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  “I didn’t read this because I’ve been dead for years!”

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  1YOU’RE A SCIENTIST by PHIL EDWARDS

  MAKE YOUR OWN MISTAKES 1

  YOU’RE A SCIENTIST!

  BY PHIL EDWARDS

  Chief Transcriptionist for the

  FAKE SCIENCE LABS

  ILLUSTRATED BY A TEAM OF HUNDREDS

  YOU’RE A SCIENTIST! should not be held liable for any science you may do. Any poor decisions you make are yours and yours alone. Should you choose to do science, feel free to consider investing in this publication and/or any of its subsidiaries.

  YOU’RE A SCIENTIST by Phil Edwards

  Copyright © 2014 by Phil Edwards

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher and Phil Edwards, except for the portion of the publication explaining that you should not copy the publication.

  This volume is dedicated to all the victims of our science.

  YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED

  This book is like no other you’ve ever read, unless this is your second time reading this book.

  You will MAKE the MISTAKES that happen in the story. No one will decide for you.

  Countless things can go wrong, and you determine which ones occur. Your decision making and page turning abilities will be tested. The consequence of a wrong decision? Your story will end, unless you turn back and start anew.

  You’re about to become a scientist. Will you make it big? Or will you make it medium or small? Only you can MAKE YOUR OWN MISTAKES in the world of science.

  Good luck in your journey!

  You did it!

  After an incredibly thorough hiring process, you’re finally here: The Fake Science Laboratories! Yep, they’re the same ones you might recognize from that asbestos roller skate lawsuit last year.

  You’ve read the lab’s history a hundred times: Founded in 1822 by Doctor Addison Kellogg Faken, he never told his employees he wasn’t actually a doctor, but he did drop the “n” from his name to protect his family’s reputation. Thus the Fake Science Lab was born, though only figuratively, since Dr. Faken never did learn how babies were made.

  Now it’s a giant conglomerate with hundreds of laboratories in suburbs around the world. And you’re going to be part of it!

  You take in a deep breath, partly from exhilaration and partly because the air quality around the lab is so poor (all the squirrels you’ve seen are gasping).

  It feels great to get to work, but who knew it would be so hard to find a job as a beaker cleaner, especially after you earned a graduate degree in flask cleaning? Still, now you have it, and it’s time to get to work.

  You pass through a set of wide, fingerprint-smudged glass doors and walk over a cool tile floor. The receptionist smiles and directs you to Lab A348, and you can’t help but think it’s fate: A348 is your lucky number!

  Once inside, you know what to do—you’ve trained for years to have this opportunity. It’s time to follow your passion and clean some beakers.

  You pull out your favorite beaker sponge, Beatram, and dunk your hand in a vat of hydrogen peroxide. Productivity stings so good!

  Beatram during your trip to Paris last summer. He looked so at home in front of the Eiffel Tower!

  You’re in the zone now, so you call HQ with a request for your favorite cleaning agent: baking soda. There’s something so wonderful about the old-fashioned methods.

  Just as you’re about to give Beatram the ride of his life, a strange woman appears at the door. She speaks with a vaguely European accent.

  “You! Come with me. You just got a promotion!”

  You gasp with excitement.

  “Your accent is so stereotypical for an intelligent-yet-slightly-threatening authority figure. What country are you from?”

  “There is no time,” she says. “We must hurry. You’re a scientist!”

  “What about my beakers? What about my sponge?”

  You stare at Beatram, but the scientist beckons to you. You realize that you’ve arrived at a crossroads: you’re about to turn a page in your life, or at least a page in a book about your life. It’s time to decide what to do.

  Will you clean beakers and turn away from a life of discovery, where you could advance human knowledge forever, or at least amass a patent portfolio that could provide litigators with steady work?

  Or will you become a scientist, with far greater responsibilities than cuddling with Beatram after a long day of work, feeling his moist and porous body caress your aching shins?

  To ignore the woman and spend some quality time cleaning beakers with Beatram, tap here.

  To follow the woman with the stereotypical, but intelligent-sounding, accent, tap here.

  “Never mind,” you say, your voice shaking. “I don’t need baking soda. I’ll make do with the hydrogen peroxide. I’m going to follow my passion.”

  “Beaker cleaning?” she says with a lilt.

  “Beaker cleaning. With Beatram.”

  “Fine!” she shouts. “I shall find someone else, and you’ll never find out what country my accent is from!”

  You take Beatram in your hands and gaze upon the shelves of dirty beakers. So many beakers to clean, so little time!

  You dunk him in the hydrogen peroxide and begin, and as you dunk and clean, the minutes fade to hours, and the hours fade to days. You feel yourself growing older, but you don’t care as long as Beatram is at your side. Empires rise and fall, mankind ascends and descends history’s long arc, but you are always there, with y
our favorite sponge, cleaning beakers until they are soiled again and wait for your touch alone.

  You die with Beatram in your hands eighty years later. The lab mortician remarks that both of you are the most sterile-smelling things he’s ever buried. He doesn’t even need to use formaldehyde.

  THE END

  “I’m in,” you say hesitantly. “But I’m taking Beatram with me.”

  “What are you talking about?” the scientist asks, her accent sounding even vaguer than before.

  “Don’t worry about it,” you say as you plunge Beatram inside your pocket.

  You follow the scientist through metal doors and into a large hallway overlooking the entire lab. Thousands of scientists scurry below you, their bodies so small that they hardly seem human.

  “They look like ants from here,” you tell the scientist.

  “Are you joking? You know this is the myrmecology lab, don’t you?”

  This scientist uses such big words. You and Beatram will have a good laugh about her later over a glass of soda pop and baking soda pop.

  “Follow me,” she says, leading you past the tiny scientists who continue to scurry along the floor.

  “Where are we going?”

  She turns and raises an eyebrow.

  “You have to decide your trade.”

  You swallow and follow her, and you run so fast that at one point you accidentally step on a tiny scientist. You tell the vaguely European scientist, worried about what might happen.

  “You passed the intelligence test?” she asks.

  “I like beakers and Beatram!” you shout. She continues down the hallway and turns a corner. You don’t believe what you see on the other side.

  The hall diverges into five distinct paths, all conveniently labeled for you. Everything looks so difficult.

  “I’m scared,” you say. “I’m going to clean beakers again.”

  “No you aren’t!” the scientist says, plunging her hand into your pocket and pulling Beatram out. “I’ll take this. You won’t need it.”

  Beatram says nothing, but you can sense that he’s in pain.

  “Give him back now!” you cry.

  “I will. But first, you must become a scientist.”

  “Fine, what do you want me to do?”

  “I want you to choose.”

  She points at the doorways—now you must go through one if you ever hope to see Beatram again.

  To explore space, tap here.

  To become a biologist, tap here.

  To become a chemist, tap here.

  To become an earth scientist, tap here.

  To become a physicist, tap here.

  Space! You run through the door and enter a beautiful planetarium. The stars look like ants from here, speckled across the canvas of our universe. A bespectacled man taps you on the shoulder.

  “Ignore those. They escaped from the myrmecology lab.”

  You turn to your new boss—his name tag says Dr. Masterson, and you already know who he is. Just last year, he announced that Pluto was not actually a planet, but a small solid mass made of chocolate. It set the media and astronomy communities afire, especially when they considered the possibilities of Pluto fondue. Though it ultimately turned out to be a smudge on his telescope (from, fittingly enough, a Mars bar), Dr. Masterson had successfully established his reputation as a leader in the field.

  “Why are you here?” he asks you, flicking a small piece of chocolate off his lab coat.

  “I’m a beaker cleaner, sir, but the vaguely European woman said there was a major shortage of scientists.”

  “Yes, that’s true, most of them were scared off by the rumors.”

  “Why would someone spread lies about the lab?”

  “Actually, most of them are true.” He beckons to you. “Follow me. I have a couple of jobs for you.”

  You follow Dr. Masterson through to the real planetarium and marvel at the constellations above.

  “Right there, that’s Orion’s belt, isn’t it?”

  “Actually, that’s a ceiling tile. You know, the planetarium only works when we turn it on. Let’s get to business. Do you want to be an astronaut? Or would you rather be an astronomer?”

  You gulp and swallow—it’s difficult to remember which is which. These are the types of questions Beatram always knew how to answer.

  “It’s so hard to choose,” you say. “Remind me about the differences, why don’t you?”

  He pulls a chocolate bar from his pocket and unwraps it with a surprisingly delicate touch.

  “My friend, it is simple. An astronomer looks at space while an astronaut dies in it. Once you choose, I’ll give you your assignment.”

  “And then you’ll give me back Beatram?”

  “I have literally no idea what you’re talking about. But the choice is yours. Are you brave enough to make it?”

  He’s waiting on you to decide.

  To become an astronaut, tap here.

  To become an astronomer, tap here.

  Biology! You’ve heard so much about this -ology already, so why not try it for a spin?

  Life itself, the thing you spend so much time trying to avoid, is going to become your playground. You run down the hallway and immediately slip. When you come to, tiny scientists are crawling all over you. A stern woman (not vaguely European) shouts down.

  “Get those ants off you now. The myrmecology lab needs them.”

  You brush the tiny scientists off your body and follow her down the hallway. She walks with steely confidence, and you imitate her perfectly except for all the times you trip. Finally you reach it: the laboratory. The woman explains it all.

  “Here we are. Since all my staff has left due to the lawsuits, radioactive cafeteria food, and substandard 401(k) policies, you’re going to be one of our top biologists."

  “So wait a second,” you say, “just how many (k)s do you have? I need at least 100(k)s.”

  She sighs and brushes a tiny scientist off her shoulder.

  “As enlightening as this discussion is, I really can’t be bothered with it. I have to sedate some guinea pigs. So tell me: will you study animal or plant life?”

  You feel a cold sweat, because it’s time to decide, and because you dropped your hand in a jar labeled Frozen Sweat Samples.

  To become a plant biologist, tap here.

  To become an animal biologist, tap here.

  Chemistry is your top choice—and to think that they told you not to drink from those bottles under the kitchen sink!

  You proceed down the hallway, but your entrance to the world of chemistry is bittersweet. Already, you’re surrounded by beakers, so you’ve never missed Beatram more. While you’re staring at one beaker, a short man with large glasses appears, his face refracted in the glass.

  “So!” he says. “You are my new chemist. What are your qualifications?”

  “Well, I walked down a hallway.”

  “Wonderful!” He emerges from behind the beaker. “Are you interested in organic or inorganic chemistry?”

  “Which one has more beakers?”

  “That depends,” he says. “Are you good at math?”

  “Like counting?”

  “Let’s have you do some experiments.” He rests a clammy hand on your shoulder. “Since my entire staff fled the building, there’s a lot for you to do. What are you interested in?”

  “Chemicals!” you shout, and he hands you two folders.

  “Then choose, my chemically friend.”

  To take the folder labeled Baking Soda, tap here.

  To take the folder labeled Explosive Poison?, tap here.

  You’re going to be an earth scientist! As soon as you run down the hallway, you know you’ve made the right choice—there are so many rocks to look at.

  Big rocks, little rocks, medium rocks: the rocks are endless, and they’re all assembled in a pile in the center of a large, dirty room. You’re digging through them when a kind-faced scientist approaches you, his hair held back by
a bandana that might actually be a repurposed napkin from the lab cafeteria.

  “Nice pick,” he says and points at the rock you’re holding. “Igneous.”

  “Hey,” you shoot back, “I know I’m not the smartest bulb in the tool shed, but there’s no reason to call me igneous!”

  “Igneous, not ignorant.”

  “Did you just do it again?”

  He sighs.

  “What’s your name?”

  You tell him your name and describe the busy day you’ve been having. He pulls back his bandana and you can clearly see that it’s a napkin from a nearby fast food restaurant.

  “So you’re my new earth scientist. You think ants are tiny scientists, and you’re obsessed with a beaker sponge.”

  “He has a name, you clod.”

  “I’ll get you that sponge back. But I need some help. You see, I have some very important dirt-related science that only you can help me with.”

  You follow him into a room with even more dirt in it. So much of life is disappointing, but earth science is really living up to your expectations. Still, it makes you a little sad to think how much fun Beatram would have had cleaning all this dirt. The scientist gestures toward the pile, his napkin bandana almost transparent from sweat.

  “Count the dirt.”

  “How do you count dirt?”

  “I want you to take each grain of dirt—we call them CDUs in the business. Certified Dirt Units.”

  It’s a massive pile of dirt and you can’t imagine how many CDUs you’ll have to log. Plus, you never did go to that counting seminar you signed up for in graduate school (they made the mistake of putting it in a very high-numbered room).