“ATP is produced by…,” Grayson began, but Mr. Bridgewater interrupted him. “Not ATP. ADB! Don’t try to get out of it by changing the subject, Grayson!”
“But … but it really is ATP. Adenosine triphosphate. I’ve learned all about ATP and its uses. Would you like me to give you a rundown on…?” Grayson sounded desperate now.
“Young man, that’s very laudable, but today we are examining you on ADB,” said the examiner next to Mr. Bridgewater. “So carry on, please, we don’t have all day.”
“ADB … ADB … Aaaaaadeeeeebeeee…” Grayson ran his hand through his short fair hair.
Poor boy. He still had those dreadful dreams of failure. I longed to intervene, but then he might have realized that he was only dreaming and—even worse—that I’d slipped into his dream without permission. No, it was better for me to keep my head down and slip out again as soon as the air was clear.
“I’m afraid I’m not up to date with ADB,” Grayson finally said.
Beside me, Emily sniffed. “Typical,” she said, not even under her breath. Grayson promptly looked at us. His expression was so unhappy that my heart lurched sympathetically. I gave him an encouraging smile. Sad to say, I had no idea what ATP was, or ADB either, or I might have been able to help him.
“So you’re not up to date with ADB?” repeated Mr. Bridgewater, exchanging sorrowful glances with his colleagues. “Well, think it over again.… What could it mean?”
Ancient daft Bridgewater. Apes devour bananas. Alternative drippy baboon …
Grayson sighed. “I really don’t know.” He added pitifully, “What is it, then?”
“Oh, good heavens!” The stout woman teacher to Mr. Bridgewater’s left shook her head pityingly. “ADB—Anti-diet-butter! Everyone knows that!”
“Anti-diet-butter?” Grayson stared at her incredulously. “What’s anti-diet-butter supposed to produce in human cells? And what does it have to do with biology, anyway?”
He was so right. This really was the silliest dream of all time. Anti-diet-butter—couldn’t Grayson’s unconscious mind come up with anything better?
“Impertinent into the bargain!” The stout woman clicked her tongue and turned to her colleagues. “Well, I for one can’t waste any more of my time on this candidate. As I said before, I fear we can’t pass him.”
“I’m afraid I feel the same,” said Mr. Bridgewater. “I’m very sorry, Grayson, but you’ve failed this exam.”
Grayson looked as if he might burst into tears. “But … but…,” he whispered desperately.
“I said all along you ought to study more,” said Emily sternly, with a touch of satisfaction in her voice. “Not so much partying and basketball. You should think more about your future!”
I was about to contradict her when everything around us suddenly turned pitch dark. The ground gave way beneath my feet, and I fell into a gaping void.
Grayson had woken, and I did the same, to find myself in bed with a thudding heart.
Gasping, I sat up—I hated it when this happened. It was a terrifying feeling to fall into the dark, as if oxygen would be in short supply there and I’d choke to death as I plunged into space—I was sure dying must feel just like that.
The glowing numbers on my alarm clock said it was ten past four. Sunday the sixth of January. The last day of the school holidays. Unfortunately not to be entirely devoted to doing nothing, because this afternoon the Boker’s famous Twelfth Night tea party would take place, and I didn’t have anything to wear yet. I just hadn’t had time to go through my wardrobe, and Mom’s and Lottie’s, in search of something suitable. All the same, I had a chance to catch up on my sleep now, and that seemed to me far more important than the wardrobe question. But first I must go to the bathroom.