Page 106 of Filthy Rich

I measured the fertilizer carefully, using the same cup for each brand so they wouldn’t become cross contaminated, and feeding each plant with a funnel to make sure the water and fertilizer were evenly distributed. I’d chosen snow peas, because the crop should be easy to objectively measure, plus it was a good growing season for peas in the spring in New York. Not that many things can be sown directly in March here.

I covered them before a storm. I put up a barrier to keep stray animals away. I limited every variable I could think of.

By the third week, I had a very respectable start to my experiment. I was optimistic. But then, at the beginning of the fourth week, without any reason or warning, a whole row of my plants started to die. I was frantic. It made no sense. I cradled the tiny, wilted yellow leaves carefully. I spoke to them. I sang to them—then I realized they’d probably die faster if I continued.

By Thursday, when the plants on the second row started dying too, I decided it was time for drastic measures. I skipped school the next day to get eyes on my plants, so I could figure out what was going on.

I’d chosen my spot for its inaccessibility, and I felt reasonably confident no one would stumble upon me. They had to go around the dumpsters and then behind a half wall, and there wasn’t anything else back here. It was a real stroke of luck for me that the district had installed a water spigot. Otherwise, I’d have had to haul water out here three times a day.

For hours and hours, I waited, but nothing happened. Lunch came and went, and I started to doze off. Then voices woke me—unfamiliar voices.

“I think I can make it to the third row today,” a boy said. “It’s all about the angle of your hip.”

“No way,” a younger boy with a bit of a lisp said. “There’s no way you can.”

I crept forward until I could peer around the corner of the trash cans to where the boys were standing.

“I can. I know it.” Older kid.

“You have to hit the funnel or it doesn’t count,” the little boy said.

Then, before I had the time to figure out what to do, the biggest boy unzipped his pants, pulled out his. . .

I gulped.

And he peed up, up, up and over in an impressive arc that ended right into the funnel that he had stuck in the perfect, bright green snow-pea plant of the third row. I was so shocked, I had no idea how to react.

The little boy did the same thing next, only he aimed for the funnels in the front row, hitting them all in sequence.

I didn’t think it through. I didn’t consider my options. Watching all that ammonia poisoning my plants, I acted entirely on instinct. I burst around the corner, my arms waving, my face frozen in a rictus of rage. “Stop it right now, you miscreants! I’ll report you to the police.”

The bigger boy turned around, so shocked he didn’t stop what he was doing, and he peed all over my shoes.

I burst into tears.

“There you are.” A small girl shot around the edge of the school, freezing, clearly horrified, when she saw us. “Jake, what in the world are you doing?”

The little boy turned around then, still mid-stream, and coated the other girl’s shoes. He swore, loudly.

“Who are you?” the girl asked, clearly addressing the smaller boy.

“I’m Killian.” He put his business away, and then ducked his head. “I’m Jake’s little brother.”

“Excuse me?” the girl asked.

“My assignment,” Jake said. “You know, because of the thing, I had to do community service.” He widened his eyes and tossed his head at me.

“What were you two doing?”

“Skipping class,” Killian said. “And learning to pee sooo far.”

“I’m going to kill you,” the girl said, “but that would be redundant, because Dave’s going to bury you already.”

“Please don’t tell him,” Jake said.

“Hello?” I asked. “I’m standing right here, the scientist whose experiment they’ve been wrecking while they skipped class and exposed themselves in public.”

“Public?” Jake sneered at me. “Please.”

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