“Yeah, I know,” Betty sighed, looking at the ground. “Peanut butter and jelly sandwich?” she asked, looking up with hopeful eyes.
Betty had learned long ago that nobody could say no to her if she batted her eyelashes and made puppy-dog faces. It was two summers ago, when she was at her cousin Elena’s house. Elena and Betty were almost the same age, but Elena was three months older. She was super-picky, and they had fought for quite some time over the perfect board game. It was only when Betty had brought out the puppy face that they finally decided on her favorite game. She was only seven back then, but she still found it unbelievable that they had fought for hours over a game. That was childish, even for their age.
Or last winter break when she and her parents were deciding on a vacation spot. Betty’s mom wanted Hawaii. Betty’s dad wanted to go to Mount Rushmore. He was big on history. And Betty wanted Disney World, so she used her secret weapon, and they ended up going to Florida. Well, it was either the puppy face that won her parents over, or the fact that they only had to pay half-price for the admission tickets.
Yes, the batting eyelashes and puppy-dog face could not be said “no” to, and Betty knew it. With that knowledge in mind, she used her eyelashes and puppy-dog face to get what she wanted. And it worked.
A few minutes later, Betty was making a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. She made it fast, knowing her mom’s eyes were on her like lasers. Betty pulled a gallon of milk from the fridge and reached for a glass. Distracted by her thoughts, Betty started pouring all the milk on the “King of the Kitchen” counter instead of into the glass.
It was too late when Betty finally realized the gallon milk carton seemed very light.
Betty gave a nervous giggle as she came face-to-face with a floor and counter doused in milk.
“Betty,” her mom sighed. “I’ll clean it up, you go eat.”
Betty did as she was told. The house was quiet again. Only the sloshing of milk under a dishrag and the chewing of sandwiches could be heard in the empty house. Betty was sure her mother was watching her, obviously not impressed, but she didn’t look up and check. As Betty ate her sandwich, the peanut butter clung to the roof of her mouth, and her mouth became dry. However, right now, Betty wasn’t about to ask for milk.
Chapter 6
Betty ran upstairs, two steps at a time, her feet making thuds on the mahogany staircase. What was wrong with her? Why couldn’t she pay attention? She wanted to forget everything that had happened today. Missing the bus, throwing a notebook at Shelly’s head, the spilling of the milk—well, everything was to be forgotten.
Betty yanked her comforter off the bed. It was too hot for it anyway. She picked up Amber’s Big Adventure, closed her eyes, and pretended the date it was released was today. That helped, and she was able to open the book and scan the jacket for a summary. Betty had always liked reading the summaries before she read the actual book. She liked the previews they gave. Usually, Lana Mungo’s books had summaries that ended with a question, something to look for in the book and wonder about as you read. Some people thought summaries were a bore and gave too much away, but Betty much preferred knowing what she was going to read about. So far, all she knew was that Amber would be boating on a river, because that was the picture on the cover. There had to be something else though. The whole story couldn’t be based on just boating calmly across a river, could it? Or maybe the river was an ocean! Would Amber get lost in an underwater world?
Another thing Betty liked to do was ask questions—she was always trying to predict what would happen next. Asking questions felt like a game. Would she be right or wrong? Usually, Betty got it wrong, but still, it was fun to try. Right now, based on the cover, Betty couldn’t tell much. It was too vague. She hoped the summary would provide better clues about the book.
Before the actual summary began, there were comments from bookstore owners or other authors. Betty read the first one:
Mungo outdoes herself with this new book in the series that began with the wildly popular Amber the Brave…
Yeah, yeah, yeah, Betty thought.
Betty already knew Lana Mungo, the creator of the Amber series, was an amazing author, and she didn’t need to be told this book was going to be wonderful—she already knew it—and that wasn’t a guess or a question, it was a fact.
Betty skipped to the bottom of the page, to the summary. It was one sentence:
Prepare for a journey through time.
“What?” Betty said out loud, confused.
This summary left her with a lot of questions—in fact, more than she would have imagined. What could that possibly mean? Time travel? It didn’t seem like Amber’s type of thing, but then again, what was Amber’s thing? Mountain climbing, rope swinging, and being very adventurous, Betty recited promptly in her head. Could time travel be added to the list? After all, it was adventurous. Right?
Another thing that bothered her was the jacket. It didn’t look like it belonged on the book; more like somebody had absentmindedly put it on. The part of the jacket that was supposed to cover the binding of the book seemed too large, and the whole jacket looked lopsided. Betty carefully took off the jacket—first the inside front cover with the summary and then the inside back cover with the “About the Author” description.
After she took the jacket off, Betty saw she was holding a huge beige hardcover book. Amber’s Big Adventure was stamped on the cover in gold letters. Turning some pages, Betty skipped the copyright details and dedication and finally reached the beginning of the story. A drawing of a clock took up the whole first page, leaving no space for writing whatsoever, except maybe in the corners.
Turning the page, Betty caught a glimpse of another clock, slightly altered, but pretty much the same. Betty guessed it had to do something with the summary, and she was about to dismiss it again, eager to begin reading, when a voice inside her head urged her to look at it.
The clock looked hand-drawn, with the charcoal strokes and shadows popping out. It looked old, its frame and base a blackish gray. Instead of numbers, the black hour and minute hands pointed to little dashes all around the face of the clock. Betty had seen clocks like this—like those old grandfather clocks in the movies. The only difference was that the clock in the book was smaller. It looked like something from Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. Every clock was also set on crumbly yellowed paper.
Never good at reading clocks, Betty found this one exceptionally hard to decipher, as if she were reading a foreign language. The dashes made reading the clock extra-hard. She tried to read it though, because it felt important.
Betty soon figured it out. The hour hand was pointed to eight and the minute hand to thirty. Eight-thirty. Then she realized she had wasted her time, for “8:30” was written on the bottom corner of the page in fine strokes of a pen. That would’ve helped earlier. Betty vaguely recalled her mom shouting, “Betty! The bus comes at eight-thirty—you have five minutes!” Yes, the clock said 8:30. The bus came at 8:30. And Betty had missed the bus. Problem #1.
It’s just a coincidence, Betty assured herself.
On the next page the clock looked the same but the minute hand had moved one space. 8:31. Betty turned the page again.
8:32.
8:33.
When she reached the time 11:30, Betty saw that the numbers were now bolded. Oddly enough, 11:30 was when she had argued about Amber in the cafeteria earlier today. This time, Betty couldn’t help but think that this wasn’t a coincidence. It was meant for her. But why?
“No, no, no,” Betty said, interrupting her own train of thought. “You’re nine, Betty. Not some ten-year-old girl who has the ability to swing from vines and save people’s lives. You are an ordinary girl who goes to an ordinary school and there’s no way out of that. You’re not some kind of superhero. You’re Betty Pems Hilmar, not Amber. Stop pretending.”
Betty’s voice echoed in her own head. Stop
pretending, stop pretending, stop pretending. True, Betty did pretend to be Amber a lot, but who could blame her? Amber was her idol! Well, your “idol” can’t be a book character, her brain retorted.
“Anyway, back to the book,” Betty said, trying to distance herself from her thoughts.
Betty skipped to the next page. 11:31.
Not again. More clocks?
She kept flipping pages until she reached one on which the time was bolded once again. In the corner, in the same tiny handwriting, was written 7:00. Wasn’t it around seven when Betty’s mom had called her out of the bathroom? And the milk incident had happened right after. Betty shuddered. This wasn’t normal.
Betty flipped the page. 7:01.
Betty skimmed every page for bolded handwriting, but she couldn’t find any until the last page came into view.
Betty should’ve known something would’ve been at the end of the book! Didn’t that always happen in the adventure books, where the last page holds the largest secret?
The final page had one last time in bold: 12:00. But twelve o’clock had already passed, and nothing had happened then.
Betty admitted it. She had been expecting something more. Something more adventurous. As much as Betty had been hoping to find something different and extraordinary, it was just a book. It was definitely a weird book full of clocks from start to finish, but it was just a book.
And the book wasn’t even Amber’s Big Adventure as far as Betty could tell. Was this some kind of trick her teacher was playing on her to help her learn how to tell time? Because that was just cruel.
Betty closed the book. It was making her head spin, and she almost felt like calling it a day and doing something else—she would try to figure it out tomorrow. But what kind of adventure-seeking Amber fan would she be if she did that? A horrible one, her brain answered. And for once, Betty agreed. She couldn’t stop now. She just had to figure out the secret, crack the code. This book—what secret lay in its pages? Why was she the first one to get it? Did it relate to her? No, no, not that. The book had already proven it didn’t match her life. The last page had been like a bump in the road. Nothing had happened at twelve o’clock. Nothing. Shelly had told her about the newest Amber book later than that, because twelve o’clock was when the class had come back from lunch and they had taken their name tags off their desks. Yet, the book wasn’t ordinary—Betty already knew that. The only thing she didn’t know was what it was.
Betty opened the book again and quickly turned the pages, as if she were looking at a flipbook. As she flipped through, the clock changed slowly, like an old cartoon. Suddenly, she felt a chill go down her spine. Her mind went numb. She didn’t see her room, but heard one word, as gentle as a puff of smoke down her neck. Time.
She finally came to the last page once again and looked at it carefully. Underneath the clock drawing, in giant curvy letters, was one word: TIME. It looked like it had just been written, for the ink was still wet and gleaming. The letters were mesmerizing, and Betty felt herself go numb again as she watched them seem to swirl in and out and twist around. Betty couldn’t take her eyes off the letters until she started doing some deep thinking. What did “time” mean? Obviously, it had something to do with all the clocks—Betty wasn’t that dumb—but there had to be something more to it. Didn’t there?
Betty soon came to the conclusion that this was nothing but a book full of clocks. Her curiosity vanished and was replaced by disappointment. Then that disappointment changed to anger, a deep, burning anger. And then, she started getting a little freaked-out. What did this book know about her, and why had Mrs. Shumpridge given it to her? This was getting sort of scary. Maybe she should just tell her parents. She looked at the alarm clock on her nightstand. 10:00 p.m. It was too late to say anything. Her mom and dad had to go to work the next day. Betty’s mom had probably gone to sleep, and it was too hard to explain anything to her dad late at night. It was like half his brain just disappeared.
Betty closed the book and placed it on her nightstand. She didn’t want to think about it. But what else could she do? She wandered downstairs. Her dad was asleep, his head on the kitchen table, a cup of coffee in his hand. (Unlike most grown-ups, he drank his coffee at night too.)
She went back upstairs. There was nothing to do. She should just go to sleep. Besides, it was scary being the only one awake in a dark house.
Betty turned off the lights, turned on the small fan on her nightstand, and went to bed. She had just closed her eyes, when someone called the house phone.
“Call from Mrs. Asdern.” The automated voice echoed throughout the house. Betty started to get up, then lay down again.
It would go to voicemail.
Chapter 7
The noise was loud and irritating, but also spooky, haunting, and beautiful. Betty listened to it for a while, half-asleep, until suddenly her eyes were wide open. School. She was late for school! Her alarm was going off! Betty rushed out of bed.
She reached for her dresser drawer, and then glanced out the window above the dresser. The sky was dark and it was dead silent outside. The only things Betty could see were the streetlights and the faint outlines of the surrounding houses. No rushing cars, no sun. School had ended yesterday. Betty let go of the drawer. It was still night.
Suspiciously, Betty eyed her alarm clock. It was twelve o’clock. Why was it going off? Maybe she had forgotten to turn off her alarm—but, even so, why was it going off at midnight?
The noise started again. It was like an enchanting song. When it played, all Betty wanted to do was listen. The song vibrated in her eardrums. She found herself humming the tune, which was twisting every which way, one minute soft and peaceful, the next, loud and menacing. Then the song ended abruptly. Betty stared at her alarm clock.
Then she noticed the thing glowing next to it.
The book. It was open…and glowing.
And singing?
Weird.
Betty slowly moved closer to look at the book. It was open to the last page and the word “time” was moving, curving, twisting itself, until she could no longer even see the word.
She stared at the picture of the clock in the book, the one that said 12:00. The one that had made her doubtful the book was made for her.
It said 12:00 in the book. It was twelve o’clock right now.
Betty heard a chorus of voices fill the air. Time, time, time, angelic voices called. Time, time, time, the voice in Betty’s head echoed, while her eyes widened with disbelief.
Now Betty was seriously scared. She tried to shut the book, but it was like trying to force a door closed that was constantly being opened by a strong wind. Whenever Betty managed to shut the book, it opened up again, as if it had a mind of its own. What was going on?
The song and the light that the book gave off didn’t stop, no matter how much Betty tried to close it. Her parents! Her parents would put a stop to this. Betty reached to open her bedroom door, but it wouldn’t budge. She looked at the clock. It was still twelve o’clock. How long did one minute drag on?
And then the song ended, the light ceased. Betty breathed a sigh of relief. Finally.
But then the book lit up again, floated in midair and hovered over Betty.
And then it talked.
Seriously, talked. A cool female voice that sounded like lapping ocean waves talked slowly and smoothly.
“Betty Pems Hilmar, do you want an adventure?” The female voice stayed calm and steady. “Gather all your belongings, because—” the lady paused, “you are going on the adventure of a lifetime. You have two minutes.”
A chill filled the room. The book was still the same—the humming and the glowing—but now Betty felt different. Taken aback, she approached the book as if under a trance. If she was wrong, and this was just a dream, this gesture would be okay. However, if for some weird reason Betty was right and this all was real
, she was in for trouble. Betty wasn’t sure what she wanted—for this to be a dream or for it to be real. There were pros and cons on each side, but Betty also wanted to know the truth. What was this? As she pinched her arm and felt her forehead, she was certain she wasn’t hallucinating, and this wasn’t a dream. This was real.
“Three, two, one,” the female voice said. Unaware that her two minutes were up, Betty looked around the room in confusion. And, in an instant, Betty’s mind went blank. She spun around in a cloud-like vapor. A rosy smell filled her nostrils and a cool breeze danced on her arms. Betty’s eyes remained closed, but her mouth was open, smiling involuntarily. The rose smell and cool breeze all floated inside, but Betty didn’t care. Her hair flew into her face and Betty involuntarily grabbed it. It wasn’t tangled, but straight and lush like never before. And then everything went dark.
***
Groggy, Betty opened her eyes. Sunlight peeked through a window. It was morning. It was just a dream, Betty thought. But when her eyes adjusted to the light and she looked around the room she was in, she realized she wasn’t in her own house. She was in an odd-looking room that somehow felt familiar. Where am I? Betty thought.
Betty quietly shuffled to the window, which stretched across the whole height of the wall. When she got closer to the “window,” she realized it looked more like somebody had kicked a hole in the wall, hung curtains around it, and considered it good enough. Outside, she saw a forest surrounding the house. Clumps of trees gathered together, forming what looked like a protective barrier. The sun, which was shining brightly high above the treetops, was unable to filter sunlight and warmth through the dense forest. Turning around, Betty decided to explore more.
She started wandering through room after room. The first room looked like a bedroom, but the bed was old and broken and the paint on the walls was faded and chipped. Another “window” was in the room, letting in a breeze.
The Adventure of a Lifetime Page 3