Cuckoo Clock of Doom Page 4

Can’t I stop myself?

  Don’t go upstairs, I begged myself. Don’t go to your room.

  You don’t have to do this.

  There must be a way to stop it, to control it.

  I forced myself to turn around. I walked back down the steps. I sat down on the third step.

  Tara answered the door, and soon the girls stood before me in the foyer.

  Okay, I thought. I’m controlling it. Already things are happening differently from before.

  “Michael, where’s your costume?” Mona asked. “I really want to see what your costume looks like.”

  “Uh, no you don’t,” I said, shrinking a little. “It’s really ugly, and I don’t want to scare you girls —”

  “Don’t be a jerk, Michael,” Ceecee said. “Why would we be scared by a stupid frog costume?”

  “And, anyway, I want to rehearse with it,” Mona added. “I don’t want to see the costume for the first time onstage. I’ll need to be prepared for it. I need to practice with the costume — and you in it.”

  “Come on, Michael,” Tara put in. “Show them the costume. I want to see it, too.”

  I flashed her a dirty look. I knew what she had in mind.

  “No,” I insisted. “I can’t do that.”

  “Why not?” Mona demanded.

  “I just can’t.”

  “He’s shy!” Rosie exclaimed.

  “He’s embarrassed,” Tara added.

  “No, it’s not that,” I said. “It’s just that … it’s awfully hot in that costume, and —”

  Mona leaned close to me. I smelled something sweet, like strawberries. It must’ve been the shampoo she used. “Come on, Michael,” she said. “For me?”

  “No.”

  She stamped her foot. “I won’t rehearse our scenes unless you put on that costume!”

  I sighed. I didn’t see any way out of it.

  Mona wouldn’t leave me alone until I put on that frog costume.

  I gave in. “Okay.”

  “Hurray!” Tara cried. I gave her another dirty look.

  All right, I thought. I may have to put on the costume. But that doesn’t mean the girls have to see me in my underwear.

  I can still keep that from happening.

  I trudged up to my room. But this time, I locked the door.

  Now try to embarrass me, Tara, I thought. You can’t outsmart Michael Webster. No way.

  The door was locked. I felt sure I was safe.

  I took off my jeans and my shirt. I dragged the frog costume out of the closet.

  I tugged on the zipper. It was stuck.

  Just like the last time.

  But this time it’s okay, I told myself. The door is locked. I have privacy.

  Then the door flew open.

  I stood helplessly in my underwear. Mona, Rosie, and Ceecee stared at me. Then they screamed and started laughing.

  “Tara!” I yelled. “The door was locked!”

  “No, it wasn’t,” Tara replied. “The lock’s broken, remember?”

  “No!” I cried. “Dad fixed it … he fixed it …”

  I tried to remember when Dad had fixed the lock on my bedroom door.

  Oh, right.

  It was after the underwear nightmare. On my birthday.

  So it hadn’t happened yet.

  How was I supposed to keep all this straight?

  Oh, no, I thought. I’m doomed.

  Time is all messed up. And I have no way of stopping it.

  I began to shake. This was too frightening.

  Where would it end? I had no idea. It was getting scarier by the minute.

  * * *

  I could hardly eat dinner that night. I’d eaten it before, of course, and hadn’t liked it the first time. Peas, carrots, and mushrooms. Over brown rice.

  I picked at the rice and the carrots. I never eat peas. I slipped them into my napkin when Mom and Dad weren’t looking.

  I watched Mom, Dad, and Tara eat dinner as if nothing were wrong. They sat calmly around the table, saying the same things they’d said last time.

  Mom and Dad must notice that something is weird, I thought. They must.

  So why don’t they say anything about it?

  I waited for Dad to finish telling us about his day at work. Then I brought up the subject again. I decided to take it slowly.

  “Mom? Dad? Doesn’t this dinner seem a little bit familiar?”

  “I’ll say,” Dad replied. “It reminds me of the lunch we ate at that vegetarian restaurant last month. Ugh.”

  Mom glared at him, then at me. “What are you trying to tell us, Michael?” she said frostily. “Are you tired of eating healthy food?”

  “I am,” Dad said.

  “Me, too,” Tara chimed in.

  “No. No way,” I insisted. “You don’t understand. I don’t mean that we’ve eaten food like this before. I mean that we have eaten this very meal before. We’re eating it twice.”

  Dad frowned. “No weird theories at the dinner table, please, Michael.”

  They weren’t getting it. I plowed ahead. “It’s not just this dinner. It’s this whole day. Haven’t you noticed? We’re doing everything over! Time is going backward!”

  “Shut up, Michael,” Tara said. “This is so boring. Can’t we talk about something else?”

  “Tara,” Mom scolded, “don’t say ‘shut up.’ ” She turned to me. “Have you been reading those comic books again?”

  I grew very frustrated. “You’re not listening to me!” I cried. “Tomorrow is going to be yesterday, and the day after that will be the day before! Everything is going backward!”

  Mom and Dad exchanged glances. They seemed to be sharing a secret.

  They do know something, I thought with excitement. They know something, but they’re afraid to tell me.

  Mom gazed at me very seriously. “All right, Michael. We might as well tell you,” she said. “We’re all caught in a time warp, and there’s nothing we can do about it.”

  Mom pushed back her chair. She walked backward to the stove. She started dishing rice from her plate into the pot on the stove.

  “Yenoh, ecir erom?” she asked Dad.

  Huh?

  “Esaelp, sey,” Dad replied.

  “Oot, em,” Tara said. She spit some rice out on her fork and dumped it back on her plate. She was eating backward!

  Dad stood up and walked backward to Mom. Then Tara skipped backward around the kitchen table.

  They were all talking and moving backward. We really were in a time warp!

  “Hey!” I cried. “It’s true!”

  Why wasn’t I talking backward, too?

  “Norom,” Tara said.

  She cracked up first. Then Dad started laughing. Then Mom.

  I finally caught on. It was a joke. “You — you’re all horrible!” I cried.

  That made them laugh even more.

  “I was wondering when you’d figure it out,” Tara sneered.

  They all sat down at the table again. Mom couldn’t help grinning. “We’re sorry, Michael. We didn’t mean to make fun of you.”

  “Yes we did!” Tara exclaimed.

  I stared at them in horror.

  This was the most terrible thing that had ever happened to me. And my parents thought it was a big joke.

  Then Dad said, “Michael, did you ever hear of déjà vu?”

  I shook my head.

  “It’s when something happens to you and you have the feeling it’s happened before,” he explained. “Everyone feels that way once in a while. It’s nothing to be afraid of.”

  “Maybe you’re nervous about something,” Mom added. “Like your birthday coming up. I’ll bet you’re a little nervous about turning twelve, right? And planning your party and everything?”

  “Not really,” I protested. “I know that feeling. But this isn’t the same thing! This is —”

  “Say, Mike,” Dad interrupted. “Wait till you see what I got you for your birthday. You’re going to flip! It’s a bi
g surprise.”

  No, it isn’t, I thought unhappily.

  It’s not a surprise at all. You’ve given me that birthday present twice already. How many times are you going to give me that stupid bike?

  “Mom, Michael is hiding peas in his napkin again,” Tara ratted.

  I smushed the peas up in my napkin and threw it in her face.

  * * *

  When I went to school the next morning, I wasn’t sure what day it was. It was getting hard to keep track. My classes, my lunch, the stuff my friends said all seemed familiar. But nothing unusual happened. It could have been any day of the school year.

  I played basketball after school that day, as usual. While I was playing, a funny feeling crept over me.

  A bad feeling.

  I’ve already played this game, I realized. And it didn’t end well.

  But I kept on playing, waiting to see what would happen.

  My team won. We collected our backpacks.

  Then Kevin Flowers yelled, “Where’s my Blue Devils hat?”

  Oh, yeah, I remembered.

  This was that basketball game. How could I forget?

  Good old Tara. She’s done it again!

  “Nobody leaves until we find that hat!”

  I shut my eyes and handed over my backpack.

  I knew what was coming. Might as well get it over with.

  * * *

  Getting pounded to a pulp by Kevin Flowers hurt a lot. But at least the pain didn’t last long.

  The next morning when I woke up, it was all gone. The pain, the scabs, the bruises, everything.

  What day is it today? I wondered. It must be a few days before Kevin beat me up.

  I hope I won’t have to live through that a third time.

  But what will happen today?

  As I walked to school, I searched for clues. I tried to remember what had happened a day or two before Kevin beat me up.

  A math test? Maybe. I hoped not. But at least it would be easier this time around. I could even try to remember what the problems were and look up all the answers before the test!

  I was a little late today. Did that mean something? I wondered. Would I get into trouble?

  My homeroom teacher, Ms. Jacobson, had closed the classroom door. I opened it. The classroom was already full.

  Ms. Jacobson didn’t look up when I walked in.

  I must not be that late, I thought. Guess I won’t get in trouble after all.

  I started for the back of the room, where I usually sit. As I passed through the rows of desks, I glanced at the other kids.

  Who’s that guy? I wondered, staring at a chubby, blond kid I’d never seen before.

  Then I noticed a pretty girl with cornrows and three earrings in one ear. I’d never seen her before, either.

  I stared at all the faces in the classroom. None of the kids looked familiar.

  What’s going on? I wondered, feeling panic choke my throat.

  I don’t know any of these kids!

  Where’s my class?

  Ms. Jacobson finally turned around. She stared at me.

  “Hey,” the blond kid shouted. “What’s a third-grader doing in here?”

  Everybody laughed. I couldn’t understand why.

  A third-grader? Who was he talking about?

  I didn’t see any third-graders.

  “You’re in the wrong classroom, young man,” Ms. Jacobson said to me. She opened the door, showing me the way out.

  “I think your room is downstairs on the second floor,” she added.

  “Thanks,” I said. I didn’t know what she was talking about. But I decided to go along with her.

  She shut the door behind her. I could hear the kids laughing behind the door. I hurried down the hall to the boy’s bathroom. I needed to splash some cold water on my face. Maybe that would help.

  I turned on the cold water tap. Then I glanced in the mirror, very quickly.

  The mirror seems a little higher than usual, I thought.

  I washed my hands in the cold water and splashed some on my face.

  The sink seems higher, too, I noticed. Strange.

  Am I in the right school?

  I glanced in the mirror again — and got the shock of my life.

  Was that me?

  I looked so young.

  I ran my hand through my short, brushlike brown hair. That dopey crew cut I’d had all through the third grade.

  I don’t believe it, I thought, shaking my head. I’m a third-grader again!

  I’ve got my third-grade hair. My third-grade clothes. My third-grade body.

  But my seventh-grade brain. I think.

  Third grade.

  That means I’ve slipped back four years — in one night.

  My whole body started to tremble. I grabbed on to the sink to steady myself.

  I was suddenly paralyzed with fear.

  Things were speeding up. Now I lost whole years in one night! How old will I be when I wake up tomorrow? I asked myself.

  Time was going backward faster and faster — and I still hadn’t found a way to stop it!

  I shut off the water and dried my face with a paper towel. I didn’t know what to do. I was so frightened, I couldn’t think straight.

  I walked back to my third-grade classroom.

  First I glanced through the window of the classroom door. There she was, Mrs. Harris, my old third-grade teacher. I’d know that helmet of silver hair anywhere.

  And I knew, as soon as I saw her, that I really had gone back in time four years.

  Because old Mrs. Harris shouldn’t have been in school that day. She’d retired two years earlier. When I was in fifth grade.

  I opened the door and stepped into the classroom.

  Mrs. Harris didn’t bat an eye. “Take a seat, Michael,” she commanded. She never mentioned the fact that I was late.

  Mrs. Harris always liked me.

  I checked out the other kids in the class. I saw Henry, Josh, Ceecee, and Mona, all little third-graders now.

  Mona wore her shiny brown hair in two braids. Ceecee wore hers in one of those stupid side ponytails.

  Josh didn’t have pimples on his forehead, I noticed. Henry had a sticker on the back of his hand — Donatello, from the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles.

  It was my class all right.

  I sat down at an empty desk in the back. My old desk. Right next to Henry.

  I glanced at him. He was picking his nose.

  Gross. I’d forgotten about that part of being a third-grader.

  “Michael, we’re on page 33 in your spelling book,” Mrs. Harris informed me.

  I reached inside the desk and found my spelling book. I opened it to page 33.

  “These are the words you’ll need to know for tomorrow’s spelling test,” Mrs. Harris announced. She wrote the words on the board, even though we could read them right there in the spelling book: taste, sense, grandmother, easy, happiness.

  “Man,” Henry whispered to me. “These words are tough. Look how many letters there are in grandmother!”

  I didn’t know what to say to him. On my last spelling test (when I was still in the seventh grade), I’d had to spell psychology. Grandmother wasn’t a big challenge for me anymore.

  I zoned out for most of the day. I’d always wished school were easier, but not this easy. It was so babyish and boring.

  Lunch and recess were even worse. Josh chewed up a banana and stuck his tongue out at me. Henry painted his face with chocolate pudding.

  Finally the school day ended. I dragged my little third-grade body home.

  When I opened the front door, I heard a horrible screech. Bubba, just a kitten now, raced past me and out the door. Tara toddled after him.

  “Don’t tease the cat,” I scolded her.

  “You’re dumb,” she replied.

  I stared at Tara. She was three years old.

  I tried to remember: Had I liked her better when she was three?

  “Give me a piggyback!”
she cried, tugging on my backpack.

  “Get off me,” I said.

  My backpack dropped to the floor. I stooped to pick it up. She grabbed a hunk of my hair and yanked it.

  “Ow!” I screamed.

  She laughed and laughed.

  “That hurt!” I yelled, and shoved her — just as Mom stepped into the foyer.

  She rushed to Tara’s side. “Michael, don’t shove your sister. She’s only a little girl!”

  I stormed off to my room to think.

  No, I hadn’t liked Tara better when she was three. She was as much of a brat as ever.

  She was born a brat, and she’d never grow out of it, I knew. She’d be a brat for the rest of her life, driving me crazy even when we’re old.

  If we ever get to be old, I thought with a shudder. We’ll never grow up at this rate.

  What am I going to do? I worried. I’ve slipped back in time four years! If I don’t do something fast, I’ll be a baby again.

  And then what?

  A cold shiver ran down my back.

  And then what? I asked myself.

  Will I disappear completely?

  I woke up in a panic every morning.

  What day was it? What year was it?

  I had no idea.

  I climbed out of bed — it seemed farther away from the floor than it used to — and padded across the hall to the bathroom.

  I stared in the mirror. How old was I? Younger than I’d been the day before, I knew that much.

  I went back to my room and began to get dressed. Mom had left my clothes for the day folded on a chair in my room.

  I examined the jeans I was supposed to wear. They had a picture of a cowboy on the back pocket.

  Oh, yeah, I remembered. These jeans. The cowboy jeans.

  Second grade.

  That means I must be seven years old now.

  I stepped into the pants, thinking, I can’t believe I have to wear these stupid jeans again.

  Then I unfolded the shirt Mom had picked out for me.

  My heart sank when I saw it: a cowboy shirt — with fringe and everything.

  This is so embarrassing, I thought. How could I have ever let Mom do this to me?

  Deep down I knew that I used to like these clothes. I probably picked them out myself.

  But I couldn’t stand to admit that I’d ever been so stupid.

  Downstairs, Tara was still in her pajamas, watching cartoons. She was now two.