Running Out of Time

by Margaret Peterson Haddix

  Standing back far enough to see her jacket and jeans, Jessie examined herself carefully so she would be able to compare herself with the real 1996 people. The coat Ma called a windbreaker was kind of pretty, even though it looked boyish. She unzipped it far enough to see the thing Ma called a T-shirt. It was yellow and had a huge black circle imprinted on it, with a line and two dots inside. It sort of looked like a smiling face, maybe on some stick figure Katie or one of the other little children drew in the dust.

  While Jessie was staring at herself, she heard another whoosh and a girl stepped out from one of the other bathroom stalls. Jessie pretended to concentrate on combing her hair, but watched the girl carefully. She had fluffy blond hair that stood straight out from the sides of her face, almost as though it had been frozen in the wind. Her pants were the things Ma called blue jeans, but they were faded and much tighter than Jessie’s. And her purple flowered top looked nothing like Jessie’s T-shirt. Patting her hair, the girl stepped to a counter in front of the mirror and turned a knob. Water gushed out of a shiny metal loop.

  “What’s wrong? Never seen anybody wash their hands before?” the girl asked.

  Jessie didn’t know what to say. Could the girl tell Jessie wasn’t used to the twentieth century? Would she summon the guards?

  Before Jessie could come up with a good answer, the girl shrugged, pulled a sheet of paper out of a nearby container, wiped off her hands, and threw the paper into a can. Then she left, as though she didn’t care why Jessie had been staring.

  Jessie didn’t think the girl was going to tell anyone about her. Still, she decided she’d better leave the bathroom. But first, she tried turning the same knob, and again water came pouring out. What a place this world-outside-Clifton was!

  After following the same ritual as the girl before her—even throwing away the paper, as crazy as that seemed—Jessie stepped out into the giant room she’d been in the night before.

  The largest room Jessie had ever seen before this one was Seward’s store, and it was always crowded with spices, cloth, barrels, and everything else Clifton needed. Only five or six people could fit inside comfortably at one time. This room was open and airy, with glass in the ceiling that let in bright sunlight. About the only furniture was a cluster of tables and chairs at the other end, where the guards had had coffee the night before. But the room was hardly empty: It was packed with people. Maybe two hundred, Jessie calculated in amazement, more than in all of Clifton. And many of them appeared to be about Jessie’s age. They sat along the walls, milled around in the open areas, hovered over the tables.

  Anxious to fit in, Jessie couldn’t help staring as she’d stared at the girl in the bathroom. Many of the other children wore blue jeans, but some jeans were a darker blue than Jessie’s, and some were faded almost white. Some were skintight and some were so loose it seemed miraculous that they didn’t fall off.

  Jessie thought maybe her jeans looked okay.

  The other children’s shirts and jackets were very different, though, many with bright patterns that almost glowed. Jessie’s top definitely stood out. But no one else seemed to notice. No one looked at Jessie at all. The other children were too busy talking, laughing, and even screaming.

  “—and then he goes—”

  “Who you going out with tonight?”

  “—and we were at the mall and then—”

  Jessie had never heard so many voices at once. It hurt her ears. It would be easy to leave unnoticed, she decided, but she leaned against the wall for a minute longer, trying to get used to all the noise.

  “Kids, come on. It’s your turn for the tour.”

  Jessie turned and saw a woman about her mother’s age, dressed in brown pants like a man. She was talking to the group around Jessie. Jessie noticed that the girl called Heather was right beside her.

  Most of the others got up, but Heather and her friends still sat. Jessie decided to wait a minute before leaving.

  “Oh no, you guys, too,” the woman said. Heather and the other two stood up, complaining. The woman looked at Jessie.

  “Why aren’t you coming? Do you expect me to carry you?”

  “But—” Jessie started. The woman thought she was with the other girls! It was on the tip of Jessie’s tongue to explain that she wasn’t, but the woman was glaring like Mr. Smythe always did before he said, “Do you want a whipping?” Jessie looked around. She didn’t see any guards, but they might be just around the corner. What if the woman yelled for one? What if the woman started asking just where Jessie did belong? What if “Clifton’s men” found out where she was?

  Jessie tried to look innocent.

  “I’m coming, ma’am,” she said.

  The woman gave Jessie a surprised look, but Jessie followed along, looking meekly at the ground.

  It appeared she was going to be one of those things called tourists.

  EIGHT

  The woman who had herded Jessie and the others together walked right behind Jessie, so there was no chance to break off and escape.

  “Teenagers!” the woman snorted. The word sounded vaguely familiar to Jessie. She thought it might be like “okay” and “shut up,” another word from the future not allowed in Clifton. But why did the woman say it so angrily?

  Jessie gave up wondering and looked around. They were heading down the same corridor Jessie had crept through the night before. But in the bright light from those miraculous glass globes, now Jessie noticed pictures on the wall. Moving slowly toward them, Jessie saw they weren’t paintings or drawings but something else, something that seemed to capture scenes just as someone might see them. They were incredible. How could such pictures exist?

  Jessie remembered Mr. Smythe telling the school about a new invention called a daguerreotype, but she’d only half believed him. It sounded crazy, that someone’s image could be captured like that. And, of course, she’d never actually seen a daguerreotype. The first one in the United States had been taken only the year before, in 1839. Maybe that’s what these were. Why, she’d be the first person in Clifton to—

  Suddenly Jessie realized how silly she was being. Everyone else walked by the pictures as though they were nothing. The rest of the world had seen hundreds of these daguerreotypes, probably. She had to remember this was 1996, not 1840.

  Then Jessie noticed all these scenes were from Clifton: Mrs. Harlow cooking over the open fireplace, Mr. Seward measuring out a poke of flour for Mrs. Ruddle, Mr. Smythe looking stern as the schoolchildren stood and recited. And yes—Jessie was in that picture, in the fifth-grade row. She looked younger, but it was definitely her.

  Jessie looked around, wanting to tell someone how strange it was to see herself as she’d looked two years ago. But she couldn’t. That was the last thing she should tell anyone.

  Remembering the danger, Jessie moved away from the pictures. She tried to walk in the center of the group. Cautiously, so no one would catch her staring, she looked around at the others. And she got another jolt: A few of the children, she discovered, were actually Negroes! At least, their faces and hands were a shade or two darker than Jessie’s. Some of them had curly hair, but others’ hair was straight. Jessie had never seen a Negro, and she was disappointed that their skin wasn’t pure black and their hair pure curl, as she’d always heard. Jessie didn’t think they could be slaves, because they acted just like all the other children. Maybe the abolitionists in Clifton had gotten their wish, and there wasn’t slavery anymore.

  By this time, the group was beyond the door Jessie had come through the night before. A bit farther down the hall, Jessie saw a woman wearing a long dress, apron, and bonnet. It made Jessie feel better to see someone dressed like that, but the woman wasn’t from Clifton.

  The group of children reached the woman and she motioned for them to stop.

  “Good morning!” she said, a little too cheerfully. “Welcome to Clifton. My name’s Mrs. Spurning and I’m going to be your tour guide today. I understand you’ve come on a school trip f
rom”—she looked at a card in her hand—“Oakdale Junior High School?”

  Some of the children mumbled yeses. Any adult in Clifton would have reprimanded the children and ordered them to say, “Yes, ma’am,” promptly and crisply. But this Mrs. Spurning only smiled.

  “Well, we have quite a treat for you today. This will be like going back in a time machine. When you left for school this morning, it was 1996. Here, it’s 1840. The people here live without TVs, VCRs, stereos, refrigerators, freezers, or even running water—”

  “How do they survive?” one boy with spiky yellow hair asked. Several around him laughed.

  Mrs. Spurning ignored his smart-alecky tone.

  “They survive just like many of your ancestors did. Some would say they live better than you, because they aren’t weighed down with your possessions.”

  “I doubt it,” the boy said. The others laughed again.

  Mrs. Spurning forced a smile. “Why don’t you wait and see?”

  She continued, speaking dully, as though she’d said the same words many times before. She sounded like Mr. Smythe when he repeated poetry at school. But Mrs. Spurning was describing the history of Clifton as Ma had the night before. Mrs. Spurning kept calling it “Clifton Village.”

  “Do the people here really think it’s 1840?” a Negro girl with spectacles asked. She looked really smart. So Mr. Wittingham was wrong when he said Negroes couldn’t think like white people.

  Jessie listened carefully to Mrs. Spurning’s answer.

  “Oh, these people aren’t crazy,” Mrs. Spurning said with a laugh. “Only the youngest children think it’s 1840. All the others are let in on Clifton Village’s little secret as soon as they are old enough to understand. No one speaks of it, though, because they are happy here. And they do get some benefits of the twentieth century—medical care, for example. It would be inhumane to let anyone die of the diseases that many died of back then, when antibiotics are available now.”

  “But that’s not—” Jessie started to protest. Everyone turned to look at her, and Jessie realized she couldn’t call this woman a liar. Not now. No one would believe her.

  “That’s not, uh, authentic,” Jessie finished lamely. She cleared her throat. “I’m not saying I want anyone to die, but how do we know this is really what 1840 was like?”

  “Now, that’s a good question, isn’t it, children?” Mrs. Spurning said in a sticky-sweet tone. She seemed to be making fun of Jessie. “We could never be 100 percent sure, and things like twentieth-century medical care will always make Clifton Village a little different from any real village of 1840. But we’ve researched everything about this period, and Clifton Village is as authentic as possible. Now, do we want to talk about it or see it?”

  She turned, obviously meaning for the children to follow her the rest of the way down the hall. As they trooped behind her, the girl with the spectacles came toward Jessie.

  “She was sure mean to you,” the girl said. “And it was a good question. I’ve been reading a lot about this period—people lived in really filthy conditions then, but I doubt if we see filth today.”

  “Oh,” Jessie said. She would have liked to tell the girl everything, and ask her all about 1996. And ask her if slavery really had been abolished. But after almost giving herself away, she knew she had to be careful. The guards weren’t chasing her anymore, but there was still danger. She wasn’t allowed to relax until she told Mr. Neeley about the diphtheria and got medicine for Katie and the others.

  “My name’s Nicole,” the girl was saying. “Nicole Stevens.

  My parents didn’t have any imagination—there are two other Nicoles in my class.”

  “Oh,” Jessie said again. She had never met anyone named Nicole. It was pretty. “I’m Jessie.”

  Mrs. Spurning saved Jessie from having to say anything else. She stopped the group and began explaining the system of mirrors and cameras that allowed them to see everything happening above ground. They were under the village square right now—she pointed to an image on a wide stretch of glass, and Jessie saw Mr. Harlow pull up his wagon to the store. It was like the pictures back on the walls of the corridor, only Mr. Harlow was moving like in real life. One of his horses was missing a shoe, and Jessie had to stop herself from yelling out to him to get it fixed. He walked into the store, seeming unaware that thirty children were watching him.

  “Off to the side, through each of these doors, you can see what’s happening in the various shops and in each of the houses. Our monitors tell us”—Mrs. Spurning glanced at a box above the group’s heads—“there’s bread being baked at Dr. Fister’s house, the potter is making bowls, and the blacksmith—oh, you should see this. Come along.”

  She led the children to a door marked JOSEPH KEYSER, ESQ., BLACKSMITH.

  Inside was a room with about fifty chairs, more than could fit in Pa’s shop. But against one wall, full-length, was a clear image of Pa bent over a horseshoe glowing red. Jessie could hear the crackle of the fire behind him and see the sweat flowing down his face. For a minute, Jessie forgot she wasn’t standing in the shop herself, perhaps having stopped in after school to see Pa. But she couldn’t feel the heat of the fire, and all these strangely dressed future children surrounded her.

  Some were snickering.

  “Couldn’t he find an easier way to do that?” one boy asked.

  “Shut up!” Jessie said. “He’s the best!”

  NINE

  Well,” Mrs. Spurning said as everyone stared at Jessie. “I see the blacksmith has a fan.”

  Jessie bent her head, afraid she would say more and betray who she was. She wondered what the wood-vented fan in the corner of Pa’s blacksmith shop had to do with what she had said. She concentrated on listening to Mrs. Spurning. And don’t say anything! she warned herself.

  “It’s true,” Mrs. Spurning continued, “that by 1840 standards, our blacksmith here is quite talented. It’s just that you’re used to seeing the products of much more advanced techniques.”

  Jessie heard mumblings around the boy who’d made fun of Pa, something like, “touchy, touchy.” But she didn’t look at him. The vision of Pa, now staring at another horseshoe, swam in front of Jessie’s eyes.

  “Don’t mind them,” Nicole leaned over to say. “They’re stupid. If it’s not on MTV, they don’t know what it is.”

  Jessie nodded without understanding. She wished everyone would leave so she could step into Pa’s shop and have everything be normal again. She wouldn’t even mind being scolded for skipping school. But she had to think about Katie….

  “Hey, why are you with our group? I’ve never seen you at Oakdale,” Nicole said.

  “Oh, I don’t go there. I, uh, got separated from my classmates,” Jessie said, not really lying.

  “Hope you don’t get in trouble when you get back.”

  “Me too.” Absolutely, Jessie thought.

  Nicole was still looking at Jessie a little strangely, and Jessie was afraid she might guess Jessie really didn’t belong. She crowded forward, pretending to be very intent on Mrs. Spurning’s explanation of how vital a blacksmith was to an 1840s community. Mrs. Spurning couldn’t say enough about how important Pa was, Jessie thought. She clenched her teeth to keep from adding things.

  But in a few minutes, Mrs. Spurning had finished with Pa, and she led the group to the next room. There, the image was of Mr. Wittingham making barrels. He got a couple minutes of explanation, the children stared, and then it was on to the next room.

  To Jessie, everything they saw looked achingly familiar. Many of the women were standing outside in their yards boiling their laundry, while others tended cooking pots over their fireplaces. The maid at Dr. Fister’s polished his silver tea service. Mr. Seward measured out flour, sugar, and salt for Mrs. Green on his dented scales.

  But the children around Jessie poked fun at almost everything.

  “Hasn’t she ever heard of a washing machine?” the girl called Heather said as they watched Mrs. Morrow ex
pertly wring out a pair of long underwear.

  “Look at that hat! Ug-ly!” another girl said about Mrs. Green’s stylish bonnet. “She looks like a duck.”

  Jessie and her friends had made fun of Mrs. Green themselves—and she did look like a duck. But Jessie gritted her teeth to keep from saying something mean back. Didn’t these girls know how silly they looked, wearing pants like boys?

  Mrs. Spurning told Heather, no, in 1840 there was no such thing as a washing machine, and she should be glad they existed now. Jessie wondered what a washing machine was. Was it easier? She hated laundry.

  When they had seen most of the rooms for the houses and shops, Mrs. Spurning brought the group back to the open area in the middle. Jessie saw several other groups behind them, working their way through the rooms Jessie’s group had seen. All of them had guides like Mrs. Spurning, wearing what Jessie thought of as the right clothes. How many people watched Clifton every day?

  “All right, kids, we’re almost done,” Mrs. Spurning said. “Before we see our last place, I want to remind you Clifton Village is open on weekends, so you can bring your parents back with you sometime when you want to stay longer. We also have special events, like the Fourth of July celebration and Christmas at Clifton. The next event is the revival on May 25, 26, and 27. I’m sure you’d enjoy that.”

  Jessie stared. Even the annual revivals—when Reverend Holloway rode in and preached for three hours a night, so vividly that Jessie always dreamed afterward of hellfire and brimstone—even those had an audience. Was there anything the tourists weren’t allowed to see?

  “You can pick up a schedule of special events at the ticket window,” Mrs. Spurning continued. “And if you want to spend a day just watching Clifton, you can rent out spots on the town square.” She pointed to a covered opening in the ceiling. “We put stairs there.”