I head back to the lobby and the chatting office girls. I take a chance and ask, “Did you happen to see a professor waiting in the lobby tonight?”
“Oh yeah. Are you Abbi Thorp?”
“Yeah!” I say, hoping they have some message for me like, “Oh, by the way, here’s your pass back to the twenty-first century. Thanks for visiting!”
“He left a note for you.” She hands over a pink message slip with my name on it.
“Thanks.” I take the paper, sit on one of the crescent-shaped benches my mom coveted, and read.
Abbi,
I’m concerned to have missed you twice. I must head home for a bit but will be back at my office late tonight as there’s much to accomplish while you’re here.
Unfortunately, with your dorm curfew, our meeting will have to wait until morning. Please meet at my office at 8 a.m.
Smith
Blowing out a long sigh of frustration, I drag myself back to my room. This night has been the biggest cluster. I dump my macramé bag on the bed and plop down beside it. I touch the carving on the corner of my headboard. If I don’t look beyond my bed, I can almost pretend I’m back in my own time.
Exhausted from an awful day, I crawl under my quilt. I’m a time traveler. The fact that I’ll keep traveling is too big a problem to wrap my mind around. I clutch Grandma’s hatbox and wish for home. If only sheer longing could send me back.
Hours later, in the deep of the night, a deafening noise rocks the building, causing the windows to rattle and the room to shake. I’m thrown from bed and land on the cold tile along with my roommate’s incense ashtray, which shatters on impact.
“What was that?” my roommate cries out beside me.
“It felt like an earthquake.”
We crawl to our feet, and I slip on sandals to protect against the broken glass. She beats me to the door and whips it open. Already the hallway is filling with girls. No one could possibly sleep through a noise that loud.
“What was that?” someone cries.
“It sounded like an explosion,” says a girl wrapped in a terry cloth bathrobe.
“Quiet. I hear something,” another says.
We crowd around the windows facing Observatory Drive, but our wing of the building is too low to see more than the neighboring Social Sciences Building.
Within minutes, sirens howl in the distance and flashing lights are seen from every direction. I pull on a pair of shorts and sandals and join the others running outside for a better look. Flames shoot into the sky on the other side of the hill. We cut across the lawn toward Charter Street. The windows of Van Hise Hall are blown out. Parked cars with their windows shattered make it look like we’re in a war zone. Some cars are even tipped to one side, two tires jutting into the air. A thick layer of gray debris covers everything, but what I see next is even more devastating—the horrific scene of Sterling Hall ablaze in the distance.
Professor Smith! He was going back to his office to work late. But he couldn’t possibly have worked until three in the morning. Could he? God, no.
Soon fire trucks, squad cars, and ambulances surround the smoking building. Rescue personnel roam everywhere, looking for anyone to save. I rush forward, but a police officer holds up his hand and blocks my way.
“What happened?” I cry.
“Stay back. There’s broken glass everywhere,” he says, his face pinched in stress.
I crane my neck to look past him. “But Professor Smith was going to work late. Someone needs to check and see if he was inside, if he’s okay.” Flames lick through the blasted-out windows as firemen attach their hoses to a hydrant.
“Miss, we don’t know anything yet. Go back to your dorm. This area isn’t safe.”
Helpless, I watch the chaos from a distance as swarms of emergency workers hustle around the devastation. Professor Smith is my only hope. If he dies, who will help me get home? And then I think of his family—assuming he has a family. I offer a prayer that the professor is okay and that his loved ones are spared that heartbreak.
More official vehicles arrive, and the crowd of students I’m standing with is pushed back over the hill so far that we can’t see anything but the flashing lights bouncing off the taller buildings. The stench from the blast of the burning building stays with me as I return to Liz Waters, and a sickening bile rises in my stomach. My nightmare keeps getting worse.
No one can sleep. Rumors fly about who would do such a thing. Some say it’s the protesters, but all I can think of is September 11 and that it was terrorists. But I say nothing, of course. Another girl says that the Army Math Department housed in Sterling Hall was the target. I don’t understand why anyone would bomb a building on a college campus. I cling to every word of speculation, desperate for answers and fearing for the professor.
Professor Smith said to meet him at eight a.m. As the time nears, I dress and go as close as possible to the scene, but it’s blocked off to Charter Street. I wait for an hour but see no sign of him.
So I return to the dorm and wait on the steps all day, pacing, then sitting, then pacing again. The professor knows I’m here. He might try to get a message to me or come find me. But he never does. The phone lines are down, and power isn’t restored until late in the day. Did he live or die last night?
I have never wished for technology more than at this moment. It’s so frustrating that I can’t go online and research the bombing. I can’t log on to get an update from CNN. I hate 1970.
Around four o’clock, The Capital Times newspaper is delivered with the headline Bomb Ruins U Math Unit; Researcher Dies, 4 Hurt.
My hands tremble, shaking the newspaper. A researcher has died. I scan the article. His identity has not yet been released. Others were injured but are expected to survive. What if it was the professor who died? Is that why there’s a library named after him?
That night, exhausted from lack of sleep and desperate with worry for Professor Smith and for my own powerless situation, I collapse into sleep. On the edge of consciousness, the bells of the Carillon Tower begin to play.
One bell rings off key.
CHAPTER 5
The next morning, I wake slowly. My eyes are drawn to the cracks in the ceiling above my bed. Yesterday’s bombing flashes in my mind. Is Professor Smith alive?
I jerk upright and swing my legs over the side of the bed. I’m startled by a red and white Wisconsin pennant on the wall over my roommate’s bed and bouncy, cheerful music playing.
My heart lurches, and reality sucker punches me in the gut. I’ve traveled again.
I check my bed. Thank God—Grandma’s hatbox is still at the foot. What have I left behind that I might need? I straighten the blanket and find the red bandana Professor Smith gave me; I snatch it up, clenching it like a lifeline. It’s now a souvenir from my time in the seventies, along with the hippy macramé purse.
My roommate has her back to me. She is dressing and singing along to the radio, “Who put bomp in the bomp, bomp, bomp.” She has pin curls bobby-pinned all over her head like little snails. Not a pretty sight. I run my hand through my long hair and already know I won’t fit in here.
The room is a mess of panties and bras hanging to dry from the bookshelves and curtain rods, bath towels on the floor, and discarded clothes and shoes heaped in a pile.
The clock on my nightstand is a beige square box with numbers around the dial and a second hand ticking softly. The Bucky the Badger wall calendar confirms the year.
1961.
An icy cold fear jolts through my veins like a poison. I try to calm the catapulting of my heart. Why did this happen again? And how far back am I going to go?
The last thing I recall from before I fell asleep are the chimes of the Carillon Tower, and how it played out of tune. Did it always ring off key or was that the first time?
Oh my God. Professor Smith! It’s 1961. He’s alive! But is
he even on campus in this year? I shoot out of bed.
“Oh! You startled me!” My roommate jumps at my unexpected motion. She’s wearing dark-rimmed glasses on her pointy nose and a brown cotton dress. She turns back to the mirror to finish removing the bobby pins from her hair, leaving her short hair in a mass of tight brown curls.
“Sorry, I just realized I’m late for something.” I ignore her and rummage through the closet, finding ugly plaid cotton dresses. I settle on a blue-checkered number with a rounded collar and grab a pair of leather shoes from the pile on the floor. After pulling my hair back in a messy ponytail, I slip out the door. I peek back to see that the nameplates are now simple construction paper smiling suns and discover that my new roommate’s name is Janice. I file that away and race off in search of the professor.
But the moment I step outside, my new reality crashes in. Van Hise Hall, which normally towers across the street, is gone. I take a step back. In its place is a tree-covered hill. The Social Sciences Building, which yesterday stood next to Liz Waters, has disappeared too. I stare at a thick cluster of woods where the enormous building once stood. I now have a clear view of the Carillon Tower. It seems to wink down at me. I shudder.
As I pause to pull myself together, an enormous green car with fin-like fenders roars down Observatory Drive. It’s as if I’ve stepped onto an old movie set.
Going back in time is one thing, but this world… I barely recognize it.
And then I realize that Sterling Hall might not exist yet either.
I run to the corner in my stiff leather shoes and crest the hill. The building is fully intact. I heave a sigh of relief. Not one sign of the lethal bomb that will gut it in the future.
Dashing down the hill, I push through the front doors into the marble foyer. Scanning the directory, I nearly cry in relief when I spot his name. Professor W. C. Smith. His office is still in Room 304. I’ve got to see him.
I climb the stairs two at a time, then round the bend and run down the hall. I reach for the door handle, barely registering that I have no idea what I’ll say. The professor must know me in 1961, right? I turn the handle, but the door is locked. I jiggle it again, but nothing. Dejected, I pound my fist on the door.
“Professor Smith is teaching a class. His office hours begin at eleven o’clock,” says a woman carrying an armful of files. Her hair is a jumble of short curls, and she’s sporting cat-eye glasses.
“Where?” I bark, probably looking like a rabid dog the way I turn on her.
“His schedule is there on the door,” she snips, stepping forward. “He’s in Bascom Hall. His lecture finishes up in about twenty minutes.”
“Thank you!” I rush off, and by the time I reach Bascom, a side ache has me bent over in pain and gasping to catch my breath. I pause outside the familiar lecture room and try to collect myself. With a sweaty hand, I open the door and step into the same room where I met him two days ago… which was 1970.
Scanning the lecture hall full of students, I get the world’s worst case of déjà vu, but there’s no sign of the professor. On the stage, a trim, dark-haired man scribbles some complex math equation on a blackboard.
And then he turns and speaks to the class in a voice I recognize. I stagger back, catch my foot on a step, and fall to my butt. The cold floor chills me through the thin fabric of my dress.
Professor Smith, minus the graying hair and thick middle he had the last time I saw him, glances in my direction. He startles, and then his face lights up as if I’m the best surprise ever.
This is real. He told me in 1970 that we’d met before, and now, in 1961, he clearly knows me. So this is not the first time we meet… which means I have further back to go. A prickly fear creeps up my back.
The students turn to see what caused the distraction. I force an uneasy smile as all eyes land on me. I’m at a loss for what to do next.
Professor Smith quickly sets down the chalk and wipes his hands together. “That concludes today’s lecture. Today’s office hours are canceled due to an unexpected scheduling issue,” he says in a rush as he gathers his papers, all while keeping an eye on me as if he’s afraid I’ll slip away.
The students collect their books and murmur to each other as they shuffle past. I avoid eye contact, not sure how to act. The students look so different. The guys’ hair is slicked back with a greasy product, some wear thick-rimmed glasses, and some wear T-shirts with cigarette packs rolled in their sleeves. I assumed that was a greaser stereotype, but apparently it’s actual history. The girls all wear skirts or dresses, and penny loafers or leather saddle shoes with dainty white ankle socks. I stand and tug the edge of my dress down, uncomfortable in the latest style.
As soon as the hall empties, Professor Smith bounds forward. It’s weird to see someone get nine years younger overnight.
“Abbi. It’s you!” He says with an eager smile. “It’s wonderful to see you again after so many years. You have no idea!” He reaches out his hand to me, his face brimming with excitement.
I can’t help myself. I step back.
“It’s okay,” he reassures, dropping his hand to his side, his expression now etched with concern. “Don’t be frightened. You’re safe.”
But I don’t feel safe. I don’t understand anything, and I’m bouncing through time. It’s possible that he died yesterday, and I don’t know what to say or do. My eyes dart around the lecture hall, from the tall windows to the stage to the wooden seats, as if I’m caged in.
“Why don’t we walk?” he suggests, holding the door. I pass through, noticing the trim angle of his chin and the brightness in his eyes. Gone are the crow’s-feet he had just two days ago, like some miracle serum cured them overnight.
We take the steps and exit Bascom Hall in silence, me picking at my thumbnail and trying to fend off a panic attack. Professor Smith politely gives me time to pull myself together.
Finally, I speak, peeking at him in a sideways glance. “This isn’t the first time you’ve met me?”
He’s about to speak, then hesitates.
“What?” I ask.
He pauses on the sidewalk, rubs his chin with his fingers, and considers his words. My question wasn’t that difficult, and I’m pretty sure I know the answer anyway.
Professor Smith sighs and looks at me. “I hesitate to reveal too much about your future, or my past, in case something is altered and irrevocably changes the outcome.”
“Come on! I sprang here from 1970… where I just met you. I’m freaking out!” Two guys with books carried at their side amble down the sidewalk toward us, eyeing me curiously. “You’ve gotta help me,” I whisper.
He nods and waits for the students to pass. “I’m trying. If we’re to get to the bottom of this and find answers, I need you to tell me everything you know that may have anything to do with your time travel.”
“Seriously? We just did that two days ago!” I don’t want to regurgitate all this again. I want help. I want an actual explanation of what the hell is happening to me.
“Yes, for you it was two days ago, but 1970 is nearly a decade away for me, and I haven’t seen you for many years. By reviewing all the particulars again, perhaps I’ll pick up on some minute detail you neglected to mention before.” He raises a thick, all-knowing eyebrow and smiles.
I sigh. Of course, he’s right.
We round the corner. “This is so strange,” I say quietly, taking in my surroundings.
“What’s that?” Professor Smith asks.
“I haven’t gotten used to the fact that so many of the buildings are gone.”
He looks around. “What buildings?”
“There, by the Carillon Tower. There’s supposed to be a huge building.” I point. “And Van Hise is gone. It’s got to be a dozen stories high.”
“Are you sure?” He stares at the wooded hill where a decade later a tall building will stand.
“Positive. Yesterday they were here, and today they aren’t.”
“If your yesterday was 1970, then it makes perfect sense that there would be many changes now.”
No kidding, like a much younger professor.
“How about we go to the Union Terrace? That should be a familiar place,” he says. “Is it still there in the future? Wait—never mind. Don’t tell me.” He grins and I know he’s teasing.
“It is.” I smile and begin to relax.
I tell him about the bells chiming off key and speculate it might have also been a full moon, but I’m not sure. I forgot to mention that tidbit when I talked to him before.
On the way to the Union, we pass the spot where the massive Helen C. White Library had nearly been finished in 1970. Today in its place is a grand old home that looks as if it’s been resting on the hillside for a hundred years. I shake my head in awe, but think better of mentioning it to the professor.
But the Union isn’t reassuring either. Students mill around looking like a scene out of the movie Grease. The guys wear high-waisted pants that show off their white socks. Nearly all the girls wear their hair short with tight curls. Not the most flattering of looks, in my opinion. I half expect movie cameras to roll in and for the whole group to break into the song, “Summer Lovin’.”
A cluster of guys in military dress walk by, and I see a few more ahead of us. “What’s up with the guys wearing uniforms?” I ask, wondering what war might be going on. It’s too early for Vietnam, and World War II is long over.
“Students don’t wear uniforms in the future?”
“Not at school, and only if they’re enlisted.”
“Every male student is required to join the ROTC and train two days a week. After World War II, we need to be prepared. Don’t you study the war in the future?”
“Yeah, not that I paid a lot of attention. It’s ancient history in my day.”
The professor’s jaw tightens, and I feel that I’m about to be scolded. “Well, it’s fresh in the minds of all of us now,” he says. “Many people lost brothers, fathers, friends, and neighbors to the war.”
Waking in Time Page 6
