Sir Fig Newton and the Science of Persistence: Chapters 1–5

I tried to focus on making my experiment precise, but my nose crinkled from the smell wafting in from the Crock-Pot.

He sat at attention on the kitchen floor with his tummy sprawled out beneath him, so big that he looked like he’d swallowed a basketball, along with the whole Orlando Magic team.

He chattered, a cross between his dainty meow and a goat’s bleat, usually reserved for when he’s spotted a bird through the sliding glass door.

As always, he allowed the dramatic pause to go on way too long.
“Well?” I prompted.

But did you know that plasma is the most common state of matter in the universe? And that stars, including our sun, are big balls of plasma—a really hot gas with lots of energy?

“I’m no match for your stubbornness superpower.”
“Um, I prefer ‘persistent.’”

Just as a third plasma ball ignited, the microwave shut off and the timer countdown vanished, along with the kitchen lights.
I slapped my forehead. All hail the Short-Circuit Scientist.

So I scooped my cell from the floor and plodded off.

Fig blinked, an obvious nod to my situation, and resumed grooming his belly with steady determination.

Our dads had worked together at this large company called Harris that helps make defense and space technology. Really cool stuff like panoramic night-vision goggles and an ultra-powerful telescope that will find the universe’s first stars and galaxies!

I’d timed his bathing session once, to maintain the sanctity of indisputable facts, and clocked an entire five minutes of him picking away claw jam with his teeth.

I’d timed his bathing session once, to maintain the sanctity of indisputable facts, and clocked an entire five minutes of him picking away claw jam with his teeth.

And Mom, her fiery-red hair blended into her short, long-sleeved dress emblazoned with the gold Starfleet logo on the chest.

Thomas had pointed out how appropriate her Lieutenant Uhura costume was for spending the day at the Kennedy Space Center.

We’d toured historic launch sites and working spaceflight facilities, strapped in for an eight-and-a-half-minute simulated space shuttle ascent into orbit, and met astronaut Fred Gregory.

Thomas and I stopped in front of Dr. Ellen Ochoa’s plaque.

Inducted in 2017, she was the world’s first Latina astronaut.

I strutted around the room, my head sliding from side to side as I continued to pick through the pile on the floor.

Still busy primping, his white-tipped tail twitched along with the beat.

Could music really save Dad from his funk?

He leaned in, his eyes shut in bliss.

Fig always made a great test subject and an awesome assistant. He had the same four qualities as any great scientist: he was patient, curious, observant, and persistent.

But I wouldn’t be keeping within my experiment’s controlled variables if I used a nonhuman participant.

Even my namesake, Gran, used my preferred alias.

“Are you sick?”
“Yeeeaaah.” I dragged out my response with a raspy voice.
“My mom’s chicken noodle soup is the perfect antidote.”

Tamika stood there with a smug grin.

“By inhibiting the migration of these infection-fighting cells, chicken soup helps reduce upper-respiratory cold symptoms. There’s other evidence that chicken soup improves the function of cilia. Not to be confused with nasal hair, cilia are microscopic hairlike strands farther back in the nose that move mucus out of the sinuses.”

Tamika stepped closer, thwarting my escape.

“Remember my experiment?” she continued. “Antibacterial soap growing the lowest number of bacterial colonies, compared to regular soap, hand sanitizer, and a plain-water rinse? It took first place in third grade.”

So it was the science fair that had brought Tamika to my doorstep, as hypothesized.

Fig seemed to sense my exasperation and planted his chonky body between me and my nemesis.

I held the fake teeth out to Mom and nodded at her dark and drab suit.

I picked up my dead phone from the dresser and slipped it into my back pocket. Once my parents were full and relaxed after dinner, I would tell them about my dire situation.

Maybe I would earn the title after I determined if I’d been born allergic to cleaning or if the aversion had been learned.

Frowning, Mom picked it up, scrutinizing every inch.

I stared at my broken phone, lips pressed together to prevent an angry tirade.

“Pulse is normal. No tremors and no seizures, so I guess you’re okay.”

Thanks to his fascination with plastic, something I discovered when the shower curtain was riddled with tiny bite marks, my bedroom now had the honor of housing his litter box.

Fig wound in and out of my stride, with an occasional meow reminder of the more pertinent matter at hand.

Fat bold letters promised A NEW AND IMPROVED FLAVOR. How could they know this? Had a bunch of cats sat around a boardroom table raising their paws? Or had some poor guy had to endure a taste test?