Stay a Spell

by Nicholas O. Time

  I look back at Ms. Tremt and see that the fountain pen in her hand is glowing.

  “First I’m going to give you a glimpse of the infinite possibilities that await you,” Ms. Tremt says. “Seeing is believing, as they say.”

  “And then?” Daniel asks.

  “And then we will review the rules of time travel,” Ms. Tremt says. “And you will pay close attention so you do not make any grievous errors during your journey. Because the fate of the future will be in your hands!”

  Ms. Tremt uses the sparkling fountain pen to sign her name on the card in The Book of Memories. A question appears on the page. Where would you like to go today?

  “Ooh, let’s go back to when the Beatles first came to America!” Abby calls out.

  “Let’s see the building of the Great Wall of China!” Daniel says.

  “How about the White House?” I suggest. “During Lincoln’s time there. I’m working on a report about him and there’s a fact I’d like to make sure is accurate.”

  “Abraham Lincoln, I like it,” Ms. Tremt says. “He’s a president I can take my hat off to.”

  “I can’t remember ever seeing you wear a hat, Ms. Tremt,” Daniel says.

  “True, Daniel—a flip of the scarf, then.” Ms. Tremt laughs.

  May 20, 1962, White House, Washington, DC, Ms. Tremt carefully writes in the book with her beautiful fountain pen.

  Then Ms. Tremt closes The Book of Memories and places it against the wall.

  “Now stand back,” she instructs us.

  The book begins to shake.

  And stretch.

  And grow.

  Higher and higher, wider and wider, until it fills the entire wall like a giant mural.

  “Now you may open the book,” Ms. Tremt declares.

  I pull open the cover and instead of a blank page, an image of Lincoln’s office fills the wall like a 3-D movie projection.

  “Allow me to demonstrate quickly,” Ms. Tremt says.

  Ms. Tremt walks over to the wall and places her hand on—and then into—the scene. Her hand actually disappears into the wall and reappears inside the image. She waves it behind Abraham Lincoln’s back.

  Luckily, the president seems distracted and doesn’t notice Ms. Tremt’s hand at all. Instead, he takes off his tall black stovepipe hat and pulls out a pile of notes from it! Then he puts the hat back on his head and shuffles through the papers until he finds the one he wants.

  “Awesome!” Daniel laughs. “Wow . . . so . . . Lincoln kept notes in that big hat. Who knew?”

  “That’s a way to make fashion work for you!” I laugh. “I just wanted to check that his face was really thin and that he had a beard.”

  “Really?” Daniel says. “Why?”

  “I read that he grew it because an eleven-year-old girl wrote a letter to him when he was running for office,” I explain. “She told him that his face was so thin it might scare off voters, so it would look a lot better if it were covered with whiskers.”

  “Wow,” Abby says. “That’s kind of mean.”

  “But she kind of had a point,” I say. “I mean, check him out. He is rocking the whiskers.”

  Daniel walks over to the wall and touches it. His hand slips into the image and he jumps back in shock.

  “SOOOO COOL!” he shouts. “And definitely not an illusion.”

  “Seeing is believing, as they say,” Ms. Tremt says. “But better not to interfere with the leader of our nation at work. In fact, The Book of Memories insists that we do not interfere.”

  Then she closes the book and the scene disappears. We watch in awe as the book shrinks down to normal size.

  “So is that kind of a time-travel rule?” Abby asks. “What about the rest of them? Are you going to fill us in on those now?”

  “Of course,” Ms. Tremt replies. “You are correct, Abby. The first rule, and the most important one is: You can’t interfere with or change major events in history. You can’t change the outcome of a battle, or warn people of a natural disaster about to occur, as much as you may want to.”

  “So no saving President Lincoln?” Daniel asks.

  “Sad as it is, no saving President Lincoln, or anyone else,” Ms. Tremt says. “You can make one small change that affects your life, or your family, in a positive way, but that’s it. No saving-the-world type of changes.”

  As a “We Are the Change” type of person, I have to admit that news is a little disappointing, but understandable.

  “You also can’t act for purely selfish reasons,” Ms. Tremt continues. “Time portals are powered by positive energy. And since time is elastic, positive energy is stronger than negative energy.”

  “Although some negative energy has been interfering with the time-travel continuum recently,” Ms. Tremt says quietly. “But you don’t have to worry about that; yours will just be a short trip.”

  “So where are we going?” Daniel asks.

  “That’s Jada’s decision,” Ms. Tremt explains. “She will have three hours of travel time from the second I write the date down in this book. It may seem a long time, but three hours will fly by, and when The Book of Memories starts to glow, you will have only ten minutes to return home or be stuck in the past forever.

  “Jada, think of somewhere in time you’d like to spend three hours,” she continues. “And I do mean think about it—you don’t have to decide now. We’ll talk more tomorrow.”

  Tomorrow sounds great, because right now I’ve got nothing. There are so many things I’d like to change in the world, but they’re all big things, and Ms. Tremt said changing a major world event was off-limits.

  We follow Ms. Tremt as she leaves the secret room.

  “Of course, this is all confidential,” she tells us. “No talking to anyone about it—including Matt, Grace, and Luis.”

  Ms. Tremt takes the key out of her pocket and locks The Book of Memories into her desk drawer. Then she flips her furry scarf and dives into a stack of books.

  “Didn’t your mom want to become a doctor?” Abby says as we walk to our lockers. “Maybe we should go back and help her.”

  “She did, but she also wanted to be an astrophysicist, a genetic engineer, and a bunch of other things.” I laugh. “She decided science teacher would be the perfect career because she’d get to study all those things. So she’s all good, I think.”

  “What about your grandparents?” Daniel says. “Any way we can help them?”

  “They’re pretty happy too,” I say. “I’ll think more about it tonight. I’m sure we’ll figure something out. But first I’ve got to figure out how to explain this bad grade on my spelling test to my mom.”

  “Yeah, good luck with that,” Abby says.

  “Thanks.” I moan. “I need it.”

  The high school my mom teaches in is on the other side of town, so I have about thirty minutes after I get home to torture myself. I put the spelling test covered with red marks on my desk. I try to look at it objectively. It still looks pretty bad. I try to think what words will keep my mom’s head from exploding when she sees it.

  Those words are impossible to come up with.

  Mom, I just read an article that said that too much importance is placed on correct spelling and grammar, I could argue.

  I wouldn’t be lying, either. I did read an article that said just that. It also said that English grammar doesn’t actually work, and spelling mistakes can be a sign of creativity. And since I’m going to be a fashion designer, I think creativity is much more important than spelling.

  I just know my mother will disagree. I’m right.

  I hear the front door open and I decide to rip the bandage off quickly. I meet Mom in the kitchen with my spelling test and I hand it to her. I don’t say a word, I just hang my head and peek up at her. She looks at it and shakes her head.

  “This doesn’t make me happy, Jada,” she says.

  “I know,” I answer.

  “You told me you studied,” Mom adds, and I cringe at the idea that s
he might think I was lying.

  “I did study, Mom,” I say honestly. “It was like my mind went completely blank when I picked up my pencil. Like some ghost just wiped it clean with an eraser.”

  “That can’t be easy, but we’re going to have to figure out a way to fix it,” Mom continues. “You do so much with your fashion designs and with your We Are the Change club. I’m sure you can do this, too. Remember, the more you learn, the more good you can do in the world.”

  “I know, Mom,” I say. “I’ll try.”

  Mom takes a pen, signs the paper, and hands it back to me. I go upstairs and shove it into my binder. I’d be happy if I never saw it—or another spelling word—again. I know my mom’s wrong, anyway. Spelling some words correctly on a test might bring my average up, but I’m not going to need them when I’m working on dress designs, and they’re definitely not going to change the world.

  I have lots and lots of algebra homework, but I don’t mind that at all. It takes my mind off the spelling words and Mom’s face when she looked at my test. I will admit, though, that it is a little hard to focus on math when time-travel plans are waiting to be made.

  I’m almost finished with my homework when I hear a knock on my door.

  “Jada, come on. It’s time to wash up for dinner,” my little brother, Sam, calls. I get up and head down to the kitchen.

  Sam is not bad as far as little brothers are concerned. I even like hanging out with him sometimes. But he has this annoying habit of always wanting to talk about the one thing I don’t want to talk about.

  “Hey, Jada, what were you and mom talking about before?” Sam asks as he passes me a bowl of broccoli. “You guys sounded so serious.”

  “We were talking about the importance of—” Mom starts, scowling.

  “You know what I really want to talk about?” I interrupt. “Time travel! From a science teacher’s perspective, of course. Do you think it’s ever going to be possible, Mom?”

  “Hmmm, interesting topic,” Mom says. “I’m not sure what I think. I have read a bit about it, though, and there are some theories that make it seem plausible.”

  Perfect! I knew Mom couldn’t resist a good science-related question.

  “Einstein’s theory of relativity, the famous ‘energy is equal to mass multiplied by the speed of light squared’ actually suggests time travel is possible, at least in one direction,” Dad chimes in. I smile to myself.

  I prop my chin on my fist and stare intently at Mom and Dad as if I am completely absorbed in what they’re saying, even though I understand only about a tenth of it.

  “Yes!” Mom says, getting excited. “Einstein proposed that time and space are joined in our universe. They make up a four-dimensional fabric known as space-time. Time is an illusion—it’s relative. Travel fast and time moves more slowly. So as a person in a spaceship approaches the speed of light, she would age much slower than her twin at home on Earth.”

  “Interesting,” I say. It truly is, at least the parts I can wrap my brain around. I’m just more interested in keeping the conservation flowing so it doesn’t return to spelling and studying. “But how does that mean time travel is possible?”

  “Scientists have measured the movement of clocks at the top and bottom of skyscrapers. The clocks at the bottom ticked slightly slower than the ones at the top,” Mom says.

  “So the same principles that make those clock hands tick slower should also work at extremes?” Dad asks.

  “Exactly!” Mom cheers. “Some scientists even believe that past, present, and future might actually exist all at once, and we just aren’t able to grasp how to travel through time yet because our perception is limited.”

  “Mom, can we just stay here?” Sam asks. “I like it here, and you’re starting to make my head hurt. I’m happy with my friends, and my soccer team, and my video games. . . .”

  “Of course, Sam,” Mom says as she ruffles his hair. “We’re not going anywhere, are we, Jada?”

  “Huh?” I grunt, half listening to what Mom and Sam are talking about as I think about where I might be heading in The Book of Memories.

  “I said we’re not going anywhere,” Mom repeats. “Sam’s worried that we might hop into a time-traveling ship and leave him behind.”

  “A time-traveling ship?” I laugh. “No need to worry about that, Sam. I promise I will not be boarding any ships.”

  The best thing is, Sam would never even know that I left the present time. Ms. Tremt told us that even though we’d be gone for three hours, when we returned it would be like no time had passed. So I won’t even have to text Mom and make up a story about having to stay late after school or anything. Because I wouldn’t really feel good doing that.

  I get up to help Dad clear the dirty dishes from the table, and we continue our discussion away from Sam. Dad is a copywriter in an advertising agency, so he loves discussing anything that makes you use your imagination. He tells me about the possibility of creating wormholes between points in space-time. And about cosmic strings, which are narrow tubes of energy stretched from one end of the universe to the other. I know, it’s pretty mind-blowing, right?

  “So if there were time-travel machines, they probably wouldn’t look the way they’re always pictured in movies and stuff, right?” I ask.

  “Exactly,” Dad says. “Some researchers think that time travel could begin in a doughnut-shaped vacuum that’s surrounded by normal matter. Inside the doughnut, space-time could be bent.”

  “You know, you’ve gotten pretty smart hanging around Mom all these years.” I laugh.

  “I know; it’s crazy.” Dad chuckles. “You should have seen some of my report cards when I was your age.”

  “Well, speaking of grades,” I say. “There’s something I need to talk to you about. . . .”

  • • •

  In the middle of the night, I wake up and my heart is pounding. Did you ever have that nightmare where you’re paralyzed and you can’t move or run or do anything but you need to escape or else? Well, I just did, and it seemed completely real. I was in the secret room behind the library, but I was completely alone except for some monstrous, humanoid letters and words. They held my hands and feet down so I couldn’t move. A mysterious voice boomed out spelling rules over the intercom system.

  “Rule one: I before e, except after c . . . ,” the voice boomed.

  “WHAT ABOUT ‘WEIRD’?” I cried. “OR ‘FEISTY’ OR ‘FOREIGN’?”

  “Rule two: Add s or es to make a noun plural.”

  “CHILDREN! MICE! PEOPLE! TEETH!” I screamed.

  Then I woke up.

  I rub the sleep out of my eyes and go to the bathroom to brush my teeth.

  That’s it, I think to myself. I am done with spelling forever! When I grow up and make a lot of money as a top fashion designer, I’m just going to hire someone to spell all my words for me. I bet Aunt Katy doesn’t worry about spelling—ever!

  Aunt Katy is my mom’s big sister. Everyone says I got my fashion sense and creativity from her. She started off as a costume department intern at a movie studio in Hollywood, California. Now she’s a buyer for a major department store (which means she picks the clothes that the store will sell), and she wears the most amazing outfits you’ve ever seen. I like Aunt Katy’s style. I try to copy it a little myself.

  When I get to school, Daniel and Abby are right where I would expect them to be, waiting by my locker.

  “So, where are we going?” Abby asks. “Paris? Tokyo? The Big Bang?”

  “Ooooh, I like that one,” Daniel says. “Or how about the first moon landing?”

  “Very interesting,” I reply. “But that’s not where we’re going. I’m just not sure yet. As soon as I know, I’ll tell you.”

  “Okay, but in case you need help, I did a little research last night,” Daniel says.

  Daniel hands me a rolled-up paper tied in a ribbon.

  “I was going to text it to you, but I thought this looked a lot more time-traveler-y,” he
admits.

  I untie the ribbon and the scroll unravels in my hand and rolls out onto the floor.

  “That’s quite a list,” I say.

  “Impressive, isn’t it?” Daniel replies. “I did a quick Internet survey and asked, ‘If you could witness one moment in history, what would it be?’ ”

  “Daniel!” I yell. “Ms. Tremt told us to keep this confidential.”

  “I did!” Daniel yells back. “I didn’t tell anyone we were going there. I just asked them where they would go. It’s an anonymous poll too!

  “And there were some great suggestions,” he says.

  Of course then he starts to recite them one by one because he has practically the whole list memorized.

  “Gee, thanks,” I say. “I’ll look it over. And like I said, I’ll let you know when I decide. Pinky promise.”

  During free period that day, I check out Daniel’s list. I have to admit there are some interesting items. Da Vinci painting the Mona Lisa. The Beatles performing on a rooftop in London. Or for a patriotic trip, Betsy Ross sewing the first American flag.

  My excitement dies in homeroom at the end of the day. As soon as I open my progress report, I can feel my insides turn over and over. My average has dropped so much because of that stupid spelling test.

  “I know exactly where I want to go,” I whisper to Abby, who is sitting next to me.

  “Awesome! Where?” she asks.

  “Back to last week,” I tell her. “I’m going to retake that spelling test. One small change, right?”

  “Right,” Abby agrees. “Though not exactly the most exciting time period in history . . .”

  “I know,” I say. “But if my Mom sees this progress report, she’s going to freak.”

  “If you’re sure that’s what you want,” Abby says, “I’m in.”