by R. L. Stine
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.
24
“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.
It was properly set at the current year.
Without really thinking about it, I scanned twelve places down the dial to find the year I was born.
There it was.
Then I scanned my eyes back up to the dial. 1992.1993.1994.1995.1997…
Wait a second.
Didn’t I just skip a year?
I checked the dates again.
Nineteen ninety-six was missing. There was no 1996 on the dial.
And 1996 was the year Tara was born!
“Dad!” I cried. “I found the flaw! Look—there’s a year missing on the dial.”
Dad patted me on the back. “Good job, son! Wow, isn’t that funny?”
To him it was just a funny mistake.
He had no idea his daughter had never been born.
I suppose there’s some way to go back in time and get her.
I guess I probably ought to do that.
And I will.
Really.
One of these days.
Maybe.
Scanning, formatting and basic
proofing by Undead.