Cartboy and the Time Capsule
Page 1
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organisations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
This Australian edition first published in 2013
First published in the United States by Starscape/Tom Doherty Associates, LLC, in 2013
Copyright © L. A. Campbell 2013
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher. The Australian Copyright Act 1968 (the Act) allows a maximum of one chapter or ten per cent of this book, whichever is the greater, to be photocopied by any educational institution for its educational purposes provided that the educational institution (or body that administers it) has given a remuneration notice to Copyright Agency Limited (CAL) under the Act.
Allen & Unwin
83 Alexander Street
Crows Nest NSW 2065
Australia
Phone: (61 2) 8425 0100
Email: info@allenandunwin.com
Web: www.allenandunwin.com
A Cataloguing-in-Publication entry is available from the National Library of Australia
www.trove.nla.gov.au
ISBN 978 1 74331 480 7
EISBN 978 1 74343 435 2
Cover illustrations: Cartboy © Matthew K. Maley 2013; doodles by L. A. Campbell
Printed in Australia by McPherson’s Printing Group
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
To Ian
Contents
Shelter
A Timeline of Man’s Attempt to Get a Roof Over His Head
Transportation
Milestones in Transportation
Sports
Sports On Earth
Fame
Fame Through the Ages
The Information Age
Human Communication Through the Ages
Dating
Things People Have Done On First Dates Throughout History
Food
The Things People Eat
Clothing
Hand-Me-Downs Over Time
Volunteering
How Kids Have Volunteered Through the Ages
Punishment
Activities
Book Club Reading Over the Years
Popular Tourist Attractions Through the Ages
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Hello, Greetings, Zip Dop Smirg!
My name is Hal Rifkind.
I’m not sure “zip dop smirg” is how you say hi to someone who lives in the future, but I figured it was worth a try.
I’m not even sure if you are a kid or a human. You could be a robot. Or an android. Or an alien from a planet that hasn’t been discovered.
All I know for sure is, if you are reading this, you found the time capsule. And you live way in the future. Hundreds of years from now. Because that’s the earliest Mr. Tupkin said the time capsule would be opened.
Mr. Tupkin is my history teacher. He has white hair and wears suspenders and a bow tie.
The bow tie is a modern-day fashion accessory that automatically makes you look a hundred years older.
Today, he gave our class a humongous assignment. Not only was it huge, there was no warning whatsoever. And if you ask me, a little heads-up would have been good.
I walked into class thinking it was going to be a normal October day. But the first thing I saw was a giant stack of books on Mr. Tupkin’s desk. They were brand new. And thick. And they looked frighteningly like blank journals.
“What are those?” I asked Mr. Tupkin, trying to hide the quiver in my voice.
He picked up one of the journals and tossed it to me. “This, Mr. Rifkind, is how you will make your mark on the world. By writing to someone who lives in the future. And telling them all about the times we live in. Everything about life today.”
“Everything?”
“Yes. But don’t worry. You have the whole year to do it.”
If Mr. Tupkin was telling me there was a homework assignment that lasted the whole school year, I had another question.
“Isn’t that illegal?”
My best friend, Arnie Gianelli, raised his hand. “What kind of things should we write about, Mr. Tupkin?”
“Think about it. What would you want to know about someone who lived in the past? What might be important topics to cover?”
Kids from every corner of the class shouted out ideas.
Didn’t they see that with every answer they were making the assignment even longer?
I, for one, kept my mouth closed.
Mr. Tupkin started passing out the journals to everyone in the class. “You can use pictures you find on the computer,” he said, “and you can do drawings. I want you to create several timelines comparing the present to the past.”
Timelines? Drawings?
“What if you can’t draw?” I asked, trying not to cry.
“Do the best you can.”
Artist’s drawing of a cat.
My drawing of a cat.
“On the last day of school, we’ll put all the journals in a time capsule and bury it. Right here in Stowfield, Pennsylvania,” said Mr. Tupkin. “On school property. But first, we need to think of a suitable place. A place big enough to hide a large, airtight canister. A place that will not be disturbed for many years.”
Mr. Tupkin adjusted his bow tie and pointed to me. “How about you, Mr. Rifkind? Can you think of a spot that is dark and mysterious? Where something could be buried for hundreds of years?”
“Um. The bottom of my locker?”
As with most of my answers in history class, Mr. Tupkin shook his head, sighed, and turned to someone else. He pointed to Cindy Shano, the girl who sits in the front row.
“Cindy. Where should we bury the time capsule?”
“How about under the bleachers by the football field? No one ever goes there.”
“Good idea. Under the bleachers it is. We’ll put a sign on the time capsule saying that it must stay sealed until at least the year 2500.”
If it were up to me, I’d fill the time capsule with Tootsie Pops and Ring Dings. That stuff lasts for centuries.
Mr. Tupkin spent the rest of the class explaining how helpful our time capsule would be to people of the future. How whoever finds our journals will understand history better. And that just by making our journals, we’ll understand history better too.
“I promise you,” he said right before the bell rang, “you’ll get a lot out of this assignment.”
Right then, it looked like all I was going to get out of this assignment was a hand cramp, because the rest of the year is a long time to write to someone.
Who might or might not be an alien.
Shelter
Dear Surprised Finder of the Time Capsule Under the Bleachers:
If you are new to planet Earth and looking for shelter (a place to live), I have two things to say:
1. Welcome.
2. Do not buy a house with a deck. You will live to regret it.
I found this out after I asked my parents for my own room.
Why does a twelve-year-old boy need his own room, you might ask. There are lots of reasons, but the top two are called Bea and Perrie. My twin baby sisters. Not only do I share a room with them, my bed is in between their cribs.
Between the crying, teething, spit-up, and diapers, I’ve slept about seven minutes since they were born.
Average size of baby.
Average size of Dumpster that baby fills with pee, poo, and barf.
Needless to say, I’v
e been working on my dad night and day to let me move into the tiny spare room in our house.
“First of all, I need that room for my job” is his usual reply. “And second, the only way I’d consider giving you your own room is if you bring your history grade up. Way up.”
Judging by how I’m doing in history, it’s going to take a miracle. Even though it’s only October, Mr. Tupkin has already given us ten pop quizzes and tests. So far, I’ve gotten the same grade on every single one.
HINT: My grade is a letter between C and F. Words that start with my grade are Dang, Doomed, and Duh.
“No son of mine will fail history,” my dad says every time I bring home a test. “You must do better, Hal. History is who we are and why.”
“Boy, do I love history too, Dad. But the thing is, sharing a room with two babies makes it so hard to study. If we had a bigger house . . .”
“Here we go again with the ‘bigger house.’ You know I work at home. And I’ve got my whole shop set up in the spare room. It would take months to pack it up. Besides, business is a little slow. There’s no way we’re moving.”
Usually, at some point during the “Hal, you’ll never get your own room” speech, I look to my mom for help. But she’s got her own “very good” reasons for not getting a bigger house.
“Sharing is nice. You’ll establish an everlasting bond with your sisters.”
Or: “A small home is greener. Much better for the environment.”
And then there’s my personal favorite: “If you’re feeling tired, honey, I could put some needles in your feet.”
That’s the other thing about my mom. Her big plan to help out with the family income is to go to night school. She’s studying for a degree in acupuncture. It’s this Chinese medicine that’s popular today.
They say it’s been around for thousands of years in China, which I really don’t get. Because the idea of acupuncture is to stick needles in people. To make them feel better.
My mom practices acupuncture on our pet rabbit, Scamper. I am pretty sure Scamper does not like this.
Normally, the conversation about getting my own room ends with me right back where I started. Sitting on my bed, listening to the twins’ nonstop jibber-jabber.
The other night, Perrie was trying to talk. She was holding her favorite puppet, a seashell with a hermit crab inside. “Sell. Sell,” she said, showing me the shell.
I put my hand inside the shell and made the hermit crab pop out.
“Boo!”
Perrie loves it when I do that. She pointed to the shell again, and said, “Sell.”
That’s it, I thought. Sell! If only I could sell our house. Get someone to make an offer my parents couldn’t refuse.
Sure, they kept telling me they’ll never move. But for the right price, maybe my mom and dad would reconsider.
So last Saturday, when my parents said we were going to visit Grampa Janson, I told them I wanted to stay home and study. As soon as they left, I printed out a sign on my computer. It said open house. It means anyone who’s driving by can come in and look at your house to see if they want to buy it. I even decorated the sign for good measure.
For reasons no one understands, balloons make people go shopping.
Next, I put on a suit I borrowed from Arnie. It was the one he wore to Billy Cohen’s bar mitzvah. I have to admit, the suit was a little flashy for me. And not just because I’m not the suit-wearing type.
The thing about Arnie is he actually likes dressing up because “girls notice that stuff.” The other thing he does is put gel in his hair because it looks “sophisticated.”
About half an hour after I put up the open house sign, I heard a sound that was music to my ears.
Ding-dong.
I opened the door and saw a nice-looking couple standing on the steps.
“Hello, we’re here for the open house,” said the man.
“Come in.”
“Is the homeowner here?”
“He’ll be back shortly. In the meantime, why don’t I show you around?”
We started to walk through the house and right away the man started firing off questions.
“How close is the nearest school?”
“The Stowfield Middle School is just a stone’s throw away, sir.”
School is really two miles from my house, but I figured if you have a slingshot, it might be a stone’s throw away.
The couple walked into our kitchen and looked at the ceiling. “Have you ever had problems with mold?” asked the woman.
“Yes,” I said. I figured it was best to be honest. I grabbed a hunk of my dad’s favorite blue cheese out of the fridge and tossed it in the trash. “But not anymore.”
The man looked me straight in the eye. “Are there any structural issues or deferred payments we should know about?”
Ding-dong. Luckily, I was saved by the bell.
The next people to come to the open house were an older lady and her “friend.” After I showed them around a little, I found out her friend was a home inspector.
“I like to bring the inspector with me,” said the lady. “So I’ll know if there are problems right off the bat.”
The lady and the inspector walked down the hall and stopped in front of the spare room. The one that should be my bedroom right now.
“What’s in here?” asked the inspector.
“This room is, um, under renovation,” I said, locking the door. “Don’t want the dust to get out. Very harmful.”
The inspector gave me a look like he knew something was up. But then he turned to the lady, and said, “Why don’t we go see the outside of the house?”
As the two of them went to look at our back deck, I stood in front of the spare room. I knew the real reason I didn’t want to open that door.
I was embarrassed.
The thing is, the room is filled from floor to ceiling with old microwaves. And DVD players. And toasters from the 1970s. Because my dad’s job is fixing appliances.
There are little screws and wires and tools everywhere, and everything is greasy and dirty. Every time I look in that room I can’t help but wonder why it has to be my dad who surrounds himself with used stuff. Didn’t he ever want anything new, like a normal dad?
I was still standing in front of the door when the inspector suddenly walked up and handed me an official-looking piece of paper. As soon as I saw it, my hands started to sweat. Could this really be it? An offer for the house? I mean, it seemed a bit soon. But if you love a place, you love a place, right?
I stood there holding the paper and I couldn’t help but imagine what my new room would look like. Arnie and I would set up RavenCave (the best video game ever). We’d have a special table for chocolate-glazed doughnuts with sprinkles.
The chocolate-glazed doughnut with sprinkles.
The inferior plain doughnut.
Beware of muffins. They are usually mushed-up whole wheat bread in a deceptive cupcake shape.
I was lost in the thought of where the doughnut table would go when I heard the inspector say, “You have a violation. Code one-thirteen. Section nine. Deck railing.”
“Thank you. Um, what?”
“Your deck railing is not built to code. The rails are five inches apart. They need to be four. Judging by the toys lying around everywhere, I’m guessing small children live in this house.”
“Small children. Yes, two.”
“Young man, I’d fix that deck if you want those children to be safe. And if you want to avoid a fine.”
Things my dad likes doing more than paying fines:
Boiling in oil.
Getting eaten by a mountain lion.
It wasn’t until later in the day that my family got back from Grampa Janson’s. My dad was pretty surprised to see me on the back deck.
“Haven’t seen you holding a hammer in years, son.”
“I just want to make sure Bea and Perrie don’t fall off the deck. These rails are a little far apart, don’t you think, D
ad? What do you say we fix them together?”
“That’s my boy! Why buy new when you can fix the old!”
I spent the first two weeks of October working on the deck, thinking about how I’d never have my own room.
And how I’d be spending the rest of my life next to two girls who have five teeth between them.
A Timeline of Man’s Attempt to Get a Roof Over His Head
Transportation
Dear Whoever Found the Time Capsule and Opened My Journal:
If you are from a galaxy outside our solar system, you probably came here by a light beam–powered rocket, like the kind they have on Realm III (a video game about space travel). Or maybe you were transkinetically teleported, in which case I hope you were wearing shin guards.
If you’re a human, I’m guessing your “car” runs on cow manure or melted candy corns ’cause that’s the way things are going. All I know is if there’s one thing people are always trying to improve, it’s the way they travel around.
Today, the most amazing form of transportation is something called the Ziptuk E300S Motorized Scooter. Basically, it can take you anywhere you need to go. Like from home to school, or from the couch to the fridge.
I hope the E300S is still around when you are reading this. And that you have no more than two legs.
I first saw one on a television show called Grombits 2020. It was about a kid who has to escape from these half-werewolf, half-snake creatures. He jumped from one rooftop to another one that was like, eighty feet away. All the kid had to do was stand on his Ziptuk E300S, press a button, and, kapow, he was on the other roof in seconds.
Another thing that makes the Ziptuk the most exciting form of transportation known to humans today is that you don’t need a driver’s license to use one. Which is especially good news for someone like me since my parents make me walk to school two miles each way. They say it’s because walking is greener.