Still, Ford refuses to budge, so Marla takes her nails and heartlessly scratches his face, a maneuver she often uses when words no longer work.
Ford grabs his face and yelps in pain. Then he takes his foot away from the door.
“Fine,” says Ford. “Go see the future. I hope you materialize right in the middle of a nuclear war!” With that, he storms to the stairs.
Good riddance, thinks Marla. Maybe she ought to travel fifty years into the future, just so she can find Ford as a shriveled old man and laugh in his wrinkled face.
Marla bends down and crawls into the root cellar.
At the top of the basement stairs, the truth finally strikes Buford Planet with such fury that it nearly knocks him down the stairs. If Marla uses that machine, her future won’t be nuclear war. It’ll be far, far from it.
“No!” he screams, and races back down the stairs.
In the root cellar, Marla turns the knob to One Year. One year is a good first trip. After that, who knows? Decades! Maybe centuries! At last she’ll be free to travel to whatever time and place she feels she belongs. The Queen of Time. She likes the sound of that.
Ford crawls into the root cellar, out of breath.
“Marla, don’t!” he screams.
“Get lost!” she shrieks back.
“But I figured it out!”
“Good. Does the machine work?”
“Yes, it does, but—”
“That’s all I need to know!” Marla flips the switch and leaps into the silver chair. “See you next year!” she calls.
“Noooooooooo!”
But Marla never gets to see the horror in Ford’s eyes. Instead she sees a flash of light and is struck by a shock of pain as she is propelled exactly one year into the future, in this, the most exciting moment of her life.
In an instant she understands it all—and it is much worse than diving into an empty pool. Now she knows what Ford has been trying so desperately to tell her, because she is now very, very cold.
And she is floating.
Ford was right: the machine works all too well. She has traveled one year forward in time.
But she isn’t the center of the universe.
And neither is the earth.
Suddenly she remembers that the earth revolves around the sun, and the sun revolves around the center of the galaxy, and the galaxies are flying apart at millions of miles per hour. Everything in the universe has been moving, except for Marla Nixbok. Marla has appeared in the exactlocation in space that she had been in one year ago. . .
But the Earth has long since moved on.
Even the sun is gone—just one among many distant stars. Now she knows exactly why Wilmington and Buffy the bear can never come back. And as her last breath is sucked out of her lungs by the void of space, Marla Nixbok finally gets what she has always wanted: a crystal-clear vision of her own future. Now, and forever.
THE RIVER TOUR
Just this year I spent some time speaking at schools in San Antonio, Texas—one of my favorite cities. Downtown, they have an area called the Riverwalk. The San Antonio River meanders between the streets—it’s kind of like the American version of Venice. There are restaurants and hotels lining the Riverwalk, and there’s a boat tour that points out historical sights. I sat at a Riverwalk café, and wrote this story about a river tour that is similar, and yet decidedly different.
THE RIVER TOUR
Welcome to the river tour! My name is Sharon, and I’ll be your guide. Please, no pushing—there’s room on the barge for everyone. Son, please stay away from the steering wheel. Thank you. Oh, and please, no eating or drinking on the barge. Take your seats and we can be off.
Our river tour began long before anyone can actually remember, and is one of the favorite tourist attractions in our fine city. You’ll see trendy restaurants and open-air cafés up and down the river for miles—but for the best ones you’ll need reservations. Ah yes, the sounds and smells of life. Garlic and barbecue, laughter and song. So seductive. So tantalizing. It makes you want to jump and swim to shore, doesn’t it? Well you can’t, it’s against the rules—so don’t even try.
Now then—on our right side you’ll notice that tree. A big one, isn’t it? See how the roots are pushing up the path. It’s hundreds of years old, and its boughs are massive—they almost reach right across the river, don’t they? Back in the old days, it was called “The Hanging Tree.” That’s right—391 men were hanged from that tree. Criminals, of course. They say that their bodies were carried by barge downriver, to be buried. In fact, I believe it was this very barge that took them. I remember it like it was yesterday. Uh . . . that is to say . . . I remember the first time I heard the story like it was yesterday.
To our left we’re coming up on a landmark building. Do you see—the one with gargoyles on the roof? That’s the Woe-begone Hotel, where Angus O’Malley and his bride jumped to their deaths on the evening of their wedding.They landed right in the river. Well . . . not exactly inthe river—they landed on a passing barge. Very messy. Ma’am, would you like me to take that picture for you so you and your husband can both be in it? Yes, I agree—this is a wonderful picture spot. And you look so lovely in that wedding dress.
Now we’re coming up on the Moribund Fireworks Factory, or what’s left of it. It went up in flames, and all that remains are the ruins you see here today. Fortunately it was during the middle of the night, so the only person killed was the unlucky security guard who was on duty. Uh . . . sir . . . sir—you there in the uniform—could you please stop crying, you’re upsetting the other passengers.
If you’ll look ahead of us, we’re about to pass under the Crossriver Bridge—also known as the “Crossfire Bridge.” This is the infamous spot where ruthless mob boss “Joey the Weevil” was gunned down by FBI agents—and if you look closely you can still see the bullet holes where—Sir! Sir!Yes, you sir, in the double-breasted pinstripe suit, I must insist that you sit down. Standing makes the boat unstable, and you could fall into the water. Believe me, you don’t want to fall into these waters. I could tell you stories.
Now, around the next bend, you’ll see up on the riverbank an ambulance, right at the edge of the road, right next to a truck with a badly dented grille. That’s the spot where you attempted to cross the street. Yes, you. Don’t turn around—I’m not talking to the person behind you, I’m talking to you. As I was saying, that’s where you tried to cross the street just a few minutes before you got in line for the river tour.
As I recall, your mother always told you to look both ways when you crossed. You really should have listened to her. Off our starboard side, you’ll notice there’s a running shoe floating in the water. Nike, I believe. Yes, that’s right, it’s yours. That truck was moving at seventy miles an hour, after all. No surprise that your shoe ended up all the way over here.
What was that? No, I’m afraid you can’t get off the boat here. That’s strictly forbidden, and besides, we’ve still got a long way to go. Which reminds me—I do believe you haven’t yet paid me for the tour. What’s that you say? You don’t have any money? Oh, I think you do. If you’ll just check your eyelids, you’ll find a coin on each one. They are your payment for passage. After all, you can’t take a river trip without paying the ferryman, can you?
And now, as we leave the lights of our fine city behind and begin the final, less well-lit part of our journey, please feel free to lean back, relax, and rest in peace. I thank you for taking the river tour. My name is Charon, your ferryman on the river Styx, and it’s been a pleasure to serve you.
FLUSHIE
My parents used to live on the twenty-seventh floor of a thirty-one-story apartment building in Manhattan. The top floor was a sports club, with a pool that was almost the length of the entire floor. At the deep end, the pool ended right at a huge window. You could tread water in the deep end and look out the window at an amazing view. One day while doing just that, I came up with this, probably one of my darkest stories.
FLUSHIE
Duncan held his breath.
He always held his breath, and he had gotten quite good at it. But not good enough.
“I coulda had a C!” growled Brett Duggan when the assault began. “I needed a C on this test—I told you that!”
Duncan had squirmed and fought against Brett and Nate’s powerful grip, but then Charlie had joined in.
“Hold him!” yelled Nate, his voice echoing in the tiled bathroom.
It hadn’t taken the three of them long to push Duncan to his knees.
“All you had to do, Duncan, was get a B,” said Brett, pretending to be calm. “You know what a B is, don’t you? Anything less than ninety percent! But does Duncan Goldwater get a B? No. You get a hundred and four! Like, how does someone get a hundred and four?”
“Extra credit!” Duncan screamed defiantly. He knew the answers to all the questions on that boneheaded math test, and no one was going to force him to lower his grade on purpose. It wasn’t his fault the teacher had graded on a curve. True, if Duncan hadn’t been in the class the curve would have made Brett’s miserable 67 a C-minus instead of a D. But it wasn’t Duncan’s job to make sure morons like Brett Duggan, Nate Carver, and Charlie Mintz passed math, or science, or English.
With Duncan’s head hovering over the toilet, he was completely at their mercy, and the ritual began—a ritual that was passed on from grade to grade—a ritual that kept the bullies in charge—and Brett, Nate, and Charlie were really good at being bullies. Duncan suspected it was the only thing they were good at.
It happened like it always happened. And Duncan held his breath.
Brett gave Nate a thumbs-up and yelled, “Flush!”
Nate lifted his foot and stomped down on the shiny metal lever.
Grrissshh!Water gushed in Duncan’s face like a great flood —not from a tank, but straight from the water pipes built into the walls of the old school bathroom. The newer restroom in the science wing had more water-efficient toilets, but when you needed to deliver someone a really good flush, the first-floor boys room was the best place to do it.
“Flush!” ordered Brett.
Grrissshh!
The water swirled around Duncan’s head—colder this time, coming from deeper in the pipes. Duncan could no longer hold his breath. He opened his mouth to take a gasp of air, but mostly he got a mouthful of water. It was the same lousy-tasting water that bubbled out of the faucet and water fountains around school, but telling himself that didn’t make Duncan feel any better.
“Flush!” commanded Brett. Nate stomped on the lever a third time.
Grrissshh!
The water exploded in his face again, and at last the three flushmasters were satisfied. The water found its level in the bowl, and Brett lifted Duncan’s head from the toilet by his sopping-wet hair. Humiliated, Duncan stumbled to a dusty corner of the bathroom and slid to the floor like a rag doll.
At fourteen, Duncan still felt like crying whenever they flushed him, but he held the tears back. Crying was what they wanted. From the time he was six, his classmates wanted to see him break. He could not give in.
“I’m really tired of you, Flushie,” said Brett, kicking the toilet seat down for emphasis. The mighty porcelain bang was still echoing when he stormed out. Charlie followed him, laughing, but Nate lingered at the door.
“Duncan,” he said, “you’re such a waste of life.” And then he was gone, letting the door squeak closed behind him.
Duncan knew how he must have looked, crumpled there in the corner of the bathroom, wet from his shirt pocket up. Pathetic.
But I’m not pathetic!his inner voice screamed. They make me look this way! They make me feel this way!
What was the use? Duncan cradled his head in his hands. He wasn’t the only A student in school; there were lots of others. Maybe the walking brain-dead like Brett grumbled about the smarter kids behind their backs, but those other smart kids were respected. They were well-liked by everyone, and none of them—none of them—ever got the flush.
That honor was reserved for one boy alone: Duncan Goldwater.
Why me?Duncan would always wonder . . . but he was smart enough to know why.
It was because he was Flushie. He had always been Flushie. If he were a D student, he would stillbe Flushie. There would always be a reason to give him the old swirling shampoo, because from the first day that he let them overpower him, that’s who he’d become. There were kids in school who didn’t even know him by any other name. Just Flushie.
The door creaked open. And the humiliation continued, only now it had a different face.
It was Sandra Martell.
He didn’t want her to see him this way. He didn’t want anyone to see him this way, especially not her.
She stepped in slowly and gingerly, as if the white floor tiles were eggshells—as if the floor of the boys’ room were filled with invisible mines that only a girl could set off.
Duncan stood up immediately. His shoes slipped on the wet floor, but he recovered quickly, grasping onto an old radiator coil.
Sandra stood a few feet away, not saying anything yet, so Duncan said something. Something stupid.
“This is the boys’ room,” he offered, and deep in his mind the little guy who ran things bashed his moronic A-plus brain with a hammer for being so dumb.
“I know,” said Sandra. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah,” said Duncan. “No problem.”
Sandra still kept her distance. Duncan tried to remember if she had ever been one of the flushers before. Had she ever been there watching and laughing like so many others did—others who Duncan thought were friends? Well, maybe she had been one of them before, but she wasn’t laughing now, and that was something.
“Brett, Nate, and Charlie . . . they can be such creeps,” she said.
“Brett, Nate, and Charlie,” echoed Duncan, “have the combined IQ of a soccer ball.”
Sandra laughed. “A flatsoccer ball.” She shrugged. “Still, they’re not all bad. They’re just jealous. I mean, remember at the science fair, how they smashed the electronics on your seeing-eye bicycle, because all they had were dumb things like baking-soda volcanoes? See—they’re mad, ’cause they can’t be as smart as you.”
Duncan shrugged, then mumbled, “Maybe.”
“And anyway,” said Sandra, “someday you’ll be designing supercomputers or something, and making lots of money. They’ll be lucky just to work for you, right?”
“I guess,” said Duncan.
“So you see, Flushie, it’s not so bad.”
“Duncan!” he said a little too loudly. “My name is Duncan.”
Sandra backed away a bit, grimacing at her mistake. “Sorry, Duncan. It’s just . . . I don’t know . . . we’ve all gotten used to the name. It’s just a nickname. It doesn’t mean anything. I’ll call you Duncan from now on.”
She said his name as if it were a foreign word, heavy and hard to push out.
For lack of a better idea, Duncan held out his hand for her to shake. “Thanks, Sandra,” he said. “Thanks for coming in and talking to me.”
She looked at his outstretched hand with silent dread. His hands were still wet from being flushed, so Duncan dried them on his pants, then held out his hand again. Sandra still wouldn’t shake it.
She took an uncomfortable step back. “I’ve never been in a boys’ room before,” she said. “I’d better go.”
She left much more quickly than she had come in, and Duncan dropped his arm.
Did she really care what happened to him, or was it just pity? Was he really that untouchable to a girl like Sandra? He had seen her dissect a frog in science class, and on a field trip he’d seen her dig for clams in briny muck up to her elbows. But his hands she would not touch.
Outside, the sound of feet heading to fourth period gave way to the second bell, and then silence.
In that silence Duncan thought about how he would get back at them. He would get back at all of them. There was no doubt of
that. The very thought made him feel much, much better.
Duncan got up and stood before the warped bathroom mirror. He pulled a comb from his pocket and combed his hair, determined to step out of the bathroom with some dignity.
Cheshire Tower stood majestically at the corner of Second Avenue and Eighty-fourth Street. Anywhere else on the planet its twenty-seven floors would have been impressive, but this was New York, so it was dwarfed by taller skyscrapers on three of its four sides.
Duncan’s apartment had never had a chance at a decent view, being on the second floor. “Your mother’s afraid of heights”—that was his father’s excuse for putting their home nose level with the diesel exhaust pipes that rumbled by on the street all day long. “You want a view?” his father would say. “Then go up to the pool on the roof.” But Duncan had better things to do today.
His pockets stuffed with allowance money he had been saving for weeks, Duncan left the building and turned up Eighty-fourth Street, where the beige bricks of Cheshire Tower gave way to the dark bricks of the old five-story low-rises that filled the rest of the street. Now that summer was just a week away, the pavement was teeming with activity. Duncan didn’t know any of these people; they were just faces he passed on his way to his school every day. But he knew about Eugene. Everybody knew about Eugene.
Eugene was only twelve but was almost ready to shave. He was nearly two years younger than Duncan, but his voice was already changing. Eugene was simply never born to be a kid.
As always, Eugene was out on his stoop as if he were waiting for something. He usually was.
“Do I know you?” he asked in a thick New York accent when he saw Duncan approach.
“You’re Eugene, right? You sell stuff, don’t you?”
“I don’t sell stuff,” said Eugene, looking around cautiously. “I sell items. You need an item?”
“I hear you got great fireworks—I need some for Fourth of July.”