“How did you get her to show you, Uncle?” she asks.
If I wasn’t afraid that Uncle might intercept it, I would have mindlinked Lydia to tell her what I thought about her inane questions.
But Uncle doesn’t appear to mind. He smiles at her and continues.
“I reached into my pocket, withdrew a silver dollar and offered to give her the coin if she would show me what was in her hand. I know what you are all thinking. Why should I give something for nothing? But in fact I was about to gain something very valuable from the old woman, my friends. Something that made my little trade of the coin worthwhile.
“I could tell that she did not entirely trust me, so I laid the coin on the bench next to her. Quick as a wink, one of her hands reached out, snatched up the coin and buried it deep inside her clothes.”
“Did she show you what she had in her hand then?” asks Lydia.
“Not right away,” continues Uncle. “In fact, she just growled again at me to leave. But a bargain is a bargain, and I was not about to depart until the old woman had held up her end. Since she was not forthcoming, I had to convince her to open up her hand. One can do that, you know, with fingers. Particularly old, brittle fingers.”
I cringe. That part always gives me a queasy feeling.
“At last,” he continues, “I could see what those old arthritic fingers held. It was a yellowed and creased slip of paper folded in four. I unfolded it and discovered that it was a playbill from Radio City Music Hall. The playbill advertised the 1965 Christmas Spectacular starring the world-famous Rockettes.
“Although it was old, the image on the playbill was clearly visible: a line of a dozen or so long-legged and scantily dressed dancers, standing storklike on one leg, smiling faces tilted up toward the bright lights of Radio City Music Hall. There was a crude circle drawn in black ink around one of the dancers.
“‘Is that you?’ I asked the woman, pointing to the circled dancer. But of course I didn’t need to ask. I already knew that it was. And do you know what I did then?” asks Uncle.
“No, we don’t, Uncle,” Lydia lies.
“I placed the playbill back in her hand and went on my way.” He pauses for a second before continuing, for dramatic effect. “Ever since that chance meeting in the park, the image of the old woman’s gnarled fingers clinging to that ancient playbill, grasping, one might say, at a piece of the past, has been etched in my mind.
“And several years later, when I came upon an opportunity to develop a way to travel through time, it occurred to me that I could do a great service to humanity by providing people with access to precious pieces of the past, much like that old woman’s playbill.
“The rest is history, as they say. I recruited each of you, my very first time snatchers, to assist in the retrieval of special treasures from the past.”
Uncle pauses again, and I wonder if he’s waiting for us to clap or something. It’s a great story, all right. The thing I’ve always wondered about is what happened to his silver dollar. My guess is he didn’t go home without it.
He looks wistful for a moment, then clears his throat and says, “Now, are all of you ready with your sentences? As a reminder, the word for this evening is piào liàng, which means ‘beautiful.’”
I nod along with the others, even though I’ll have to make something up on the fly. Luckily, Uncle usually starts at one end of that table and never at the middle.
“Caleb, you’re first,” he says.
So much for that theory.
“The, uh, sunset in Beijing is piào liàng,” I say.
“Nice,” says Uncle. “Lydia, you’re next.”
“There’s nothing more piào liàng than a well-performed snatch,” she says.
“Marvelous!” Uncle pounds the tabletop. “Raoul?”
“This meal is piào liàng,” he says.
“Yes, it is, Raoul,” Uncle says, smiling. “Frank?”
“The person who helped me serve tonight is piào liàng,” he says with a sly smile in Abbie’s direction.
I shoot a glance at Abbie. I can’t believe it. She’s eating it up. Actually blushing. And now she’s gazing at Frank with a faraway look in her eyes.
“And finally, Abbie,” Uncle says.
She glances at him for a second and then looks right back at Frank, all dreamy-like. For his part, Frank’s beaming his thousand-watt smile right at her.
This is too much. I feel like crawling into a hole.
Abbie clears her throat and says, “Black, curly hair is piào liàng.”
Make that a really dark hole.
They’re still making eyes at each other when I finally decide I’ve had enough.
“May I be excused, Uncle?” I say, standing up. “I’m not feeling well.”
“In a moment, Caleb,” he says. “First, I’d like to announce the winner of time snatcher of the month.”
Even though there’s more than a week left in June, Uncle’s already made his decision.
I sit back down again and glance over at Frank. He’s got a smug smile on his face. I’m sure he thinks he has this month all locked up. Difficult as it is now to live with Frank, if he wins, that will be the third month in a row, and he’ll be unbearable to be around.
I don’t hold out much hope of winning myself. I would, I suppose, if Uncle based it purely on the number of completed snatches, but he obviously doesn’t. In fact, I have no clue how he goes about making his decision.
“This month’s winner is … Lydia!” announces Uncle.
Lydia is barely able to contain herself. She leaps up from her place at the table, claps her hands and shouts, “Yay!”
“Congratulations, Lydia,” he says, “on a job well done. Have you chosen your reward?”
Is he kidding? Lydia lives for moments like these. I’m sure she’s known for at least a month where she wants to go. The prize for winning is an all-expenses-paid weekend at one of Uncle’s vacation properties. He’s got about a dozen different holiday homes tucked away in some pretty cool locations.
“Yes, Uncle, I know exactly where I’d like to go—to your castle in Scotland,” she says.
That’s a surprise. I would have figured her for a beach holiday. But then again I hear Uncle’s castle has a lot of mirrors, which would be a big drawing card for Lydia.
“Excellent. Nassim will help with the arrangements. Caleb, if you are still feeling unwell, you may leave the table.”
“Thank you, Uncle,” I say getting up.
“Bú yòng xiè, Caleb. You are welcome,” he replies. “Frank will put some dessert aside for you so that you can have it when you’re feeling better.”
Frank, ever-obedient as far as Uncle is concerned, leaps out of his chair and heads for the kitchen. My eyes meet Abbie’s for a second, and I see surprise and confusion in them. Doesn’t she get why I’m leaving the table?
As I pass the kitchen, Frank pokes his piào liàng head out.
“I hope it wasn’t anything I said,” he says, smirking.
He’d love for me to react. To yell at him or push him or do anything that he can use against me. But I refuse to give him the pleasure. I keep my eyes straight ahead and brush by him. I can feel his eyes on my back all the way to the dorm.
I flop down on my bunk and take out my carving. Looking at it now, I decide it’s not good at all. I’m tempted to throw it against the wall and see what smashes first: the carving or the wall. Instead I put it back in its place and bury my head in the pillow.
I must have slept, because I wake up to rays of sunlight poking through the blinds. Snoring from above tells me Raoul is still asleep. Frank’s bunk is empty. I swing my legs over the side of the bed and trudge to the bathroom. Gazing at myself in the mirror, I run my fingers through my scraggly hair. It’s definitely getting too long. I could use a haircut. Maybe after my mission.
Mission! I almost forgot. I’ve got the London mission today or, as Abbie calls it, Operation Bumbershoot. And I’m supposed to meet her there.
What time, though? I draw a complete blank. I brush my teeth, head over to the wardrobe closet in the lounge and find the clothes that have been placed in my cubbyhole. A floor-length kaftan? That seems fine for a desert mission but a strange choice for twenty-first century London. For a moment I think of asking Nassim about it but then I decide not to—he’s a careful type, so I’m sure he must have a good reason for wanting me to dress this way.
I duck back into the dorm and slip the kaftan on over my sandals.
Next, a pit stop in the kitchen for a glass of orange juice and some toast. While I munch, I check the cooking schedule stuck to the fridge door. It’s my turn to cook tonight. Cooking is not my first love … or even my second, third or fourth. In fact, on the likeability scale, I’d put it right near the bottom, just above saying the dinner prayers. Unfortunately, hating to cook is no excuse in Uncle’s world.
I swing the fridge door open, expecting the worst. But it’s not so bad. There are three or four kinds of vegetables and lots of pasta sauce: it won’t be a gourmet meal like last night, but at least it’ll be something.
“You’ve got something on your face,” says a voice.
“Good morning, Phoebe,” I say, reaching for a napkin.
Wiping my mouth, I glance at the wall screen. Phoebe’s persona is wearing a black evening gown encrusted with tiny crystals and is carrying a matching purse.
“Have you seen Abbie?” I ask.
“First, what do you think of my outfit?” she says.
I don’t usually have an opinion about clothes for computer personas, but the only way I’ll ever get an answer to my question is to have this conversation first.
“Very nice,” I say.
“Go on,” she says. “What else?”
“Very nice and … very sparkly.”
Phoebe’s persona frowns. “And …”
“And very … slimming,” I add.
There’s a long silence as she no doubt analyzes the compliment quotient in my words.
“All right, I suppose that will do,” she says. “Now I will answer your question: Abbie just left for London.”
“Okay, thanks,” I say, heading out of the kitchen.
“But if I were you, I wouldn’t go just yet,” Phoebe continues.
“Why not?” I say.
“Well, just look at the way you’re dressed.”
I think for a moment before continuing the conversation. The thing with Phoebe is she loves to argue. Give her an opening, and she’ll go for your throat. I’m already regretting having said good morning to her.
“Thanks. I’ll consider your advice,” I say finally.
“You’ll ‘consider my advice’?” she says. “If I were you, I’d be doing more than considering my advice. I’d at least be changing out of those pajamas.”
I just smile and head for the fire escape. It’s much easier to timeleap from outside than inside. Uncle says it has to do with the fact that this building, like a lot of others in Tribeca and SoHo, has a cast-iron frame behind its brick walls. Apparently, the cast iron interferes with the frequencies needed for time travel. I’m no scientist, but it seems to me that if you’re going to run a time-travel thievery business, wouldn’t it make more sense to find a place that’s time-travel friendly?
I’m about to tap my wrist when I realize that I forgot to do something. I hurry back inside.
“Back so soon?” Phoebe snickers.
“Phoebe, can you please upload the briefing notes for the London mission to my patch?”
There’s a moment of silence, before she says, “I can. But it’ll cost you.”
I snort involuntarily. “Cost me? But isn’t it your job?” I regret the words almost as soon as I say them.
“I’ll consider your advice,” mimics Phoebe.
Must stay calm. Counting quietly to ten usually works. I’m at nine and seven-eighths when a short beep from my wrist tells me that the mission information has been uploaded.
“Thanks, Phoebe.” As I step out onto the fire escape, I think I hear Phoebe say something, but I can’t make out the words. It could be “you’re welcome” or maybe just an insult that sounds like that.
August 28, 2006, 10:44 A.M.
Kensington District
London, England
Operation Bumbershoot
I slowly open my eyes and see brick walls, cobblestones and a bit of sky. I’ve landed in an alley.
It feels good to be on a mission again. I take a deep breath and step out onto a sidewalk. Mid-morning, and it’s already sweltering. Dozens of shoppers are out and about. The street is crammed with small shops and pubs. The one closest to me, the Lazy Lizard Pub, has a sign showing a lizard lounging in a hammock. Right next door to it is Ye Stinky Cheese Shoppe, and it’s sure living up to its name.
Then I remember. The cheese shop. That’s where I’m supposed to meet up with Abbie. I’m almost there when I feel a tap on my shoulder.
“Good morning, Cale,” says Abbie, smiling. “What do you think?”
Why is everyone asking me for my opinion on what they are wearing? First Phoebe and now Abbie. It’s not like I’m any kind of fashion guru. Far from it.
Abbie does a slow spin. Her costume for the snatch is a navy blue pinstriped power pantsuit with horn-rimmed sunglasses. To complete the picture, her auburn hair is tied back neatly in a bun. If you didn’t know she was a thirteen-year-old time-traveling orphan, you would think she was eighteen and probably someone’s executive assistant. Still, it wouldn’t be my first choice of disguise for a snatch at an umbrella factory.
One thing I’ll admit, though. Abbie’s outfit makes her look … well, female. If her idea was to distract me, it’s definitely working.
“Uhh. It’s chic,” I say, hoping I got the pronunciation right.
She waves me over to a bench, and we watch the steady stream of shoppers. I’m very aware of her sitting next to me. In fact, I’m more aware of her body next to me than I am of anything else in the world right now. She shifts position, and I can feel her leg touching mine. What’s going on? There’s room for about four people on this bench, so why is she crowding me? Except it doesn’t feel like crowding at all. It feels like something else. A new and strange feeling that, ever since France, my brain has been working overtime to figure out. I’m not sure I like this. But then again, I don’t want her to move her leg away, either.
“Don’t you just love the hustle and bustle of this place?” she asks and moves even closer to me.
“Yes, excellent hustle and bustle,” I agree, squirming.
An elderly woman in a paisley dress toddles by and gives me a disapproving look.
“Don’t mind her,” Abbie says. “I think you look cute in pajamas.”
“These aren’t pajamas,” I say. “Nassim picked out—”
“No need to say anything, Cale. I’m touched that you were in such a hurry to meet up with me that you forgot to get dressed. By the way, how are you feeling? You cut out early last night. Do you think it was something you ate?”
“I’m fine,” I lie. There goes my good mood. Now all I’m feeling is annoyed and confused. Annoyed that someone who supposedly knows me so well can’t figure out that the real reason I left the table early was because she was totally ignoring me and making goo-goo eyes at Frank. And confused because I don’t know what to do with these new feelings I have about Abbie. Should I tell her? Not tell her? I’m dying to know how she feels about me, but there’s no way I’m asking. What if she doesn’t get it? Or what if she says she thinks of me like a brother? I’ll be totally crushed. Maybe I should write to Ask Natasha. I could sign the letter “Baffled in New Beijing.” Or better yet, I can mail it from here and sign it “Loveless in London.”
“Good. I’m glad you’re feeling better,” she says, standing up. I feel a small wave of disappointment as the contact between our legs is broken. “Time to get going. The Brolly Shoppe awaits.”
“Did you say ‘shop’? I thought we were going to an um
brella factory.”
“Didn’t you read your briefing notes for Operation Bumbershoot, Mr. Pajama Top?” she says, pointing across the street. “The umbrella we’re after is in that shop right over there.”
“I don’t see why we have to come all the way here just to pick up a stupid umbrella. There are plenty of umbrella shops in 2061.” I can hear the negative tone in my voice, but I can’t help it. I’m in a foul mood.
“Maybe, but none of them carry the umbrella that Winston Churchill, Britain’s Prime Minister during World War II, brought with him to Harrow School in 1941 when he made one of the most famous speeches in history,” says Abbie. “You know … ‘never give in … ’”
“I don’t see why he even bothered with an umbrella,” I say. “I mean, it’s not like he had to walk far to get there. He had his own chauffeur. Besides, what is Churchill’s umbrella doing here, in an umbrella shop in Kensington, sixty-five years later?”
Children pour out of the cheese shop, poking at each other. Their laughter stabs my ears.
Abbie squints at me. Her expression is halfway between concerned and annoyed. “I don’t know how it got here. What’s the difference? Why are you in such a bad mood?”
Glad you finally noticed, I feel like saying but instead just sit there, the perfect picture of gloom.
“Is this about Frank?” she says.
“Maybe,” I answer.
She sighs. “I don’t see what your problem is with him. Did you taste that duck he cooked last night? It was awesome.”
“That’s nothing,” I say. “Wait till you see what I’m cooking tonight.”
“Oh, really?” she says, moving closer. “What is it?”
“I … uh … can’t tell you just yet,” I say, immediately regretting my words. After all, when it comes to cooking, there’s no way I can compete with Frank.
“Cale,” says Abbie, taking half a step back, “you should really try to get along better with Frank. He’s not so bad.”
Time Snatchers Page 6
