by R. L. Stine
Downstairs, Tara was still in her pajamas, watching cartoons. She was now two.
When she saw me pass through the living room, she held out her arms to me. “Kiss! Kiss!” she called.
She wanted me to kiss her? That didn’t seem like Tara.
But maybe the two-year-old Tara was still sweet and innocent. Maybe, at two, Tara was actually likable.
“Kiss! Kiss!” she begged.
“Give poor Tara a kiss,” Mom called from the kitchen. “You’re her big brother, Michael. She looks up to you.”
I sighed. “Okay.”
I leaned down to give Tara a kiss on the cheek. With one chubby index finger, she poked me in the eye.
“Ow!” I shrieked.
Tara laughed.
Same old terrible Tara, I thought as I stumbled into the kitchen, one hand over my sore eye.
She was born bad!
This time, at school, I knew which classroom to go to.
There sat all my old friends, Mona and everybody, younger than ever. I’d forgotten how dopey everybody used to look when we were little.
I sat through another dull day of learning stuff I already knew. Subtraction. How to read books with really big print. Perfecting my capital L.
At least it gave me lots of time to think.
Every day I tried to figure out what to do. But I never came up with an answer.
Then I remembered Dad telling us he’d been wanting the cuckoo clock for fifteen years.
Fifteen years! That’s it! The clock must be at that antique store!
I’ll go find the clock, I decided. I couldn’t wait for school to end that day.
I figured if I could turn the cuckoo around, time would go forward again. I knew the dial that showed the year must be going backwards, too. All I had to do was reset the date on the clock to the right year, and I’d be twelve again.
I missed being twelve. Seven-year-olds don’t get away with much. Someone’s always watching you.
When the school day ended, I started down the block toward my house. I knew the crossing guard was watching me, making sure I’d get home safely.
But at the second block I dashed around the corner to the bus stop. I hoped the crossing guard hadn’t seen me.
I stood behind a tree, trying not to be seen.
A few minutes later, a bus pulled over. The doors opened with a hiss. I stepped aboard.
The bus driver eyed me strangely. “Aren’t you a little young to be riding the bus by yourself?” he asked me.
“Mind your own business,” I replied.
He looked startled, so I added, “I’m meeting Daddy at his office. Mommy said it was okay.”
He nodded and let the doors slide shut.
I started to put three quarters in the coin slot, but the driver stopped me after two.
“Whoa, there, buddy,” he said, pressing the third quarter into my palm. “Fare’s only fifty cents. Keep this quarter for a phone call.”
“Oh, yeah. Right.” I’d forgotten. They raised the bus fare to 75 cents when I was eleven. But now I was only seven. I put the quarter in my pocket.
The bus pulled away from the curb and chugged downtown.
I remembered hearing Dad say that Anthony’s Antiques and Stuff was across the street from his office. I got off the bus at Dad’s block.
I hoped Dad wouldn’t see me. I knew I’d be in big trouble if he did.
I wasn’t allowed to ride the bus by myself when I was seven.
I hurried past Dad’s building and crossed the street. On the corner stood a construction site; just a pile of bricks and rubble, really. Further down the block I saw a black sign with Anthony’s Antiques and Stuff painted on it in gold letters.
My heart began to pound.
I’m almost there, I thought. Soon everything will be all right.
I’ll just walk into the store and find the clock. Then, when no one’s looking, I’ll turn the cuckoo around and fix the year.
I won’t have to worry about waking up tomorrow morning as a three-year-old or something. My life will go back to normal.
Life will seem so easy, I told myself, when time is moving forward the way it’s supposed to. Even with Tara around!
I gazed through the big plate-glass window of the shop. There it stood, right in the window. The clock.
My palms began to sweat, I felt so excited.
I hurried to the shop door and turned the handle.
It wouldn’t move. I jiggled it harder.
The door was locked.
Then I noticed a sign, tucked in the bottom corner of the door.
It said, CLOSED FOR VACATION.
15
I let out a howl of frustration. “NOOO!” I cried. Tears sprang to my eyes. “No! Not after all this.”
I banged my head against the door. I couldn’t stand it.
Closed for vacation.
How could I have such terrible luck?
How long was Anthony planning to be on vacation? I wondered. How long will the shop be closed?
By the time it reopens, I could be a baby!
I gritted my teeth and thought, there’s no way I’m letting that happen. No way!
I’ve got to do something. Anything.
I pressed my nose against the shop window. The cuckoo clock was standing there, two feet in front of me.
And I couldn’t get to it.
The window stood between me and that clock.
The window…
Normally, I would never think of doing what I decided to do at that moment.
But I was desperate. I had to reach that clock.
It really was a matter of life and death!
I strolled down the block to the construction site, trying to look casual. Trying not to look like a kid who was planning to break a shop window.
I stuffed my hands in the pockets of my cowboy jeans and whistled. I was sort of grateful to be wearing this stupid cowboy outfit after all. It made me look innocent.
Who would suspect a seven-year-old in a cowboy suit of trying to break into an antique shop?
I kicked around a little dirt at the construction site. Kicked a few rocks. Nobody seemed to be working there.
Slowly I made my way over to a pile of bricks. I glanced around to see if anybody saw me.
The coast was clear.
I picked up a brick and hefted it in my hand. It was very heavy. It wouldn’t be easy for me, in my little second-grade body, to throw it far.
But I didn’t have to throw it far. Just through the window.
I tried stuffing the brick in my pants pocket, but it was too big. So I carried it in both hands back to the shop.
I tried to look as if it were perfectly normal for a boy to be carrying a brick down the street.
A few adults quickly passed by. No one gave me a second glance.
I stood in front of the shiny plate-glass window, weighing the brick in my hand. I wondered if a burglar alarm would go off when I broke the window.
Would I be arrested?
Maybe it wouldn’t matter. If I made time go to the present, I’d escape the police.
Be brave, I told myself. Go for it!
With both hands, I raised the brick over my head…
…and someone grabbed me from behind.
16
“Help!” I shouted. I spun around. “Dad!”
“Michael, what are you doing here?” Dad demanded. “Are you by yourself?”
I let the brick fall to the sidewalk. He didn’t seem to see it.
“I—I wanted to surprise you,” I lied. “I wanted to come visit you after school.”
He stared at me as if he didn’t quite understand. So I added, for good measure, “I missed you, Daddy.”
He smiled. “You missed me?” He was touched. I could tell.
“How did you get here?” he asked. “On the bus?”
I nodded.
“You know you’re not allowed to ride the bus by yourself,” he said. But he didn’t so
und angry. I knew that line about missing him would soften him up.
Meanwhile, I still had the same major problem—getting my hands on the cuckoo clock.
Could Dad help me? Would he? I was willing to try anything. “Dad,” I said, “that clock—”
Dad put his arm around me. “Isn’t it a beauty? I’ve been admiring it for years.”
“Dad, I’ve got to get to the clock,” I insisted. “It’s very, very important! Do you know when the store will open again? We’ve got to get that clock somehow!”
Dad misunderstood me. He patted me on the head and said, “I know how you feel, Michael. I wish I could have the clock right now. But I can’t afford it. Maybe some day…”
He pulled me away from the shop. “Come on—let’s go home. I wonder what’s for supper tonight?”
I didn’t say another word all the way home in the car. All I could think about was the clock—and what would happen to me next.
How old will I be when I wake up tomorrow? I wondered.
Or how young?
17
When I opened my eyes the next morning, everything had changed.
The walls were painted baby blue. The bedspread and the curtains matched. The material was printed with bouncing kangaroos. On one wall hung a needlepoint picture of a cow.
It wasn’t my room, but it looked familiar.
Then I felt a lump in the bed. I reached under the kangaroo covers and pulled out Harold, my old teddy bear.
I slowly understood. I was back in my old bedroom.
How had I ended up there? It was Tara’s room now.
I jumped out of bed. I was wearing Smurf pajamas.
I swear I don’t remember ever liking Smurfs that much.
I ran to the bathroom to look in the mirror.
How old was I now?
I couldn’t tell. I had to stand on the toilet seat to see my face.
A bad sign.
Yikes. I looked about five years old!
I hopped off the toilet seat and hurried downstairs.
“Hello, Mikey,” Mom said, squeezing me and giving me a big kiss.
“Hi, Mommy,” I said. I couldn’t believe how babyish my voice sounded.
Dad sat at the kitchen table, drinking coffee. He put down his mug and held out his arms. “Come give Daddy a good morning kiss,” he said.
I sighed and forced myself to run into his arms and kiss him on the cheek. I’d forgotten how many stupid things little kids have to put up with.
I ran out of the kitchen on my little five-year-old legs, through the living room, into the den, and back to the kitchen. Something was missing.
No, someone was missing.
Tara.
“Sit still for a minute, sweetie,” Mom said, scooping me up and plopping me into a chair. “Want some cereal?”
“Where’s Tara?” I demanded.
“Who?” Mom replied.
“Tara,” I repeated.
Mom glanced at Dad. Dad shrugged.
“You know,” I persisted. “My little sister.”
Mom smiled. “Oh, Tara,” she said, seeming to understand at last.
She glanced at Dad and mouthed, “Invisible friend.”
“Huh?” Dad said out loud. “He has an invisible friend?”
Mom frowned at him and gave me a bowl of cereal. “What does your friend Tara look like, Mikey?”
I didn’t answer her. I was too shocked to speak.
They don’t know who I’m talking about! I realized.
Tara doesn’t exist. She hasn’t been born yet!
For a brief moment, I felt a thrill. No Tara! I could go through this whole day without ever seeing, hearing, or smelling Tara the Terrible! How totally awesome!
But then the real meaning of this sank in.
One Webster kid had disappeared.
I was next.
After I’d finished my cereal, Mom took me upstairs to get dressed. She put on my shirt and pants and socks and shoes. She didn’t tie the shoes, though.
“Okay, Mikey,” she said. “Let’s practice tying your shoes. Remember how we did it yesterday?”
She took my shoelaces in her fingers and, as she tied them, chanted, “The bunny hops around the tree and ducks under the bush. Remember?”
She sat back to watch me try to tie my other shoe. I could tell by the look on her face she didn’t expect me to get very far.
I bent over and easily tied the shoe. I didn’t have time to fool around with this stuff.
Mom stared at me in amazement.
“Come on, Mom, let’s get going,” I said, straightening up.
“Mikey!” Mom cried. “You did it! You tied your shoe for the first time!” She grabbed me and hugged me hard. “Wait till I tell Daddy!”
I followed her downstairs, rolling my eyes.
So I tied my shoe. Big deal!
“Honey!” Mom called. “Mikey tied his shoe—all by himself!”
“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.
18
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.