kumal’s shoes emerged from the bathroom and moved near the dressers. The footsteps in the hall continued without stopping. Mitchell waited. Kumal continued to move about the room. Mitchell’s heart pounded as the shoes finally stopped by the desk, and as he heard a mug being set back down on the hard surface.

I might be stuck here for a while, he thought. He realized that was still holding the papers.

Kumal dropped a book. More footsteps sounded in the hall. Kumal was trying to pick up the book, but he kept dropping it again. Josh’s shoes suddenly appeared in the doorway.

“What are you doing? What’s the matter?” asked Josh’s voice. Kumal made some odd sounds, but the paralysis had already affected most of his face. Josh picked the up the phone and began speaking rapidly to someone. Mitchell was sweating profusely now.

Why was he in here to begin with? What was he thinking? The university medical team burst onto the scene, and time became a blur of shoes. The room emptied out as if class were dismissed, except that the fading voices had been crisper.

Mitchell finally crawled out of the clothes. His knees were shaking uncontrollably. Perspiration ran into his eye, and he wiped it away. Wrong hand!

“No!” he shouted, staring at his finger. “No!” It had touched the wet corner of his eye. He ran blindly from the room, dropping the papers behind him. He fell partway down the stairs and collapsed at the bottom.

The next morning Josh found Elise in a hallway.

“Josh, I’ve never seen you look so sober. What’s wrong? And where’s Mitch? I haven’t seen him all day. And why on earth do you have a newspaper?”

He handed her the paper. TWO STUDENTS POISIONED AT LAKEVIEW: ONE DIES. Elise sagged against the hallway wall and slid down to the floor, staring at the newspaper.

“I don’t understand. How could they both be poisoned?”

“I found Kumal paralyzed, called the paramedics, and followed him out to the ambulance. Nobody found Mitch for a while. But then I went back to Kumal’s room and found this on the floor.” He handed her a sheaf of 8.5x11” papers. They were obviously photocopies. She read the header: Mitchell Connor, Mailbox 247. Josh said quietly, “Kumal didn’t go to the lab yesterday. Mitchell did. He was also on the north stairs, which he doesn’t normally use. I can only assume…”

“Oh, curse those paper awards! And his wretched pride.”

“There is one bright spot. At least it was more like the soccer bat than an ugly, drawn-out trial.” Under his breath he made a soft “Ping! Bong!” but she heard it and smiled a little through her tears.