The Art of the Swap

by Kristine Asselin

  “Okay.” He nods. “I like your new attitude.” Then he laughs again. “I guess you were hungry too! This is your fourth piece.”

  Maybe it’s a symptom of time travel, but land sakes, I feel like I haven’t eaten in a century.

  I swallow my mouthful of cheese before I speak. “It’s delicious, thank you very much.” Aunt would disapprove if she could see me sharing a meal with a strange man, but she’d be proud that I haven’t forgotten my manners. “Even better than I remember.”

  I freeze, realizing a moment too late that I’ve said the wrong thing.

  But he only nods. “I know. This is definitely better than the pizza we had down on the pier last time.”

  He stands up and gestures to a piece of black glass framed on the wall. “So, what’ll it be tonight? Are we going with a classic Who, or something more recent?”

  I adjust the napkin in my lap as I pretend to think about the question, which makes no sense. So I say the only thing that comes to mind. “Why don’t you pick?”

  “Fair enough.” He seems to ponder the issue but then jumps to attention, like he’s changed his mind about something. He sits back down. “Sweetheart, before we watch the show, I wanted to have a talk. You know I was very angry with you earlier.” He pauses, as though he’s expecting me to react, but continues when I don’t.

  “I hope you understand that it’s not because I don’t want you to be excited about history or this house. I’m thrilled that you love living here. I’ve been waiting for the right time to surprise you, but this might be the perfect way to cheer you up.”

  I nod because it seems like the proper thing to do. “I do love surprises. Who doesn’t?” I say, before taking another modest bite of pizza.

  Hannah’s father takes a breath and then speaks again. “You know how the house is going to be shut down for a couple of weeks when the art historian does the restoration work on the murals? Instead of laying low and hanging out, I thought maybe we’d use the opportunity to take that trip to Los Angeles we’ve been talking about. We leave Tuesday morning!”

  The glass I’m holding drops to the ground, splashing milk everywhere. If not for the carpet, the glass would have shattered. A half-eaten morsel of pineapple is lodged in my throat, and I can’t swallow.

  After a momentary bolt of panic, I catch my breath and swallow my food. I don’t need to worry about leaving on Tuesday. I’ll be back home before then; Hannah assured me.

  “I know you’re excited, but try not to break stuff.” He rushes to the kitchen and then sprints back holding a towel. “What’s up with you tonight, anyway? Everyone says the teen years are unpredictable, but you’re not even thirteen yet.” He picks up the glass and starts blotting up milk with the towel. “Please tell me this isn’t what the next seven years have in store for me. Give me some warning at least, will you?” He stops to gauge my reaction, looking like he’s not sure himself if he’s joking.

  “Are you going to say anything?” he asks.

  I’m thinking how lovely it is for Hannah to be taking a trip with her father, but I keep my mouth closed.

  “I thought you were dying to see the Hollywood sign and the Walk of Fame.” He frowns, standing with his hands on his hips and staring at me. “We could drive up to San Francisco once we land, I suppose, if you’d rather. We can talk about going anywhere you like; it just has to be on the West Coast. I bought the tickets for the flight with last month’s paycheck.” He tousles my hair as he moves the empty pizza box to the floor next to the table. “But we don’t have a choice. We have to vacate for two weeks.” He sighs. “I expected you to be happy to have two weeks taken off your month-long dusting duty.”

  “That sounds . . . fine.” I think about my own father, busy with his law firm. He travels from New York to San Francisco by train often, but even before Mother died, he rarely took me on trips. He relies on Aunt Herminie and Uncle E. J. to introduce me to faraway places. “Wait. Did you say ‘flight’? Do you mean you’re going to fly?”

  I know men have experimented with flying machines; Uncle was excited the summer before last about some brothers in North Carolina managing to get their machine off the ground. But I’m not daft; the only ways to get to California from Rhode Island are by train or steamer ship sailing around the tip of South America.

  For the first time, I imagine Hannah living in my body and wonder if she’s having as hard a time adjusting as I am. I wonder if Aunt has noticed that her speech is different from mine.

  Hannah’s father chuckles, but this time his laughter is accompanied by a confused look. “I can tell I surprised you,” he says slowly. “And I’m sorry. We can talk about this in the morning. Let’s see what our favorite Time Lord is up to.” He picks up a small device from the coffee table and points it at the wall on his way toward the kitchen with the towel and glass.

  Light and color and pictures come alive in the frame, and for a moment I forget everything else. It is moving pictures—like a window into another world. Is this what Hannah called TeeVee? An instant later there’s sound. Someone singing about constipation, of all things. Then a bunch of people dancing around a red-and-white bull’s-eye while loud music, such that I’ve never heard, plays. I’m horrified and enthralled at the same time as I get up to examine it further. It looks like I’m watching real life through a window. More and more, I feel as though I’m in a fantastical novel—I wonder if Mr. Wells knows about this invention.

  “Sweetheart?” Hannah’s father catches me peering behind the screen when he comes back into the room, holding a giant bowl of popcorn. He looks at me strangely. “What are you doing?”

  My heart thumps hard as I return to the sofa and sit stiffly on the edge. “Just not feeling quite myself tonight.”

  He sighs. “Oh, honey. I know you’re upset about what happened with Trent earlier. I’ll deny ever saying this, but Trent is a . . . well, he’s a swampdragon.”

  I don’t believe that particular animal has been discovered yet in my time, but it sounds as if he means it as an insult, so I raise my eyebrows and nod.

  “And,” he continues, “I understand how badly you want to be treated like the docents’ equal. You know I’m on your side here, and I wish they could see the same mature young woman I do, but, Bug, some of this is going to take time. You just have to be patient. Besides, no growing up too fast. As your dad, I forbid it.”

  He leans over and kisses the top of my head before dropping next to me on the couch and reaching his hand into the popcorn bowl.

  Of course I haven’t the faintest idea what he’s talking about, but I do understand the part about things being forbidden, and part of me sympathizes with Hannah a little more. It’s quite odd to have this stranger thinking I’m his child (even if he seems perfectly nice and caring), so it takes a bit of time before I relax and start watching the pictures.

  I ascertain that Doctor Who is a serial about a time-traveling alien. The pictures are so lifelike, it’s almost like he’s in the room with us.

  Every time Hannah’s father gets up to retrieve a snack or to answer a communication on his little device, I move closer to the TeeVee to see if I can figure out how the machine works. All I know is that it’s plugged into the electrical circuit.

  Uncle E. J. is proud of the electricity that runs through the mansion—he even has an electrical icebox. But I’ve never seen anything like this.

  “You’re not dusting behind the TV, are you?” the man says as he returns from the kitchen. Then under his breath, so I just barely hear, he mutters, “Who are you, and what have you done with my daughter?”

  I jump back quickly, my heart pounding. He suspects I’m not her. What do I do?

  “I know how much you were looking forward to dusting all the portraits.” He laughs as he says this, and I gather from his tone that Hannah likely does not enjoy dusting at all. Since I’ve never tried it, I wouldn’t know. “But let’s give you a break tonight.”

  I stand stupidly in the middle of the room,
not sure how to proceed. I’m not doing a very good job of pretending to be her.

  Before either of us speaks again, Hannah’s communication device (her father calls it an “I-phone”) buzzes on the end table. Words appear on the screen this time, instead of a photograph like before. Is it possible that telegrams in the twenty-first century appear this way, rather than by courier?

  I glance at the words. The name Tara Lopes appears above them.

  Will be at Elms tomorrow. R you around before the game?

  “Aren’t you going to answer her?” Hannah’s father pops a piece of popcorn into his mouth and looks from the device to me, and back again.

  “No, thank you.” The machine intrigues me, but I have no idea what the message means. It’s almost like it’s in code.

  He looks troubled as he sinks back into the sofa. “It’s not like you to ignore your best friend. Did you guys have a fight?”

  He thinks something is wrong. I can tell. What if he’s worried that Hannah is sick? Or insane?

  I stifle a yawn, sitting on the edge of the sofa and folding my hands in my lap. Not insane. Just not his daughter, which might be hard for him to understand. “I think it’s time for me to go to sleep.”

  I suddenly feel as though I’ve been awake for a hundred years. The twenty-first century is exhausting.

  After I wander down the hall and arrive in what must be Hannah’s bedroom, I turn in a circle slowly, trying to understand everything I’m seeing. Affixed to the wall is a huge photograph of five young men with their arms thrown casually around each other, laughing at something behind the camera. They are all wearing very tight-fitting shirts. I wonder what the words across the bottom mean: “The Five Heartbeats.” The image is so clear and colorful. It looks like they could just step out of the picture. I think they must be friends of Hannah’s, but it shocks me to see men so indecently dressed hanging on her wall.

  A shelf full of books with colorful bindings catches my eye. I pluck one that looks interesting: Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone. Flipping the pages, I spot my aunt’s name, spelled slightly differently. Hermione. It makes me miss her. I put the book on the desk; it’s a shame, but I won’t have time to read it.

  A pink stuffed toy bear leaning against Hannah’s pillow is soft and worn. It makes me think of my own Teddy Bear, all furry and stiff-limbed. My aunt thinks the Teddy Bear fad will fade after President Roosevelt leaves office. But considering that he inspired the trend by refusing to shoot a real bear, I’m glad it hasn’t diminished yet. Aunt hinted that he might make a surprise visit to The Elms later this summer as a favor to Uncle E. J. I curl my body around the toy and close my eyes, thinking how exciting it will be to meet the president.

  Lying with my eyes closed, I marvel at the last several hours. Hannah and her father are servants in this house, but they have more electric machines than Uncle E. J. The wealth in this century must be universal.

  • • •

  I don’t remember falling asleep, but I roll over when light streams through the curtains. For a moment I forget where I am—but a device with bright-red lights reminds me I’m not at home. It must be some sort of timepiece, because it declares a series of numbers—6:15—but it doesn’t look like any clock I’ve ever seen. I sit up, taking in my surroundings in daylight. There’s no chance of falling back to sleep, and Hannah expects to see me looking back at her at seven o’clock, so I wander out of the room and down the servants’ staircase to the drawing room, and spend some time marveling at how much this part of the house looks the same. This place is so odd; I do not understand how I came to be here, and I cannot wait to get back where I belong.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Hannah

  THERE ARE THINGS I’M FULLY confident about and things I’m a little less sure of. In the “Not So Much” column I’d definitely put my freckles, my ability to spell the word “rhythm” without using spell-check, and the likelihood that I’ll get my acceptance letter from Hogwarts. (Two years late is still fine by me, Dumbledore!)

  In the “Why, Yes, Of Course I’ve Got This” column, I’d put my knowledge of all things Newport, The Elms, and the Berwinds; the way my face looks when I laugh; the fact that I can block nearly any shot that comes at my soccer goal; and the very strong possibility that Ethan Grimes likes me.

  But my having the skills to prevent a heist from happening in ONE SINGLE DAY?

  Um . . .

  Maybe?

  Step one is getting Maggie on board with my plan for me to hang here for another day. She has to agree. HAS to. Even if there weren’t an art heist to foil, the thought of switching back now is . . . No. Just no. Especially since last night was kind of a bust in terms of experiencing 1905 awesomeness, because the Berwinds and their houseguests went out for the night, and I had to spend most of my time avoiding bumping into evil Colette and trying to convince a lady’s maid that I really and truly did not need help bathing or dressing for bed. Yes, I got to explore the house a little on my own, but given that in my time it’s set up to look exactly like it does in this era, that wasn’t exactly earth-shattering. So I’m determined not to miss one single second of today, which is why I’m awake even earlier than I ever am on a school day, much less a morning during summer vacation.

  It’s so super-weird to wake up in the Rose Room. I’ve spent my whole life looking at the pinkish-striped walls and the elaborately carved white wooden bed, but I’ve never experienced it as an actual living space. I mean, I’ve always felt like I have the run of The Elms after-hours, and we do get to treat the museum parts as our home in a lot of ways. Like opening presents Christmas morning under the ginormous tree the museum staff sets up for the holidays in the foyer, instead of under the kind-of-sketchy artificial one in our own quarters. Or swimming in the fountains on scorching-hot mornings, before the grounds open to visitors. I’ve even hosted epic sleepovers for ten friends in “my” mansion. But we slept on the roof deck, NOT in the antique bed with fancy silk curtains draped over its headboard. I’ve never even plopped my butt onto this mattress, much less climbed under the sheets.

  I blink in the early light at the completely familiar, yet somehow also totally strange, surroundings. It feels so much more real with Maggie’s hair in the silver brush on the marble-topped bureau and her dog-eared copy of The Wonderful Wizard of Oz propped open on the dainty round nightstand.

  The whole house even smells different. Lived-in. Alive. And it sounds different too. There were fewer echoes from the tall ceilings and more muffled footsteps and swishing of maids’ skirts last night as I drifted off to sleep.

  Although, at the moment it’s perfectly quiet. On this level, at least. The servants are probably all downstairs already, and the other residents are still sleeping, I’d guess. There was a musicale last night at Arleigh, the mansion where Harry Lehr and his wife, Elizabeth Drexel Lehr, stay. A painting of her hangs at The Elms in my time. It’s so Crazytown to know that these famous high-society people I’ve grown up reading about are RIGHT ACROSS THE STREET at this very second, 100 percent alive! Even the building is “alive”—in my time Arleigh has been replaced by a nursing home.

  I heard the Berwinds and all their houseguests coming in way, way late, so I’m guessing they won’t be up for hours.

  I have to squint into the morning shadows to make out the time on the clock centered on the fireplace mantel. Obviously, it is not digital with lighted numbers, like mine at home. In fact, it’s small and round and mounted onto a pedestal that has three spindles wrapped in gold roping connecting it to a base. That’s because society is just coming out of the Gilded Age, and everything is, well, gilded. Plated in gold, to show off the owners’ Daddy Warbucks–level mega-wealth.

  Finally the hour hand creeps close enough to seven that I figure I can make a run for the drawing room and (hopefully) Maggie. I push open the door just enough to slip through, then creep down the staircase, keeping an eye out for any servants who might spot me.

  I head straight for th
e sideboard and climb onto it. As soon as I nudge aside the painting to expose more of the mirror behind it, Maggie’s peering face comes into focus.

  Her whole body relaxes when she spots me. “Where have you been? I’ve been waiting ages! I was positive we said seven a.m., not eight.”

  I scrunch my nose. “We did. It is seven. At least according to the clock in your room and . . .” I pause and glance down at the mantel. “This one too.”

  She holds my iPhone up to the mirror to show me the display. The numbers read 8:01.

  “But that makes no sense,” I say. “I traveled a century plus one hour into the past? It doesn’t—” And then it hits me. “Yes, it does! Daylight saving time! The United States doesn’t begin using it until—”

  I catch myself just before I blab the words “World War I.” Maggie doesn’t need to know she’s less than ten years away from half the planet going to battle. Instead I mumble, “Sometime next decade.”

  She’s still looking baffled, so I give her a quick rundown on setting clocks forward and back, and she visibly relaxes. “I spent the entire hour fretting that the mirror didn’t work anymore and I’d be stranded here forever. I mean you no offense, but—”

  I hold up my hand. “I get it. I would have been really freaked too.”

  Literally no one else on earth could get how weird this entire experience is, except the two of us, and we share kind of a bonding smile over it. But then she leans in again and gasps. “Land sakes, what are you wearing?”

  I glance down. “Um, your nightgown? Is that not okay? I kind of figured we were going with the ‘what’s mine is yours and what’s yours is mine’ idea. Speaking of which, please tell me you wore my night guard last night. You might not have to worry about braces in your time, but I just got mine off, and I’m pretty desperate to keep them that way.”

  She blinks at me a few times. “I . . . What?”