Samantha Smart

by Maxwell Puggle

  “Wow.” Marvin drooled. “That’s a nice computer. Can I check it out?”

  “Em–er–I’d, uh, I’d rather you didn’t actually.”

  “I won’t hurt nothin’, I promise,” Marvin continued.

  “He’s really good with computers, Professor,” Samantha vouched for her longtime friend. “He may even find something useful that we haven’t.”

  “Oh, um, well... very well, it’s all right, I suppose,” The Professor agreed reluctantly. “But don’t mess up the desk!”

  Marvin eyed the piles of papers and coffee cups that occupied The Professor’s desk and wondered if it could, indeed, become any messier.

  “No problem,” he said, sitting down at the console. As he began clicking away, Samantha addressed the others.

  “So, we need to send someone else back,” she said firmly. “I’d go myself and so would Professor Smythe, but as I’ve told you, we’re already there, and so can’t go back again. Or shouldn’t, anyway.”

  “I’ll go!” Suki volunteered. She was very excited at the idea of time travel, and also relished any opportunity to use a cool electronic gadget like the wrist-communicator as she was very fond of such things.

  “I appreciate your bravery and your enthusiasm,” The Professor responded. Suki smiled. “However, I am afraid that we must first ask Marvin.”

  Marvin perked up his ears. “Yo, wassup?” Suki frowned.

  “Marvin, I hate to sound, well, sexist, but I fear that this particular mission may in fact involve physical violence. I hate to send any of you young people into such a situation, but as it is utterly necessary, it is my duty, then, as planner and organizer of the mission to make sure I send the most capable person for the job, and the least likely to be hurt. You being, well, frankly, male, and as such almost twice the size of Suki, well, I think you might be best able to handle this.”

  “Yeah–ain’t no hood from Detroit nor Chicago can kick it as good as M.J. Santiago... ” Marvin rapped, still clicking on the computer.

  “I’m sorry, Suki–but believe me, we may have a mission for you yet before this thing is all over.”

  Suki nodded quietly.

  “What’s the ‘J’ stand for?” Brianna asked Marvin.

  “Jelly Jive Jazzmaster Jackson,” he replied in his rapper’s egotistical tones. Brianna rolled her eyes.

  “It’s Jerome,” Samantha let out.

  “Hey, girl! Why you crampin’ my style?”

  “‘Cause your ‘style’ is startin’ to cramp me,” Samantha did her best Brooklyn home-girl impression, waving her finger at ‘M.C. Dr. Marvy.’ He seemed to quiet down.

  The girls spent an hour or so catching up on gossip while Marvin clicked away on the computer and Professor Smythe began fabricating a duplicate of Samantha’s wrist-communicator. They talked about music, boys, clothes, school and other normal things that girls their age would talk about if they weren’t stuck in an alternate future. At some point The Professor began talking quietly with Marvin, presumably going over the details of the mission with him. It was probably seven in the evening before it was decided they should get on with it.

  “This way, then,” The Professor led them down the hall towards the two polar bears that flanked the door to the time machine room. He punched in his code and let the wide-eyed adolescents into the huge, high-ceilinged chamber that was just large enough to contain the massive stone time machine. Jaws dropped and they stared; even M.C. Marvin was rendered temporarily speechless.

  “This... this is incredible,” Brianna gasped.

  “It’s so big and old,” Suki observed.

  “Word,” was all Marvin could get out.

  The Professor moved to the machine’s controls and began dispensing instructions to the team of youngsters that had, by chance, assembled itself around him.

  “Samantha, I want you to give your communicator to Marvin for now. I’ve just about finished making another one but it hasn’t been tested, and we know this one has.” Samantha complied, unfastening the device and putting it on Marvin’s much thicker wrist.

  “Marvin, are you feeling good about this?” The Professor inquired.

  “Yeah, whatever.” Marvin shrugged. “Three hours ago I was dressed as an aardvark and going to see a Heatwavvve show, and now I’ve gotta travel back in time to make sure Heatwavvve’s lead singer doesn’t spill your coffee on a mailman, and try not to get beat up by him in the process. No sweat, man.”

  “You’re all taking this quite well.” The Professor chuckled slightly. “Marvin, if at any time you feel you’re in over your head, just look for the footprints and talk to me.”

  “You know I will,” Marvin responded into the communicator, testing it.

  “We’re going to be trying something new as well,” The Professor went on. “I believe I’ve mastered this thing’s controls a little more, so I think I can insert you into a smaller time window–you shouldn’t have to wait as long as Samantha did. In addition, however, I’m going to try to transport you spatially this time. This way, you should, if my calculations are correct, appear closer to the spot we need you to be at.”

  “Whatever you say.” Marvin began to shuffle somewhat uncomfortably. They had dressed him in some spare clothes that The Professor kept in a closet in his office; fortunately Marvin was big enough (or The Professor was small enough) that they sort of fit. At the very least they were far less conspicuous than an aardvark suit.

  Samantha walked Marvin up to the stone platform and he climbed up and stood in the proper place.

  “Fasten your seatbelt.” Samantha grinned at her nervous friend.

  *

  Marvin found himself, suddenly, standing in a stairwell outside a large apartment building. The trip had been dazzling, with blue light and Mayan symbols still echoing visually in his mind. He stood there, somewhat stunned, until a voice snapped him back into awareness.

  “Marvin?” It was Samantha’s voice, coming from the tiny speaker on his wrist. “Trace your feet with the chalk.”

  Marvin did as instructed, remembering that The Professor had impressed upon him the importance of this particular step in the time-travel operation. The lines glowed brilliantly as he put the chalk back into the little tubular container The Professor had found to keep it in, a plastic cigar tube, Marvin guessed.

  “Marvin–it’s Professor Smythe,” another voice spoke. “Can you hear me?”

  Marvin tapped the communicator’s talk button as he had been shown and responded.

  “Yup. Where am I?”

  “I was going to ask you the same question.”

  “Um–I’m in a stairwell,” Marvin looked around. “Outside.”

  “Can you walk up the stairs enough to see where you are?”

  “Sure,” Marvin replied, walking up a few of the stairs and coming eye-to-eye with the street level. “Brownstones,” he continued. “It’s a side street. I can see the park in one direction, but I’m closer to the other corner. I think it’s–yeah, I can see the sign–it’s Seventy-fifth Street.”

  “Perfect!” The Professor cackled. “Now, I need you to go out to the corner of Columbus and just sort of... loiter. Wait until you see us coming. Then try to stop Jordan–I don’t care how, but you’ve got to hold him up for at least, oh, thirty seconds. That should give me enough time to safely get past the postman.”

  “Okay,” Marvin agreed, making his way to the corner.

  Almost immediately he saw The Professor, perhaps two blocks down, walking towards him. Not far behind was the sinister Jordan Anderson, and Marvin smiled at having a chance to get in the pretty boy’s face, all, of course, for the good of humanity. Further back he could just barely make out the form of Samantha, sticking close to the walls and trying not to be noticed. Well, he thought, she’s definitely going to notice me, especially if she’s watching intently.

  The Professor passed by and Marvin stepped out immediately afterward, adrenalin pumping, and did the only thing he could think of: he walked st
raight into Jordan Anderson, their heads colliding.

  “Aaaaawwww!!!!!” Jordan moaned, putting his hand to his head and stepping backward. Marvin did the same; it hurt, but he knew he had to hold Jordan up for another twenty seconds or so, so he naturally began yelling at the singer in Spanish.

  “¿Por qué no mira usted donde usted va!!? ¿Usted piensa que usted posee la calle, chico bonito!?”

  “I’m–I’m sorry,” Jordan said, dazed but looking past Marvin and trying to walk after The Professor. Marvin grabbed his arm and held him there, yelling more.

  “¿Dónde piensa usted que usted va!? ¡Mire la cabeza!”

  “I’m sorry,” Jordan repeated, trying to wrestle his arm away. “Look, I don’t understand, okay?”

  “Look at my head,” Marvin said in English, still holding Jordan’s arm and indicating a fast-growing lump.

  By this time the postman, in his haste, had passed The Professor and was walking by Jordan and Marvin. Suddenly, Jordan turned into the postman, but the postman–at least this is what it looked like–walked through him. Both looked startled, the postman turning around and Jordan focusing first on Marvin’s hand, which still held him firm, then on his face. He gritted his teeth and his face transformed into something horrid, something evil, and then–he disappeared. Completely.

  Marvin and the postman stared at each other for a moment in disbelief, then Marvin spoke.

  “Los espíritus del muerto...” He grinned, spooking the postman into turning around and running down the street. Then Marvin heard his name–but not from the wrist-communicator.

  “Marvin... ?” It was Samantha, who was walking slowly closer to him. He turned and ran, not wanting to be seen or cause any further knots in time, as quickly as possible back to his set of footprints.

  “Marvin, wait! It’s Samantha Smart!” He heard behind him as he ran down the stairwell. “Now, Professor!” he shouted into his wrist as he lined his feet up within the glowing chalk lines. Then–he was gone.

  *

  “It’s very strange,” Samantha said after Marvin had reappeared on the stone platform. “I remember it differently now.”

  “Indeed,” Professor Smythe agreed. “I do, too. I remember... not spilling my coffee at all.”

  “And I remember Marvin being there, yelling in Spanish.”

  They both turned and looked at the latest time-traveler, who was sitting down now on the steps leading up to the platform. He looked a bit dazed but otherwise intact. It was Suki who first walked over and sat next to him.

  “Are you okay, Marvin?” she asked in a concerned tone, putting her hand on his shoulder.

  “Yeah.” Marvin half-laughed, half-sighed. “Yeah, Suki, I’m fine, thanks. Um, my head kind of hurts, though.”

  “I’ll bet it does!” Samantha interjected, walking over to the platform. “I–somehow I knew you would need it so I–I sent Brianna to The Professor’s lab–there’s a fridge in there with some ice.”

  “Let Nurse Brianna take care of your boo-boo.” Brianna appeared almost on cue, sitting on Marvin’s other side and gently holding an ice-filled cloth to his swelling forehead. “Poor, brave time-traveling man... ”

  Professor Smythe chuckled. Marvin was getting the hero’s welcome from the girls and apparently loving every minute of it. Still, The Professor was troubled. There were so many questions.

  “Marvin,” he called. “You need to tell me everything that happened.”

  Marvin nodded and got up, taking the ice from Brianna and thanking her, smiling, (she was quite pretty and still dressed, somewhat appropriately, as a princess). They all filed back to The Professor’s office, where Marvin filled everyone in on the specifics of his experience.

  “And then Jordan... disappeared, right?” Samantha interrupted at precisely the right part.

  “Yeah,” Marvin said slowly. “But how did you know that?”

  “I was... there. I saw it.” Samantha spoke slowly, trying, herself, to understand.

  “It seems that our memories, in keeping with... reality, have changed accordingly,” The Professor explained. “My memory of the event has changed as well. This appears to be another side effect of... manipulating time. There are other questions, though, Marvin. Most importantly, ‘who or what is this Jordan Anderson fellow?’”

  “I don’t know, man, but his face turned into something real scary, like–not human.”

  “You say you thought you saw the postman walk through him?”

  “Yeah, Professor, I never seen anything like it! It was crazy!”

  “But you had a firm hold on his arm the whole time?”

  “Yup.”

  “Hmmm.” The ‘agents’ all looked at Professor Smythe as his famous brain ticked away, trying to solve this latest mystery. In the end, it was Suki who broke the silence.

  “Maybe he can’t touch them... ” she mused. “Maybe, he can only touch us.”

  “Go on,” The Professor encouraged her.

  “Well, I’ve been thinking about this,” she continued. “I mean, if this guy–Jordan–is trying, for some reason, to alter time, then why did he do it like that?”

  “Hey, that’s right,” Samantha chimed in. “Why wouldn’t he have just, well, done it himself, when none of us were around? Instead, he has to bump The Professor’s hand, spilling his coffee on the postman’s letter bag. It seems like an unnecessarily complicated way to achieve the goal... ”

  “I believe you ladies may have something there,” The Professor conceded. “And if you’re right, if this strange ‘enemy’ of ours can only touch through us, then... well, this might be of great advantage to us.” He shook his head, mentally switching gears. “In any case, assuming we have succeeded here, time outside the museum should now be, well, normalized.”

  Samantha was way ahead of him. She was out the door and up the stairs into the lobby. Alas, it was about eight p.m., and the museum had closed. Only a single security guard remained at the main desk. Samantha ran up to him and explained that she and her friends had been learning lessons from Professor Smythe, and asked if she could use the phone to call her mother. The guard obliged, and she dialed the number to her Brooklyn home.

  “Hello?” Cindy Smart answered, sounding shaky and tired.

  “Mom?”

  “Samantha!!? Samantha, Oh my God! Where are you, baby?”

  “I’m fine, Mom. I’m at the museum–Professor Smythe was teaching me some forensics things–”

  “Oh, Samantha! Where have you been!? It’s been almost a week! I was so worried about you!”

  “Really, I’m okay, Mom. I just want to come home.”

  “Stay there, honey! I’m coming to get you–can I talk to the security desk?”

  “Sure.” Samantha handed the phone to the guard, who had a short conversation with her mother.

  “Well,” he said after hanging up, “Your mom’s quite a bit worried about you. She asked me to keep an eye on you until she gets here.”

  “Fine.” Samantha shrugged. She walked to the museum’s front doors and peered out. There it was, in all its glory–her proper timeline, not flooded, not seventy years old, but really... now. She had thought that the sight of it would feel comforting, but for some reason she felt anything but comfortable.

  It was Thursday, which ordinarily would have excited Samantha as she would normally have been on her way to school (which, as we have mentioned, she secretly loved), but her mother had been so freaked out picking her up the previous evening that she had asked her to stay home the next day and spend time with her. Todd was allowed to stay home as well, and it appeared it was to be a “family day.” Cindy was now dating a guy named Jason, who seemed to have won some brownie points for having hung around to console her during Samantha’s disappearance, and now also seemed to be a part of family day as a reward. Cindy had woken up early and (somewhat amazingly) prepared a large brunch for everyone consisting of bagels with cream cheese, scrambled eggs with cheese and vegetables and a delicious blend of cr
anberry and fresh-squeezed orange juices. Samantha sat uncomfortably at the table, sort of getting the feeling that her mother was being so nice because she thought her daughter had run away. She still didn’t believe Samantha’s story though The Professor had helped her out on that one; the truth was, after all, pretty far-fetched.

  “So;” Jason smiled over his eggs; “your mother tells me you’re interested in science.”

  “Yeah.” Samantha nodded politely. “I think... science is pretty cool.”

  “Samantha does very well in school,” her mother said, grinning nervously and serving some eggs to Todd. “English, math, history–she’s always had straight A’s across the board.”

  “That’s great,” Jason voiced his approval with a mouth full of bagel. “School is important. It’s always good to have an education.” Samantha decided that her mom’s latest beau was pretty cute, even if he was obviously no rocket scientist. Sensing her daughter’s possible interest, Cindy took the opportunity to sell him some more.

  “Jason sells advertising,” she said hopefully, “for the New York Post.”

  “Oh,” Samantha replied. Jason’s approval rating silently dropped, as she preferred the New York Times.

  “It’s actually kind of boring,” Jason admitted. “But it does have its perks.” He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out some tickets. “Your mom said you were into Heatwavvve, so I got some comp tickets for you and your friends.” Samantha went somewhat pale.

  “Um, thanks,” she stammered, taking the tickets from the hopeful prospective “father figure.” She was quiet after that, and asked to be excused after finishing her eggs. She got up and went to her room, overhearing whispers at the table as she went.

  “I don’t know... last week she loved Heatwavvve. ”

  “Kids are fickle like that. I wouldn’t worry about it... ”

  She retreated to her room and stared at the tickets in her hand. A week ago, she would’ve been in seventh heaven, probably on the phone right now to Brianna, engaged in a lengthy discussion about which Heatwavvve boy was the cutest or which CD cover looked the coolest. Now it seemed like all that was part of a dream, a lost innocence that Samantha could not, try though she might, regain.