by Richard Peck
Aaron skidded to a stop at the door of Mr. L. T. Thaw’s classroom. “It’s hopeless with all the halls full of people.”
“What if some teacher finds him before we do?” I said. “Some adult. Then what?”
“Look,” Aaron said, “do you feel like cutting History?”
“No way,” I said. We slid into our seats a second before the bell rang.
“Ah, Zimmer,” Mr. Thaw said from the front of the room. “An unexpected pleasure to see you here on time.” We were up to James A. Garfield, twentieth president of the United States, assassinated in 1881.
The time dragged worse than usual. I tried to pretend that Cuthbert was a bad dream. What Aaron was thinking was anybody’s guess. Fifteen minutes, twenty, we were almost halfway through the period.
The door opened. Mr. Thaw looked at it and froze. You’d think he was seeing President Garfield being shot right out there in the hall.
Cuthbert strolled in.
His hands were on his hips. His necktie was tied in a large bow, and there were gold buttons down his front.
Everybody stared because he looked like an exhibit from the Museum of the City of New York. They thought Cuthbert might be curriculum.
“Awright,” he said in his piping roar, “keep your seats. Is Buster Brewster in here?”
Mr. Thaw swayed.
“Who wants him?” Buster reared up out of his desk in the middle row.
Buster got a good look at Cuthbert right down to his knickers. The Dutch boy hair. The white collar. The big perky bow tie. The velvet jacket.
“What a wuss,” Buster said.
Cuthbert stalked down the aisle. Now he and Buster were nose to nose. Both their necks bulged.
Up at his desk, Mr. Thaw was turning to stone.
Buster couldn’t figure out Cuthbert, so he was off guard. “Who do you think you are?” Cuthbert bawled in Buster’s big face.
People were getting under their desks. You don’t talk to Buster like that. “You’re not so tough,” Cuthbert bellowed. “And I was here first.”
Buster’s mighty fists were clenching.
But Cuthbert brought up a powerhouse uppercut and flattened Buster’s nose. Cuthbert’s left hook had come out of nowhere. Buster went over backward, sprawling across the desk of the kid behind him. Frederick “Fishface” Pierrepont sits behind Buster. But Fishface was already under his desk.
Buster was flat on his back with his legs in the air. Blood was splattered all over his dress code. But he made a comeback. He lunged at Cuthbert. Grabbing for his neck, he got a handful of big white collar instead.
But Buster was off balance before he began. Up came Cuthbert’s right fist, also out of nowhere. The sound of knuckles against nose practically echoed. And Buster’s face was rearranged one more time.
Buster crumpled.
By then we’d made a big circle around them. Six or eight desks were on their sides. Mr. Thaw unfroze. He’s not too steady on his pins anyway. Now he was shaking like a leaf.
Buster was lolling there on Fishface’s desk, and you could see his tongue. Cuthbert with his collar on sideways was reaching for Buster’s throat.
“Cuthbert!” Mr. Thaw howled in an ancient voice. “Unhand him at once!”
It was too much for Mr. Thaw. His old knees gave out, and he slumped to the floor. It looked like our history teacher might be—history. He was out cold at least.
The whole room was up for grabs. A boys’ school is always about this close to a riot anyway. Fists went up all over the room. Quite a few people were beginning to settle old scores. More desks went over. Fishface Pierrepont burrowed out from under his. “I’m calling 911,” he piped, and rocketed out of the room.
Aaron rose up. Cuthbert was staring down at Mr. Thaw’s sprawled shape. Aaron got Cuthbert under an arm and ran him out of the room and down the hall. Classroom doors were beginning to open all the way to the media center. Inside we got lucky because Mrs. Newbery was at lunch. The three of us raced into the Black Hole and banged the door shut.
The tuna pita was still on the wall. The floor was sticky with Snapple.
“Never laid a finger on me,” Cuthbert said. He was blowing on his skinned knuckles. “Those Brewsters always were yellow.”
“Aaron,” I said, breathing hard. “Send Cuthbert back. Like now. Whatever it takes.”
Aaron moved over to the computers, ready to give it a try.
17
Phoebe’s Question
Both screens began to fill up with formula. Aaron took his time. Then he was doing some fancy finger work on the keyboard. The screens glowed and pulsed. The ceiling lights dimmed, then surged. One of the fluorescent tubes up there burned out.
But I never took my eyes off Cuthbert. His hands were on his hips, and his high-tops were planted on the floor. Then between one nanosecond and the next, he was nothing but air space. I was looking straight through where he’d been at the tuna pita on the wall.
The room sizzled and fell silent.
“Aaron,” I whispered, “you did it.”
He turned around to the room with only us in it. He was radish-pale. You never saw so much relief on a human face. He went back to the keyboards.
MISSION
he entered on one screen.
ACCOMPLISHED
he entered on the other.
Then he jumped out of his chair. “YESSSSSS!” he shrieked, and did a complete war dance around the Black Hole without the tomahawk.
“You want to know how I did it?” he said after he’d calmed down a little. “I took my original formula, pre-diddled, and re-expressed it tomographically.”
“Ah,” I said.
“You know tomography?”
“No.”
“It’s diagnostic imaging that directs X rays axially around the human body. In layman’s terms.”
“Would be.”
“Then I got lucky with some random digits. That’s what brought both Phoebe and Cuthbert here. To get rid of him, I re-expressed my formula with complements. You know complements?”
“You mean like, ‘You look marvelous’?” I said.
“Not that kind of compliment,” Aaron said. “A complement is a number representing the negative of a given number. You get it by subtracting each digit of the number from the number representing its base, and in the case of two’s complement and ten’s, you add unity to the last significant digit. Or in layman’s terms, I threw Cuthbert in reverse and sent him on his way.”
“Oh,” I said. “Or maybe Cuthbert was just ready to go. He’d cleaned Buster’s clock. Now he’s going back to clean Lysander’s.”
“Maybe,” Aaron said. “But I’ve got the bugs out, so I can do it again. Bidirectionally. Maybe we can go anywhere in the past we want to, anytime. My formula’s still a primitive device. It’s covered wagon. But we’re looking at Skylab. We’re—”
“Have you got enough bugs out of it so people from the past don’t keep popping up here? Because I don’t think this school can take another dose of Cuthbert.”
“I’ve got some more fiddling to do,” Aaron said. “No question about that, but—”
“Aaron,” I said. “Let’s go home.”
He looked around, dazed. His red hair was still on end. His Huckley tie was around under one ear. I wondered if he was too weird to know. “Is school out?” he said.
“Close enough,” I said. “The only thing left is math class. I don’t think it would do me any good. And I don’t think you need it.”
He shut down the computers. I peeled the tuna pita off the wall. I hadn’t eaten mine either. I dropped them in Mrs. Newbery’s wastebasket on our way out. She wasn’t back from lunch, but no wonder. School was still in an uproar.
People were milling around out on the sidewalk too. A paramedic van was at the curb to pick up Buster Brewster and Mr. Thaw. Big uniformed guys with rubber gloves were leading Buster into the back of the van. He was holding a bloody towel over his nose. They had Mr. Thaw on a stretcher
. He was thrashing around and talking out of his head. So he was alive and kicking, but this looked like his last day of school.
“Now we’ll have a sub,” Aaron said, “who won’t know Warren G. Harding from a hole in the ground.”
We walked home.
“Let’s go get Phoebe, bring her to school, and send her back to her time,” he said. “Mrs. Vanderwhitney will only dock her a day’s pay.”
That made sense, more or less. “But I wish she’d clear up some things before she goes. Like what happened to Lysander and Mrs. Vanderwhitney. Like why Osgood Vanderwhitney and Cuthbert were living alone in the house by 1929.”
“But she won’t know,” Aaron said. “She’s come to us from 1923. That was still all in the future then.”
“We could tell her.”
“Tell her Osgood Vanderwhitney is going to jump out of a window in Wall Street?” Aaron said. “I don’t think so. That would be too creepy for her to know ahead of time. She was upset about King George the Fifth dying, and she didn’t even know him.”
But she might have an idea about what happened to the Vanderwhitneys. I didn’t think little Lysander was buried under the floor of the media center. But you never know.
Aaron was still with me when I slipped the key into our door at home. It opened before I could unlock it.
Phoebe. Mom and Heather had loaned her some clothes, but she was still in her black uniform and starchy collar.
“Great news, Phoebe. Defining moment,” Aaron said. “You can—”
“You two young gentlemen had better wash your hands and tidy up a bit. There’s cocoa in the kitchen for you afterward.”
We filed off and washed.
The kitchen was full of good baking smells. The floor looked like a mirror. “I gave it a good scrub and a coat of wax,” Phoebe said. “It was in a shocking state.”
Baking, scrubbing, polishing. Even toad-in-the-hole. “I don’t think 0 Pears are supposed to have to do all those things,” I told her.
“They sound like useless creatures to me,” Phoebe said. “I’ve run an iron over Miss Heather’s new party dress. Clothes are very poor quality these days.”
“You’ve been busy, Phoebe.”
“Idle hands are the devil’s workshop,” she said.
“Are we alone?” I said. “Is Miss—is Heather home yet?”
“She is not,” Phoebe said. “And if she is late coming from school, I shall have to speak to madam about it.”
“Do that,” I said. “And listen to this. We ... ran into Cuthbert today.” Phoebe had been standing over us with her hands cupped. She staggered.
“Right,” Aaron said. The mug of cocoa had given him a brown mustache. “My formula went a little hay-wire and cellular-reorganized Cuthbert. But I think I’ve got the bugs out of it. We sent him back, and we can send you—”
“Cuthbert?” Phoebe said. “Here?”
“And he isn’t all bad,” I said. “He beat Buster Brewster to a pulp before he left. But what I want to know is, can you think of anything that might take Mrs. Vanderwhitney and little Lysander ... away from the family?”
Phoebe’s hand crept up to her cheek. She looked away. “It isn’t for me to say, I’m sure,” she said.
“She suspects something,” I said to Aaron. “Even in 1923.”
“Kindly don’t speak of me as if I weren’t here,” she said. “As a matter of fact, Mr. and Mrs. Vanderwhitney are not happy in their marriage. They live apart for much of the time.”
Phoebe pursed her lips.
“They’re going to separate,” I said to Aaron.
“Mrs. Vanderwhitney is going to leave Osgood,” Aaron said, “and take little Lysander with her. He isn’t buried under the floor.”
“Certainly not,” Phoebe said. “The pair of you gossip worse than servants. But in fact, Mrs. Vanderwhitney has an admirer.”
An admirer?
“She is not a bad-looking woman in her way, you know,” Phoebe said. “And wealthy in her own right. I fear she’s going to run away with a certain gentleman of her acquaintance. Indeed, I’ve seen a letter or two that has passed between them.” Phoebe flushed. “When I was dusting her dressing-table drawers.”
“So Mrs. Vanderwhitney is going to take a hike,” Aaron said, “and leave Cuthbert behind with Osgood. It fits.”
Phoebe nodded sadly. “Yes, I expect any time now that Mrs. Vanderwhitney is going to divorce Mr. Vanderwhitney and marry Mr. Thaw.”
Mr. Thaw?
“Mr. Thaw?” Aaron said. Cocoa went everywhere.
“Mr. Thaw?” I said. “You mean she’s going to marry our old history teacher?”
Phoebe looked uncertain.
Aaron’s head dropped onto the kitchen table. “Josh, you goofball,” he said, “her Mr. Thaw would be long gone. Don’t you get it?”
“Get what?”
“Mrs. Vanderwhitney married Mr. Thaw. And Mr. Thaw adopted Lysander.”
“I still don’t get it.”
“Josh,” Aaron said, “our history teacher, Mr. L. T. Thaw, is Lysander. Lysander Theodore Thaw.”
Aaron looked up from the table. We stared at each other.
“Couldn’t be,” I said.
“Is,” Aaron said. “Think about this afternoon. Mr. Thaw yelled out Cuthbert’s name.”
I remembered that.
“How would he know it?” Aaron said. “And the shock of seeing Cuthbert just the way he’d been way back when Cuthbert was beating him up regularly and trying to barbecue him—it knocked Mr. Thaw out.”
My head was pounding, and Phoebe looked puzzled. “Of course he would be a very old man now,” she said.
“He is,” I said. “He should have retired a long time ago. But he probably thinks he owns the place. He was that old geezer who came out of the classroom last night with his coat flapping. You saw him, Phoebe.”
“Little Lysander,” she said softly, “after all this time.” Her blue eyes had a lot of long distance in them.
“And if he is still here,” she said, “am I?”
18
Midnight on the Nose
Phoebe’s question hung over the kitchen.
Aaron didn’t ask her if she wanted to go back to 1923 this afternoon. She didn’t seem that anxious to leave yet. She had things on her mind. And she couldn’t stop reaching for the gold chain inside her collar.
The front door banged. You know who.
Heather’s head appeared around the kitchen door. “Yo, Pencil-Neck,” she said to Aaron, overlooking me. “Listen, Phoebe, I have this friend coming over probably. We have vital plans to make. How about some cucumber sandwiches?” Then she was gone.
Phoebe tinkled a little laugh, the first we’d heard. “Imagine cucumbers in the market at this time of year,” she said. “She and her friend will have to settle for hot buttered scones and strawberry jam.”
“Actually, cucumbers are in the market this time of year these days,” I said. “Everything is.”
“How sad,” she said. “Is there nothing left to look forward to anymore, not even long summer afternoons and cucumber sandwiches for tea?”
Then Mom appeared in the kitchen in her business suit and Adidas. “What good smells,” she said. Her eyes popped. The floor you could see your face in. Everything dusted to death. Phoebe was taking a long pan of scones out of the oven.
“Pinch me,” Mom murmured. “This is too good to be true.” She saw Aaron and me. We’d finished off the cocoa and were trying to look like a couple of innocent kids.
“I better be getting home,” Aaron said.
“Tea, madam,” Phoebe said, holding out the pan of scones. “In the drawing room.”
I walked Aaron to the elevator. “Listen,” he said, “when Phoebe’s ready to go back, let me know.”
“It’s Friday night,” I said. “What are we supposed to do, break into school over the weekend? You can’t send her back from your home microsystem workstation, can you?”
“Too risky,” h
e said. “Better use two terminals. We can’t do much till Monday. But keep me informed.”
“Keep yourself informed,” I said. “You’re always running out on me and leaving me with the hard stuff.” The elevator door closed between us.
Heather and Mom and Phoebe were in the living room with our best teacups. Heather was restless because Camilla hadn’t shown. Mom had buttered herself a hot scone. Phoebe was perched on the edge of a chair because Mom had told her to sit down with us. I eased in.
“Phoebe,” she said, “these scones absolutely melt in the mouth. You’re a real treasure.”
“Thank you, madam.” Phoebe’s hands made a little nest of themselves in her lap.
“But we don’t know very much about you,” Mom said in a firm voice. “Your family, for instance.”
“Oh,” Phoebe said, “the Vander—”
“Mom means your own family, Phoebe,” I said. “Back home in England.”
“I haven’t any parents, madam,” Phoebe said. “My brother and I are orphans. We grew up in the asylum. Then he emigrated to New Zealand after the Great War.”
“Desert Storm,” I said. “Right?”
“If you say so,” Phoebe murmured. “Of course, all English people have the royal family,” she said carefully. “Good Queen Elizabeth the Second.” Phoebe beamed. She was proud of herself for that, but I thought we were about one more question from big trouble.
Phoebe thought so too. She stood up. “But I mustn’t sit here chatting. I had better see to my toad-in-the-hole.” She did her good-posture walk out of the room.
“There’s something about that girl I can’t quite put my finger on,” Mom said. I just sat there, picking some raisins out of my scone. But I could feel Mom’s gaze.
“So what?” Heather said. “She makes my bed.”
“Well, don’t get too used to it, young lady,” Mom said. “I have the feeling Phoebe won’t be with us for long.”
I jumped. Raisins went everywhere.
“Mo-om,” Heather said. “You’re not going to send her back to England too.”
