by Betsy Uhrig
The recordings of the future?
And here’s the response I got:
Right. See? You’re not such a dork after all.
Chapter 27
IT WAS NOW FOUR O’CLOCK and I had to get the key back to the office. I was (a) relieved that the file with my humiliation on it would be auto-deleted by this time tomorrow and (b) annoyed at being insulted by a help screen that referred to itself as a T.W.E.R.P. I shut the laptop down, locked up, returned the key, and headed home.
I was halfway up my front walk when something occurred to me. “You’re not such a dork after all,” the screen had said. After all. Didn’t that imply that I was usually considered a dork? It did. But “dork” wasn’t among the D-names my peers tended to use. “Doofus,” yes. “Dweeb,” of course. “Doorknob,” sometimes. But not “dork.” No, “dork” was a word that was used to describe me by only one person: my little sister, Alice Sloan.
So how did a help screen know that my sister had spent almost a month calling me a dork in an ever-more-disturbing series of performances? In the past three days alone, my parents and I had been subjected to Hickory Dickory Dork, Dork Whittington and His Cat, and The Little White Dork. My heart was lunging around in my chest like it was looking for the emergency exit by the time I ran up the steps to my house and opened the door. I was thinking about spy cams and spy satellites and all kinds of spy other things.
I ducked into the house and shut the door behind me. I leaned on the closed door, relieved for a tiny instant before understanding that the spyware would have to be inside the house to have spied on the whole dork thing. There was nowhere to hide.
By the time I’d gotten up to my room, dropped my backpack, and taken off my sneakers, I had managed a few deep breaths and stopped feeling like my heart was trying to leave my body. There were no cameras in my house spying on our after-dinner “entertainment.” It was just a coincidence that the Prescient help screen had used the word “dork.” It had nothing to do with Alice. “Dork” was probably the word the Prescient inventor’s friends had used back in the olden days when they were in school. It didn’t mean anything. Or so I told myself at the time. And so I believed for as long as I could afterward.
* * *
Whatever Alice’s show plans for that evening were, they were disrupted by a phone call. For me.
The phone in the kitchen rang, and Alice ran to answer it. She was the only person in the house who enjoyed talking on the phone.
“Hello, this is Alice speaking, how may I help you?” she said. “Hi, Steeeeeeve,” she crooned a moment later, her voice moving up into a whole new register. Alice had a huge crush on Steve, and he was a good sport about it. He got plenty of practice. “How are you today? How do you like your new school?” Alice continued. “Jason? Jason Sloan?… I’m not sure he can come to the phone right now. He’s in the bathroom. He might be a while. I hear grunting.”
This could be a problem someday, I knew. In the unlikely event that a girl called me before I got my own phone, I was going to be sorry I hadn’t nipped this behavior in the bud. But as my dad always said, with Alice you had to pick your battles. And this one wasn’t worth fighting. Yet.
I wandered into the kitchen and yanked the phone out of Alice’s grasp.
“Beat it,” I said to her. “Sorry about that,” I said into the phone.
“She’s a piece of work,” said Steve.
“She’s a piece of something,” I agreed.
“You’re a piece of something!” Alice yelled from somewhere outside the kitchen.
“Anyway,” said Steve. “I’ve been thinking about this whole future thing. You know? H.A.I.R. Club?”
“Uh-huh,” I said.
“Well, I hate to say it, but I’m starting to think Hoppy’s right. That those recordings do show the future. Do you agree with that or no?”
“Yes,” I said. “I mean, I do agree.” How could I not? The help screen had clinched it.
“So you know what that means,” Steve said.
“Not really.” I knew all too well what it meant for me and my neck and my social life and my self-respect. But I wasn’t sure what it meant for Steve. Except I did, actually.
“I’m worried about my hair,” he said. And I had to admire him for coming out and saying it. If someone could be unselfconsciously vain, then that’s what Steve was.
He went on: “I’m sure it’s a product of some kind that’s making it look so…”
“Rubbery?” I supplied.
“Yeah. And if I know me, and I do, the product that’s causing the, ah, rubbery-ness is in my locker. In the future,” he added, just to be sure I was following him. And, sadly, I was.
“So?” I asked.
“I need to find out what it is. That way I can avoid it,” he said.
“Can’t you just not use any hair products?”
Steve barked out a laugh. “No. I need to identify this one and make sure I never use it.”
“What if it’s not invented yet?”
“Then I need to keep away from it when it is.”
“What are you suggesting?” I asked. Because he was definitely suggesting something. Something he needed help with. My help.
“The future recordings are only in the cafeteria, right?” he said.
“Right. As far as we know.”
“So the cameras in the cafeteria must be the ones that do it.”
That made so little sense that I didn’t know how to begin to deny it. And Steve, being Steve, took my puzzled silence for agreement.
“So what I’m suggesting,” he continued, “is that we exchange one of the cafeteria cameras for the one near my locker in the main hall. Then, when I open my locker in the future, I’ll be able to look inside it. In the past, I mean. Or the present. Or whatever.”
“But…” Where did I even begin? I decided to start small. Really small. “But the recordings of the future don’t show that much detail. How would you be able to read the label on a bottle in your locker?”
“I’ve already thought about that. I must be using an economy-size drum to get my hair so… solid. The thing will be huge. I’ll spot it. I have to.”
“Okay… but”—I was grasping for any thin strand of sense now—“what if you only used whatever it was once, and it did something to your hair that won’t wash out? Doesn’t that seem more likely than you using something over and over that makes your hair look like a rubber wig?”
I thought I was presenting a logical argument, but Steve and logic had clearly parted ways well before he got on the phone that evening.
“One dose of something could never permanently alter my hair” was his response. “My hair has too much natural resistance.”
I was gathering my big argument against the whole idea that a camera could record the future when he pulled out the following: “You’re my friend, right?”
That kind of question never leads anywhere good, does it? On TV, it always ends in jail time after some kind of amateur crime caper gone wrong. But then I thought about future me, who didn’t seem to be friends with Steve at all anymore.
“Yes, I am,” I said firmly. “Which is why—”
“So do this for me. Sunday afternoon. I’ll get the key again, we’ll go in, we’ll switch the cameras. We can switch them back later—after we look at the recording.”
I didn’t like that nonspecific “later.” I didn’t like switching cameras while also trespassing. I didn’t like any of it. But I did like Steve. I was his friend, I wanted to remain his friend, and he needed me.
“Okay,” I said. “Can we bring Vincent, too?”
“Sure,” said Glamorous Steve, like he was the one doing me a favor.
Chapter 28
WHAT HAPPENED ON SUNDAY AFTERNOON got Steve, Vincent, and me into the Flounder Bay Times, but not for any of the reasons that might occur to you. And it could have been worse. So, so much worse.
We made it inside the school building with no trouble. No one saw us. No one wa
s around. Who in their right mind would be hanging around the empty school on a Sunday afternoon?
And if you’re expecting some wacky comedic description of the three of us and the tall stepladder that the janitors used to replace light bulbs, you’re going to be disappointed. No one carrying the ladder turned abruptly and knocked anyone over, then turned to see what happened and knocked someone else over. Although Steve did manage to bash my knee with the thing and also ram Vincent in the tailbone.
None of us was in a great mood by the time we got the ladder into position under the security camera in the back left corner of the cafeteria. We chose that one because it was out of the way and less likely to be missed if we dropped it or broke it and couldn’t put it back.
Vincent and I were making Steve do the hard work for obvious reasons. This was his mission—we were just muscle. And very little of that. He had to climb almost to the top of the ladder to reach the camera. Vincent and I stood by underneath to steady the ladder and be fallen on if Steve lost his balance.
“It’s totally wired in here,” Steve complained when he’d had a moment up there to assess the situation.
“Duh,” said Vincent. His tailbone was still pretty sore. “What did you think?”
“I was thinking it would be wireless,” said Steve. “What is this, the Middle Ages?”
“Don’t get yourself electrocuted up there,” I said insincerely. My knee was still pretty sore. “Maybe we should forget it.”
“No, it’s okay,” Steve said after pulling tentatively on some wires. “It’s just plugged in in a couple places—it’s not like defusing a bomb or anything.”
“That’s a relief,” said Vincent.
“I’ve got it,” said Steve. “I’m handing it down to you now.”
“We can see that.”
The camera was remarkably light and compact. There were two wires dangling from it, but the plugs were different enough that I didn’t think we’d have a problem attaching it to the mount in the main hall.
Steve came down off the ladder and folded it up.
“Now to make the big switcheroo,” he said happily. “You know what I’m thinking?” he added, catching Vincent in the elbow with the ladder.
“That I’m going to grab that ladder and bonk you over the head with it?” said Vincent.
“Nope. I’m thinking that if we were watching a recording of the future right now, we’d be seeing my hair going back to normal before our very eyes. Because right now we’re taking steps to make that happen.”
“I don’t think that’s the way it works,” I said.
“The future works in mysterious ways,” said Steve.
In the main hall, Steve parked the ladder under the camera nearest to his locker. He climbed up and then turned.
“Hand me the camera,” he said.
I did.
“I can’t unplug the other one with this one in my hand,” Steve said.
Vincent and I looked at each other through the ladder’s rungs and rolled our eyes.
“Hand it back to me,” I said.
He did.
“Now unplug the other one and hand it to Vincent.”
“Okay, okay, I’ve got it figured out now,” said Steve.
He handed the hall camera down to Vincent and took the cafeteria camera from me.
“Wait,” he said. “How do I know this is the right one?”
And so it went for several more lines of dialogue that I will spare you.
* * *
Vincent and I slumped against a wall in the main hall, heads resting against the concrete, legs outstretched, while Steve returned the ladder to the janitors’ domain in the basement.
“You don’t think there’s any way this is going to work, do you?” Vincent asked me.
“Nope,” I said. “There are so many things wrong with Steve’s theory that I don’t know where to begin.”
Vincent waited for me to begin.
“First of all,” I began, “it doesn’t make sense that we have magic cameras in the cafeteria that record the future for an hour every day.”
“Well, if they’re not magic, what are they?”
“They’re normal. Well, super-state-of-the-art normal. It’s not the cameras that do it. Remember what Andrew said when we first started thinking the recordings showed the future?”
“Not particularly. A lot of what Andrew says goes over my head.” Vincent made a whizzing noise and brushed a hand across the top of his hair to demonstrate.
“He said that the idea of digital files traveling through time was theoretically interesting.”
“So?”
“So the cameras are just cameras. And the files of the future are files that were recorded in the future.”
“That will be recorded in the future, you mean.”
“Right. Except in the original future, they didn’t have cameras as good as these.” I was swimming way out of my depth here, and we both knew it.
“Original future?” Vincent repeated.
“You know… the future where we didn’t have the Prescient stuff and didn’t see our future selves.”
Vincent was doing the whizzing-over-his-head thing again, only more urgently.
“Argh!” I dragged my hands down my face. “Why is this so hard to figure out?”
“We’re in seventh grade,” Vincent said. “We’re not supposed to be able to figure everything out.”
“You’re right. We don’t even take physics until high school. Anyway,” I went on, “my theory is that someone in the original future figured out how to send those files back in time. Someone who took physics, obviously.”
“Cool,” said Vincent.
“Cool,” I agreed.
“But why?” said Vincent a moment later. “Why, if you invented this technology that let you send recordings back in time, would you pick a lunch period at Flounder Bay Upper School and send them to the H.A.I.R. Club that you yourself set up?”
“I can’t think of any reason to do that,” I admitted.
Chapter 29
IT WAS WHEN STEVE RETURNED from the basement that things got interesting.
“Look who I woke up down there,” he said.
“Penelope!” said Vincent.
Sure enough, there was a skunk trotting behind Steve.
“She’s not trapped?” I asked.
“Guess not,” said Steve. “She has eluded her would-be captors.”
Penelope was now butting my elbow with her head like a cat that wants to be fed or let out or some other cat-related desire. I petted her a bit and she got on my lap and settled down.
“She really likes you,” Steve observed.
“We should put her in one of the traps,” I said. “So Ranger Rick can pick her up.”
“We could put her in one of the traps and bring her over now,” said Vincent. “That way she won’t have to spend the night in a trap.”
“She’d be okay overnight,” I said. “She’d have snacks in there.”
Vincent was shaking his head. “It’s a short walk, and what else do we have going on?”
We had nothing else going on.
The problem was that we couldn’t find any of the traps they’d set out.
“Maybe the janitors moved them around,” said Steve when we’d looked in the spots he and Vincent remembered (or thought they remembered) putting traps in.
“Or maybe you don’t know where you put them,” I said.
“We can carry her,” said Vincent.
And by “we” he meant me, her good friend Jason.
So we let ourselves out the gym door and started off for the nature museum, me cradling the skunk like a baby in my arms.
It was fine until we got to the main road, where the sun was bright and there were cars whizzing by. Not a skunk-friendly environment. Penelope got nervous and started clawing at the front of my shirt. Cars slowed down as the people in them gawked at the kid carrying a skunk.
Then Penelope got so nervous she cla
wed her way up onto my shoulder, and that’s when a car pulled over and a guy yelled out the window, “Do you need help?”
Another car pulled over and a lady got out. The first guy yelled over at her, “That kid’s being attacked by a skunk!”
“She’s not atta—” I managed, but they weren’t about to consult with me in this emergency.
“It’s probably rabid,” said the woman. “It wouldn’t be out in daylight if it were healthy.” She had pulled out her phone.
So had the guy. “I’m calling Animal Control,” he said. “Hang in there, kid. Don’t make any sudden moves.”
“I’m okay,” I said. “She’s a tame—”
But it was no use. The guy was making the call, the woman was either taking pictures or video, and a third car had pulled over.
“You other kids need to back away,” said the original guy to Vincent and Steve. “We don’t want it attacking you too.”
And you know what? Steve and Vincent, who knew perfectly well that Penelope was not rabid and not attacking me, did as they were told.
And then the Animal Control van swerved into place behind the three spectator cars. The doors opened and two people in khaki got out. They went over to talk to the guy and the woman, eyeing me the whole time without getting any closer.
“We surrender!” Vincent yelled from his backed-away position. He had his hands up.
The Animal Control officers ignored him.
There was another woman here now, with a fancy camera, taking pictures from what she must have thought was a safe distance.
None of this, by the way, was making Penelope any less nervous. She was standing on my shoulder with her claws digging into me, and although it didn’t qualify as an attack, it wasn’t comfortable. I decided that the best thing to do was keep walking. We weren’t that far from the museum.
“Stop!” called one of the Animal Control officers as soon as I’d taken a couple of steps.
“Don’t move, kid,” called the other one. “Stay calm and we’ll get it sedated, okay? Hang in there; you’re doing great.”
