28 - The Cuckoo Clock of Doom (7 page)

“Hey!” Dad cried happily. He held up one hand so I could slap him five.
“That’s my big boy!”

This time I saw him mouth to Mom: “Took him long enough!”

I was too worried to be insulted.

Mom walked me to kindergarten. She told my teacher that I’d learned to tie my
shoe. Big excitement all around.

I had to sit around that stupid kindergarten all morning, finger-painting,
and singing the ABC song.

I knew I had to get back to that antique store. It was all I could think
about.

I’ve
got
to change that cuckoo clock, I thought desperately. Who
knows? Tomorrow I might not know how to walk.

But how would I get there? It had been hard enough to get downtown as a
second-grader. As a kindergartner, it would be nearly impossible.

And, besides, even if I could get on the bus without anybody asking
questions, I didn’t have any money with me.

I glanced at the teacher’s purse. Maybe I could steal a couple of quarters
from her. She’d probably never know.

But if she caught me, I’d be in really big trouble. And I had enough trouble
now.

I decided to sneak on to the bus somehow. I knew I could find a way.

When the kindergarten torture was finally over for the day, I raced out of
the building to catch the bus—

—and bumped smack into Mom.

“Hi, Mikey,” she said. “Did you have a nice day?”

I forgot that she picked me up every day from kindergarten.

She took my hand in her iron grip. There was no escape.

At least I’m here, I thought when I woke up the next morning. At least I’m
still alive.

But I’m four years old.

Time is running out.

Mom waltzed into my room, singing, “Good morning to you, good morning to you,
good morning dear Mikey, good morning to you! Ready for nursery school?”

Yuck. Nursery school.

Things kept getting worse and worse.

I couldn’t take it anymore. Mom dropped me off at nursery school with a kiss
and her usual, “Have a nice day, Mikey!”

I stalked to the nearest corner and sat. I watched the other little kids
play. I refused to do anything. No singing. No painting. No sandbox. No games
for me.

“Michael, what’s the matter with you today?” the teacher, Ms. Sarton, asked. “Don’t you feel well?”

“I feel okay,” I told her.

“Well, then, why aren’t you playing?” She studied me for a minute, then
added, “I think you need to play.”

Without asking my permission or anything, she picked me up, carried me
outside, and dumped me in the sandbox.

“Mona will play with you,” she said brightly.

Mona was very cute when she was four. Why didn’t I remember that?

Mona didn’t say anything to me. She concentrated on the sand igloo she was
building—at least I
think
it was supposed to be an igloo. It was round,
anyway. I started to say hi to her, but suddenly felt shy.

Then I caught myself. Why should I feel bashful with a four-year-old girl?

Anyway, I reasoned, she hasn’t seen me in my underwear yet. That won’t happen
for another eight years.

“Hi, Mona,” I said. I cringed when I heard the babyish nursery school voice
that came out of my mouth. But everyone else seemed to be used to it.

Mona turned up her nose. “Eeew,” she sniffed. “A boy. I hate boys.”

“Well,” I squeaked in my little boy voice, “if that’s the way you feel,
forget I said anything.”

Mona stared at me now, as if she didn’t quite understand what I had said.

“You’re stupid,” she said.

I shrugged and began to draw swirls in the sand with my chubby little finger.
Mona dug a moat around her sand igloo. Then she stood up. “Don’t let anybody
smash my sand castle,” she ordered.

So it wasn’t an igloo. Guess I was wrong.

“Okay,” I agreed.

She toddled away. A few minutes later she returned, carrying a bucket.

She carefully poured a little water into her sand castle moat. She dumped the
rest on my head.

“Stupid boy!” she squealed, running away.

I rose and shook my wet head like a dog. I felt a strange urge to burst into
tears and run to the teacher for help, but I fought it.

Mona stood a few yards away from me, ready to run.
“Nyah nyah!”
she
taunted. “Come and get me, Mikey!”

I pushed my wet hair out of my face and stared at Mona.

“You can’t catch me!” she called.

What could I do? I had to chase after her.

I began to run. Mona screamed and raced to a tree by the playground fence.
Another girl stood there. Was that Ceecee?

She wore thick glasses with pink rims, and underneath, a pink eyepatch.

I’d forgotten about that eyepatch. She’d had to wear it until halfway through
first grade.

Mona screamed again and clutched at Ceecee. Ceecee clutched her back and
screamed, too.

I stopped in front of the tree. “Don’t worry. I won’t hurt you,” I assured
them.

“Yes you will!” Mona squealed. “Help!”

I sat down on the grass to prove I didn’t want to hurt them.

“He’s hurting us! He’s hurting us!” the girls shouted. They unclutched their
hands and jumped on top of me.

“Ow!” I cried.

“Hold his arms!” Mona ordered. Ceecee obeyed. Mona started tickling me under
the arms.

“Stop it!” I begged. It was torture. “Stop it!”

“No!” Mona cried. “That’s what you get for trying to catch us!”

“I… didn’t…” I had trouble getting the words out while she tickled
me. “I didn’t… try to…”

“Yes you did!” Mona insisted.

I’d forgotten that Mona used to be so bossy. It made me think twice. If I
ever make it back to my real age, I thought, maybe I won’t like Mona so much
anymore.

“Please stop,” I begged again.

“I’ll stop,” Mona said. “But only if you promise something.”

“What?”

“You have to climb that tree.” She pointed to the tree by the fence. “Okay?”

I stared at the tree. Climbing it wouldn’t be such a big deal. “Okay,” I
agreed. “Just get off me!”

Mona stood up. Ceecee let go of my arms.

I climbed to my feet and brushed the grass off my pants.

“You’re scared,” Mona taunted.

“I am not!” I replied. What a brat! She was almost as bad as Tara!

Now Mona and Ceecee chanted, “Mikey is scared. Mikey is scared.”

I ignored them. I grabbed the lowest branch of the tree and hauled myself up.
It was harder than I thought it would be. My four-year-old body wasn’t very
athletic.

“Mikey is scared. Mikey is scared.”

“Shut up!” I yelled down at them. “Can’t you see that I’m climbing the stupid
tree? It doesn’t make sense to tease me about being scared.”

They both gave me that blank look Mona had given me before. As if they didn’t
understand what I was saying.

“Mikey is scared,” they chanted again.

I sighed and kept climbing. My hands were so small, it was hard to grip the branches. One of my feet slipped.

Then a terrible thought popped into my head.

Wait a minute.

I shouldn’t be doing this.

Isn’t nursery school the year I broke my arm?

YEEEEOOOOOOWWWWW!

Morning again.

I yawned and opened my eyes. I shook my left arm, the one I broke climbing
that stupid tree the day before.

The arm felt fine. Perfectly normal. Completely healed.

I must have gone back in time again, I thought. That’s the good part about
this messed-up time thing: I didn’t have to wait for my arm to heal.

I wondered how far back I went.

The sun poured in through the window of Tara’s—or my—room. It cast a
weird shadow across my face: a striped shadow.

I tried to roll out of bed. My body slammed against something.

What was that? I rolled back to look.

Bars!

I was surrounded by bars! Was I in jail?

I tried to sit up so I could see better. It wasn’t as easy as usual. My stomach muscles seemed to have grown weak.

At last I managed to sit up and look around.

I wasn’t in jail. I was in a crib!

Crumpled up beside me was my old yellow blankie with the embroidered duck on
it. I sat beside a small pile of stuffed animals. I was wearing a tiny white
undershirt, and—

Oh, no.

I shut my eyes in horror.

It can’t be. Please don’t let it be true! I prayed.

I opened my eyes and checked to see if my prayer had come true.

It hadn’t.

I was wearing diapers.

Diapers!

How young am I now? How far back in time did I go? I wondered.

“Are you awake, Mikey?”

Mom came into the room. She looked pretty young. I didn’t remember ever
seeing her this young before.

“Did you get lots of sleep, sweetie pie?” Mom asked. She clearly expected no
answer from me. Instead, she shoved a bottle of juice into my mouth.

Yuck! A bottle!

I pulled it out of my mouth and clumsily threw it down.

Mom picked it up. “No, no,” she said patiently. “Bad little Mikey. Drink your
bottle now. Come on.”

She slid it back into my mouth. I
was
thirsty, so I drank the juice.
Drinking from a bottle wasn’t that bad, once you got used to it.

Mom left the room. I let the bottle drop.

I had to know how old I was. I had to find out how much time I had left.

I grabbed the bars of the crib and pulled myself to my feet.

Okay, I thought. I can stand.

I took a step. I couldn’t control my leg muscles very well. I toddled around
the crib.

I can walk, I realized. Unsteadily, but at least I can walk.

I must be about one year old!

I fell just then and banged my head against the side of the crib. Tears
welled in my eyes. I started wailing, bawling.

Mom ran into the room. “What’s the matter, Mikey? What happened?”

She picked me up and started patting me on the back.

I couldn’t stop crying. It was really embarrassing.

What am I going to do? I thought desperately. In one night, I went back in
time three years!

I’m only one year old now. How old will I be tomorrow?

A little shiver ran down my tiny spine.

I’ve got to find a way to make time go forward again—today! I told myself.

But what can I do?

I’m not even in nursery school anymore.

I’m a baby!

Mom said we were going out. She wanted to dress me. Then she uttered the
dreaded words.

“I bet I know what’s bothering you, Mikey. You probably need your diaper
changed.”

“No!” I cried. “No!”

“Oh, yes you do, Mikey. Come on…”

I don’t like to think about what happened after that. I’d rather block it out
of my memory.

I’m sure you understand.

When the worst was over, Mom plopped me down in a playpen—more bars—while
she bustled around the house.

I shook a rattle. I batted at a mobile hanging over my head. I watched it
spin around.

I pressed buttons on a plastic toy. Different noises came out when I pressed
different buttons. A squeak. A honk. A moo.

I was bored out of my mind.

Then Mom picked me up again. She bundled me into a warm sweater and a dopey little knit cap. Baby blue.

“Want to see Daddy?” she cooed at me. “Want to see Daddy and go shopping?”

“Da-da,” I replied.

I’d planned to say, “If you don’t take me to Anthony’s Antiques, I’ll throw
myself out of my crib and crack my head open.”

But I couldn’t talk. It was so frustrating!

Mom carried me out to the car. She strapped me into a baby seat in the back.
I tried to say, “Not so tight, Mom!” It came out, “No no no no no!”

“Don’t give me a hard time now, Mikey,” Mom said sharply. “I know you don’t
like your car seat, but it’s the law.” She gave the strap an extra tug.

Then she drove into town.

At least there’s a chance, I thought. If we’re going to meet Dad, we’ll be
near the antique store. Maybe, just maybe.

Mom parked the car outside Dad’s office building. She unstrapped me from the
car seat.

I could move again. But not for long. She pulled a stroller out of the trunk,
unfolded it, and strapped me in.

Being a baby really is like being a prisoner, I thought as she wheeled me
across the sidewalk. I never realized how awful it is!

It was lunchtime. A stream of workers flowed out of the office building. Dad appeared and gave Mom a kiss.

He squatted down to tickle me under the chin. “There’s my little boy!” he
said.

“Can you say hi to your daddy?” Mom prompted me.

“Hi, Da-da,” I gurgled.

“Hi, Mikey,” Dad said fondly. But when he stood up, he spoke quietly to Mom,
as if I couldn’t hear. “Shouldn’t he being saying more words by now, honey? Ted
Jackson’s kid is Mikey’s age, and he can say whole sentences. He can say
‘lightbulb’, and ‘kitchen’, and ‘I want my teddy bear.’”

“Don’t start that again,” Mom whispered angrily. “Mikey is
not
slow.”

I squirmed in my stroller, fuming. Slow! Who said I was slow?

“I didn’t say he was slow, honey,” Dad went on. “I only said—”

“Yes you did,” Mom insisted. “Yes you did! The other night, when he stuffed
those peas up his nose, you said you thought we should have him tested!”

I stuffed peas up my nose? I shuddered.

Sure, stuffing peas up your nose is stupid. But I was only a baby. Wasn’t Dad
getting carried away?

I thought so.

I wished I could tell them I would turn out all right—at least up to the age of twelve. I mean, I’m no genius, but I get
mostly A’s and B’s.

“Can we discuss this later?” Dad said. “I’ve only got an hour for lunch. If
we’re going to find a dining room table, we’d better get moving.”

“
You
brought it up,” Mom sniffed. She wheeled the stroller smartly
around and began to cross the street. Dad followed us.