The Magic Misfits - Neil Patrick Harris Page 0,1

brought along a miniature proof-of-concept model, both of which were packed into the bag lying on the floor beside Ridley’s chair.

“Will you teach me that trick?” Ms. Parkly asked hopefully. “How’d you do it?”

“I should probably start thinking about my invention presentation,” Ridley answered pointedly. She was most definitely not going to reveal the mechanics of her trick to someone she’d only known a month, no matter what the teacher had done for her.

Ms. Parkly smiled. “Ah, you’re right. I’m distracting you.”

“It’s fine. I just need to get back to work.” Ridley pulled her notebook from the compartment in the armrest of her chair and flipped it open. She focused on the pages until she saw Ms. Parkly turn to sit back down, though the teacher first had to disentangle the cuff of her blouse from a loose screw sticking out of her seat.

“Oof!” Ms. Parkly said as her sleeve came loose and she landed with a whump! She let out a strange little giggle, and for the second time that morning, Ridley found herself unexpectedly smiling.

With its cobblestone streets and century-old architecture, Bell’s Landing had a similar charm to Ridley’s hometown, though it was much larger. The buildings were taller, the parks wider. The theaters seated more people. The smokestacks and engines of multiple factories produced products even faster. The stores had more departments and sold a wider variety of goods.

Instead of a resort on a nearby rise, like the Grand Oak back home, Bell’s Landing had Bell College, which was located in the flatlands beside the winding river that connected this city to Mineral Wells. The structures that formed Bell College were built of granite and marble and, in a most impressive illusion, the buildings appeared to be held up by vines of ivy that were just starting to turn a reddish hue in the early October shift of sunlight.

After they’d stopped for lunch, Ridley and Ms. Parkly made their way to the college’s front gate—a black wrought-iron monstrosity decorated with blackbirds, which gave off an aura more of intimidation than of education. It took a lot to intimidate Ridley, though, so she wheeled quickly through the college’s entrance, her bag in her lap. One would never have guessed that her heart was a steam engine pounding in her chest. Ms. Parkly followed rather wide-eyed behind her.

Across the quad, Hampshire Hall was a great gray structure, with tall windows, a red-slate roof, and an impossibly large staircase leading up to a front door.

“Follow me,” Ridley said. “And watch out for that.” She pointed at a potted plant someone had knocked onto the bluestone path. Ms. Parkly nodded her thanks, though Ridley still heard a quiet “Ouch!” and the tinkle of broken pottery as she sped to the side of the hall. There she found a door that was level with the lawn. She released a clasp on the underside of her chair’s armrest and grabbed the hook apparatus that she’d attached for moments like this. Pulling on one end of it, Ridley felt the hook arm extend and click into place. She swung it toward the door and seized the handle. Moving her thumb along the switch at the arm’s base, she tightened the hook, twisted her wrist, and pulled.

The door swung outward. Ridley inched her chair forward and caught the door with her footrest, propping it open. She then released the hook device, reattached it to the underside of the chair’s arm, and turned to Ms. Parkly. “In we go,” she said.

“Why, thank you,” her teacher replied, giving that strange little giggle again and stumbling slightly as she moved past Ridley.

After blindly navigating the snaking halls inside Hampshire Hall for several minutes, Ridley encountered some kids who were carrying strange-looking gadgets. “This way,” she told her teacher. Ridley followed the kids to a giant classroom, inside of which many tables were arranged in rows. A line had formed at a desk just inside the door, and three adults in stiff tweed suits sat behind it, waving participants forward.

Ms. Parkly started to say, “I’ll just check us i—” But Ridley shook her head sharply, hurrying forward.

“Ridley Larsen, here for the inventors’ fair.” She tried to sound cool and collected, though her nerves were buzzing.

One of the tweed-suited adults handed her a slip of paper with a number on it. “Welcome. Your spot is in the row closest to the windows. Can’t miss it.”

“Thank yooo-oou,” Ms. Parkly said in an odd singsong voice, bumping into the registration table as