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“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, neither,” 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 2050. The thin gold hand pointed to one of the numbers: 2015.
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 2050?” Tara asked.
Dad shrugged. “I don’t know. I guess the clockmaker couldn’t imagine the year 2050 would ever c
ome. Or maybe he figured the clock wouldn’t last that long.”
“Maybe he thought the world would end in 2049,” 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 computer.”
“Can’t you do it up in your room?” Dad asked.
“I need the Internet.”
Dad sighed. “Okay, I guess you can’t. Well, all right. You can use the den tonight.”
“I need to use the computer, 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 computer, 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.
Mom and Dad were still in the kitchen, cleaning up after dinner. I didn’t think it would matter if I just looked at the clock a little.
Careful not to touch any buttons, I stared at the dial that showed the year. I ran my fingers along a curve of silver at the edge of the clock. I glanced at the little door over the face of the clock. I knew the cuckoo sat behind that door, waiting to leap out at the right time.
I didn’t want to be surprised by the bird again. I checked the time. Five minutes to eight.
Under the face of the clock I saw another door. A big door. I touched its gold knob.
What’s behind this door? I wondered. Maybe the gears of the clock, or a pendulum.
I glanced over my shoulder again. No one was looking. No problem if I just peeked behind that big clock door.
I tugged on the gold knob. The door stuck. I pulled harder.
The door flew open.
I let out a scream as an ugly green monster burst out of the clock. It grabbed me and knocked me to the floor.
“Mom! Dad! Help!” I shrieked.
The monster raised its long claws over me. I covered my face, waiting to be slashed.
“Goochy goochy goo!” The monster giggled and tickled me with its claws.
I opened my eyes. Tara! Tara in her old Halloween costume!
She rolled on the floor, giggling. “You’re so easy to scare!” she shouted. “You should have seen your face when I jumped out of the clock!”
“It’s not funny!” I cried. “It’s —”
Gong.
Cuckoo, cuckoo, cuckoo, cuckoo!
The bird popped out of the clock and started cuckooing. Okay, I admit it scared me again. But did Tara have to clutch her sides, laughing at me that way?
“What’s going on in here?” Dad stood in the doorway, glaring down at us.
He pointed at the clock. “What’s that door doing open
? Michael, I told you to stay away from the clock!”
“ME?” I cried.
“He was trying to catch the cuckoo,” Tara lied.
“I thought so,” Dad said.
“Dad, that’s not true! Tara’s the one who —”
“Enough of that, Michael. I’m sick of hearing you blame Tara every time you do something wrong. Maybe your mother is right. Maybe I have been encouraging your imagination a little too much.”
“That’s not fair!” I yelled. “I don’t have any imagination! I never make anything up!”
“Dad, he’s lying,” Tara said. “I came in here and saw him playing with the clock. I tried to stop him.”
Dad nodded, swallowing every word his precious Tara said.
There was nothing I could do. I stormed off to my room and slammed the door.
Tara was the biggest pain in the world, and she never got blamed for anything. She even ruined my birthday.
* * *
I turned twelve three days ago. Usually, people like their birthday. It’s supposed to be fun, right?
Not for me. Tara made sure my birthday was the worst day of my life. Or at least one of the worst.
First, she ruined my present.
I could tell my parents were very excited about this present. My mother kept hopping around like a chicken, saying, “Don’t go in the garage, Michael! Whatever you do, don’t go in the garage!”
I knew she’d hidden my present in there. But just to torture her, I asked, “Why not? Why can’t I go in the garage? The lock on my bedroom door is broken, and I need to borrow one of Dad’s tools….”
“No, no!” Mom exclaimed. “Tell your father to fix the lock. He’ll get the tools. You can’t go in there, because … well … there’s a huge mound of trash in there. It really stinks. It smells so bad, you could get sick from it!”
Sad, isn’t it? And she thinks I get my “imagination” from Dad!
“All right, Mom,” I promised. “I won’t go in the garage.”
And I didn’t — even though the lock on my door really was broken. I didn’t want to spoil whatever surprise they had cooked up.
They were throwing me a big birthday party that afternoon. A bunch of kids from school were coming over. Mom baked a cake and made snacks for the party. Dad ran around the house, setting up chairs and hanging crepe paper.
“Dad, would you mind fixing the lock on my door?” I asked.