28 - The Cuckoo Clock of Doom (8 page)

I let my eyes rove along the storefronts across the street. An apartment
building. A pawnshop. A coffee shop.

Then I found what I was looking for: Anthony’s Antiques and Stuff.

My heart leaped. The store still existed! I kept my eyes glued to that sign.

Please take me in there, Mom, I silently prayed. Please please please!

Mom steered me down the street. Past the apartment building. Past the
pawnshop. Past the coffee shop.

We stopped in front of Anthony’s. Dad stood in front of the window, hands in
his pockets, gazing through the glass. Mom and I pulled up beside him.

I couldn’t believe it. Finally, after all this time—some good luck!

I stared through the window, searching for it.

The clock.

The window display was set up like an old-fashioned living room. My eyes roamed over the furniture: a wooden bookcase, a
fringed table lamp, a Persian rug, an overstuffed armchair, and a clock… a
table clock. Not the cuckoo clock.

Not the right clock.

My heart sank back to its normal low spot in my chest.

It figures, I thought. Here I am, at the antique store, at last.

And the clock isn’t here.

I felt like crying.

I could have cried, too. Easily.

After all, I was a baby. People expected me to cry.

But I didn’t. Even though I looked like a baby, I was a twelve-year-old
inside. I still had my pride.

Dad stepped to the door and held it open for Mom and me. Mom pushed me
inside. I sat strapped into the stroller.

The shop was jammed with old furniture. A chubby man in his forties strolled
down the aisle toward us.

Behind him, down at the end of the aisle, in a corner at the back of the
shop, I saw it. The clock.
The
clock.

A squeal of excitement popped out of me. I began to rock in my stroller. I
was so close!

“May I help you?” the man asked Mom and Dad.

“We’re looking for a dining room table,” Mom told him.

I had to get out of that stroller. I had to get to that clock.

I rocked harder, but it was no good. I was strapped in. “Let me out of this
thing!” I shouted.

Mom and Dad turned to look at me. “What’s he saying?” Dad asked.

“It sounded like ‘La ma la ma’,” the shopkeeper suggested.

I rocked harder than ever and screamed.

“He hates his stroller,” Mom explained. She leaned down and unbuckled the
straps. “I’ll hold him for a few minutes. Then he’ll quiet down.”

I waited until she held me in her arms. Then I screamed again and wriggled as
hard as I could.

Dad’s face reddened. “Michael, what is wrong with you?”

“Down! Down!” I yelled.

“All right,” Mom muttered, setting me down on the floor. “Now please stop
screaming.”

I quieted down immediately. I tested my wobbly, chubby little legs. They
wouldn’t get me far, but they were all I had to work with.

“Keep an eye on him,” the shopkeeper warned. “A lot of this stuff is
breakable.”

Mom grabbed my hand. “Come on, Mikey. Let’s go look at some tables.”

She tried to lead me to a corner of the shop where several wooden tables
stood. I whined and squirmed, hoping to get away. Her grip was too tight.

“Mikey,
shhh
,” she said.

I let her drag me to the tables. I glanced up at the cuckoo clock. It was
almost noon.

At noon, I knew, the cuckoo would pop out. It was my only chance to grab the
bird and turn it around.

I tugged on Mom’s hand. She tightened her grip.

“What do you think of this one, honey?” Dad asked her, rubbing his hand along
a dark wood table.

“I think that wood’s too dark for our chairs, Herman,” Mom said. Another
table caught her eye. As she moved toward it, I tried to slip my hand out of
hers. No go.

I toddled after her to the second table. I shot another glance at the clock.
The minute hand moved.

Two minutes to twelve.

“We can’t be too picky, honey,” Dad said. “The Bergers are coming over
Saturday night—two days from now—for a dinner party. We can’t have a dinner party without a dining room table!”

“I
know
that, dear. But there’s no point in buying a table we don’t
like.”

Dad’s voice began to rise. Mom’s mouth got that hard, set look to it.

Aha. A fight. This was my chance.

Dad was shouting. “Why don’t we just spread a blanket out on the floor and
make them eat there? We’ll call it a picnic!”

Mom finally relaxed her grip on my hand.

I slipped away and toddled as fast as I could toward the clock.

The clock’s minute hand moved again.

I toddled faster.

I heard my parents shouting at each other. “I won’t buy an ugly table, and
that’s that!” Mom cried.

Please don’t let them notice me, I prayed. Not yet.

I reached the cuckoo clock at last. I stood in front of it and stared up at
the clock.

The cuckoo’s window was far above me, out of reach.

The minute hand clicked again. The clock’s gong sounded.

The cuckoo’s window slid open. The cuckoo popped out.

It cuckooed once.

It cuckooed twice.

I stared up at it, helpless.

A twelve-year-old boy trapped in a baby’s body.

I stared grimly up at the clock.

Somehow, I had to reach that cuckoo.

Somehow, I
had
to turn it around.

Cuckoo! Cuckoo!

Three, four.

I knew that once it reached twelve, I was doomed.

The cuckoo bird would disappear.

And so would my last chance to save myself.

In a day or so, I would disappear. Disappear forever.

Frantic, I glanced around for a ladder, a stool, anything.

The closest thing was a chair.

I toddled over to the chair and pushed it toward the clock. It moved about an
inch.

I leaned, putting all my weight into it. I figured I weighed about twenty
pounds.

But it was enough. The chair began to slide across the floor.

Cuckoo! Cuckoo!
Five, six.

I shoved the chair up against the clock. The seat of the chair came up to my
chin.

I tried to pull myself up onto the seat. My arms were too weak.

I planted a baby sneaker against the chair leg. I boosted myself up. I
grabbed a spindle at the back of the chair and heaved my body onto the seat.

I made it!

Cuckoo! Cuckoo!
Seven, eight.

I got to my knees. I got to my feet.

I reached up to grab the cuckoo. I stretched as tall as I could.

Cuckoo! Cuckoo!
Nine, ten.

Reaching, reaching.

Then I heard the shopkeeper shout, “Somebody grab that baby!”

I heard pounding footsteps.

They were running to get me.

I strained to reach the cuckoo. Just another inch…

Cuckoo!

Eleven.

Mom grabbed me. She lifted me up.

For one second, the cuckoo flashed within my reach.

I grasped it and turned the head around.

Cuckoo!

Twelve.

The cuckoo slid back into the clock, facing the right way.

Forward.

I wriggled out of Mom’s arms, landing on the chair.

“Mikey, what’s gotten into you?” she cried. She tried to grab me again.

I dodged her. I reached around to the side of the clock.

I saw the little dial that told the year. I felt for the button that
controlled it. I could just reach it, standing on the chair.

I slammed my hand on the button, carefully watching the years whiz by.

I heard the shopkeeper yelling, “Get that baby away from my clock!”

Mom grabbed me again, but I screamed. I screamed so loudly, it startled her.
She let her hands drop.

“Mikey, let go of that!” Dad ordered.

I took my hand off the button. The dial showed the right year. The present
year. The year I turned twelve.

Mom made another grab for me. This time I let her pick me up.

It doesn’t matter what happens now, I thought. Either the clock will work,
and I’ll go back to being twelve again…

…or else it won’t work. And then what?

Then I’ll disappear. Vanish in time. Forever.

I waited.

“I’m so sorry,” Dad said to the shopkeeper. “I hope the baby didn’t damage
the clock.”

The muscles in my neck tensed.

Nothing was happening. Nothing.

I waited another minute.

The shopkeeper inspected the clock. “Everything seems okay,” he told Dad.
“But he changed the year. I’ll have to change it back.”

“NO!” I wailed. “No! Don’t!”

“That boy could use a little discipline, if you ask me,” the shopkeeper said.

He reached his hand around the side of the clock and started to set back the
year.

“Nooo!” I wailed. “Nooo!”

That’s it, I realized. I’m doomed. I’m a goner.

But the shopkeeper never touched the button.

A bright white light flashed. I felt dizzy, stunned. I blinked. And blinked
again.

Several seconds passed before I could see anything.

I felt cool, damp air. I smelled a musty odor. A garage smell.

“Michael? Do you like it?” Dad’s voice.

I blinked. My eyes adjusted. I saw Dad and Mom. Looking older. Looking
normal.

We were standing in the garage. Dad was holding a shiny new 21-speed bike.

Mom frowned. “Michael, are you feeling all right?”

They were giving me the bike. It was my birthday!

The clock worked! I’d brought myself back to the present!

Almost
to the present. Up to my twelfth birthday.

Close enough.

I felt so happy, I thought I’d explode.

I threw myself at Mom and hugged her hard. Then I hugged Dad.

“Wow,” Dad gushed. “I guess you really
do
like the bike!”

I grinned. “I love it!” I exclaimed. “I love everything! I love the whole
world!”

Mainly, I loved being twelve again. I could walk! I could talk! I could ride
the bus by myself!

Whoa! Wait a minute, I thought. It’s my birthday.

Don’t tell me I have to live through it
again.

I tensed my shoulders and steeled myself for the horrible day to come.

It’s worth it, I told myself. It’s worth it if it means time will go forward
again, the way it’s supposed to.

I knew too well what would happen next.

Tara.

She’d try to get on my bike. The bike would fall over and get scratched.

Okay, Tara, I thought. I’m ready. Come and do your worst.

I waited.

Tara didn’t come.

In fact, she didn’t seem to be around at all.

She wasn’t in the garage. No sign of her.

Mom and Dad
oohed
and
ahhed
over the bike. They didn’t act as
if anything was wrong. Or anyone was missing.

“Where’s Tara?” I asked them.

They looked up.

“Who?” They stared at me.

“Did you invite her to your party?” Mom asked. “I don’t remember sending an
invitation to a Tara.”

Dad grinned at me. “Tara? Is that some girl you have a crush on, Michael?”

“No,” I answered, turning red.

It was as if they’d never heard of Tara. Never heard of their own daughter.

“You’d better go upstairs and get ready for your party, Michael,” Mom
suggested. “The kids will be here soon.”

“Okay.” I stumbled into the house, dazed.

“Tara?” I called.

Silence.

Could she be hiding somewhere?

I searched through the house. Then I checked her room. I threw open the door.
I expected to see a messy, all-pink girl’s room with a white canopy bed.

Instead, I saw two twin beds, neatly made with plaid covers. A chair. An empty closet. No personal stuff.

Not Tara’s room.

A guest room.

Wow. I was amazed.

No Tara. Tara doesn’t exist.

How did that happen?

I wandered into the den, looking for the cuckoo clock.

It wasn’t there.

For a second, I felt a shock of fear. Then I calmed down.

Oh, yeah, I remembered. We don’t have the clock yet. Not on my birthday. Dad
bought it a couple of days later.

But I still didn’t understand. What had happened to my little sister? Where
was Tara?

My friends arrived for the party. We played CDs and ate tortilla chips.
Ceecee pulled me into a corner and whispered that Mona had a crush on me.

Wow. I glanced at Mona. She turned a little pink and glanced away, shyly.

Tara wasn’t there to embarrass me. It made a big difference.

My friends all brought presents. I actually opened them myself. No Tara to
open my presents before I get to them.

At cake time, I carried the cake into the dining room and set it in the
middle of the table. No problem. I didn’t fall and make a fool out of myself.

Because Tara wasn’t there to trip me.

It was the greatest birthday party I’d ever had. It was probably the greatest
day
I’d ever lived—because Tara wasn’t there to ruin it.

I could get used to this, I thought.

A few days later, the cuckoo clock was delivered to our house.

“Isn’t it great?” Dad gushed, as he had the first time. “Anthony sold me the
clock cheap. He said he’d discovered a tiny flaw on it.”

The flaw. I’d almost forgotten about it.

We still didn’t know what it was. But I couldn’t help wondering if it had
something to do with Tara’s disappearance.

Maybe the clock didn’t work perfectly in some way? Maybe it somehow left Tara
behind?

I hardly dared to touch the clock. I didn’t want to set off any more weird
time trips.

But I had to know what had happened.

I carefully studied the face of the clock again, and all the decorations.
Then I stared at the dial that showed the year.