Морган Райс - The Magic Factory

Ms. Belfry looked thrilled with Oliver.

“FREAK!” someone shouted from the back.

“No, thank you, Paul,” Ms. Belfry said sternly to the boy who’d shouted. She turned to the board and began to write about Katharine Blodgett.

Oliver smiled to himself. After the librarian who’d gifted him the inventors book, Ms. Belfry was the kindest adult he’d ever met. Her enthusiasm was like a bulletproof shield Oliver could wrap around his shoulders, deflecting the rest of his class’s cruel words. He settled into the class, more at ease than he’d been in days.

Sooner than he was expecting, the bell rang for the end of the day. Everyone hurried out, running and shouting. Oliver collected his things and made for the exit.

“Oliver, I’m very impressed with your knowledge,” Ms. Belfry said when she ran into him in the hallway. “Where did you learn about all these people?”

“I have a book,” he explained. “I like inventors. I want to be one.”

“Do you make your own inventions?” she asked, looking enthusiastic.

He nodded but didn’t tell her about the invisibility coat. What if she thought it was silly? He wouldn’t be able to cope with seeing anything resembling mockery on her face.

“I think that’s fantastic, Oliver,” she said, nodding. “It’s very important to have dreams to follow. Who is your favorite inventor?”

Oliver recalled Armando Illstrom’s face in the faded picture in his book.

“Armando Illstrom,” he said. “He’s not very famous but he invented lots of cool things. He even tried to make a time machine.”

“A time machine?” Ms. Belfry said, raising her eyebrows. “That’s exciting.”

Oliver nodded, feeling more able to open up thanks to her encouragement. “His factory is near here. I was thinking about going to visit him.”

“You must,” Ms. Belfry said, smiling her warm smile. “You see, when I was your age, I loved physics. All the other kids teased me, they didn’t understand why I wanted to make circuits instead of play with dolls. But one day, my absolute favorite physicist came to town to record an episode of his TV show. I went along and spoke to him afterward. He told me to never give up on my passion. Even if other people told me I was weird to be interested in it, if I had a dream, I had to follow it. I wouldn’t be here today had it not been for that conversation. Never underestimate how important it is to receive encouragement from someone who gets you, especially when it seems as though no one else does.”

Ms. Belfry’s words struck Oliver powerfully. For the first time that day, he felt buoyant. He was now completely determined to find the factory and meet his hero face to face.

“Thanks, Ms. Belfry,” he said, grinning at her. “See you next class!”

And as he hurried away with a spring in his step, he heard Ms. Belfry call out, “Always follow your dreams!”

Oliver trudged toward the bus stop, fighting against the gusting winds. His mind was focused on his solace, on the one ray of light in this dark new chapter of his life: Armando Illstrom. If he could find the inventor and his factory, life would at least be bearable. Perhaps Armando Illstrom could be his ally. The sort of man who’d once attempted to invent a time machine would surely be the sort of person who’d get along with a boy trying to become invisible. Surely he, of anyone, could handle some of Oliver’s idiosyncrasies. At the very least, he’d be a bigger nerd than Oliver was!

Oliver rummaged in his pocket and pulled out the slip of paper that he’d scribbled the factory address on. It was farther away from his school than he’d originally thought. He’d have to take a bus. He checked in his other pocket for some change and discovered he had just enough left over from lunch to pay for the journey. Relieved and filled with anticipation, he headed toward the bus stop.

As he waited for the bus, the wind around him roared. If it got any worse, he wouldn’t be able to stand up straight. In fact, people who passed him were fighting to stay upright. Had he not been so drained from his first day at school, he might have found the sight amusing. But his focus was solely on the factory.

Finally, the bus arrived. It was an old, beat-up thing that had seen better days.

Oliver climbed aboard and paid for his ticket, then took a seat right at the back. It smelled on the bus, of greasy fries and onions. Oliver’s stomach growled, reminding him that he’d probably miss the dinner that would be waiting for him at home. Maybe spending money on a bus instead of some food was a foolish decision. But finding Armando’s factory was the only ray of light in Oliver’s otherwise bleak existence. If he didn’t do this, then what was the point in any of it?

The bus hissed and juddered along the roads. Oliver looked out wistfully at the passing streets. Trash cans had been knocked on their sides and some even skidded along the roads, pushed along by the winds. The clouds above were so dark they were almost black.

The houses began to thin out and the view from his window became even more deserted and dilapidated. The bus stopped, letting off some passengers, then stopped again, this time to bid farewell to a tired mother and her wailing baby. After several stops, Oliver realized he was the only person left onboard. The silence felt eerie.

Finally, the bus passed a stop with a rusty, faded sign. Oliver realized that this was his stop. He jumped up and hurried to the front of the bus.

“Can I get off please?” he said.

The driver looked at him with sad, lazy eyes. “Ring the bell.”

“I’m sorry, you want me to—”

“Ring the bell,” the driver repeated monotonously. “If you wanna get off the bus, you gotta ring the bell.”

Oliver let out a sigh of exasperation. He pressed the bell button. It dinged. He turned back to the driver, eyebrows raised expectantly. “Now can I get off?”

“At the next stop,” the driver said.

Oliver grew infuriated. “I wanted that stop!”

“Should’ve rung the bell sooner,” the bus driver replied in his lazy drawl.

Oliver clenched his fists with exasperation. But at last, he felt the bus begin to slow. It halted beside a sign that was so old it was nothing more than a square of rust. The door slowly creaked open.

“Thanks,” Oliver mumbled to the unhelpful driver.

He hurried down the steps and jumped down to the cracked sidewalk. He looked up at the sign but it was too rusty to read anything. He could just about make out some letters, typed in that old 1940s font that was popular during the war.

As the bus pulled away, coughing out a cloud of exhaust fumes, Oliver’s sense of loneliness began to intensify. But as the fumes dispersed, a very familiar-looking building appeared before him. It was the factory from the book! Armando Illstrom’s actual factory! He’d have recognized it anywhere. The old bus stop must have served the factory during its heyday. The bus driver’s stubbornness had actually done Oliver a huge favor, dropping him off at the exact spot he needed to be.

Except, Oliver realized as he peered up at the factory, it looked much the worse for wear. The large, rectangular factory sported several cracked windows. Through them Oliver could see that the inside was completely black. It appeared as if no one was inside at all.

Fear took hold of Oliver. What if Armando had passed? An inventor working during the Second World War would be very old now, and the chances of him having passed on were quite high. If his hero had indeed passed away, then what would there be to look forward to in life anymore?

A sense of desolation overcame Oliver as he walked toward the dilapidated warehouse. The closer he got, the more he could see. Every window on the ground floor was boarded up. A huge steel door was secured over what he recalled from the photo was the grand, main entryway. How was he supposed to get in?