28 - The Cuckoo Clock of Doom

“Michael, your shoe’s untied.”

My sister, Tara, sat on the front steps, grinning at me. Another one of her
dumb jokes.

I’m not an idiot. I knew better than to look down at my shoe. If I did, she’d
slap me under the chin or something.

“I’m not falling for that old trick,” I told her.

Mom had just called me and the brat inside for dinner. An hour before she had
made us go outside because she couldn’t stand our fighting anymore.

It was impossible not to fight with Tara.

When it comes to stupid tricks, Tara never knows when to quit. “I’m not
kidding,” she insisted. “Your shoe’s untied. You’re going to trip.”

“Knock it off, Tara,” I said. I started up the front steps.

My left shoe seemed to cling to the cement. I pulled it up with a jerk.

“Yuck!” I’d stepped on something sticky.

I glanced at Tara. She’s a skinny little squirt, with a wide red mouth like a
clown’s and stringy brown hair that she wears in two pigtails.

Everyone says she looks exactly like me. I hate it when they say that. My
brown hair is not stringy, for one thing. It’s short and thick. And my mouth is
normal-sized. No one has ever said I look like a clown.

I’m a little short for my age, but not skinny.

I do
not
look like Tara.

She was watching me, giggling. “You’d better look down,” she taunted in her
singsong voice.

I glanced down at my shoe. It wasn’t untied, of course. But I’d just stepped
on a huge wad of gum. If I had looked down to check my shoelaces, I would have
seen it.

But Tara knew I
wouldn’t
look down. Not if she told me to.

Tricked by Tara the Terror again.

“You’re going to get it, Tara,” I grumbled. I tried to grab her, but she
dodged out of reach and ran into the house.

I chased her into the kitchen. She screamed and hid behind my mother.

“Mom! Hide me! Michael’s going to get me!” she shrieked.

As if she were afraid of me. Fat chance.

“Michael Webster!” Mom scolded. “Stop chasing your little sister.”

She glanced at my feet and added, “Is that gum on your shoe? Oh, Michael,
you’re tracking it all over the floor!”

“Tara
made
me step on it!” I whined.

Mom frowned. “Do you expect me to believe that? Michael, you’re fibbing
again.”

“I am not!” I cried.

Mom shook her head in disgust. “If you’re going to tell a lie, Michael, at
least make it a good one.”

Tara peeked out from behind Mom and taunted me. “Yeah,
Michael
.”

Then she laughed. She loved this.

She’s always getting me into trouble. My parents always blame me for stuff
that’s
her
fault. But does Tara ever do anything wrong? Oh,
no,
never. She’s a perfect angel. Not a bad bone in her body.

I’m twelve. Tara’s seven. She’s made the last seven years of my life
miserable.

Too bad I don’t remember the first five very well. The pre-Tara years. They
must have been awesome! Quiet and peaceful—and fun!

I went out to the back porch and scraped the sticky gum off my shoe. I heard
the doorbell ring and Dad calling, “It’s here! I’ll get it.”

Inside, everybody gathered around the front door. Two men were struggling to
carry something heavy into the house. Something long and narrow and wrapped with
padded gray cloth.

“Careful,” Dad warned them. “It’s very old. Bring it in here.”

Dad led the delivery guys into the den. They set the thing down on one end
and began to unwrap it. It was about as wide as me and maybe a foot taller.

“What is it?” Tara asked.

Dad didn’t answer right away. He rubbed his hands together in anticipation.
Our cat, Bubba, slinked into the room and rubbed against Dad’s legs.

The gray cloth fell away, and I saw a very fancy old clock. It was mostly
black but painted with lots of silver, gold, and blue designs, and decorated
with scrolls, carvings, knobs, and buttons.

The clock itself had a white face with gold hands and gold Roman numerals. I
saw little secret doors hidden under the paint designs, and a big door in the
middle of the clock.

The delivery guys gathered up the gray padding. Dad gave them some money, and
they left.

“Isn’t it great?” Dad gushed. “It’s an antique cuckoo clock. It was a
bargain. You know that store across from my office, Anthony’s Antiques and
Stuff?”

We all nodded.

“It’s been in the shop for fifteen years,” Dad told us, patting the clock.
“Every time I pass Anthony’s, I stop and stare at it. I’ve always loved it. Anthony finally put it
on sale.”

“Cool,” Tara said.

“But you’ve been bargaining with Anthony for years, and he always refused to
lower the price,” Mom said. “Why now?”

Dad’s face lit up. “Well, today I went into the shop at lunchtime, and
Anthony told me he’d discovered a tiny flaw on the clock. Something wrong with
it.”

I scanned the clock. “Where?”

“He wouldn’t say. Do you see anything, kids?”

Tara and I began to search the clock for flaws. All the numbers on the face
were correct, and both the hands were in place. I didn’t see any chips or
scratches.

“I don’t see anything wrong with it,” Tara said.

“Me, either,” I added.

“Neither do I,” Dad agreed. “I don’t know what Anthony’s talking about. I
told him I wanted to buy the clock anyway. He tried to talk me out of it, but I
insisted. If the flaw is so tiny we don’t even notice it, what difference does
it make? Anyway, I really do love this thing.”

Mom cleared her throat. “I don’t know, dear. Do you think it really belongs
in the den?” I could tell by her face that she didn’t like the clock as much as
Dad did.

“Where else could we put it?” Dad asked.

“Well—maybe the garage?”

Dad laughed. “I get it—you’re joking!”

Mom shook her head. She wasn’t joking. But she didn’t say anything more.

“I think this clock is just what the den needs, honey,” Dad added.

On the right side of the clock I saw a little dial. It had a gold face and
looked like a miniature clock. But it had only one hand.

Tiny numbers were painted in black along the outside of the dial, starting at
1800 and ending at 3000. The thin gold hand pointed to one of the numbers: 2003.

The hand didn’t move. Beneath the dial, a little gold button had been set
into the wood.

“Don’t touch that button, Michael,” Dad warned. “This dial tells the current
year. The button moves the hand to change the year.”

“That’s kind of silly,” Mom said. “Who ever forgets what year it is?”

Dad ignored her. “See, the clock was built in 1800, where the dial starts.
Every year the pointer moves one notch to show the date.”

“So why does it stop at three thousand?” Tara asked.

Dad shrugged. “I don’t know. I guess the clock-maker couldn’t imagine the
year three thousand would ever come. Or maybe he figured the clock wouldn’t last that long.”

“Maybe he thought the world would blow up in 2999,” I suggested.

“Could be,” Dad said. “Anyway, please don’t touch the dial. In fact, I don’t
want anyone touching the clock at all. It’s very old and very, very delicate.
Okay?”

“Okay, Dad,” Tara said.

“I won’t touch it,” I promised.

“Look,” Mom said, pointing at the clock. “It’s six o’clock. Dinner’s almost—”

Mom was interrupted by a loud gong. A little door just over the clock face
slid open—and a bird flew out. It had the meanest bird face I ever saw—and
it dove for my head.

I screamed. “It’s alive!”

Cuckoo! Cuckoo!

The bird flapped its yellow feathers. Its eerie, bright blue eyes glared at
me. It squawked six times. Then it jumped back inside the clock. The little door
slid shut.

“It’s not alive, Michael,” Dad said, laughing. “It sure is real-looking,
though, isn’t it? Wow!”

“You birdbrain!” Tara teased. “You were scared! Scared of a cuckoo clock!”
She reached out and pinched me.

“Get off me,” I growled. I shoved her away.

“Michael, don’t push your sister,” Mom said. “You don’t realize how strong
you are. You could hurt her.”

“Yeah, Michael,” Tara said.

Dad kept admiring the clock. He could hardly take his eyes off it. “I’m not
surprised the cuckoo startled you,” he said. “There’s something special about this clock. It comes from the Black Forest of Germany. It’s supposed to
be enchanted.”

“Enchanted?” I echoed. “You mean, magic? How?”

“Legend has it that the man who built this clock had magical powers. He put a
spell on the clock. They say if you know the secret, you can use the clock to go
back in time.”

Mom scoffed. “Did Anthony tell you that? What a great way to sell an old
clock. Claim it has magic powers!”

Dad wouldn’t let her spoil his fun. “You never know,” he said. “It could be
true. Why not?”

“I think it’s true,” Tara said.

“Herman, I wish you wouldn’t tell the kids these wild stories,” Mom chided.
“It’s not good for them. And it only encourages Michael. He’s always making
things up, telling fibs and impossible stories. I think he gets it from you.”

I protested. “I don’t make things up! I
always
tell the truth!”

How could Mom say that about me?

“I don’t think it hurts the kids to use their imaginations once in a while,”
Dad said.

“Imagination is one thing,” Mom said. “Lies and fibs are something else.”

I fumed. Mom was so unfair to me. The worst part was the expression of
victory on Tara’s face.

Making me look bad was her mission in life. I wanted to wipe that smirk off
her face forever.

“Dinner’s almost ready,” Mom announced, leaving the den. The cat followed
her. “Michael, Tara—go wash up.”

“And remember,” Dad warned. “No one touches the clock.”

“Okay, Dad,” I said.

Dinner smelled good. I started for the bathroom to wash up. As I passed Tara,
she stomped hard on my foot.

“Ow!” I yelled.

“Michael!” Dad barked. “Stop making so much noise.”

“But, Dad, Tara stomped on my foot.”

“It couldn’t have hurt that much, Michael. She’s a lot smaller than you are.”

My foot throbbed. I limped to the bathroom. Tara followed me.

“You’re such a baby,” she taunted.

“Be quiet, Tara,” I said. How did I get the worst sister in the world?

We had pasta with broccoli and tomato sauce for dinner. Mom was on a big
no-meat, low-fat kick. I didn’t mind. Pasta was better than what we’d had the
night before—lentil soup.

“You know, honey,” Dad complained to Mom, “a hamburger now and then never
hurt anybody.”

“I disagree,” Mom said. She didn’t have to say more. We’d all heard her
lectures about meat and fat and chemicals before.

Dad covered his pasta with a thick layer of Parmesan cheese.

“Maybe the den should be off-limits for a while,” Dad suggested. “I hate to
think of you two playing in there and breaking the clock.”

“But, Dad, I have to do my homework in the den tonight,” I said. “I’m doing a
report on ‘Transportation in Many Lands.’ And I need to use the encyclopedia.”

“Can’t you take it up to your room?” Dad asked.

“The whole encyclopedia?”

Dad sighed. “No, I guess you can’t. Well, all right. You can use the den
tonight.”

“I need to use the encyclopedia, too,” Tara announced.

“You do not,” I snapped. She wanted to hang around the den and bug me, that
was all.

“I do, too. I’m supposed to read about the gold rush.”

“You’re making that up. You don’t study the gold rush in the second grade.
That’s not until fourth.”

“What do you know about it? Mrs. Dolin is teaching us the gold rush
now.
Maybe I’m in a smarter class than you were.”

Mom said, “Michael, really. If Tara says she needs to use the encyclopedia,
why start a fight about it?”

I sighed and stuffed a forkful of pasta in my mouth. Tara stuck her tongue
out at me.

There’s no point in talking, I thought. All it does is get me into trouble.

I lugged my backpack into the den after dinner. No sign of Tara—yet. Maybe
I’d be able to get some homework done before she came in and started pestering
me.

I dumped my books on Dad’s desk. The clock caught my eye. It wasn’t pretty—kind of ugly, really. But I liked looking at all those scrolls and buttons and
knobs. It really did seem as if the clock could be magic.

I thought about the flaw Dad had mentioned. I wondered what it was. Some kind
of bump? A missing notch on one of the gears? Maybe a piece of chipped paint?

I glanced back at the door to the den. Bubba wandered through it, purring. I
petted him.