And I was in the booth.
‘Welcome,’ said Kara’s voice.
Then, disconcertingly, she changed the script. ‘You are about to take your fifth and final journey. Here at the Time Travel Agency™, we trust that you have enjoyed your travels today. Be sure to share your experiences on your favourite social media platforms. Departing in ten, nine, eight …’
I straightened my shoulders.
The booth flashed white and skidded sideways.
‘Yes, Babstock,’ I said. ‘It’s me. Surprise!’
It was unfair of me to be snarky with him. He didn’t know this was a loop. Only, I was feeling a little tetchy. I blamed Kara-the-receptionist. She hadn’t reminded me to rehydrate and now I was thirsty. (Knowing that this was my own fault rather than Kara’s, only increased my irritation.) But it was more than that.
Your fifth and final journey, she had said.
Last chance, is what she meant.
Last chance to achieve nothing you mean, Kara, I thought spitefully.
Oh, blah. May as well give it one last go.
I stomped up the stairs.
‘Cerulean blue!’ I mouthed along with Mum’s shout, and ‘Candy-apple red!’ with Dad. I rolled my eyes at them, like a proper teenager.
My sister’s room and the crying girl. My brother’s room and the crash! followed by the same old swearing.
Could you not at least vary your curses? I withered at the door.
I turned into the bathroom, waited while Sebastian’s door flew open and his footsteps disappeared down the stairs, then I unhooked the mirror and stepped back into the hall.
Outside my own room again, I hefted the mirror high. Ha-ha hee-hee. Yes, me-of-the-past, chortle away in there. Soon you will have nothing to laugh about for soon that boy will tear your heart to shreds!
Noah continued being funny, and I continued being amused. His voice, my laugh, his voice, my laugh.
Yes, yes, I know this bit.
But then I stopped. I adjusted the mirror slightly so that the image was all Noah’s face.
There! I was right! His eyes had just skittered sideways. He was looking across the room, at my bookshelf. They skittered right back to me so he could be humorous again.
Obligingly, I laughed.
And there! Now his whole head had turned away. I was saying something myself now, at the same time as laughing, and he had turned his head to look out of the window. He swung his head around quickly. Okay, again, there! His eyes were on the light fittings now!
All this was happening in quick, darting flashes, you understand. Only a girl watching very closely from the hallway with a mirror in her arms would have noticed. But to me, such a girl, it was very clear.
Understanding crept up behind me and got a good grip on my throat.
In the room, Noah was leaning in, me-of-the-past was leaning in, and the kiss was about to happen. I turned away just in time. I couldn’t watch again. It would be an intrusion. Let her have her moment, I thought, referring tenderly to the me-of-the-past. This one, single moment of joy in a life that from henceforth will be desperate with tragedy.
I looked again. The kiss was done. We were at the part where we smiled at each other.
And it was still happening. Noah’s eyes kept wandering the room in quick little bursts. If you can wander in bursts. Well, I know you can because that’s what Noah was doing. I lowered the mirror a bit and saw that he was also doing this weird thing where he tapped his fingers against his elbow. Then he actually pinched the elbow. I lowered it further and there! His foot was tapping madly!
‘I am unbelievably late for work,’ he said, and I lifted the mirror quickly, catching his eyes over my shoulder now, on my clock radio.
He stood up, me-of-the-past stood up, and there I was in the booth again.
‘Welcome back,’ Kara said. ‘Take some time to compose yourself. Re-entering the present can be disconcerting, so —’
Blah, blah. I don’t know what she said next. I was lost in my own forlorn wisdom.
The glass was already broken.
Now I understood what it meant.
It wasn’t anything I had done wrong. It wasn’t the kiss.
The whole time he’d been in my room, his mind had been on other things. He didn’t want to be there. Noah had never been interested in me in the first place.
Kara-the-receptionist hurried into my booth as I was standing to leave.
‘There they are!’ she said, scooping up the post-it note and keys. It was strangely intimate hearing her voice in real life, instead of over the speaker. ‘Good trip?’ she asked, but she swept out before I answered. She did not glance at the screen, so she did not come face-to-face with the grim consequences of her own carelessness.
Everyone was subdued as we returned to school, except for Farrell Kafji, who complained loudly that he had landed in the middle of a seventeenth-century field. ‘And fields then are exactly like fields right now!’ he shouted. ‘I could’ve gone down to Forsyth Park if I wanted to see a field!’ By the last visit, he said, he had actually sprinted across the field, trying to find his way to something interesting, but there were only more fields.
All he ever saw was a cow.
Other people murmured quiet little tales to each other about seeing productions of Romeo and Juliet at the Globe, or having rats run over their feet, or lighting tallow candles, or having met ‘any number of coxcombs’, or arriving just in time to see King Charles the First lose his head.
‘The graphics were excellent,’ somebody said. ‘And the effects? Wow. Beyond gruesome.’ ‘State-of-the-art,’ others agreed soberly. ‘What is it, four-D holograms or what?’
So we were sticking with the sceptical. It was all high-tech theatrics.
I stayed silent. Noah was near the front of the group, and I hung way at the back.
At home tonight, my parents wanted to know about today’s school excursion to the Time Travel Agency™. I made up a story about having seen things far too traumatising to discuss (which was true enough, and which impressed them both very much).
Dad and I were making tacos for dinner, and Mum was working on her laptop at the kitchen table. Somebody else, meanwhile, was pounding on the front door.
‘Yo?’ called a voice.
My mother rolled her eyes. ‘Come in, Max!’ she shouted. ‘It’s open!’
Max Stephenson, accompanied by his swoopy hair, strolled into the kitchen. He dumped his schoolbag on the floor.
Sebastian must have heard because his footsteps thudded on the stairs and here he was, in the kitchen.
‘Dude,’ said Max.
‘Dude,’ Seb agreed, but without his usual relish. He was frowning to himself. His frown roamed the room. ‘That’s my shirt,’ he said to me.
‘No it’s not,’ I replied automatically and then, also automatically, ‘Oh well, it is your shirt, but I’m wearing it two weeks in the fut—’
Then I remembered that actually this was the future. And here I was, grating cheese and wearing it.
But my brother had lost interest. He was leaning against the bench, flipping through taco shells. ‘I’ve lost my essay,’ he said.
‘It’s not in the taco shells,’ I said. ‘Leave them alone.’
‘It’ll turn up,’ Mum said. She always says that. It’s both comforting and infuriating.
‘Will it?’ my brother asked hopefully.
Dad was at the stove, a spatula in hand. ‘Where did you last see it?’
‘On my computer. Yeah, no, I didn’t have a backup, don’t ask that question. Ask this one. How can three thousand five hundred words on The Great Gatsby just disappear?’
I stopped grating.
‘Whoa,’ said Max Stephenson, swinging himself into a chair at the table. ‘That’s due tomorrow!’
Now I turned around slowly.
Of course Sebastian had finished an essay two weeks before the due date. That was exactly his style.
‘Isn’t that what happene
d to Gatsby himself?’ Mum pointed out. ‘He disappeared?’
‘Into thin air,’ Dad agreed and then he whispered to himself, ‘into thin air.’ He fluttered his fingers in the air, trying out the concept. ‘Did you hear that, guys? Into thin air. So evocative. Takes your breath away, really.’
‘Anyway,’ Mum said. ‘It makes sense for an essay on Gatsby to disappear, is my point, because that’s exactly what the man himself did.’
‘You two can be a little ridiculous at times,’ my brother pointed out. Our parents turned back to their work, chastened.
‘Just write a new one,’ Max suggested. ‘I was going to get the lowdown on calculus from you tonight, but no sweat. Your essay’s more important.’
My heart was thrumming.
‘Actually,’ I said to Sebastian, ‘Max has a copy of your essay for you.’
The room blinked. That’s how it seemed anyway. Quick, startled glances from everyone.
‘He has?’ Sebastian asked.
Max’s face was busy with expressions of confusion and innocence. ‘Uh, what?’ He decided a little laughter was called for. ‘Sorry, dude. Why would I?’
‘Good question,’ I said smoothly. ‘And yet you do. Remember? Two weeks ago? You copied the essay onto your USB? From Sebastian’s computer?’
‘I what?’
‘You what?’ my parents and brother echoed.
‘The USB that’s like a little red car?’ I prompted him. Here, I took a bold step towards Max’s schoolbag and swept it up into my arms. ‘I’ll check for you!’
People were too confused to point out my violation of privacy and etiquette.
I took a guess, opened the front-pocket zip, rummaged around and there it was.
The little red car.
‘That’s a USB?’ Dad asked. ‘No way!’
‘I love it,’ Mum agreed.
I tossed it to my brother. ‘See if your essay’s on here,’ I instructed him.
Sebastian scratched his forehead. ‘Why would it be —’
‘Just go check,’ I said, and he shrugged, tossing the little red car on his palm. Then he swivelled and ran up the stairs.
While he was gone, Max kept up a low, meandering chuckle.
‘That’s getting on my nerves,’ Mum told him politely, so he stopped.
‘It’s here!’ my brother bellowed from upstairs. ‘It’s here!’
There was a pause while my parents and I raised our eyebrows at each other, very high, and Max attempted to imitate our surprise.
Seb’s footsteps thundered back down the stairs. ‘Dude,’ he said to Max. ‘You legend! I owe you,’ and he handed him the USB.
Now my parents and I swung wide-eyed glances at each other, but our glances were interrupted by the whoosh of the door.
My sister marched in. Hands on her hips, she surveyed us all.
‘Uh-oh,’ Dad said. ‘What have we done now?’
‘I need to leave in —’ Harper paused and studied our kitchen clock. It’s a sailboat clock: us kids gave it to my parents for their anniversary a few years ago, and the numbers are scattered everywhere. The idea is that they’ve been blown off course by a gust of good sailing wind. Clever, but very tricky to tell the time. ‘I need to leave in five minutes,’ Harper decided eventually. ‘And I cannot find my keys.’
‘They’ll turn up,’ Mum declared.
‘In the next five minutes?’ my sister demanded.
‘Oh, that I cannot promise,’ Mum said. She sorted through the papers that were piled around her. At this point, I was trying to set the table, and Mum and I were having a kind of silent battle over how much territory her paperwork could occupy.
‘Maybe Max has got your keys,’ Dad suggested mildly. ‘He had Sebastian’s essay. Check his bag.’
Max made a gurgling sound that I believe was supposed to be a laugh. He was looking pretty pale.
‘You could just take Dad’s car,’ Sebastian offered.
‘Could she?’ Dad said, surprised.
‘It’s not my car keys, it’s my locker key,’ Harper said. ‘For the dance studio. I haven’t used it for weeks, but there are choreography notes I need tonight.’
Up to this point, I admit, I had not been paying much attention to the discussion. The key point for me was that Harper was going out, and therefore not staying for dinner. I was recalculating place settings and taco allocations. But now I straightened up.
‘Your locker key for the dance studio?’
‘Yes.’
‘You gave that to a friend,’ I said. ‘Two weeks ago.’
‘Nonsense,’ said Harper. Honestly, she used the word nonsense. It’s her style. ‘I’d never give away my locker key.’
Here I had a moment’s doubt. Harper has a real certainty about her. But I’d been right about the stolen essay.
‘It was a friend who wears a lot of perfume,’ I remembered. ‘Really sweet perfume. Like freesias and watermelon.’
‘Oh, that’s Isabelle,’ Mum said. ‘She was here visiting you a couple of weeks ago, Harper. I remember I said to her, What IS that perfume, Isabelle? as a gentle way of suggesting that it was awful. But she took it as a compliment.’
Harper’s hands had fallen from her hips. She folded them. ‘Isabelle was here,’ she said. ‘But why would I …?’ She blinked quickly.
‘She was upset about an audition,’ I prompted. ‘Something went wrong with her boogaloo.’ I giggled. So did the family. Max just breathed quietly.
‘She was upset!’ Harper cried. ‘I did give her my locker key! I told her to take a CD from it! She should have given it back! Well done,’ she said to me. ‘Thank you!’ She is always very fair in her distribution of praise and gratitude.
Then she spun around, called, ‘Bye! Don’t call us! We’ll call you!’, shot the air with imaginary cowboy guns and ran from the room. (That’s a family thing. Years ago, my parents went to pitch to a potential client and they both thought it went great until the end, when the guy said, ‘Don’t call us! We’ll call you!’ and shot the air with imaginary cowboy guns. My parents came home howling with laughter, and ever since that’s become a sort of signature farewell with us. Even Max Stephenson has stopped startling at it.)
At this point, speaking of Max Stephenson, the boy himself pushed back his chair. His forehead looked a bit damp.
‘You know,’ he said. ‘I think maybe I won’t stay for dinner tonight.’
I started recalculating taco allocations again, but Mum was muttering to herself. She was tapping frantically at keys and zipping the mouse everywhere. ‘Where’s the confirmation?’ she said. ‘Where are the emails?’
‘Something else lost?’ Dad asked cheerfully. ‘Max will have it for sure.’
Mum looked up, frowning deeply. ‘The Ely Films programs?’ she said. ‘I can’t see any confirmation here and they need them for that big premiere on Friday.’
‘A thousand copies,’ Dad agreed, returning to the lettuce. ‘Don’t worry about it. You sent the artwork to the printers a fortnight ago. They’ll all be done and dusted. Done and dusted. Now that’s a —’
‘What?’ said Mum. ‘Who sent the artwork to the printers?’
‘You did.’
‘Um,’ said Max Stephenson. ‘I’ll just be off.’
‘Yes,’ Mum shot at him acidly. ‘I expect you have a Gatsby essay to write for tomorrow. Sit down.’ She swung to Dad. ‘I didn’t send the Ely artwork to the printers, you did.’
Max sank into his seat. Beside him, my brother blinked.
Dad, meanwhile, was swaying slightly. He bit his lip. ‘You thought I sent the artwork?’
‘You didn’t?’
‘I thought you did.’
They stared at each other.
‘It’s Monday,’ Mum whispered.
‘And they need the program for …’
‘The world premiere is Friday,’ Mum repeated. ‘The stars of the film are flying in for it. Sydney’s A-list celebrities will be there. Australia’s!’
/> ‘We can still do it,’ Dad said, suddenly pumped. ‘AJs print overnight so as long as we get it to them by their cut-off tonight, they’ll have it for tomorrow — spot UV and celloglaze Tuesday, Wednesday to dry, collate and stitch on Thursday, delivery Thursday afternoon.’
‘Right.’ Mum nodded, looking excited. ‘And AJs’ cut-off is six p.m., so we have …’
They both swung around and studied the sailboat clock. Seconds ticked by.
‘Three minutes,’ they concluded at the same time.
‘Isn’t there a clock on your computer?’ Max mused.
They ignored him. ‘Quick,’ Dad rushed to Mum’s side. Her hands were moving around the keyboard at a high-speed tremble.
‘Where is it? Where’s the artwork? Okay, here it is!’
I looked over their shoulders. The screen filled with a blaze of colour and bubble font. A yellow tiger scowled from centre-top.
‘Okay, he’s approved the artwork, right? Except for the colour of the tiger. It’s their new logo. They’re launching it at the premiere. So just fix the colour, stick it in an email and send!’
Dad was jittering like a teabag. Mum’s fingers flew. On the screen, the yellow tiger turned blue.
‘Done,’ Mum said. ‘The tiger is now cerulean blue. So I just —’
‘Candy-apple red,’ Dad said firmly. ‘He wanted candy-apple red.’
‘No.’ Mum shook her head, still typing. ‘It was cerulean blue.’
‘Candy-apple red!’
‘Cerulean blue!’
Seb, Max and I looked back and forth between them and the clock, with great interest.
‘Stop!’ Dad said. ‘We don’t have time to argue!’
‘You’re right. Let’s call him and check.’ Mum reached for her phone, then stopped. ‘We can’t!’ she said. ‘He’s in New York, remember? He flies back tomorrow.’
‘So we call him in New York!’
‘It’s four a.m. in New York.’
‘He’s an early riser!’
‘How can you possibly know that!’ Mum demanded.
Sebastian looked at his own phone. ‘You have forty-five seconds,’ he said.
Begin End Begin: A #LoveOzYa Anthology Page 25