Truman's Last Chance

Rachel Pettinghill.

As Truman trudged home from school, he repeated the name in his head. Throughout third grade and the year before, Rachel Pettingill had earned the highest science grade in the class. The truth was she scored highest in every subject. Truman knew this because they compared scores on every test, every report, and every quiz.

Truman was used to being second best to Rachel.  “But science is my thing,” he declared to a stop sign.

Truman’s parents were scientists, and he would be a scientist. That was just a fact. Somehow, with only one week and one assignment to go before break, he and Rachel were tied. Dead even. To finish on top, his last report had to be great. It had to be better than great.

The subject of the project was beehives. Truman’s class had studied bees for three days, so he was ready. But, as his teacher Mrs. Lawrence had explained, to earn an A+, he needed a “new angle.”

Truman pushed open the front door to find his four-year-old brother, Bryan, sprawled on the living room rug, hard at work. Paper towel tubes were all over the floor.

Bryan leaped to his feet. “Truman, help me build a city!”

“I’d like to,” Truman shrugged, “but I have to do a report on beehives and — ”

“Can I help you?” Bryan begged.

“I don’t think so, Bry. Sorry.” Truman stepped carefully between the scattered tubes. He went to his room, dropped onto the bed, and studied the ceiling.

Rachel Pettingill.

Her report would be pretty ordinary but perfectly executed and accompanied by one of her incredible drawings. Truman had to come up with something great, but what?

“Truman?” Bryan poked his head in.

“Bry, I said I can’t play with you now.” Truman tried not to sound mean. His brother could burst into tears at the hint of an unkind word.

“I know where there’s an old beehive.” Bryan smiled.

“Where?” Truman sat up.

“In the wood pile by the garage.”

Bryan copied Truman’s stride as the boys marched to the stack of firewood. Bending down, Bryan pointed out the hive deep inside the pile. Truman took off several top layers of the stacked wood and carefully removed the hive from its hole.

“You got it!” Bryan shouted.

Back in his room, Truman sat at his desk, turning the fragile hive under a lamp. It smelled like old leaves. Each cell was a perfect hexagon. How did the bees fit the cells together so neatly? And how did they make each cell six-sided? Could they count?

“Boys, dinner’s ready!” his mother called. Truman fought the rising panic as he glanced at his desk clock.

All through dinner, Truman struggled to keep his cool. If his parents found out he was working on a science project, they would run around pulling out books and volunteering ideas. He wanted to beat Rachel without their help.

As he carried his half-empty plate of spaghetti to the kitchen, his father called, “Don’t forget, Truman — it’s your night to do the dishes.” Truman glanced at the clock again. 7:05.

Rachel Pettingill.

Truman’s heart fluttered as he scraped a plate. If he didn’t think of something soon, his chance to beat Rachel would be lost…maybe forever. The thought of it made his stomach hurt.

As he turned around to put the butter into the refrigerator, his foot came down on something with a crunch.

“Truman! You’re wrecking my city!” Lost in thought, Truman hadn’t seen Bryan settle in behind him with a mess of paper tubes.

“Get your tubes out of here, Bryan! I’m trying to finish the dishes!” Truman blurted.

Bryan began to cry. Loudly. He gathered an armful of dented tubes, threw them under the running faucet, and ran sobbing into the living room.

Truman sighed and gathered the dripping tubes in both hands. As he held them over the wastebasket, they suddenly reminded him of something. The beehive!

Looking closer, he noticed the tubes were arranged with one in the middle, surrounded by six others. Truman tore open the drawer near the sink, grabbed a handful of paper clips, and clipped the tubes together. As he suspected, the soggy center tube formed a hexagon, just like the cells of the hive.

Just to be sure, he tried five and then seven surrounding tubes, but neither way fit. Six was the only number that worked.

He said aloud, “Bees just build round tubes and stick the sides together. The cells have to be six-sided.”

Truman ran to the living room and threw his arms around his brother. “Bryan, you did it! I’ve got my angle!” he gushed. “And a real beehive. And now I can build a model beehive with your tubes! I mean — if it’s OK with you.”

“Well…” Bryan pulled away, still sniffling.

“You can help me glue them,” Truman offered. Bryan beamed and began picking out his finest tubes.

Rachel Pettingill didn’t stand a chance.