Free Phineas L. MacGuire . . . Gets Slimed! by Frances O'Roark Dowell

all dressed up with no place to go. In a few short days I had created a universe of mold—blue mold, green mold, snowy white mold, and speckled black mold—and for what? Instead of going into a museum to be admired by millions—or at least by the entire fourth grade of Woodbrook Elementary School— it would go into the trash.
    Well, not the slime mold. The slime mold was staying in my room.
    â€œHey, Mac, didn’t we have a deal?”

    I looked up. Aretha was standing in front of me. She had her hand on her hip.
    â€œIf I recall correctly, you owe me some penicillin mold,” she went on. “My troop meets tomorrow. It would be nice to be able to make the penicillin before then so I can get my badge.”
    I couldn’t believe it. In all the excitement of the last few days, the big speech and the big presentation and now the big, huge, disappointing letdown of no mold museum, I’d forgotten all about the penicillium mold growing in our bathroom closet.
    â€œI can bring what I have tomorrow,” I told her. “You know it’s not going to be like some pink bubble-gum-tasting stuff in a childproof bottle, right? I mean, I grew the mold. I don’t exactly know how to squeeze out the mold juice and turnit into medicine. I guess that would be your part of the process.”
    â€œMold juice?” Aretha said. “Nobody ever said anything about mold juice.”
    â€œThat’s what penicillin comes from,” I said. “Mold juice.”
    â€œI don’t know if the Girl Scouts will like that,” Aretha said.
    â€œIf they’re like everybody else, they’ll hate it,” I said. “They’ll find it disgusting and gross and a health hazard. But it’s just mold. It’s part of nature’s recycling project. You can use it for medicine or for blue cheese. What could be so wrong with it?”
    â€œI love blue cheese,” Aretha said. “At least, I love blue cheese salad dressing.”
    â€œIt’s mold,” I said with a sigh. “Just good old misunderstood mold.”
    Aretha looked at me. “Let me guess.Mrs. Patino said no to your mold museum idea.”
    I nodded.
    â€œHey, you didn’t tell me that,” Ben said. “That’s really stinkazoid.”
    â€œShe said mold is a health hazard,” I said.
    â€œBlue cheese is a health hazard?” Aretha folded her arms over her chest. “I don’t think so.”
    Then she turned to Ben. “Maybe we should make this part of our campaign. ‘A vote for Ben and Aretha is a vote for mold!’ If we get elected, we could get everybody to sign a petition, and then Mrs. Patino would have to let Mac have his mold museum.”
    â€œUm,” Ben said. He cleared his throat. “Um, there’s something I need to tell you.”

    Aretha eyed him suspiciously. “You have a problem with mold too?”
    â€œUh, no, that’s not it,” Ben said. “It’s just that I’ve decided not to run for president.”
    â€œWhat? Why not?”
    Ben looked at his sticks. “Because I think you should be president. You’d do a lot better job than I would.”
    â€œBut I don’t want to be president,” Aretha said. “I don’t even want to be vice president. All I want is twenty merit badges by December.”
    â€œIf you didn’t want to be vice president, why did you agree to run on my ticket?” Ben asked.
    â€œBecause I didn’t think you would win, quite frankly,” Aretha said. “Besides, I needed some help making penicillin, remember?”

    â€œBut now I probably am going to win,” Ben said. “Only, the only reason I’m probably going to win is because of you. When you and I made that speech, everybody saw that you’re, like, a leader or something. I’m just an artist.”

    â€œI do have natural leadership abilities, it’s true,” Aretha