The Extraordinary eTab of Julian Newcomber

by Michael Seese

  “What do we do?”

  “Follow me,” Grown-up Julian said, leading Young Julian up North Franklin and away from the Biffdozer.

  Biff remained on the other side of Washington Street, about 100 feet away, waiting for the Red Hand to give way to the Walking Guy, whose white luminescence would bless his passage across the busy intersection. Once given the (literal) green light, he pulled an imaginary chain above his head, threw open his mouth, and emitted a perfect-sounding air horn noise.

  The sonic calling card inspired the Julians to double their pace. Occupying a prime spot just past the point where North Franklin met Main—the hypotenuse of the Town Triangle—was the Fireside Book Shop. More to the point, it sat just past a slight bend in the sidewalk, meaning Biff did not have a straight line of vision as they entered.

  “In here,” Grown-up Julian said, opening the door as the little bell above cheerfully announced their arrival. He steered them right, then left, maneuvering between the biographies and new arrivals as he headed toward the rear of the store.

  “We’ll be trapped!” Young Julian said, fear creeping into his voice. Indeed, just as they entered the back room the bell sang out again, though this time it sounded more like a funeral processional. The door slammed. After a moment of merciful silence, the floor creaked under duress.

  “No worries,” Grown-up Julian said, whispering nonetheless.

  “Sure. You don’t have any. But I’ve got enough for both of us. You may not have noticed this, but you’re a grown-up. He’s not going to touch you. But me…”

  “He won’t touch either.”

  “And you know this because…”

  “Because I know two things you don’t.”

  “What? Jujitsu and levitation?”

  “No. Well, maybe. I can’t say. It’s complicated.”

  “Then…?”

  “One, Biff is allergic to books. Literally.”

  “You can’t be seri—”

  A gale-force wind coursed through the store. On its heels came a titanic achoo!

  “That ought to keep him occupied. Or should I say allergized?”

  “Great. He’s sneezing. You do understand he’s physically capable of blocking both aisles between here and the front of the store.”

  “And, drum roll, please. Thing I know number two. There’s a back door.”

  “There is?”

  Grown-up Julian extended his arm in a way that said, “After you.”

  Indeed, around the shelf labeled Misprints & Misfits lay salvation.

  Without a bell.

  Safely outside, Young Julian breathed a sigh of relief.

  “How did you know?”

  “About what?”

  “Both.”

  “Well, once Biff chased me into the intermediate school library. That’s how I learned about his aversion to literary diversion.”

  “It’s going to take me a few minutes to figure out that last sentence. In the meantime, what’s the other?”

  “The better question is, how did you not know? Haven’t you ever been in there?”

  “No. We’ve only been here a few months, remember?”

  “Fair enough. Trust me. In a few years you’ll know the place inside and out. It’s where you’re going to get your first job.”

  “I will? Doing what?”

  “Just stuff like stocking shelves, calling customers to say their order is in, and occasionally fumigating the place to kill the bookworms. Just kidding about that last one. Mr. Lewis, the owner, is a good man. He’ll treat you well.”

  “Sounds good, I suppose. But a bookstore?”

  “Yeah. What’s wrong with a bookstore?” Grown-up Julian perfectly imitated what Mrs. Newcomber often called Julian’s “my life is soooo horrible tone of voice.” Which was not surprising.

  “Bookstores are boring.”

  “Maybe some are. But this is a magical place.”

  “Magic as in Houdini, or magic as in Peter Pan?”

  “I mean, books are magic. What else can deliver you to exotic lands, other planets, or even other times? What else can do that? I mean, assuming you don’t have an enhanced eTab and an adventurous stupidity streak.” Grown-up Julian said, sounding once again like their mom. “That’s all I meant.”

  “Yeah, that’s what Mom says. Always,” Young Julian said in the “my life is soooo horrible tone of voice.”

  “Let’s get home, Young Me. We’ll take the stealth route.”

  A muffled explosion from within Fireside told them Biff remained at war with his nose.

  “I think I might have found his kryptonite,” Young Julian said.

  “Come to think of it, maybe that’s the reason we started working there.”

  Walking back toward Washington by slinking through the parking lot behind the shops on North Franklin, Young Julian noticed a small sign affixed to a weathered wall.

  “The Paris Room? PARIS!?”

  “Chill. It’s a bar. Or, a bistro, as you can see,” he said, pointing to the sign above the door.

  “Oh.”

  “What?” asked Grown-up Julian.

  “Nothing. It’s just that for a minute I thought maybe…”

  Had Grown-up Julian been mid-sip on any drink, he would have done a spit-take. As it was, he executed the empty-mouth equivalent.

  “Pffft! That the Paris Room would somehow transport you to Paris?”

  Young Julian looked down and kicked the gravel a little. Grown-up Julian laughed heartily, occasionally crossing over into guffawing, augmented by emphatic knee-slapping

  “Well,” Young Julian said defensively, “given everything that’s happened in the past twenty-four hours, it didn’t seem outside the realm of possibility.”

  Grown-up Julian quieted down.

  “I suppose you have a point,” he conceded. “But no. It’s a place to dine and wine, the latter only if you’re a grown-up. No teleportation service here, Young Me.”

  “Too bad. It would be cool. If this place could magically send you to Paris. I’d love to go there.”

  “You will. Senior year.” Young Julian perked up. “It’s kind of a funny story, actually. Mom was out of town for the World Semaphore Championships.”

  “She’s always said she wanted to do that.”

  “Yes. So, Dad had to take care of everything. The cooking went OK. But when it came to reading and answering any correspondence from the school...”

  “I know this won’t end well,” Young Julian said.

  “One of the emails was from the Whispering Falls Club Français, announcing the annual France trip. But Dad was tinkering with his glasses at the time. Trying to add an electron microscope to them, or something like that. Turns out, he thought he read ‘French dip,’ his favorite kind of sandwich. He signed me up, apparently not questioning why a lunch entrée would cost four thousand dollars. By the time he realized his mistake—which is to say, by the time Mom saw the credit card bill and flipped out—it was too late to back out. Three months later, I’m on a plane to Paris.”

  “Cool! When do I start studying French?”

  “You don’t.”

  “I don’t?”

  “Nope. We stick with good old Español.”

  “You mean I will actually…?”

  “Spend a month in France without speaking a word of the language? Yup.”

  “Should I be afraid?”

  “We managed. We always do. You’re just going to have to trust me on that one.”

  Young Julian nodded in overt agreement, but covertly wondered whether everything really would be as easy as his future self claimed.

  “Speaking of trust,” Young Julian began, “didn’t we have an agreement? No revealing the future unless it’s life or death. Working at the bookstore and flying off to Paris¾”

  “Is technically about life. So, I’m safe. Now let’s get home, Young Me. We’ve got a power supply problem to solve.”

  By the time they’d put the business district behind them,
Young Julian had done likewise with the dire news he dreaded sharing with Grown-up Julian when they’d left the cupcake shop. Grown-up Julian had not.

  “About that ‘Well…’ Well what?” he asked.

  “What?”

  “A few minutes ago, I said something about this day getting better. And you said, ‘Well…’ with a distinct tone of hesitation in your voice. Remember?”

  “Oh, that. It’s...nothing,” Young Julian said, trying to minimize—what the smart folks call “downplay”—the bombshell to come.

  “You’re doing it again.”

  “I am?”

  “Spill it. What happened?”

  “Well, maybe we have a problem.”

  “We do?”

  “Sort of. Do you remember Mr. Nitro?”

  “Remember him? He was my favorite teacher. He changed my life. Do you want to know why?”

  “Does it have anything to do with returning the eTab he took because I was using it in class?”

  “No. Nothing to do with that. It’s because he—Wait. Did you say he took the eTab?” Grown-up Julian asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Because you were using it in class?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why would you do that?”

  “Because he was talking about copper. And the symbol for copper is Cu. And Cu made me think of Cucumium. And then his voice stopped talking, even though his lips kept moving, and other voices started singing, and—”

  “Oh, yeah. I remember having classes in that room. You know, to this day, when I need to study for a science test, I put on some choral music. Helps me focus.”

  “Got it. Choral music to study. Anyway, it’s gone. Well, it’s not gone. It’s locked in his desk.”

  “So what’s the problem? Work on a deep, sincere apology and the exact words you can use to ask—”

  “But then he started sneezing and honking, and he ran out the door. I’m pretty sure he left. I heard something out in the parking lot that sounded like a jet engine.”

  “Oh yeah. The Lab-Ratmobile.”

  “Heh-heh. That’s a good one.”

  “Thanks. You came up with it.”

  “I did? I don’t remem—Oh, I get it.”

  Grown-up Julian thought for a minute. Young Julian could tell by the way his eyes and lips were moving without seeing or speaking. Then a look of worry flashed onto Grown-up Julian’s face.

  “He has the eTab! Oh, man! Could this day get any worse?”

  Young Julian was somewhat surprised by his older self’s reaction.

  “At first, I thought the same thing. But maybe I was overreacting. I mean, it’s locked in his desk. As you said, what’s the problem? I should be able to get it tomorrow and—”

  “Today is Thursday. Tomorrow is Friday. The day after that is Saturday.”

  “Are you sure?” Julian began counting on his fingers for comic—what his dad called “genetically-

  programmed wise guy”—effect.

  “Am I sure?”

  “Seriously? I think we learned the days of the week in preschool.”

  “The point is, if Mr. Nitro isn’t there tomorrow, allergies and household HAZMAT events being two common reasons for him to call in sick or glowing, then your eTab will stay in his desk all weekend. And I don’t know that we will need yours to send me back. But if we do...”

  “But if we do, the problem is you don’t have enough battery to make it through the weekend. And if it completely dies, the clock app will get erased, and you’ll be stuck here on the bottom bunk forever.”

  “Yes. Except for the bottom bunk part. I thought we might—”

  “Don’t even go there.” Young Julian barked, his pent-up anger finally boiling over. “You sure are creating a mess for me...us.”

  “Yeah, but not as bad as the mess that you’ll create at the end of sixth grade. Yeah, I probably should also go back to then, and tell myself to not pull that stupid stunt.”

  “Well, you’re here right now with yourself, in person. Since you’ve already made an exception—what the smart folks call ‘set a precedent’—for sharing news that spares the family from harm, I suppose you could tell me what it is.”

  “OK. Don’t break into the school on the night before your last day of sixth grade and spread around all the Evaporated Mouse Powder that Dad made. I mean, you couldn’t know they’d polish the floors the next day, but whew! What a mess that was.”

  “Got it. I won’t break into the school and—Wait! You said you broke into the school?”

  “Yes.”

  “The intermediate school?”

  “Yes.”

  “The school where I go now, and where my eTab is locked in a desk drawer?”

  “Yes.”

  “Could we do it—break in—again?”

  “Sure. But Dad hasn’t invented the Evaporated Mouse Powder yet. So why would we—Oh, I get it.”

  “Grown-up Me, I think you and I are going to have an adventure—what the smart folks call an ‘escapade’—tonight.”

  CHAPTER 11

  That evening, the two Julians prepared for their mission. While Young Julian was downstairs eating with the family, Grown-up Julian was out back, in his dad’s lab, acquiring some helpful supplies—what the smart folks call “accoutrements.” Back up in the room, he laid out the spoils.

  “Night vision goggles. Master-Key-In-A-Can. The Cloak Of Invisibility. Granola bars, in case we get hungry.”

  “Invisibility?” Young Julian said happily. “That will make this so much—”

  “Just kidding. Come on. That’s Harry Potter. But all kidding aside, this will come in handy,” he said, holding out a really large tube of toothpaste.

  “Wait. Didn’t I just see that?”

  “Probably at dinner some night. Dad called it No Squeak. He designed it to stop floors and doors and drawers from squeaking. But one time I got some on my shoes. And a little on my hands. And I found I could climb walls. Just like Spiderman. Isn’t that great?”

  “Yeah, if it were true.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Star Trek. Harry Potter. Spiderman. Any time you talk about something really cool, it’s just a movie reference. You’re not fooling me again.”

  “Oh no. This time I’m serious.”

  “Really?”

  “Really. How do you think I got into the school to play that sixth-grade prank? The one I told you not to do.” Grown-up Julian pointed skyward. “Up the wall, in the window. Oh, which reminds me. You probably want to bring another pair of shoes. Otherwise, you’re going to have a dickens of a time trying to walk home with this stuff all over the bottom of the ones you used to climb the wall. And get some gloves. Unless you want your hands to stick to Mr. Nitro’s desk drawer, and anything else you happen to touch.”

  “So how do we get it off?”

  “After about a day it just evaporates. Or does this stuff explode?”

  Young Julian’s heart skipped a beat.

  “No,” Grown-up Julian said after thinking—what the smart folks call “mulling”—it over. “This evaporates. It doesn’t explode. Probably. Are we ready?”

  “In a minute. I think I need to go to the bathroom and get sick.”

  “Why? Nerves?”

  “No. The spinach. The spinach you made me heap onto my plate. The spinach Mom made me eat some of, right in front of her. She claimed it was for Dylan’s and Olivia’s benefit. To show them it’s OK. But I think she has it out for me. No matter the reason, it was totally gross!”

  “You mean, totally yes!”

  “When did I stop being me, and turn into you?”

  “Every single day, Young Me. Every single day.”

  “I’m not sure I like it.”

  Young Julian and Grown-up Julian spent the next three hours honing their plan and reviewing the logistics. (Though, in reality, they spent most of the time testing different substances for suitability as invisible ink, and practicing hand signals for maneuvers
like Move Forward and Run Away!) In the end, they came up with a seven-phase plan.

  1. GET THERE.

  2. GET UP.

  3. GET IN.

  4. GET IT.

  5. GET OUT.

  6. GET DOWN.

  7. GET HOME.

  They included an extra step—what the smart folks call an “addendum” or a “codicil.”

  8. GET AWAY WITH IT.

  After the sane members of the family had gone to bed—and Mr. Newcomber was in his lab, where he often fell asleep, usually to wake up with his face chemically bonded to his workbench—Young Julian and Grown-up Julian crept down the stairs and out the back door. Though they probably didn’t have to, they hugged the shadows and ducked behind trees whenever a car or suspicious squirrel approached, like the cool secret operative agents they were.

  As they snuck up the walkway to the front of the school, Young Julian was struck by just how deserted it was. It felt, to him, even lonelier than when filled with kids, if that was possible.

  Too soon for his liking, Young Julian found himself standing beneath Mr. Nitro’s window, staring at his goal, three stories up.

  “Why couldn’t this be like the elementary school? One floor.”

  “What the smart folks call a ‘story’ and the British folks call a ‘storey,’” added Grown-up Julian. “Get your gloves on and stand close to the building.”

  Grown-up Julian unscrewed the cap.

  “Now, just a bit,” he said. “Maybe a quarter-sized amount. Smear it on the toes of your shoes, not the bottoms. Otherwise, you’ll have to take them off when you get up there.”

  Young Julian applied a small amount to each.

  “It smells nice. Like kiwifruit.”

  “Dad’s favorite fruit. By the way, someday, when he offers you his special deodorant that smells like kiwifruit, say no. It attracts yellow jackets. And hummingbirds.”

  “Got it,” he said as he rubbed some of the goo on the palms of his gloves. “I think I’m set.”

  “Good luck,” Grown-up Julian said. “See you on the ground. That’s what the guys who stay back at the airfield—nice and safe and warm—say to the guys who actually fly the planes on the dangerous missions, the stare-in-the-face-of-doom-and-laugh guys. Ha-Ha! Seriously, don’t fall.”

  “Thanks, I—Wait! Aren’t you coming?”