Grandpa was back in the nursing home, playing senile. When I tried to ask him why, since the monitors must know he’s faking, he pretended he didn’t understand. I figure he knows what he’s doing.
SIXTY-SEVEN
NEARMONT, N.J.
1957
How you hangin’, Tomski?
Okay. I think about Dad all the time.
At least you got to be with him. That was the ginchiest.
Do you have to talk like that?
Like what?
Skip it. Are you still seeing Earl?
Every few days. I’m glad he’s not dead, but it gives me and Ronnie the willies.
They must be worried we’ll try to rescue Dad.
That’s what Grandpa says.
We have to figure a way to get to Homeplace.
There must be a tech thing you can figure out.
Gotta be. The Bratman wants to try. Alessa, too.
Ronnie’s on deck. But how would we do it?
Have you talked to Grandpa about it?
He says to cool my jets. We’ll know when the time comes.
Is Merlyn back in your school?
No. Yours?
No.
I’d better go. Grandpa thinks they’re still monitoring us.
See you later, alligator.
After a while, crocodile. Wish I’d said that to Dad.
The stars blinked off.
SIXTY-EIGHT
NEARMONT, N.J.
2011
ALESSA, Britzky, and I sometimes talk about how boring Nearmont and school seem now. We’re working on the election campaign that Alessa started with Eddie, but that’s not enough to float my boat. Not after what we’ve been through.
I’m having an easier time than I ever thought I would talking to kids, mostly about technology and global warming and how there are hungry people, even in America. It feels like we’re starting the revolution. Dad’s revolution.
Britzky says I’m different now, friendlier, more like Eddie. I don’t feel different. The old orchestra teacher came back, and after he gave Alessa a hard time about her weak technique—pushing the bow with her forearm—I mime-walked behind him in the auditorium during an assembly. Crowd went wild. He turned and saw it and busted me into the second violin section. Big whoop.
Sometimes we wonder if there’s anybody we should tell our story to, like Homeland Security or the FBI, so they could go after the aliens. But Alessa thinks they wouldn’t believe us and would lock us up. Britzky thinks they would believe us, because they already know, and would lock us up.
As time goes on, we need to keep reminding each other that it all happened. We have little reminders. I got Britzky and Alessa reading Mark Twain books. It’s spooky how you can find connections in The Prince and the Pauper and A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur’s Court with things that happened on the twin Earths. Alessa thinks Mark Twain had a great imagination. Britzky thinks Mark Twain might have been a monitor.
Britzky and I started playing Chinese handball at lunch against a wall of the school. Other kids got into it. Some are pretty good. Some of the Asian kids didn’t like the name, so we changed it to Ace-King-Queen, Duke’s name for the game. Even girls play.
The basketball coach begs me to come out for the team. I want to tell him, You don’t want me, you want my brother from another planet. But I just lie and say that I’m preparing for a big violin competition and don’t have time. Actually, I don’t have a lot of free time. I’m working on the CloakIII and a more powerful version of the pepper spray bomb that blew up in Earl’s face in the park. I just got the new TPT GreaseShot V. It has three settings.
I think about Dad all the time. I believe what Grandpa on EarthTwo said: “It’s not over. We’ll all meet again.”
While we’re waiting, there’s plenty to do right here on Earth. Both of them.
About the Author
ROBERT LIPSYTE was an award-winning sportswriter for the New York Times and the Emmy-winning host of the nightly public affairs show The Eleventh Hour. He is the author of twelve acclaimed novels for young adults and is the recipient of the Margaret A. Edwards Award honoring his lifetime contribution in that genre. He has also written numerous works of fiction and nonfiction for adults. He lives in Manhattan and on Shelter Island, New York, with his wife, Lois Morris, and his dog, Milo.
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