Tesla's Attic (9781423155126) by Neal Shusterman Read Free Book Online Page B

better known by his nickname, “Whiffin’ Wayne.” He picked it up thanks to his less-than-stellar batting at away games against National League teams, when a pitcher couldn’t take advantage of a designated hitter and had to bat for himself. His father wore the unwanted nickname much longer than his major league jersey. Nick was a pretty good pitcher in his own right, and batter as well. In fact, he was pretty much the star of his Little League team back in Tampa. But for Danny, an early talent in the sport had not presented itself.
    Danny dropped the ball once more, and Nick decided his homework could wait. He went out the front door to join his brother.
    â€œHey, space case,” he shouted, “you need two people to play catch.”
    Danny tossed the ball to his brother. “We need mitts,” he told Nick. “Dad says his old one’s in a box in the basement, but I don’t want to use it. It’ll smell like smoke.”
    Nick tossed the ball lightly, and Danny caught it. “Back up,” Danny said, which Nick did. Even so, he had to stretch to catch the next throw. At least his brother had a good arm. Nick returned the ball underhand. This time Danny dropped it.
    â€œIt’s the attitude,” Danny said. “Colorado’s got thin air. The ball does weird things.”
    â€œYou mean altitude,” Nick told him as Danny threw another pitch so wild that Nick had to leap to catch it. “Step into it when you throw,” he said, tossing it back.
    â€œI am.”
    â€œWith your other foot.”
    â€œThat feels funny.”
    â€œStop arguing and do what I tell you.”
    â€œYou’re not Mom. You can’t tell me what to do.”
    Nick held eye contact with Danny for a moment, then had to look away. His brother’s stare felt like an accusation.
    It was then that Nick caught sight of a familiar, pearlescent SUV, driving too slowly to be anything but menacing.
    He had no idea what to think, but even if he had, the thought would have been knocked out of his head by the baseball that beaned him right on his stitches.
    â€œOw!” Nick turned to his little brother, who looked both horrified and satisfied at the same time. “Danny, that really hurt!”
    â€œSorry. I didn’t mean to hit you in the same place as the toaster. I was just aiming for your head.” Then he looked down. “I thought for sure you’d catch it. You catch everything.”
    Nick found he didn’t have the heart to yell at him. And when he looked back at the street, the SUV was gone.
    Their dad came home a few minutes later with take-out food and a few sketchy job leads. “When it comes to retired ballplayers,” he told them, “people balk worse than a bush league pitcher.” Back in Tampa he had been exceptional at “odd jobs,” but apparently no jobs were odd enough here.
    As they all headed toward the house, Nick saw a small white rectangle on the doorstep. After his dad and brother went inside, he bent down to pick it up. It was the business card of one Dr. Alan Jorgenson. And Nick could tell by the smoothed-out crinkles that it was the same business card he had thrown away at the garage sale.

T he problem with having too many variables in any equation is that the number of possible solutions begins to seem endless. Although supercomputers can calculate things to the gazillionth decimal, it takes a leap of human intuition to boil pages of calculations down to something as simple as E = mc 2 . The simpler the solution, the harder it is to arrive at.
    Nick’s garage sale had generated more variables than there were letters to define them, creating a smoke screen that hid the truth: that an elegant solution had already been worked out by a great scientific mind.
    One such variable—a rather persistent one—showed up at Nick’s house later that evening.
    Mitch arrived at Nick’s front door after dinner,