Нил Шустерман: The Eyes Of Kid Midas

It was the usual Monday morning madhouse.

Downstairs the TV blared, and the dog was barking nonstop. In the master bedroom, the electric razor buzzed as Patrick Midas, Kevin's father, made his magical transition from stubble-bearded bum into clean-shaven businessman. In the hall bathroom, Teri Midas, Kevin's fourteen-year-old sister, blasted a radio while blasting her wet head with hot air. And, as if all this noise wasn't enough, Monday was trash day.

Kevin cringed in bed as a metal garbage can rang out like a broken bell. No doubt trash collectors' pay was based on how much noise they could make.

"Avalanches!" said Donna Midas, Kevin's mom. "Avalanches and rainstorms!" She violently shook a thermometer and crammed it into Kevin's mouth. "Avalanches, rainstorms, and camping trips! You're going to kill me one of these days, Kevin, you know that?"

Kevin knew he didn't have a fever, but he did have a splitting headache and no intention of going to school today.

"I warned you not to overexert yourself," she said. "But does Kevin Brian Midas listen to anyone but himself? No!—and don't you dare talk! The last thing I need is for you to bite that thermometer and die of mercury poisoning."

She glanced at her watch. "Late again," she muttered as she hurried out of the room.

The second she was gone, Kevin ran over to his desk, grabbed his glasses out of the top drawer, and put them on.

"Great shades," said Teri as she passed by with a toothbrush in her mouth. "Where'd you steal 'em?"

"I didn't steal them, I found them," said Kevin, around his thermometer.

Teri frothed at the mouth. "I'll tell you what. If you let me borrow them for a couple of days, I'll convince Mom that you're sick enough to stay home."

"No deal."

Teri shrugged and sauntered off. "Suit yourself."

Kevin heard her spit in the bathroom sink. Teri, by being the smallest yet toughest field-hockey goalie Ridgeline Middle School had ever seen, had developed a callous self-confidence, and she often used it to make Kevin feel uncomfortable. She would glance at him with a smirk, and the mere glance would make Kevin wonder if he had two different socks on or if his fly were open. She would say things like "Suit yourself" and saunter off as if she knew something Kevin didn't, causing Kevin to give in. Right now, she was probably counting the seconds until Kevin returned to the bargaining table. But this time, no deal meant no deal.

With the glasses on, Kevin's headache was already subsiding, so he dressed quickly and went downstairs to make himself some breakfast.

The TV in the living room blared the news, and the family dog, as was its peculiar custom, barked at the people on the screen as if they were strangers invading its home. Kevin took a detour through the living room because the news report was about the storm around the Divine Watch. Although the dog made it difficult to hear, Kevin did pick up some of it.

"The storm (BARK, BARK) several power outages (BARK, BARK) flash floods throughout the entire (BARK) and is slowly spreading outward. (BARK, GROWL, BARK)"

"Will somebody muzzle the Muffler?" yelled Teri from upstairs.

"Shut up, Mufly," Kevin said to the beagle. The glasses flashed, and Mufly continued barking, but no sound came out.

"There you are," said Mrs. Midas, plucking the thermometer out of Kevin's mouth. "Ninety-eight point six," she reported. "Perfectly normal."

"Send him to school, he's not sick," said Teri, throwing Kevin a sideways glance as she came downstairs

Kevin pushed the glasses up on the bridge of his nose. "It says one hundred and one."

Mrs. Midas glanced at the thermometer again. "That's strange—it does say a hundred and one. I must have misread it."

Kevin gave Teri a smirk.

"Score one for you," said Teri, genuinely surprised. "I hope you feel better, Kev."

As Mrs. Midas shoved the thermometer back in Kevin's mouth to see if it would climb any higher, Mr. Midas flew down the stairs. He headed straight for the fridge, where he grabbed a box of chocolate doughnuts—his usual breakfast. Having already gone on his morning run, he had bought himself the right to all the poor eating habits the day offered.

"Your son's got a fever," said Kevin's mom, who always referred to Kevin as "your son" when it was something bad and "my son" when it was something good.

"I'll alert the media," said Mr. Midas, his mouth full of doughnut. He felt Kevin's head, pulled the thermometer from his mouth, examined it, and asked his wife why on earth she was using the rectal thermometer.

As usual, Josh had waited patiently for Kevin to show up at his door, but he finally gave up and came by to see what was keeping him. Even before he arrived, Josh had a sneaking suspicion that school was not on Kevin's list of the day's activities.

Kevin was wearing the glasses when he opened the door, and Josh could tell by the relative quiet that everyone else had gone.

"I guess you didn't tell anyone about the glasses," said Josh.

"Are you kidding me?" answered Kevin. "Why ruin a perfect day?"

As he passed the living room, Josh noticed Muffy silently opening and closing her yap at the TV screen. "What's wrong with the Muffler?" asked Josh.

"I told her to shut up," said Kevin.

"Good dog!" commented Josh. "C'mon, hurry up, we're already late."

"No school," said Kevin. "I'm staying home to conduct a science experiment today." He hurried off into the kitchen.

The kitchen table was covered with the Sunday paper, dissected and examined for every single advertisement that seemed the slightest bit interesting, from grand openings of electronics stores to beef sales at the supermarket. Kevin had already begun circling the more promising ones with a red pen.

"What sort of experiment?" As if Josh really needed to ask.

"Sit down," said Kevin, "and start picking things you want." Josh didn't sit down just yet, but he did begin to examine the ads cautiously. There was a picture of a stereo system that must have stood a foot taller than he was. It was the sort of system Josh dreamed about.

"You know," said Josh, "it's still raining...."

"I don't see any rain."

"You know what I mean!"

Kevin shrugged it off. "So? It's only a storm. How long can it last?"

Josh examined the sleek digital stereo system that advertised sound reproduction of such superior quality that it actually reproduced sounds out of the range of human hearing. Its price was out of the range of human comprehension.

"I've got to get to school," said Josh, although he didn't put down the ad.

"C'mon." Kevin took a damp paper towel and gently cleaned his precious lenses. "Let's treat ourselves to something."

"Okay," said Josh. "One thing."

"Right."

"One for you, and one for me."

"Okay," said Kevin. "Two things."

"Right," said Josh. "What are you getting?"

Kevin pointed to the ad in Josh's hand. "That stereo right there."

"Great. I want that, too."

"But that's just two of the same thing," said Kevin. "It's just like one thing, and we agreed we'd get two things."

"Okay, one more thing then."

"Fine," said Kevin.

"One for you and one for me," added Josh. "And that's all."

"Right. Just these four things, and that's all."

"Okay."

"Okay."

Within five minutes the experiment was raging out of control, and neither of them got to school that day. The only limits to what could be dreamt up were the clarity of Kevin's thoughts and the speed at which he could speak them into existence.

First came the stereo systems—a half dozen of them, because, with further browsing, they weren't quite sure which they wanted—the ones with multi-megawatt speakers so small they could fit in the palm of your hand or the ones so large they took up an entire wall. They kept ordering up televisions as they found bigger and better ones on each page.