The Time Fetch

by Amy Herrick

  There were actually little patches of ice here and there on the ground. In spite of himself, he was glad his aunt had made him wear the jacket.

  The sky was gray and low, and the wind blew in little bursts.

  Red and green plastic holiday decorations hung from wires strung over the street. They swung wildly. The store windows, still mostly locked behind steel gates at this time of the morning, were fully loaded with Christmas trees and electric menorahs and smiling snowmen.

  Edward paid very little attention to the holiday stuff. As a kid, he’d gone along with all of his aunt’s crazy winter solstice celebrations—the baking, the decorating, the singing, the big party, but now he no longer believed in it.

  As a general rule, Edward didn’t believe in anything. That is, he’d come to understand that reality was largely a hoax. One of the many useful things that Mr. Ross had taught them was that everything was made of atoms, and atoms were mostly empty space. Everything might appear solid. But it wasn’t. It was 99 percent empty space.

  When you took for granted that the floor you were standing on was solid, you were making a big mistake. When you put your butt down on a chair and didn’t go through the chair and the chair didn’t go through you, it was because of the magnetic repulsion of electrons against each other. You were really floating a minuscule fraction of an inch over the surface of the chair. If it weren’t for that force of repulsion, everything would just pass right through everything else.

  Other people looked like they were solid whole things. But they were really mostly full of emptiness. Most of what they had to say was just hot air, too. All this stuff they filled the store windows at this time of year with was worthless junk.

  The things that people believed in, the things they kept themselves so busy with, were just ways of convincing themselves that their lives weren’t completely random and unimportant.

  Although he liked the smells. He breathed deeply and caught a whiff of the pfeffernusse that was traveling in his pocket and then that particular scent the air has when it’s about to hit freezing. At the corner he nearly lost his way for a moment as he passed through the rows of pine trees for sale, but he was pulled out the other side by the smells of cinnamon and coffee that floated through the door of the donut shop.

  He stopped there and gazed inside. It was always nice to check this window out, even if it was illusion. There was a row of donuts in the front decorated with bright wreaths of red and green icing. He felt someone’s eyes upon him. Looking up, he saw a policeman with a donut halfway to his mouth, staring at him oddly. Edward preferred not to have policemen looking at him. He made his face as blank as possible and kept on moving.

  Overhead a cloud of pigeons went scouting by, keeping their eyes open for any sort of edible garbage to make a miraculous appearance. At the corner, Edward waited for the light to change. He could see his breath in the air and stood there for a while, watching it. He got so busy looking at the little puffs of steam he was making, he didn’t notice the light turn to green and then back to red again. Suddenly he felt something pulling on his jacket. Startled, he looked down and saw a little runny-nosed kid in a stroller who seemed to be trying to pick his pocket.

  “Hey,” Edward said indignantly. The light changed and the woman in charge of the stroller pushed forward. For a moment, the kid held tight to Edward’s pocket, but then his hand was yanked away. The kid let out a loud scream of protest, but the woman, either deaf or very used to this sort of thing, just kept on going. Edward examined his jacket for damage, but it looked all right. He crossed the street.

  The pigeons appeared to be following him. Ridiculous idea. They swooped down low, then settled overhead on a ledge and stared hungrily. Could they smell the pfeffernusse? Did pigeons have noses? A great gust of wind blew up the street. It knocked the pigeons off the ledge and they fluttered about like scraps of gray and white paper.

  Edward felt a little tap, tap, tapping on his back.

  “Excuse me.”

  He spun around. Standing in front of him was a man with very pale skin. Edward had never seen anybody with such white skin. It was practically the color of Ivory soap. Maybe he had some kind of disease. Edward stepped back. The man’s eyes were a feverish, glittering, grassy green that stood out in contrast to the pale skin. In one hand the man was carrying a laundry bag, which clanked and clattered as if it were full of empty cans.

  In the other hand, the man was holding up a beat-up spiral notebook. “I beg your pardon for this intrusion. Is it possible that you dropped this?”

  Edward looked more closely and saw that the man was holding his math notebook. It must have fallen out of his backpack. He reached out to take it, saying, “Oh, gee, thanks.”

  The man did not take his burning green eyes off of Edward and he did not release the notebook. “This is of value to you.” It wasn’t a question.

  Edward stared. Homeless and, from the looks of it, crazy, too. “Well, it’s my math notebook. My math teacher will probably make me suffer if I lose it.”

  “We will make a fair exchange then. You will give me what is in your pocket and I will give you this valuable book.”

  Now Edward noticed two things. The first was that the man’s fingernails appeared to have algae or maybe moss growing on them.

  The other was that one of those curious little whirlwinds that sometimes blow up along the streets on days like this was spinning along the sidewalk in their direction. Filled as it was with dust and leaves, you could easily make out its shape—narrow near the bottom and wide near the top. A couple of stray plastic bags caught up inside it took on different forms as they filled and deflated and filled again.

  The man turned sharply to stare at this little tornado. He flapped the math notebook at it, as if he could shoo it away.

  In Edward’s experience these little twisters usually lasted no longer than a few moments, taking off into the sky as soon as they had managed to pull off somebody’s hat or turn an umbrella inside out. Now, indeed, this whirlwind came spinning right up to him and grabbed his hat from from his head. Edward reached out for it, but the wind tossed it higher and higher into the air.

  “Hey,” Edward said angrily. The gray sky seemed to press down upon the earth.

  The little twister was growing bigger. Edward could feel it buffeting and tearing at his clothes. It threw a stinging cloud of black soot into his face. A high-pitched screaming rose from its center. Edward could no longer see his hat. With a stab of panic, he tried to back away, but the funnel came toward him, widening as if it had great batlike wings. It reached out and closed him inside its churning.

  The Brooklyn street disappeared.

  All around was a stinging, blinding wall of gray. Edward tried desperately to find something to hold on to, but there was nothing there. He took a step forward, but when he did, he felt no solid ground. Was he at the edge of the curb? He jumped back in confusion and turned around. But again when he took a step forward there seemed to be nothing solid underneath. It was as if he stood on a tiny island and all around him was a great howling nothing. What had happened to Brooklyn? Where were all the people?

  “Help!” he cried. But his voice was sucked away by the wind.

  “Help!” he called again, trying to balance on what was left of the solid world. “Help!”

  He felt something grab onto his arm and give him a sharp yank. Over the edge he went.

  “Let go!” he protested and tried to pull away, but whatever had him held him in an iron grip. Down he was dragged, through the howling and screaming and the blowing dust. He was falling so fast the pressure in his ears was painful. A gray light came rushing at him, filled with shapes and sound. In his confusion, he thought he saw the tops of trees and rooftops and then the sidewalk rising up. With a hard thunk he hit something and he found to his complete surprise that he was once again standing on Ninth Street. The morning river of people parted busily all around him as if nothing had happened.

  The man with the
green fingertips let go of him, but Edward hardly noticed this. He was busy watching the twister moving off, shrinking as it went. It picked up a pile of leaves and a Chinese takeout menu and disappeared down an alley.

  Edward considered going home and getting back into bed. Certainly, this was way too much excitement for so early in the day and, besides, he had lost his lucky hat.

  “What would you have done if I wasn’t here? I cannot follow you everywhere.”

  Edward turned sharply and looked at the man. The guy’s face was scary—so white and papery looking. Edward took a step backward, hoping the man wouldn’t notice. “Yeah, well, thanks. Really. I’m sure I’ll be fine. Could I have my notebook, please?”

  “Every day closer to the Tipping Point you will become a sweeter and sweeter temptation.”

  Definitely nuts.

  “I will give you the notebook for what’s in your pocket.”

  Edward shook his head. “I haven’t got any money. My allowance got finished off yesterday.”

  “I do not touch money. Give me whatever is in your pocket and I will give you your notebook.”

  Edward thought about it. “Okay, fine. But give me the notebook first.”

  The man hesitated. Then the green fingers let go of the beat-up object. Edward took the notebook and tucked it under his arm. The man watched closely as Edward reached into his jacket pocket.

  Edward pulled out one of the little packets his aunt had made up for him and handed it over. Eagerly, the man unwrapped the packet.

  When the paper fell open, he stared for a moment in puzzlement. Then, with an impatient shake of his head, he turned his glittering gaze back upon Edward. “Do you not understand? I am trying to help you. A Fetch should never be moved from its hiding place. You have made it into an irresistible temptation. Give it to me and I will do all I can to bring it safely back where it belongs. Don’t you feel all the eyes upon us? ”

  Totally looney tunes. Paranoid, too.

  Edward backed up slowly. “Those are cookies,” he said soothingly. “Pfeffernusse. My aunt makes them. Try one. I gotta run. I’m gonna be late for school.” He turned around and made a dash for it.

  “Wait!” called the man. But Edward kept right on going.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Feenix

  The minute hand still hadn’t moved.

  Those clocks were a scam. Everybody knew it. The prison guards told you they ran on real-world time, but this was an evil goblinslime lie. They ran on slugpower. And then they stared down at you with that look. Daring you to move. Great big no-blink eyeballs. She hated them. She hated not moving. It made her itch. She couldn’t stand it, the thought of another dull and ordinary, dirty sock of a day. How could they waste her time like this?

  Under the clock, Mr. Albers bobbled and bowed. Did his usual, wrote some numbers on the board, wrote some more numbers on the board. He looked exactly like Mr. Potato Head. Skinny little arms, short stubby legs, and no neck, just a little blip of a head perched over his middle. His voice sounded to Feenix like water going down the drain—glug, glug, glug. She had no chance of passing the test anyway.

  She checked the pimple on the side of her nose with her finger. Still there.

  When he turned to write something on the board she saw her chance. She slid from her seat and grabbed the eraser from his desk. She was back, sitting innocently, before he turned around.

  People of all nations pelted each other with spitballs. Where were all these people from? Some were from countries that didn’t even show up on the map. One of the principal’s top ten schticks: Peace, diversity, makenicety. At the beginning of the year, she’d actually had everybody hold hands in a big circle around the school. UN-STONEAGECORNY-BELIEVABLE.

  Feenix, herself, was one of those mixed-race people the principal was so crazy about. Her mother was half Jewish and half Italian, and her father was from Ecuador. He’d come over here with his family when he was fifteen. Both of her parents were short, but for whatever reason, she was taller than most of the other girls in her class. Nearly 5'11". She knew she was a freak. No point in fighting it. She had dark brown eyes, and one of them was slightly higher than the other. People looked at her once and then they looked at her again trying to figure out what was off. Some days she made up each eye in a different way, or inked a drawing around the outside of one and not the other—a smiling sun or a dancing blue devil. She was a good artist. She had wide cheekbones, dark brows, and, when she let it loose, a shoulder-length mane of dark hair. But depending on the mood of the day she might braid it, or twist it up high, or do a fifties-style bouffant. People stared at her. Let them look. Let the world take notice. Today she was riding easy with a nose stud and three sets of silver ear hoops, her favorite cowboy boots, and her Hello Kitty pink purse. She wore her noisy Scrabble tile bracelet.

  Mr. Albers was too busy looking for the eraser to see Dweebo come into the room. But Feenix was watching for him. He was part of her mission. The way he tried to slip by without anybody noticing drove her nuts. He’d slide into his seat and go right back to sleep. If you tried to wake him up, he would just stare at you like you were a faintly annoying mosquito. He was such an ordinary little half-grown dweeb. Who did he think he was? This was a responsibility she took very seriously. Set his butt on fire.

  She pitched the eraser into the air.

  Yeess. Perfect landing.

  “Behold, Mr. Albers!” she called in her ringing voice. “The treasure you seek has been found.”

  Edward stared at the eraser as if a bird had just pooped on his desk.

  “Two points off your grade, Edward,” proclaimed Potato Head, all red in his little face. “Bring me that eraser, if you please.”

  As Dweebo passed by glaring at her, she held up her invisible force-field shield. Ping, ping, ping. His poisoned brain-wave darts fell uselessly to the ground. She smiled sweetly at him.

  Science class. Feenix grabbed a seat by the window near Mr. Ross’s treasure table. What a jumble of junk. Rocks and jars, squirrel skulls and dead insects. Venus flytraps and ferns and molds growing under lights.

  No desks in here. Just high lab tables and tall stools, which gave you a good view of what was going on outside. Feenix stared out the window. She loved this kind of weather. The wind muttered. It groaned. It knocked things over like one of those old ladies looking through trash bins. The cold gray sky hung so low it nearly touched the rooftops. Whooosh. Papers and leaves and plastic bags flying by. Anything could come flying in.

  Mr. Ross was in fine form. If Feenix could have found it in her heart to feel a fondness for just one of her teachers, Mr. Ross would have been the one. He was a hoot. Anything could get him excited. Frog intestines. The common cold. The speed of light. Rocks, for gods sakes. Rocks was what it was this term, but he was easily led astray.

  He walked among them, beaming away. He was a small, compact man, with ears that stuck out. The more excited he was, the more they stuck out. They were pretty far out today.

  “So are you guys feeling lucky today?” he asked.

  What now, Feenix wondered. Their current subject was geology and glacial moraines, but Mr. Ross loved to keep everybody on their toes, and he often started off the class with some kind of crazy question like this.

  “Well, you should be,” he said, “and here’s why. Supposing that one summer evening, before your great-grandfather and your great-grandmother had first met, they were separately on their way home from work when a violent thunderstorm blew into town. They both happened to take refuge under the awning of the Regency Hotel. At the first clap of thunder, your great-grandfather, who was terrified of being killed by lightning, turned white as a sheet and his knees started to buckle. Your great-grandmother noticed this and quickly went over to him and took his arm. She asked him if he’d like to go inside the hotel and sit down and have a cup of tea. Your grandfather accepted. Imagine that that was the beginning of their romance.”

  Here Mr. Ross paused and allowed everybod
y to think about this.

  “But now I want you to rewind and imagine that they were both on their way home from work that day and the timing was a little bit different. Your great-grandfather was just passing the library when the first bolt of lightning came, so he ran in there and your great-grandmother stood all alone under that awning. Thus, your great-grandparents did not meet. Imagine that therefore everything that happened afterward did not happen. Imagine, therefore, that you were never born.”

  He let everybody think this over for a half a minute, then continued. “How many great-grandparents did each of you have?”

  “Eight,” someone called out after a bit.

  “Exactly,” Mr. Ross nodded. “How many great-great-grandparents?”

  This took a lot longer, but finally someone said, “Sixteen.”

  “How many great-great-great-great-great grandparents.”

  “A bazillion,” Feenix offered.

  “Correct in spirit. And if everybody all the way down the line didn’t show up at the right moment and let romance proceed from there, you would not be here this morning. Correct?”

  He waited while everybody took this in. “But here we are, my Young Seekers. Here we are. Against all the odds.” His ears quivered and he leaned closer and lowered his voice. “Pure random chance, do you think? Or are there other forces involved?”

  It got very quiet in the room.

  Mr. Ross clapped his hands loudly. They all jumped in their seats. “Well, let us make good use of our improbable luck. Let us waste none of our precious time. Who can tell me where it was that we left off yesterday?”

  But before somebody could remind him that they had been talking about glacial moraines, Feenix quickly gathered herself together and raised her hand. She had a responsibility to her game, after all.

  “Yes, Feenix?”

  She frowned as if she were thinking very hard. “You know how yesterday you said, like, the earth was a big round ball of rock spinning around sixteen hundred miles per hour?”

  He nodded enthusiastically. “You remembered! It’s kilometers, not miles, but that’s terrific. What’s the question?”