“You’re probably right, Young Me.”
“But first, how do we get this glass off my hand?”
Upstairs, they brushed their teeth and changed into pajamas, quickly, wordlessly. (Actually, only Young Julian changed into pajamas, since Grown-up Julian didn’t bring any from the future nor from the past.)
“Well, our escapades sure took a lot out of me. I think I’ll get to bed,” Grown-up Julian said, his hand on the ladder.
“Uh-uh,” said Young Julian, pointing to the bottom bed.
“I’ll pay you to let me sleep on the top bunk.”
“How much?”
“Five dollars.”
“Fine. You’ve got yourself a—Wait just a second. You said there’s no money in the future. Show me the five dollars first.”
“I’ll sleep on the bottom.”
CHAPTER 12
“Uh-oh!” were the first words Young Julian heard upon waking, which is rarely the ideal way to greet the day.
“What’s wrong?” he asked, hopping down.
“I’m really low on charge. Really low—what the smart folks call ‘critically.’ If we don’t figure this out by tomorrow...”
“What?”
“We’ll be fighting over the top bunk for a long time.”
“Not to mention, sooner or later future Mom and Dad are going to start worrying about you.”
“I hadn’t thought of that,” Grown-up Julian said.
“We...you need to tell Dad.”
“We can’t.”
“Why not?”
“I’ll be grounded. Forever.”
“You’re twenty years old. That’s, like, an adult. Almost. Sort of. They can’t ground you.”
“You do realize you’re talking about our mom.”
“Oh, yeah.”
“There’s got to be a way.”
Young Julian stuck out his tongue a little, just off to the right, and bit it slightly, which he always did when thinking deeply—what the smart folks call “pondering.” He looked up. Grown-up Julian was doing the same.
“Some things never change,” he said.
“What?” said Grown-up Julian.
Young Julian copied—what the smart folks call “mimicked”—the thinking-tongue gesture. Both laughed.
“I guess maybe my future won’t be so bad after all,” Young Julian said. “After all, you’re not so bad.”
“Actually, it will be pretty good. You’ll see. And thanks.”
“So, what do we do?”
“Tell you what. I think I have enough charge to last until tomorrow. If we figure it out by...dinnertime, then we’re all set.”
“And if we don’t?”
“Then, after dinner—and dessert—we go to Dad. Deal?”
“Deal. And today, try to stay off my bed while I’m gone.”
“How did you know?”
“I have my ways,” Young Julian said, pointing emphatically at the dreaded sub-bunk.
“Killjoy.”
At school, with the morning’s successful eTab-assisted end around on Biff and the inane pickle-cucumber conversation that preceded it now in all versions of the past, Julian settled in. As best as he could, all things considered. Because, really, now it was all downhill, since all he had to do was help his 20-year-old-self go back in time and undo a mistake that quite likely would pollute the natural timeline, rewrite history, and change the world as we know it.
At least.
What could go wrong?
The first period dragged. The second slogged. But then in the third…
Mrs. Stern had just begun her lesson.
“The Battle of Gettysburg was fought over three days, beginning on July 1st, 1863...”
Oh, that’s funny—what the smart folks call “coincidental,” thought Julian.
An on-and-off buzzing caught his attention. He leaned over, just a little so as not to draw the attention of Mrs. Stern, who almost never fell asleep while talking. He peeked into his backpack. Inside a faint green glow pulsed in sync with the buzz. He carefully placed two fingers into the rolled up eTab and spread them slightly, unrolling it just a bit.
“Julian? It’s me. Can you hear me?”
He stiffened and looked around. It didn’t seem as though anyone else had heard the inappropriately timed call.
Julian considered his options.
Quickly.
There was no way he could converse with himself in the classroom. A dash out the door would certainly lead to consequences. He needed an excuse.
He began coughing.
Cough, cough.
First just a little. Then louder and worse.
“Are you all right Julian?” Mrs. Stern asked.
“I just swallowed wrong. Can I go get a drink of water?”
“Of course. Come.”
Slipping the eTab into his back pocket, Julian walked up to the front of the room, still coughing. She handed him a pass, his ticket out to the hall.
Julian ran over to the janitor’s closet, which he knew was always unlocked, and slipped in.
He unrolled the eTab and swiped. Grown-up Julian’s face appeared on the screen.
“Hi, Julian,” he said gleefully.
“What are you doing? I’m kind of in class right now. What do you want?”
“I figured it out. I figured out the power source.”
“You did!” Young Julian did his best to scream for joy. Silently. “What is it?”
“It’s—Ooh! First, I need to tell you something really important.”
“What could be more important than the power source?”
“It’s about our future. Something you need to know.”
“No way.” Young Julian reached over and turned on a faucet. The rush of water saved him from hearing Grown-up Julian say, “Forget the Star Wars LEGO sets. Buy two or three of every Abnormal Adolescent Samurai Salamander kit which comes out. And don’t open the boxes. Ever. Put them away. In a safe place. Definitely keep them away from Dylan. And Dad. With what those things are going for on eBay, you’ll be able to buy a house. A big house.”
When Grown-up Julian’s lips had stopped moving, Young Julian turned off the water.
Grown-up Julian shook his head. “I’m just trying to help, you know.”
“I know. But don’t.”
“Where were we?”
“The power source.”
“Yes, the power source. Are you ready?”
“Yes!”
“If I may boast, figuring it out was a pretty clever combination of investigative reporting and technical sleight-of-hand—what the realistic folks call ‘a lucky break.’ What I did was, I cross-referenced WikiEverything with the Dad Five-Minute Warning app, which let me read an encyclopedia of the future.”
“That’s very interesting. But I kind of snuck out of class, and right now I’m hiding in the janitor’s closet, praying there are no spills in progress that would necessitate a mop. So if you don’t mind, spill it!”
“Drum roll, please,” Grown-up Julian said proudly. “It turns out Cucumium is pickles.”
“Pickles?”
“Yes! Pickles.”
“Pickles, as in...”
“Those green food things. Slices or spears. Dill or gherkin. Pickles.”
“How can pickles be a source of energy?”
“Dad invented it.”
“Say no more. What are you waiting for? Get some from the refrigerator and load it up. Or whatever you’re supposed to do.”
“There aren’t any. Anywhere in the house. I looked.”
“Seriously? What are the odds?”
“Well, for today, one hundred percent.”
“Spare me the lesson in statisitics. Just run to the store and buy some.”
“Money.”
“What?”
“Remember, I said money is different in the future?”
“So?”
“So we don’t have it. At least in coins or paper form.”
“Did Mom leave her purse lying around? Because maybe you could find a few—”
“I thought about that. But she’s got it alarmed, remember?”
“Um, no. No, I don’t remember that.”
“Oh. Then you’ll find out the hard way. Someday.”
“What do we do?” Young Julian asked, wiping a sweaty brow with a sweaty palm, all the while standing in sweaty socks and sneakers.
“What’s for lunch today?”
“Lunch? Why?”
“Duh! I’m hungry. What’s for lunch?”
“I think it’s hamburgers.”
“Perfect!”
“Why?”
“What goes with hamburgers?”
“Pickles!”
“Exactly,” Grown-up Julian said, head turning, neck craning, eyes scanning Julian’s room in search of a clock, oblivious to the fact that his own eTab had one in the lower right corner. “What time is recess? Noon?”
“12:15.”
“How could I forget? So at lunch, get a few extra pickles. Then bring them out at recess. We can meet around the back of the building. You know, the parking lot overlooking the supermarket. In the little space between the dumpster and the wall.”
“I think I know where you’re talking about. How do you remember it?”
“Oh, you’ll remember it, too. Because in a few years, that’s the exact spot where you and Lisa Honeywell will...”
Grown-up Julian paused for effect. Or, just out of sheer cruelty.
“What!?”
“I’d better not say.”
“What!?”
“I can’t. I don’t want to be responsible for—you know what I’m going to say—polluting the natural timeline. Can’t tarnish the future now, can I?”
“Oh, come on!”
“Nope. You made your top bunk. And now you can sleep on it. In it. End of discussion.” Grown-up Julian pantomimed pulling a zipper across his lips and then, for good measure, padlocking them, throwing away the key, and applying a length of duct tape.
“No fair.”
Grown-up Julian shrugged. “Toodle-oo. See you at—”
A message scrolled across Grown-up Julian’s screen.
YOUR ETAB IS GETTING LOW ON CHARGE. PLEASE PLUG IT IN RIGHT AWAY—WHAT THE SMART FOLKS CALL ASAP. GOING INTO STANDBY MODE. LOVE, DAD.
Then the screen went dark.
“Uh-oh,” said Young Julian, now cut off from his older counterpart.
He walked slowly—what the smart folks call “trudged”—back to his classroom.
12:15 could not come soon enough.
CHAPTER 13
Julian inhaled his lunch. (A risky choice, as his mom often had to remind Dylan, the Human Vacuum Cleaner.) Wanting to keep the pickles safe and playground-dirt-free, he drank the last of his milk, carefully opened the empty carton fully, and placed the paper cup containing the pickles inside. He closed the carton back up and waited.
And waited.
And waited.
Finally, Mr. Warden, the lunchroom monitor and Dungeon Detention Master (a direct quote from the name tag that he alone among the teachers wore), announced they were free to go outside. Julian casually headed over to the door. He didn’t want to be the first to go out, nor the last, and assumed an anonymous position somewhere within the middle of the pack. He walked out and hung around the playground, mingling with his classmates for a few minutes, before working his way to far end. He sat down on a swing and began swinging back...and forth...and back...and forth...
When Mr. Warden’s back was turned, Julian executed a perfect slide-out maneuver at the top—what the smart folks call the “apex”—of his arc. He landed cleanly and dashed down the hill.
Grown-up Julian stood waiting for him.
“Hi. How’s your day going?”
“Fine,” Young Julian said. “Just the usual. Math. English. Biff trying to kill me.”
“Typical, in other words.”
“I suppose. Now about this thing with Lisa...”
“Forget it! I’m not saying a word. Other than, Julian and Lisa, up in a tree. K-I—OK, enough said. Did you get one?”
“I got a bunch,” Young Julian said, opening the carton and removing—what the smart folks call “extracting”—the green fuel.
“Bananas grow in bunches. Pickles grow in barrels. Never mind,” Grown-up Julian said, waving his hand as one does when shooing away an annoying gnat. “That joke was doomed from the start. All right, Young Me. Let’s do this,” said Grown-up Julian. He pushed a button on the eTab. A small panel raised out of the flatness of the face.
“Whoa!” said Young Julian. “Where did that come from?”
“I have no idea.”
“It’s like magic.”
“Dad,” they said in unison.
A small silver disk slipped out. Grown-up Julian took it and studied it.
“Hmmm,” he said as a worried look crossed his face.
“What?”
“I need something sharp to open it,” Grown-up Julian said.
“You didn’t bring anything?”
“No.”
“You didn’t think to open it up, look at it, and see if you’d need a tool?”
“You know how I told you we’re going to be clumsy? Well, we’re going to be absent-minded, too.”
“Great. Now what are we going to do?”
“Let me have the Swiss Army knife you always carry,” Grown-up Julian said.
“How did you know I—Oh, yeah,” he said, handing it over. “I’ll never get used to that.”
“In theory, after about two minutes you should never need to again. By the way...your blue tennis shoe.”
“What?” asked Young Julian.
“You’re going to lose that pocketknife for about six months. Look in your blue tennis shoe.”
“You’re not supposed to—”
“I don’t think telling you where to find your own missing pocketknife is going to change the course of human history.”
“You’re probably right. This time.”
“Got it,” Grown-up Julian said as the silver lid popped off.
Sure enough, there was a dried—what the smart folks call “desiccated”—pickle in there. Grown-up Julian tossed it aside. His younger self handed him a fresh one. He placed it in the center before replacing the lid.
“Well, here goes nothing,” he said as he slid it back into the compartment, which disappeared into whatever invisible and inexplicable space it had come from.
He swiped. The eTab glowed. Brightly. Brilliantly. And the little power level icon—which both Julians could now clearly tell was a pickle—zipped up from 0.001% to 100%.
“Yes!”
“We did it!”
“We did, Young Me. High-five! A job well done. I could not have done this without you. Uh-oh!”
“What?”
“I lost my stylus!”
“Your what?
“Stylus. It’s a small, pencil-like—”
“I know what a stylus is. The eTab doesn’t have one.”
“Mine does.”
“Why? Why do you need one?”
“Why? Do you see how many numbers there are on my Dad Five-Minute Warning app? I needed something precise, so I hit the right date. The last thing I wanted do is fat-finger it and land in Pearl Harbor.”
“You and your stupid enhancements. What do we do now?”
“I need something thin. Really thin. As thin as a human hair. But it’s got to be hard. Really hard. Stiff.”
Young Julian thought.
Quickly.
“I know just the thing. Give me my knife back. Wait here. And be ready. We’re not going to have much time.”
Clinging to the wall of the building, spy-like, Young Julian scooted around to the opposite side. Checking both ways, he sped across the parking lot, abandoning the school property, his second risky choice of the lunch hour. He eased along the chain-link fence that marked the border—what the smart folks call the
“perimeter”—of the playground. His target loomed (and doomed) fifty feet ahead.
As he did every day, Biff, far too cool for kickball or basketball or football or foosball, was leaning against the other side of the very same fence, surveying his territory. With recess almost over, Julian knew he had to act now. He tiptoed up behind Biff, keeping a steady eye on his target all the while. But when he reached the base of Mount Masterson and strained to see the summit in the hazy distance, he was forced to put his plan on pause until he could find an elevator, or a Sherpa, or something that would fall into the general category of “tall thing.” Spinning around, he scanned the area for anything to buy him a vertical foot or two.
He looked.
And looked.
And finally spied the prize!
Piled up behind the garage of the house that backed up to the school was a stack of logs. The perfect one, a foot wide and eighteen inches high, laid there. The angelic voices started singing once more (though in fairness, the choir was practicing extra in preparation for the fall show). He rolled it carefully and quietly over to the fence, directly behind Biff. Julian worked hard—what the smart folks call “labored”—to stand it on end, then climbed on the top. He took out his knife and opened the little springy scissor tool. With his other hand he pulled out the Swiss Army tweezers and carefully, oh so carefully, reached them through the fence. He grasped the tip of one of Biff’s hair spikes. Julian maneuvered the scissors through a link several inches below and...
SNIP!
“HEY! What do you think you’re doing?” Biff said, swiveling around. Seeing Julian holding one of his laboriously lubed-up locks, he growled, if a rhinoceros could growl. “Pickle! You got away from me this morning. But not this time!”
Now it was off to the races, as Biff and his buddies would be chasing Julian as soon as they could get to his side of the chain-link fence. Luckily, Julian knew that, just like a locomotive engine, Biff took a while to get going. Unfortunately, once Biff started moving, there was no stopping him.
Young Julian zipped back to where Grown-up Julian was hiding, covering the last fifty yards in a time which would have made Mr. Stringbean, the track coach, proud.
“Here,” Young Julian said, handing over the tweezers. “Will this work?”
“I think so.”
“Great. Hurry.”
“Why?”
“Don’t ask. Just hurry,” Young Julian said as he listened for the sound of the oncoming stampede.
The Extraordinary eTab of Julian Newcomber Page 10
