Head Spinners, page 2
‘Dad!’ I cried.
The cup clattered to the table, a brown puddle spilling from it. Dad didn’t stop to clean it up. He turned in his seat and gasped. Then with one great spring he was out of the chair and hugging me.
Wow. Birthdays always make me feel loved.
Dad pulled out of the hug and cupped my face in his rough hands, looking into my eyes as if checking for clues to some mystery.
‘Rachel!’ he called, still peering at me. His voice was croaky, as if he’d stayed up late the night before.
Maybe he had been up late, because Mum appeared looking as if she’d slept in her clothes. The skin under her eyes was dark and baggy.
When she saw me she froze. Then her whole body quivered and she burst out crying, rushed to me and pressed my face into her shaking chest. I’d never seen Mum like that before.
It was around about then that I realised I’d made a huge mistake.
‘Where have you been?’ Dad asked.
Mum pulled out of the hug for a moment, as if checking it really was me, then grabbed me into her arms again.
I wasn’t sure what to say. Not that it was even easy to breathe let alone talk with the way Mum was squeezing my head.
Where had I been? It was an eerie feeling, now that I thought about it properly. My parents had been here, wondering where I was, while I’d been nowhere. Travelling straight from Wednesday . . . Slipping through time.
I’d been so keen to use the clock to get to my birthday that I hadn’t thought what it would be like for the people left to live through Thursday and Friday without me.
‘I’m sorry,’ I said into Mum’s shoulder. ‘I didn’t realise . . . See, I went to sleep and I just—’
‘He must have been drugged,’ Dad said over the top of me. ‘I’ll call the police.’
‘No! No, call the hospital first,’ said Mum.
Dad went for the phone while Mum made me lie down. What a great birthday.
It turned into the longest day of my life, but not in a good way. A doctor came, took samples of my blood and took them away for tests, then a special policewoman came to interview me. I went along with it all, telling them I was fine. I’d just gone to sleep and then woken up on Saturday. Not that anyone believed me.
Through it all, I couldn’t stop looking at Mum. I could see from the tightness around her eyes that she was living through her worst nightmare. It didn’t seem to matter that I was safe. Something about her had changed.
When I finally made it to the end of the day, I couldn’t set the alarm fast enough. Back to the Thursday that I’d skipped past: 24 aug. I double- and triple-checked that I’d set it right then gently placed the clock back in its spot. I didn’t want anything to go wrong with the trip backwards in time.
Tomorrow . . . well, last Thursday really, it would be as if the nightmare had never happened.
It wasn’t until then that I started to imagine all the other things that could have gone wrong with travelling into the future. What would have happened if I’d skipped ahead more than two days . . . like years ahead, to . . . I don’t know . . . 2095?
What if everyone had been vaccinated against some new disease that killed me as soon as I woke up? What if there had been a nuclear war and everything was radioactive? What if they’d built an airport where my house was and I got squashed!
Anything could be waiting for me in the future. Until I got there, how would I know?
When I woke up on Thursday morning, the first thing I did was look for Mum. She was in her bedroom, head tilted forwards so she could brush the back of her hair.
I smiled. It was so good to see her . . . well, see the back of her head anyway. ‘Hey, Mum! What’s the date today?’
‘Date?’ She flipped back her hair, and smiled the way she used to smile. The strange look in her eyes was gone.
‘Well . . .’ She began brushing again. ‘It’s two days before your birthday, Sam. Thursday the twenty-fourth.’
I wanted to grab her in a hug, but I just said, ‘Thanks, Mum!’ and headed back to my room. Everything was back to normal. Almost.
I switched off the clock, pulled out the batteries and crammed everything into my sock drawer. I had to pull out a few socks to make room.
No more time travel for me. Going back into the past was boring and sort of lonely. Going into the future was downright dangerous.
I slid the drawer shut and brushed my hands.
If only I’d left it there.
On Monday after maths, Mrs O’Connor called me over to her desk. I took my time, still floating on the memory of a weekend of surf.
My birthday, second time round, had turned out to be really good. Mum and Dad gave me a surfboard, though I was pretty sure Uncle Owen had helped choose it. It was a real beauty. So I spent the whole weekend down at The Point, catching waves with my two best friends. The conditions were pretty close to perfect. Now, that’s what I call a good birthday.
‘I’ve been looking over your marks for the year.’ Mrs O’Connor peered at her laptop as she spoke. ‘They’re a bit up and down, Sam. Do you know why that might be?’
I shrugged, though I did have an idea. My marks in maths were probably the exact opposite to the weather. Good weather the afternoon before a test meant time at the beach, and a bad mark in maths. That was, unless I’d seen the test already somehow . . .
Mrs O’Connor leaned back in her chair. ‘You know, Sam, you’re a smart kid . . .’ She trailed off and sighed. For a moment she just looked at me. ‘You remind me of your Uncle Owen, actually. I taught him too. Smart as a tack, but not willing to apply himself.’
I grinned and nodded, feeling proud. ‘Yeah, he’s really smart.’ Even Uncle Owen didn’t know just how smart he actually was.
Mrs O’Connor smiled. ‘Just promise me you’ll keep working, okay? That hundred per cent last week has really bumped up your average. It’s a pity you did so badly in the test before last. If it wasn’t for that, you’d be averaging over eighty.’
‘Alright, I promise. Thanks,’ I said, and walked out to lunch feeling weird and a bit of a fraud. I knew I’d sort of, by accident, cheated on the last test, but at least after going over it I really had understood the maths properly.
The way Mrs O’Connor had been speaking made me feel . . . I don’t know . . . it made me feel as if I really did have brains; as if I was a kid with a bright future. It made me want to work a bit harder at least.
My uncle was, after all, the inventor of a time machine. Who knew what I could do if I tried? Maybe I could be one of those people who did things. And I was a bit disappointed about my mark in maths. I could be averaging over eighty? If only I’d put in a bit of effort the test before last . . .
When I got home, I pulled the clock out of the drawer and stared at it.
I sure didn’t want to risk going into the future again. But going into the past hadn’t been all that bad. What if I went back two and a bit weeks to the test I’d messed up? It wasn’t as if anyone would think I’d disappeared. What could it hurt?
The biggest downside that I could see to the whole idea would be having to live without a surfboard all over again. But at least I knew I was going to get one for my birthday. And it kind of seemed like a smart plan, an investment in my own future. A chance to really be the bright kid Mrs O’Connor thought I was.
Carefully I slid the batteries in and pushed the button, smiling as the clock hummed back to life. For a few seconds, the humming increased as I guess it checked our location by GPS and set itself at the correct time. It was pretty cool to see it working again.
I tapped the alarm set button gently with the tip of my finger. Then I took a breath and cycled through all the days of the month until I came to tue 8 aug, the day of our last maths test.
I’d finally worked out how to use the time machine properly. Not for skipping boring bits of life, but for fixing things I’d messed up, like sprained ankles and maths test. There didn’t seem any harm in using it for that.
I left the clock beside my bed and grabbed my surfboard. One last surf, before I slipped back in time.
It was the strangest feeling, waking up two and a bit weeks in the past. It was more disconcerting than just going back a day. I’d been here before, and yet I couldn’t remember much. It all just seemed so . . . freakishly normal.
The first thing that spooked me was rolling over to find that my new clock was gone. Then I realised of course it wouldn’t be there. This was two weeks before Uncle Owen had given it to me.
Okay. I just had to wait until Uncle Owen turned up on the Tuesday morning before my birthday. I’d been through that morning enough times to know exactly what was going to happen. He’d have it wrapped in creased, white tissue paper, with a crooked bit of sticky tape . . .
I grabbed a piece of toast and an OJ. Then I hit the books. Even though I was two weeks in the past, I felt somehow fresh and new. Here I was, doing things the way they should have been done. I was still me, but a new improved version. Sam Take Two.
I couldn’t remember the maths test very well but I knew what kinds of sums were on it. I looked over the stuff we’d been doing in class and even found one problem that I was pretty certain I remembered from the test. So I made sure I knew that problem back-to-front as well as how to do the others.
Even before we got our marks back, I knew I’d done well. This time round I understood the maths properly, so I knew I’d answered most of them right.
‘Well done, Sam,’ said Mrs O’Connor as she handed back my test sheet.
‘Thanks.’ I was really pleased with my 92.5 per cent. It wasn’t a hundred, but it was pretty close.
The way Mrs O’Connor smiled at me then made me sure my plan was worth it.
After that, it was all just a matter of . . . well, living through the next two weeks. I was surprised how much stuff I’d forgotten. Sometimes I felt a bit of déjà vu but most of the time it was no different from normal life. After all, so many days are more or less the same as the day before. Get up. Go to school. Come home. For those two weeks, everything was pretty much life as usual, except with a couple of bad bits removed.
At one point I remembered cutting myself as I sliced through an orange. I could make sure that didn’t happen second time round. And I remembered being caught in a freak storm at the park one Saturday. So that was easy to avoid.
Another time Uncle Owen phoned to ask what I wanted for my birthday.
‘A clock!’ I said straight away. ‘You know, with an alarm that you can set for a different time each day of the week?’ I sure didn’t want to miss out on that present. Even though it had taken me a while how to work out how to use it properly, it was still the best gift I’d ever been given.
When finally I made it to the Tuesday before my birthday (for the fourth time), I was really excited. This time I was going to say a proper thanks to Uncle Owen for giving me such a great present. After all I was the new, improved Sam now.
I was dressed, fed and all ready to go when I heard the familiar click and creak of the back door opening.
‘Happy birthday, Squirt!’
‘Thanks, Uncle Owen, this is great!’ I smiled and took the package. It seemed to have been wrapped a bit neater this time, but he had still used the same creased, white tissue paper.
‘Do you want a quick coffee?’ asked Mum.
‘Nah thanks, Sis.’
I tore the wrapping away to find . . .
A box?
‘But . . .’ This wasn’t right. The box showed a picture of a clock radio and bullet points listing all the things it could do. I didn’t need to check whether time travel was one. ‘Hang on.’ I flipped the lid, hoping to find wires looped everywhere and buttons on the side.
But inside the box was a normal alarm clock that had come from a shop. It was neat, stylish and just that. A clock.
‘But . . . how . . .’ I spluttered. ‘I mean . . . You’re meant to make a clock.’
For a moment Uncle Owen stared at me. Then he raised his eyebrows and nodded. ‘Funny you should say that, Squirt, because I’ve been tinkering with an old clock for a while. But then you asked for one and I started thinking about what kind of clock you had in mind . . . so I decided to go shopping.’
Shopping! I couldn’t believe it.
‘What? Don’t you like it?’ asked Uncle Owen. ‘She’s a beauty.’
I could feel Mum frowning at me: remember your manners. But I was too time-travel-looped-out to worry about that. Somehow, by asking for a clock and not a surfboard, I’d set Uncle Owen on a train of thought that had stopped him from making my present . . . that had stopped him from making my time machine.
‘So, you’re still tinkering with the clock at home, aren’t you?’ I asked.
‘Yeah, well,’ Owen sighed. ‘No. Not really. Once I saw all the clocks at the shop, there didn’t seem much point. It’s amazing all the things that clocks can do these days.’ He shrugged. ‘If you don’t like this one we can swap it. Anything you want a clock to do, Squirt, we’ll be able to buy it.’
If only he knew! I thought quickly. ‘I was hoping . . . maybe . . . you could keep working on the one you were making,’ I said. ‘It would be good to have one that can check conditions at The Point . . . you know, with an alarm that goes off when the surf is good.’
Again, Owen stared at me, head tilted in surprise. Then his face broke into a massive grin. ‘Hey, great minds think alike! I’ve thought of that too. But I’m not sure it’s even possible, Squirt. I’d have to find a way to make it read the data at the weather station . . .’ He shrugged and stood up.
‘You can do it, Uncle Owen. I know you can.’
‘Maybe one day,’ he said and ruffled my hair.
This was a disaster. I wasn’t sure what else to say.
‘Have a good one on Saturday, Squirt,’ he said. ‘Sorry again that I can’t make it.’
‘Nah, that’s okay. Thanks,’ I said.
I watched him walk away, swallowing down a lump in my throat. Not from sadness exactly, more from frustration.
And extreme disappointment.
That was two years ago. We still don’t have a time machine.
Last year, I managed to talk Uncle Owen into making another clock, and I even helped him. I learnt a heap about electronics and programming. But even though the new clock looked the same, it didn’t work like the old one. I don’t know why. Maybe there was a piece missing. Or maybe, the first time round, Uncle Owen had had trouble programming it the way he wanted and thought up a creative solution that didn’t happen this time. I’ve done my head in thinking about it.
When I tried explaining to Uncle Owen what had happened he thought I was totally loopy, talking about a time machine that didn’t exist.
‘Time travel just isn’t possible, Squirt,’ he kept saying. ‘Not the way you’re describing it.’
Fair enough. Unless he’d seen the time machine work, he had no reason to believe it was possible.
I’ve given up on Uncle Owen’s clock, but I haven’t given up completely. I still don’t know how the time travel worked, but I lived through it so I know it’s possible. The missing piece or the creative solution . . . I know it’s out there, somewhere. And I’m going to find it.
I still go surfing, mostly on weekends. It helps me think. But I work really hard at school too. Mrs O’Connor can hardly believe it. I’m going to get good grades, then go to uni and learn as much as I can. Maybe I’ll never work out the secret to time travel, but I’m going to give it my best shot. I’ll spend my whole life trying if I need to.
Even though it doesn’t exist anymore, that time machine completely changed my future.
I first realised something strange was happening when the back of my arm began to tingle.
It was just one lump, about the size of a mosquito bite, halfway between my shoulder and my elbow. It didn’t feel sore or itchy the way a bite might feel, it tingled and was weirdly warm . . .
Maybe it will just go away, I thought, and chose a top with long sleeves to wear.
I had to wear a long-sleeved top the next day, too.
And the next.
For the rest of the week I wore long sleeves, because the lump on my arm didn’t go away. It grew bigger.
Whenever I had a moment alone, I rubbed my finger over the lump. Not because it hurt, but because it felt interesting to touch, like getting to know a fresh scar that stretches in weird ways when I move the skin.
Soon the lump stuck out from my arm the way a cheek does when a tongue pushes from the other side.
I was rubbing a finger over my windcheater at the bus stop when my friend Zoe frowned at me.
‘What are you doing?’ she asked.
‘Ah . . . nothing,’ I said, dropping my hand. Then I changed my mind. ‘Do you want to see something weird?’ I rolled up my sleeve.
‘Brooke!’ Zoe cried. ‘What is that?’
She peered close, frowning and tilting her head.
‘I don’t know,’ I said, peering over my shoulder trying to get a better look. ‘It just . . . started growing.’
‘Eww!’ said Zoe, and stepped back. ‘You should take that thing to a doctor.’
I pulled down my sleeve. ‘You think?’
Zoe nodded.
But I didn’t show the lump to a doctor. After that, I didn’t show it to anyone. I knew it looked weird, but I didn’t mind how it looked. I was fascinated by the way it felt. It wasn’t numb or sore. It was tingly in the mornings and warm at night. If I hadn’t known better, I would have sworn I could feel different parts forming inside it, like muscle and bone.
