by David Lubar
Dad nodded. “I’d love to go there some time. Maybe we can fit it in next year. What do you think?”
“Sounds great.” As I finished my meal, I started searching my mind for my worst memories. It didn’t take long to come up with the next candidate.
In third grade, I’d been forced to be an owl in our class play. I don’t like talking in front of other people. Especially when I had to end each sentence with, “Whooo, whooo.” Even worse, I had to do my talking in an owl costume Mom made. And costumes are not Mom’s best thing. I looked like a combination of a feather duster and something that had been run over in the road.
I forgot my lines. I tripped walking onto the stage. And Tara Keller pushed me real hard as we were walking off.
Dad had it all on tape. He was so proud of it, he played it for all the relatives every Thanksgiving.
I didn’t even bother to wait until Dad was at work. I went and found the tape labeled RICKY—SCHOOL PLAY and popped it into the VCR. I pressed record and sat back, knowing that the worst experience in my life was about to become less than a memory.
“Has anyone seen a tape labeled SCHOOL PLAY?” Dad called from the next room.
I froze for an instant, but then relaxed. It didn’t matter. Even if he was looking for it, he’d forget all about it once I taped over it. He couldn’t look for something that he’d forgotten about.
“Haven’t seen it,” I said.
Dad walked in and shook his head. “I have to find it. It’s not just the play. I was putting together a special tape. It’s all about you. It starts with the video I made when you were born. I was right there in the hospital with my camera.”
I dove for the VCR and jabbed my finger at the STOP button.
“That’s odd,” the man said. “Who left the VCR on?” He looked around the empty living room.
“What did you say?” his wife asked from the kitchen.
“Nothing.” The man turned off the recorder, then went back to reading his newspaper. Sometimes, he wondered whether he should buy a video camera, but without any kids to take pictures of, there didn’t seem to be much point in getting one.
BABY TALK
Being the older sister was not a job I would have picked if I’d been given a choice. I had to walk the dog, change the cat litter, clean the fishbowl, and help with the chores, while my baby brother got to lie around drinking milk, chewing cookies, and basically doing nothing useful. Chuck was six months old. I mean, he was sort of cute, and babies can be fun, but he got all the attention while I got all the work.
He certainly got all of my attention the first time he talked. I was walking past his crib when he looked up at me with that toothless, wet grin and said, “Hey, sis, what’s new?”
I was a bit less articulate with my reply. I think I said, “Huh?”
Chuck bounced and squealed a bit, then said, “Relax—you look like you just saw a ghost.”
I managed to reply with a full sentence. “You can talk.”
Chuck shrugged. “That appears to be the case.”
I suddenly saw my whole future flash past my eyes. I’d be the sister of the amazing talking baby. No one would ever know anything else about me. Chuck would become famous, and I’d end up answering his fan mail and taking his phone messages. “Look, Chuck, you really don’t want people to know you can talk. You’ll never get any peace. Your life won’t be any fun at all.”
He raised a pudgy hand, stopping me from listing all the reasons why he should keep his mouth shut. “I’m way ahead of you, sis. I don’t want fame. I just want to enjoy myself. I think I understand your viewpoint on all of this. We should be able to make a mutually agreeable deal.”
“A deal?”
“Sure. You do whatever I ask, and I’ll keep my mouth shut. Deal?”
I was about to say no, but I realized that it wasn’t such a bad offer. How much could he ask? It was better than becoming the sister of the talking baby. “All right. You’ve got a deal.”
It wasn’t all that bad. It was more work than I expected, but I could handle it. Mostly, Chuck wanted me to read to him or make his favorite foods. On the positive side, Mom and Dad were thrilled to see how much time I was spending with my baby brother. I figured that it would put a crimp in my life for a year or two, but it would end when Chuck got old enough that his talking wasn’t unusual. After that, I’d be finished.
I was just resting from a long session of swinging Chuck upside down. He loved that game, but it really tired me out. So, I put him in his crib and dropped down on the couch. I hoped he’d take a nap. That’s when I got most of my free time.
As I sprawled out on the couch, Mittens, my cat, came walking into the room. She hopped up on my lap, looked at me with those green eyes of hers, and said, “We have to talk.”
“Huh?”
“You, me, and Sparks,” Mittens said. She looked over toward the door. Sparks, my dog, trotted into the room, too.
“We don’t want much,” Sparks said. “I’m sure we can reach a mutually agreeable deal.”
I sank farther down on the couch. My eyes fell on the goldfish. Her mouth was moving. “Not you, too,” I said.
She nodded. A bubble slipped from her mouth. It rose to the surface and popped, spilling out the word, “Yup.”
UNSEEN
I think I was eight or nine when I first started walking with my eyes closed. That was a couple years ago. In the beginning, I’d just take a step or two. I’d try to guess how far I was from something—like a stop sign or a fence. I’d walk up to a sign and reach out, trying to predict when my fingers would touch it. After a while, I got really good at it. Then I started going farther. I’d walk down the block, making my way from one corner to the next. I knew exactly where I was at every step. It was almost like my mind was seeing for me.
Even though I was pretty sure I knew what was in front of me, it took a long while before I could relax and really trust myself not to walk into something. Eventually, the fear vanished.
I started crossing the street. We live deep inside a development, and there isn’t much traffic. Still, I kept my ears open, just in case there was a car or a bike or something.
I went farther and farther.
At first, I figured it would only work as long as I was headed toward the last thing I saw. I’d stare ahead, burning everything into my memory. Then I’d close my eyes and walk. But one day, right in the middle of my straight path down the road, I turned a corner. I was able to keep going. I still knew where I was and what was ahead of me.
I started trying that about a month ago.
And a month ago, I started to notice something else. In the beginning, it was almost too small to catch my attention. I think the very first time I realized anything was happening, it was with a street sign. I’d seen the sign a thousand times: BELVIDERE BOULEVARD. When I opened my eyes to look at it, the letters had changed slightly. They were just a little wider.
At first, I thought it was my imagination. But I started to notice other changes. The color of a stop sign was a bit darker than I remembered. The initials carved in the bark of a tree seemed a bit deeper. All the changes were small.
The farther I went on any walk, the greater the changes became. If I went one block, nothing noticeable happened. But if I traveled a long way, the world definitely was different when I opened my eyes.
I started going even farther. I walked all the way around the block where I lived. My house had been made of red brick. When I opened my eyes, my house was covered with green siding.
I wondered if things would go back if I went the other way around the block. But that didn’t happen. The siding didn’t change.
Inside, I found that I didn’t have a little sister anymore. I had a brother. I don’t know whether that happened after my first or second trip around the block. But it was nice having a brother.
I decided to try walking all the way across town. When I reached the sign that read WELCOME TO FERNVALE, I opened my eyes. Then I turned
and walked back home the normal way.
I still had a brother—that hadn’t changed. Except he had seven toes on his left foot, which was kind of cool. And I guess I had rich parents. The house was bigger. There were all kinds of nice flowers in front, and huge trees filled with apples in back. It looked like a wonderful place to live.
I enjoyed my new life for a couple of days, but the urge to walk was too strong to resist. I set out this time for the big one—all the way to the edge of town and back to the house with my eyes closed. It was easy for me now—as easy as breathing. I couldn’t wait to see the wonderful changes.
I went as far as the welcome sign. I reached out and touched it, feeling the spots where the paint was chipping, but I didn’t open my eyes. I turned and started back. I got to my house with no trouble and reached out to touch the fence in front. As my hands brushed against the rusted metal, my eyes flew open. I hadn’t meant to open them yet.
I wish I’d kept them closed.
The house was small and old and broken down. There was nothing in the yard but dead grass and weeds. I ran inside. Three kids—my three younger sisters—sat crying on the floor with their backs to me.
Had I gone too far? I needed to change things right away. I shut my eyes.
I tried to shut my eyes.
They wouldn’t close.
I ran upstairs to the bathroom and looked in the mirror. Whatever I had become—whatever form of life I was, with a face like a rotting animal and a body like a gnome, I was a form of life that had no eyelids.
I covered my eyes with my hands, but it wasn’t the same. I stumbled into the wall, then tripped and tumbled down the stairs to the living room.
Nearby, my sisters howled.
I dropped my hands and sat there, seeing everything. Unable to look away from the world I had created. Unable to create a different world.
FLYERS
The air grew cooler as a cloud drifted in front of the sun. Callie shivered in the sudden breeze that flowed around her, then looked down as a sheet of yellow paper sailed against her leg and stayed there, flapping like a snagged bird.
Litter, she thought, grabbing the sheet. How disgusting. There was something printed on the front in large letters: TOMORROW—10 PERCENT OFF EVERYTHING.
That’s all that was there. Callie stared at the page for a moment, as if staring would reveal what was on sale or where the sale would be held. But no answer came.
Callie shrugged and released the flyer back into the wind that brought it. She didn’t feel her action counted as littering, since someone else had obviously dropped the flyer in the first place.
She thought no more about it that day.
Something felt different the next morning. The world was less bright. Callie’s breakfast was less tasty. Everything seems a little bit off, she thought. Then her thoughts froze on an image of the flyer. “Ten percent off,” she whispered.
The breeze brought another flyer that afternoon. TOMORROW—ONE DAY ONLY—TWO-FOR-ONE SPECIAL. Callie spent half the night wondering what would come. In the morning, she rose to the delightful discovery that all the world was twice as nice as usual. Breakfast was doubly delicious. The weather was twice as beautiful as it had ever been. One day only, she thought, but what a fabulous and unforgettable day it turned out to be.
A week went by before the next flyer appeared. This one read—EXTENDED HOURS TOMORROW—OPEN EARLY, CLOSE LATE.
Sure enough, when Callie got up for school, the sun had already risen. When she went to bed, it was still light outside. As she fell asleep, she promised herself she’d find the source of the flyers.
In the morning, she stood in front of her house and tried to remember which way the wind had blown. Then she walked. She looked carefully in bushes and along the sides of buildings, following a trail of flyers. Finally, she found herself standing before a small house in the middle of an average street of small houses.
The garage door was open. Inside, she saw a machine. Callie realized it was a printing press. Another machine stood behind the press.
“Hello?” Callie called. She walked inside the garage. The press was loaded with blank paper. The machine behind it had a series of buttons on one side. Above each button, Callie saw a sentence.
TOMORROW—10 PERCENT OFF EVERYTHING.
TOMORROW—ONE DAY ONLY—TWO-FOR-ONE SPECIAL.
The whole front of the machine was filled with phrases like these—row after row of buttons. Callie saw one that made her smile. SATISFACTION GUARANTEED. How nice, she thought. It would be great if that were true. She reached out and pressed the button beneath those words.
KACHANG!
Callie jumped away as the press sprang to life. It shot forward and back, spewing out the flyers.
Callie grabbed one of the sheets as it fluttered into the air. She smiled and started to read her creation. Her smile froze, then faded. On the flyer she saw no promise of satisfaction. No guarantee of happiness.
FIRE SALE, it read. EVERYTHING MUST GO.
“But . . . ?” Callie said. She looked at the machine. The line above the button had the words she wanted to print. The line below had the words she’d actually printed.
She’d pressed the wrong button. Callie curled her lip in disgust at the thought of a fire sale. She’d never been to one, but she knew that was where a store tried to get rid of merchandise that had been damaged in a fire.
Then Callie’s gaze drifted out the door and up into the sky. FIRE SALE. Already, the sun seemed brighter. The air grew warmer. EVERYTHING MUST GO. In her hand, the flyer began to curl, its edges turning brown. Wisps of smoke drifted up from the flyer. The final flyer.
The sun grew even brighter. The air grew unbearably hot.
Everything went.
EVERY AUTUMN
The best part about autumn was the piles of leaves. That’s what Ted thought. He loved wading shin deep in the leaves, kicking his way through the crackling mounds that lined the curbs all around town. That was definitely the best part about autumn.
The worst part about autumn was it. That’s what everyone called the thing that happened—it. “Do you think it will happen again?” they asked each other as autumn approached.
It always happened in the fall. Somewhere in the state, a kid vanished. Everyone in school talked about it. The amazing thing, to Ted, was that the adults didn’t seem to believe there was a pattern—they didn’t make the connection. But the kids all knew about it.
“Last year, it was a girl our age,” Del said at lunchtime. “She lived way over in Mahony Township.”
Kenny nodded. “That’s what I heard. But the year before that, it was a boy just over in Switburg.”
“No, he was from Sterling,” Connor said.
“Somebody should do something,” Ted said. “I looked in the paper. There’s nothing.”
“Yeah,” Del said. “Adults don’t believe there’s any pattern.”
Ted believed. So did his friends. Each afternoon, when he left school, he tried to make sure he was with other kids. But today, most of his friends had basketball practice. Ted was on his own.
As he walked home, he kept looking over his shoulder. That station wagon—hadn’t it passed him once before? Ted tensed as the car cruised by. He looked around. There weren’t any other kids in sight. The car seemed to slow as it went past Ted. Then it sped up again.
Ted was sure the driver had stared at him. He could feel the man’s eyes studying him. Ted looked ahead. He was coming up to the corner by Hudson Street. Hudson was one way. That was good. He could turn there and the car couldn’t follow. At least, not legally.
Ted hurried to the corner, then turned. He kept walking. There weren’t any cars on Hudson Street.
Relax, he told himself as he stepped off the curb and into a pile of leaves. Maybe it’s all just talk. He realized that the whole thing was silly. Now, far away from the wild rumors of his friends, he tried to think logically about it. Really, how could kids disappear without a trace every year?
And why did it only happen in the fall? Why not summer or winter or spring?
As Ted swung his leg through the deep pile of leaves, his foot hit something. For an instant, he thought his foot was stuck. Then he felt a powerful grip tighten around his ankle. He realized he wasn’t stuck—he was grabbed.
“Let go,” Ted screamed, yanking his leg.
He couldn’t get free. It had him.
It grabbed his other leg and pulled him beneath the leaves. As Ted disappeared from sight, he understood why it only happened in the fall.
A moment later, a station wagon came up Hudson Street the other way—the legal way. The driver, who was lost, scanned the sidewalks. He’d hoped to ask someone for directions. He’d seen a boy before, but he didn’t want to scare him by stopping the car. He knew kids were taught to be careful about strangers. But even if he’d wanted to ask the boy, he couldn’t now. There was nobody in sight. The streets were empty. It was almost as if the kid had vanished.
The driver headed down Hudson Street. Behind him, the piles of leaves swirled in the breeze of the passing car.
GOOSE EGGS
A goose is about the meanest and nastiest creature on the planet. That’s how Charlie felt about those stupid, messy birds. He’d never seen anything that came close to being as unpleasant as a goose. And this goose, the one his little brother had named Honker, was no exception. If anything, it was even worse than most geese. From the moment it had wandered into their yard, Charlie hated it. He’d figured his folks would get rid of it, but Cliff had named it and claimed it.
His folks had gone along with the whole thing. After trying and failing to find out who owned the goose, they’d decided to keep it. “Well, Cliffy,” his father had said, “it looks like you and Charlie have a new pet.”
“Yippee,” Cliff had shouted, jumping up and down and clapping his hands. “You hear that, Charlie? We get to keep Honker.”
Charlie didn’t say anything. Honker hissed. Then he tried to bite Charlie. Cliff laughed and squealed in delight.
