by Bill Myers
Of course there had been the usual flash of light, and of course they were surrounded by the usual holograph of the future . . . except this particular future looked exactly like the present. Same bedroom. Same boxes she still hadn’t unpacked since moving. (She’s a bit of a slob.)
“What’s going on?” TJ asked. “Where are we?”
“Five years into the future,” Tuna said.
(Okay, she’s a huge slob.)
Herby motioned across the room to her desk. It was covered in a mountain of papers. TJ frowned and stepped closer until she spotted an older version of herself behind the papers. She was hunched over the desk, furiously typing away. She was about 18 and anything but pretty. (Unless by pretty you mean bloodshot eyes, ratty hair that hadn’t been brushed in a month, and teeth that hadn’t been brushed in longer than that.)
Then there was the shaking. Her whole body trembled, and her face twitched nervously.
TJ turned to the boys, waiting for an explanation.
Herby cleared his throat. “When Your Dude-ness agreed to cheat for Hesper, the word spread. Soon other students asked for your help.”
“Why didn’t I say no?” TJ asked.
Tuna opened another blade and
the room was suddenly split into two. On one side sat the exhausted, overworked TJ in her sloppy bedroom. On the other side sat Elizabeth, talking on the phone in her super-rich, has-everything-a-person-could-ever-want bedroom.
“Don’t worry,” Elizabeth was saying. “She’ll have a term paper to you by Friday. And at $20 a page times 100 pages, that comes to—” She reached for a calculator and started adding.
TJ asked, “She’s making me do other people’s papers?”
Herby nodded. “She kept threatening to tell on you if you didn’t do more papers for more people. Pretty soon, she had you slaving away night and day.”
“That’s terrible,” TJ exclaimed.
“For you, yes,” Tuna agreed. “But for her it became quite a moneymaking business.”
“Why am I shaking like that?”
“You had to stay awake, so you became a caffeine addict,” Tuna said. “Waaay too much coffee.”
“But I don’t like the taste of coffee.”
“You won’t be tasting it,” Tuna said.
TJ turned to him as he strolled over to the desk. He pushed aside the papers so she could get a better look. That’s when she gasped. (Remember the exaggeration about kids getting their coffee through hospital IV stands? Well, for the future TJ, it wasn’t an exaggeration.)
She couldn’t believe her eyes. “That’s terrible!”
Herby nodded. “Zworked to the max.”
“But once I graduate . . . I mean, after that, everything will be all right. Right?”
The boys traded looks.
“Right?” TJ repeated.
Without a word, Tuna reached for his knife.
TJ groaned. “Oh
no.”
Now they stood in a huge, messy office. On the far wall was a giant screen with a 30-year-old version of Hesper Breakahart. She was yelling at an older version of TJ, who was even skinnier than before. Her ratty hair (which hadn’t been brushed since the last time) was already turning gray. A cigarette dangled from her mouth, and she was shaking worse than ever.
“I don’t have enough lines!” Hesper was screaming.
“I gave you every line in the scene,” TJ said as she reached into her desk drawer and pulled out a bottle of antacids.
“Well, I want more!”
“Yes, Ms. Breakahart,” TJ said, shaking out a handful of the tablets.
“Get rid of all the other actors! Just have me talking to myself!”
“Yes, Ms. Breakahart.” TJ threw the antacids into her mouth and began chewing them.
“In fact, have three of me talking to me! That way I’ll get three times the lines!”
“Excellent point, Ms. Breakahart,” TJ said and went back to typing.
“And I need them now!”
“Yes, Ms. Breakahart.”
TJ turned to Tuna, who explained, “You wrote so many reports for Hesper that she made you the head writer of her TV show.”
“But I don’t want to be a writer.”
Tuna shook his head. “It doesn’t matter. With Elizabeth at her side, you had no choice.”
TJ moved closer to her older self and watched with pity as the woman kept typing, smoking, and chewing antacids.
“What about all that caffeine?” TJ asked. “And the smoking? Don’t I know that will kill me?”
“It’s the only way you thought you could keep going,” Herby said.
TJ felt a knot forming in her gut. Finally she looked back to the boys. “But I quit, don’t I? I mean, I eventually find a way out and quit, right?”
Tuna and Herby traded looks.
“Guys?”
More looking.
“Guys, answer me!”
Reluctantly, Tuna reached for the blade and
they were standing with the rest of her family at an outdoor get-together. There were cousins and aunts from all over the country. But they were all dressed up . . . and crying.
“Oh, TJ . . . ,” her dad moaned.
She turned to see him. He was wearing his suit and looked a thousand years older than she remembered. On one side of him stood an older version of Violet. On the other was little Dorie, all grown-up.
“It’s okay, Daddy.” Dorie’s voice was hoarse from crying. She held Dad’s arm, trying to comfort him.
He nodded, blinking his eyes. But it did no good. The tears began to fall.
Violet took his other arm and croaked, “She’s a lot happier where she is now.”
TJ turned to Tuna and Herby. “Who are they talking about?” she asked—though she already had a sneaking suspicion. “And where am I? I see Dad. I see Dorie and Violet. Where am I?”
Neither boy answered (unless you count their own sniffing and eye wiping an answer).
“Guys?” she demanded.
At last Herby motioned behind her.
TJ turned completely around to see . . . a casket suspended over an open grave.
She sucked in her breath. “That’s . . . me?”
Tuna nodded.
“H-how?” she stuttered. “What happened?”
“You worked too hard,” Tuna said. “All that caffeine, all those cigarettes, the stress . . . it was more than your heart could—”
“Oh, TJ!” Suddenly Dad threw himself over the casket. He began to sob uncontrollably. “TJ, don’t leave me, please . . .”
Others in the group also began to cry. Dorie stepped up to join Dad. She wrapped her arms around him, trying to pull him away. “It’s okay, Daddy,” she choked through her own tears. “Daddy, don’t cry. Please don’t cry. . . .”
“Dad,” TJ called out, tears filling her own eyes. She tried to reach out and touch him. But since he was a holographic image, her hand passed right through. “I’m here, Dad. I’m right beside you. . . .”
“He can’t hear you,” Herby said.
“It’s just a projected image,” Tuna reminded her.
“But . . .” She turned to them. They looked all blurry through her tears. “It doesn’t have to be this way, right?’
Herby glanced nervously to Tuna.
“Right?” she repeated. “This is just one possibility. Right? Right?”
“If you decide to cheat for Hesper . . .” Tuna dropped off, unable to continue.
“What?” TJ choked, wiping her face. “What?!”
“If you decide to cheat for Hesper, this is your only future.”
TJ turned back to her father, tears streaming down her own face.
“Dude,” Herby whispered to Tuna, “I think we better go.”
Tuna nodded.
“No, I want to stay.” TJ wiped her eyes. “There’s got to be some way to let him know!”
Tuna reached for the knife blade. “We have to go.”
“NO!” TJ shouted. �
�I want to talk to him. I want him to see that everything will be all—”
Suddenly the three of them were back in her room.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Stranger than Fiction . . . or Not.
TIME TRAVEL LOG:
Malibu, California, October 21
Begin Transmission:
Subject begins seeing how zworked cheating is. Hope it’s not too late.
End Transmission
Chad Steel hobbled into Miss Grumpaton’s English class on his crutches. Of course all the girls ooh-ed and aah-ed in sympathy . . . and of course all the guys asked if they could break his other leg so he wouldn’t walk lopsided.
(Sometimes guys aren’t great at showing sympathy.)
“There’s an empty seat up front here,” Miss Grumpaton said. “Sit there next to Thelma Jean so you don’t have so far to walk.”
Chad threw a look to the back of the class, where Hesper sat holding court. (Wherever Hesper sat, she held court.) He knew she wouldn’t be thrilled about his sitting so far away. Then again, she was so busy being the center of attention, it was doubtful she’d notice. So far she’d not even noticed his broken leg.
(Sometimes princesses aren’t so good at showing sympathy either.)
He laid his crutches against the front desk, glanced at the new kid, and smiled. “Hey,” he said.
She muttered something that might have been “Hey,” then quickly looked the other direction, tugging at her hair.
Chad stood staring a moment. Once again he tried figuring out what he’d done to make her so mad. And once again he wondered how he could apologize if she never talked to him.
Girls. Go figure.
With a sigh, he eased himself into the seat. The bell rang and Miss Grumpaton began her nonstop lecture on whatever she was nonstop lecturing about.
Chad tried to pay attention, but his thoughts were still on Sunday’s surfing meet. The meet he could no longer compete in because of his broken foot. Actually, he could compete—there was no rule about surfing with a cast on. They just frowned on their contestants drowning. And that’s exactly what would happen to Chad. Unless . . .
His mind drifted back to Doug’s promise:
“With my new and improved surfboard (sniff-sniff), you can win even wearing a cast!”
“But wouldn’t that still be cheating?” Chad had argued.
“I keep telling you (snort-snort), it’s only cheating if you get caught.”
Chad knew Doug was wrong. But he also knew there was no way he could compete if he didn’t go along with Doug’s plan.
He glanced at TJ. She was shifting and fidgeting in a major sort of way. At first he thought it was because she hated sitting so close to him . . . until he turned his attention back to Miss Grumpaton’s speech.
“. . . is an example of what you all can do if you put your mind to it.” She looked directly at TJ and smiled. “Thelma Jean, I don’t know what they taught you back in Minnesota, but I think we could all learn a lesson about what hard work can accomplish. Isn’t that right, class?”
The class gave their the usual response of gum
text message
and cell phone
But Miss Grumpaton was a pro. She could keep boring you no matter what you did.
“And you’ll all be happy to know that I’ve submitted Thelma Jean’s name to participate in a national essay contest. Isn’t that exciting?”
Chad stole another look at TJ . . . who was slowly melting into her seat.
“Thelma Jean will be representing our school nationally. And if she does well, as I’m sure she will—” Miss Grumpaton paused to give one of her famous yellow-from-way-too-many-cups-of-tea grins—“she will go on to represent us internationally. Isn’t that simply thrilling?”
“However, there is just one problem.” Miss Grumpaton turned her smile back on TJ, who was doing her best imitation of the Wicked-Witch-of-the-West-meets-water. “The essay is due Monday. Though I’m sure that won’t be a problem for you, will it, Thelma Jean?”
Chad could practically hear TJ crying, “I’m melting . . . I’m melting.”
Then, before anyone broke into a chorus of “Ding-Dong! The Witch Is Dead,” the classroom door flew open. There, before them, stood some pirate guy with a peg leg, who was shouting, “Argh!” On his shoulder he had a parrot that screeched, “Pieces of eight! Pieces of eight!”
Of course the class gasped. And of course, Miss Grumpaton demanded, “Do you have a hall pass?”
The pirate gave another “Argh!” then
toward the teacher, shouting, “Where’s me treasure map?”
“You mean, ‘Where’s my treasure map,’” Miss Grumpaton corrected. “The use of a possessive pronoun in the sentence is necessary in order to—”
“Silence, woman!”
Miss Grumpaton shook her head. “If you are to remain in my class, you must learn the proper use of grammar.”
Without a word, he pulled an old-fashioned pistol from his belt.
More class gasping.
And more bird screeching, “Shiver me timbers! Shiver me timbers!”
But no more Miss Grumpaton lecturing . . . at least for the moment. Instead, to everyone’s astonishment, she started to giggle.
Chad looked on. He’d never seen an English teacher lose her mind before . . . but there was a first time for everything.
The pirate waved his gun at her. “Ye think this be funny?”
“Pieces of eight! Pieces of eight!”
Miss Grumpaton’s giggles grew into laughter.
“Stow that caterwauling!”
But her laughter only increased until she could barely catch her breath. “Oh, gracious,” she said, wiping the tears from her eyes. “You are good.”
The pirate, who was used to being taken a bit more seriously, especially when holding a loaded gun, made his move. He quickly stepped behind her and wrapped his arm around her neck, holding the pistol to her head.
“Oh, this is good,” Miss Grumpaton laughed. “Whoever thought this up gets an A+ for extra credit.”
“Silence, or be ye keelhauled!” the pirate shouted.
“And so authentic.” She frowned, waving her hands in front of her nose. “Though I could do without the fake smell of rum on your breath!”
The pirate cocked his pistol. “If ye don’t be silent, I shall send ye to Davy Jones’s locker!”
Chad watched the performance with the rest of the class. At least he thought it was a performance (though the pirate was nowhere near as realistic as in the movies).
To his surprise, TJ leaped to her feet and shouted, “Stop it!” She looked around the room as if searching for somebody. “Herby! Tuna! Stop it this instant!”
“Thelma Jean!” Miss Grumpaton laughed. “Is this your doing? I might have guessed!”
TJ continued searching the room and yelling, “Make him go!”
There was no answer except . . .
—Miss Grumpaton’s laughing
—the pirate’s argh!-ing
—the parrot’s Pieces of eight! Pieces of eight!-ing.
Suddenly the pirate’s eyes widened. “Shiver me timbers!” he shouted at TJ. “I’ve seen ye before.”
“Actually, that’s ‘Shiver my timbers,’” Miss Grumpaton corrected. “Once again, the use of a possessive pronoun is mandatory if—”
The pirate tossed her to the side and, in one swift move, lunged for the girl. TJ turned to run, but he caught her arm.
“Let me go!” she screamed.
“Ye be the cause of all this, missy?” he shouted.
“Let me go! Let me go!”
“Jim Hawkins, me cabin boy—he’s seen ye too!”
“Oh, this is good,” Miss Grumpaton exclaimed. “Class, I hope you’re taking notes.”
“Let me go!” TJ cried. “You’re hurting me!”
Acting or no acting, Chad had seen enough. There was something about the pain in TJ’s voice . . . and the fear in her eyes. Without sto
pping to think, he leaped at the pirate from his desk.
Unfortunately, his leaper was a little lame. (Having a cast on your foot tends to do that.) So instead of grabbing the pirate and freeing TJ, Chad sort of stumbled and fell into the man, causing
—the parrot to fly off, screeching
—the pirate to fall back, cursing
—Chad to fall on him, ooaff!-ing
—the pistol to hit the ground, k-blewie-ing
which caused
—the class to drop to the floor, screaming
—Miss Grumpaton to stand there, laughing
—TJ to keep on yelling
Chad and the pirate began wrestling on the floor
this way. And
that way, until . . .
Chad was suddenly
by himself. Talk about weird. One minute he held the pirate in his hands. The next he held only air. He looked around, blinking, then slowly sat up.
Students began climbing back into their seats. Some were crying; others were sobbing. TJ was still standing, looking all around. And Miss Grumpaton?
She started to clap.
“Excellent, my dear!” she said. “I don’t know how you did it, but your extra credit report was superb!” Then, turning to the class, she said, “And that, boys and girls, is why she will do so well in writing her essay this weekend. Imagination, creativity, and all of that hard work will someday make her a great writer!”
It was Friday night, which meant another one of Dad’s attempts at Hey let’s have some quality family time and go out for pizza.
(Good ol’ Dad, he just doesn’t give up.)
Of course Dorie was all for it. Dorie was all for everything—give her a fingernail clipping and she’ll play with it for hours.
But Violet (who’s never all for anything) had her usual I’m a health nut so everyone has to suffer because of me conditions. “I’ll go,” she said, “but only if no animals were hurt in the making of the food substance—”
TRANSLATION: Kiss the pepperoni good-bye.
“and there are no dairy products used—”
TRANSLATION: Kiss the cheese good-bye.
