How to Win a Slime War - Softcover

Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

Mae Respicio writes novels full of hope and heart. Her debut, The House That Lou Built, received the Asian/Pacific American Librarians Association Honor for Children's Literature and was an NPR Best Book of the Year. Mae lives with her husband and two sons in the Bay Area suburban wild, where they love hiking, hanging at the beach, and some good old-fashioned family slime time.

Auszug. © Genehmigter Nachdruck. Alle Rechte vorbehalten.

Classic Slime 

1 eight-ounce bottle of white glue 

1 tablespoon of baking soda 

1/2–2 teaspoons of contact lens solution 

A few drops of green food coloring

The world has plenty of twelve-year-olds who’ve accomplished amazing things, like: 

Hoisting 308 pounds in one clean lift. 

Inventing a braille printer from a Lego set. 

Making millions of dollars from candy that’s good for your teeth. 

I wish I could add myself to this list, but I can barely lift a fifty-pound bag of rice, when I play with Legos I usually lose the pieces, and when it comes to candy--especially my favorite kind, with an edible wrapper--I’d rather eat it than sell it. 

I do have one hobby I’m not bad at: 

Making slime. 

I’m stellar at slime challenges. This morning my best friend, Raj, and I are doing one final face-off before my dad and I move from San Jose to Sacramento. It’s our way of saying goodbye. 

I lay out the ingredients, a couple of bowls, and some fat wooden stirring sticks. Raj sets my laptop on the kitchen counter, raises the volume, and cues up a video: 

Slime Time Soraya’s 30-Second Challenge!

He rubs his hands together. “I’ve been waiting the whole week for this!” 

We’ve done all her challenges except this one, which we’ve been saving for a special occasion. 

“Okay, Slime Squad!” Slime Time Soraya says on-screen. “Today we make . . . classic slime! Your goal: mix as fast as you can.” 

“Challenge accepted!” Raj says back. 

“Who makes good slime in thirty seconds?” I say. “Art takes much longer than that.” 

Raj smiles slyly. “You’re not the only one with skills, Alex.” 

We get into position and Soraya counts down: 

“Three, two, one . . . GO!” 

We squeeze glue into our bowls. Shake in baking soda. Squirt in food coloring. Green, of course. 

“Stir, slimers, STIR!” 

I mix in quick circles. Raj looks like he’s beating eggs. My bowl whirls around, I can’t keep it still. The timer ticks loudly and we stir even more frantically. 

“Time’s up! Sticks down!” she says. We throw down our craft sticks and let out a huge sigh. 

I look at Raj--his glasses are covered in drops of green glop--and we burst out laughing. At school I don’t have many friends, but I can count on Raj. I’m going to miss him. My dad and I are moving into Lolo and Lola’s house, right next door to my cousins, while our grandparents are away on their retirement trip. I’m nervous but excited--Dad and I are taking over Lolo and Lola’s Asian market. I’ve always wanted to have my own business. 

Raj scoops up his slime and lifts his stick high. Goop drips down his wrist. “Gross. It didn’t congeal at all.” 

“Told you we needed more time.” 

There’s baking soda on my cheeks and slime hanging from my long hair, too. We take one look at our mess and crack up. 

And then Dad walks in. 

“Hi, Mr. Manalo.” Raj waves but forgets he’s still holding his stick. More goo flings on the counter and floor. “Whoops.” 

“Hey there, Raj.” Dad gives him a smile, but it disappears when he turns my way. “Alex, we’re supposed to be packing, not making more work.” 

“We’ll clean it up, Mr. Manalo. We promise,” Raj says. He crosses his heart with the stick and accidentally smears goop on his shirt. I try to hold back my laughter. It’s lucky Raj is here, otherwise Dad would have gotten mad. He doesn’t think sliming’s productive (and he hates the cleanup). 

Dad nods and goes to do more packing. 

“Are you nervous?” Raj asks as we wipe everything down. 

“About what?” 

“About being the smallest kids in sixth grade!” 

Raj and I both got stuck with short genes. I don’t remember my mom--she died when I was little--but Dad describes her as petite. He’s average height, so out popped me: Alexander T. Manalo, short-kid, science-loving, sports-failing entrepreneurial slimer. 

Before I found out about our move, Raj and I decided we would work our way up to the popular table in middle school. He didn’t think we could do it. He thought we had to be taller and sportier and way cooler for it to ever happen. 

“Why would I be nervous?” I ask as we put everything away. “I’m launching the new me.” 

“How? By sliming?” 

“Don’t be so sure, Raj. Things can change.” 

He snickers, but it makes me think. 

It seems impossible that greatness could be achieved by turning glue into goo, but it’s happened--Slime Time Soraya and other kids have literally made millions on tutorials and challenges. 

Maybe I can, too. Maybe one day I’ll make sliming work for me. 

All I need is my chance.

Super Stretch 

1/2 cup of white glue 

3–4 cups of shaving cream 

Sprinkle of baking soda 

3–4 drops of food coloring 

3 squirts of baby oil 

Beads, confetti, or any other fun mix-ins

In Lolo and Lola’s kitchen, I shake a can of shaving cream and squirt it into a plastic tub, circling until it peaks into a tall, foamy mound. The last time I made this slime Dad got mad since I used his whole can, but he won’t miss it. Even though it’s been a few weeks since we moved, there are still boxes and packing paper scattered all around. 

The glob doesn’t look like much until suddenly--it does. Because here’s what happens: white glue’s a polymer--a molecule with thousands of atoms--and when you combine it with certain ingredients and give it a lot of care, they stick to each other. They turn into something new. 

Slime. 

I make all kinds: butter slime, crunch slime, sand slime; glow-in-the-dark slime, and one time, an edible batch that tasted like juicy watermelon! Sometimes I create rainbow colors. Other times I plop in teeny beads so it feels unexpected as you’re squishing.

There. Finished. 

This batch sticks to the bottom of the bowl until I ball it up. I knead it like bread, then pull it like taffy as wide as it’ll go--the length of my arms.

I twist it up until it fits neatly into a small, clear container and the bright green shines through. 

Hmm. What should I call this? 

I write out a label and slap it onto the lid: 

Super Stretch. 

“Alex! Let’s get going!” Dad yells. 

I peek my head through the kitchen door. Dad’s waiting with a big smile. 

“I’ll get my helmet,” I say. 

“How about we drive? There’s a box I want to bring home from the store.” 

“It’s okay, I’d rather bike,” I say. “Meet ya there?” 

Dad nods. I strap on my helmet and head out. 

I’m finally getting used to it around here. It’s different from our old home, where we lived in a tall condo on a busy street, surrounded by giant tech companies and endless lines of electric cars whizzing by. 

Here I roll past boxy houses with trim lawns. 

Past a packed coffee...