28 - The Cuckoo Clock of Doom (6 page)

And then what?

A cold shiver ran down my back.

And then what? I asked myself.

Will I disappear
completely
?

I woke up in a panic every morning.

What day was it? What
year
was it?

I had no idea.

I climbed out of bed—it seemed farther away from the floor than it used to—and padded across the hall to the bathroom.

I stared in the mirror. How old was I? Younger than I’d been the day before,
I knew that much.

I went back to my room and began to get dressed. Mom had left my clothes for
the day folded on a chair in my room.

I examined the jeans I was supposed to wear. They had a picture of a cowboy
on the back pocket.

Oh, yeah, I remembered.
These
jeans. The cowboy jeans.

Second grade.

That means I must be seven years old now.

I stepped into the pants, thinking, I can’t believe I have to wear these
stupid jeans again.

Then I unfolded the shirt Mom had picked out for me.

My heart sank when I saw it: A cowboy shirt—with fringe and everything.

This is so embarrassing, I thought. How could I have ever let Mom do this to
me?

Deep down I knew that I used to like these clothes. I probably picked them
out myself.

But I couldn’t stand to admit that I’d ever been so stupid.

Downstairs, Tara was still in her pajamas, watching cartoons. She was now
two.

When she saw me pass through the living room, she held out her arms to me.
“Kiss! Kiss!” she called.

She wanted me to kiss her? That didn’t seem like Tara.

But maybe the two-year-old Tara was still sweet and innocent. Maybe, at two,
Tara was actually likable.

“Kiss! Kiss!” she begged.

“Give poor Tara a kiss,” Mom called from the kitchen. “You’re her big
brother, Michael. She looks up to you.”

I sighed. “Okay.”

I leaned down to give Tara a kiss on the cheek. With one chubby index finger,
she poked me in the eye.

“Ow!” I shrieked.

Tara laughed.

Same old terrible Tara, I thought as I stumbled into the kitchen, one hand
over my sore eye.

She was born bad!

This time, at school, I knew which classroom to go to.

There sat all my old friends, Mona and everybody, younger than ever. I’d
forgotten how dopey everybody used to look when we were little.

I sat through another dull day of learning stuff I already knew. Subtraction.
How to read books with really big print. Perfecting my capital L.

At least it gave me lots of time to think.

Every day I tried to figure out what to do. But I never came up with an
answer.

Then I remembered Dad telling us he’d been wanting the cuckoo clock for
fifteen years.

Fifteen years! That’s it! The clock must be at that antique store!

I’ll go find the clock, I decided. I couldn’t wait for school to end that
day.

I figured if I could turn the cuckoo around, time would go forward again. I
knew the dial that showed the year must be going backwards, too. All I had to do
was reset the date on the clock to the right year, and I’d be twelve again.

I missed being twelve. Seven-year-olds don’t get away with much. Someone’s
always watching you.

When the school day ended, I started down the block toward my house. I knew
the crossing guard was watching me, making sure I’d get home safely.

But at the second block I dashed around the corner to the bus stop. I hoped
the crossing guard hadn’t seen me.

I stood behind a tree, trying not to be seen.

A few minutes later, a bus pulled over. The doors opened with a hiss. I
stepped aboard.

The bus driver eyed me strangely. “Aren’t you a little young to be riding the
bus by yourself?” he asked me.

“Mind your own business,” I replied.

He looked startled, so I added, “I’m meeting Daddy at his office. Mommy said
it was okay.”

He nodded and let the doors slide shut.

I started to put three quarters in the coin slot, but the driver stopped me
after two.

“Whoa, there, buddy,” he said, pressing the third quarter into my palm.
“Fare’s only fifty cents. Keep this quarter for a phone call.”

“Oh, yeah. Right.” I’d forgotten. They raised the bus fare to 75 cents when I
was eleven. But now I was only seven. I put the quarter in my pocket.

The bus pulled away from the curb and chugged downtown.

I remembered hearing Dad say that Anthony’s Antiques and Stuff was across the street from his office. I got off the bus
at Dad’s block.

I hoped Dad wouldn’t see me. I knew I’d be in big trouble if he did.

I wasn’t allowed to ride the bus by myself when I was seven.

I hurried past Dad’s building and crossed the street. On the corner stood a
construction site; just a pile of bricks and rubble, really. Further down the
block I saw a black sign with Anthony’s Antiques and Stuff painted on it in gold
letters.

My heart began to pound.

I’m almost there, I thought. Soon everything will be all right.

I’ll just walk into the store and find the clock. Then, when no one’s
looking, I’ll turn the cuckoo around and fix the year.

I won’t have to worry about waking up tomorrow morning as a three-year-old or
something. My life will go back to normal.

Life will seem so easy, I told myself, when time is moving forward the way
it’s supposed to. Even
with
Tara around!

I gazed through the big plate-glass window of the shop. There it stood, right
in the window. The clock.

My palms began to sweat, I felt so excited.

I hurried to the shop door and turned the handle.

It wouldn’t move. I jiggled it harder.

The door was locked.

Then I noticed a sign, tucked in the bottom corner of the door.

It said, CLOSED FOR VACATION.

I let out a howl of frustration. “NOOO!” I cried. Tears sprang to my eyes.
“No! Not after all this.”

I banged my head against the door. I couldn’t stand it.

Closed for vacation.

How could I have such terrible luck?

How long was Anthony planning to be on vacation? I wondered. How long will
the shop be closed?

By the time it reopens, I could be a baby!

I gritted my teeth and thought, there’s no way I’m letting that happen. No
way!

I’ve got to do something.
Anything.

I pressed my nose against the shop window. The cuckoo clock was standing
there, two feet in front of me.

And I couldn’t get to it.

The window stood between me and that clock.

The window…

Normally, I would never think of doing what I decided to do at that moment.

But I was desperate. I had to reach that clock.

It really was a matter of life and death!

I strolled down the block to the construction site, trying to look casual.
Trying not to look like a kid who was planning to break a shop window.

I stuffed my hands in the pockets of my cowboy jeans and whistled. I was sort
of grateful to be wearing this stupid cowboy outfit after all. It made me look
innocent.

Who would suspect a seven-year-old in a cowboy suit of trying to break into
an antique shop?

I kicked around a little dirt at the construction site. Kicked a few rocks.
Nobody seemed to be working there.

Slowly I made my way over to a pile of bricks. I glanced around to see if
anybody saw me.

The coast was clear.

I picked up a brick and hefted it in my hand. It was very heavy. It wouldn’t
be easy for me, in my little second-grade body, to throw it far.

But I didn’t have to throw it far. Just through the window.

I tried stuffing the brick in my pants pocket, but it was too big. So I
carried it in both hands back to the shop.

I tried to look as if it were perfectly normal for a boy to be carrying a
brick down the street.

A few adults quickly passed by. No one gave me a second glance.

I stood in front of the shiny plate-glass window, weighing the brick in my
hand. I wondered if a burglar alarm would go off when I broke the window.

Would I be arrested?

Maybe it wouldn’t matter. If I made time go to the present, I’d escape the
police.

Be brave, I told myself. Go for it!

With both hands, I raised the brick over my head…

…and someone grabbed me from behind.

“Help!” I shouted. I spun around. “Dad!”

“Michael, what are you doing here?” Dad demanded. “Are you by yourself?”

I let the brick fall to the sidewalk. He didn’t seem to see it.

“I—I wanted to surprise you,” I lied. “I wanted to come visit you after
school.”

He stared at me as if he didn’t quite understand. So I added, for good
measure, “I missed you, Daddy.”

He smiled. “You missed me?” He was touched. I could tell.

“How did you get here?” he asked. “On the bus?”

I nodded.

“You know you’re not allowed to ride the bus by yourself,” he said. But he
didn’t sound angry. I knew that line about missing him would soften him up.

Meanwhile, I still had the same major problem—getting my hands on the
cuckoo clock.

Could Dad help me? Would he? I was willing to try anything. “Dad,” I said,
“that clock—”

Dad put his arm around me. “Isn’t it a beauty? I’ve been admiring it for
years.”

“Dad, I’ve got to get to the clock,” I insisted. “It’s very, very important!
Do you know when the store will open again? We’ve got to get that clock
somehow!”

Dad misunderstood me. He patted me on the head and said, “I know how you
feel, Michael. I wish I could have the clock right now. But I can’t afford it.
Maybe some day…”

He pulled me away from the shop. “Come on—let’s go home. I wonder what’s
for supper tonight?”

I didn’t say another word all the way home in the car. All I could think
about was the clock—and what would happen to me next.

How old will I be when I wake up tomorrow? I wondered.

Or how young?

When I opened my eyes the next morning, everything had changed.

The walls were painted baby blue. The bedspread and the curtains matched. The
material was printed with bouncing kangaroos. On one wall hung a needlepoint
picture of a cow.

It wasn’t my room, but it looked familiar.

Then I felt a lump in the bed. I reached under the kangaroo covers and pulled
out Harold, my old teddy bear.

I slowly understood. I was back in my old bedroom.

How had I ended up there? It was Tara’s room now.

I jumped out of bed. I was wearing Smurf pajamas.

I swear I don’t remember ever liking Smurfs that much.

I ran to the bathroom to look in the mirror.

How old was I now?

I couldn’t tell. I had to stand on the toilet seat to see my face.

A bad sign.

Yikes. I looked about five years old!

I hopped off the toilet seat and hurried downstairs.

“Hello, Mikey,” Mom said, squeezing me and giving me a big kiss.

“Hi, Mommy,” I said. I couldn’t believe how babyish my voice sounded.

Dad sat at the kitchen table, drinking coffee. He put down his mug and held
out his arms. “Come give Daddy a good morning kiss,” he said.

I sighed and forced myself to run into his arms and kiss him on the cheek.
I’d forgotten how many stupid things little kids have to put up with.

I ran out of the kitchen on my little five-year-old legs, through the living
room, into the den, and back to the kitchen. Something was missing.

No, someone was missing.

Tara.

“Sit still for a minute, sweetie,” Mom said, scooping me up and plopping me
into a chair. “Want some cereal?”

“Where’s Tara?” I demanded.

“Who?” Mom replied.

“Tara,” I repeated.

Mom glanced at Dad. Dad shrugged.

“You know,” I persisted. “My little sister.”

Mom smiled. “Oh,
Tara
,” she said, seeming to understand at last.

She glanced at Dad and mouthed, “Invisible friend.”

“Huh?” Dad said out loud. “He has an invisible friend?”

Mom frowned at him and gave me a bowl of cereal. “What does your friend Tara
look like, Mikey?”

I didn’t answer her. I was too shocked to speak.

They don’t know who I’m talking about! I realized.

Tara doesn’t exist. She hasn’t been born yet!

For a brief moment, I felt a thrill. No Tara! I could go through this whole
day without ever seeing, hearing, or smelling Tara the Terrible! How totally
awesome!

But then the real meaning of this sank in.

One Webster kid had disappeared.

I was next.

After I’d finished my cereal, Mom took me upstairs to get dressed. She put on
my shirt and pants and socks and shoes. She didn’t tie the shoes, though.

“Okay, Mikey,” she said. “Let’s practice tying your shoes. Remember how we
did it yesterday?”

She took my shoelaces in her fingers and, as she tied them, chanted, “The bunny hops
around
the tree and ducks
under
the bush. Remember?”

She sat back to watch me try to tie my other shoe. I could tell by the look
on her face she didn’t expect me to get very far.

I bent over and easily tied the shoe. I didn’t have time to fool around with
this stuff.

Mom stared at me in amazement.

“Come on, Mom, let’s get going,” I said, straightening up.

“Mikey!” Mom cried. “You did it! You tied your shoe for the first time!” She
grabbed me and hugged me hard. “Wait till I tell Daddy!”

I followed her downstairs, rolling my eyes.

So I tied my shoe. Big deal!

“Honey!” Mom called. “Mikey tied his shoe—all by himself!”