The Last Last-Day-of-Summer Read online

  Entry #76

  TimeStar lied about a lot, but his lies made sense. If he told us too much, it might change things in the future. He said that’s bad, and all the comics I read and movies I’ve seen agree.

  QUESTION: Can I trust what he’s saying now?

  DEDUCTION: Maybe. There may be a definitive way to find out, thanks to, as much as I hate to admit it, Wiki Ellison (grrr).

  Operating on the assumption that TimeStar was telling the truth about his identity, and was indeed an older version of Otto, brought up all sorts of questions about why he’d traveled here in the first place.

  Entry #77

  TimeStar (it’s just easier to keep calling him that) claimed he wanted to see me and Sheed take down the Laughing Locusts.

  QUESTION: Why would he need to see what he already lived as me?

  Otto chewed the end of his pencil, flipped to a previous page in his pad, to the notes where TimeStar claimed his time travel device was likely thrown off because of Logan County weirdness. No, that wasn’t exactly how he’d said it, because Otto had placed the comment in quotes. TimeStar had actually said because he came “back to Logan.”

  He began scribbling again.

  DEDUCTION: At some point in the future, I leave Logan.

  QUESTION: Why?

  Otto thought about this awhile. He’d probably go to college. Maybe become a ship captain—​that always seemed cool. Or a fighter pilot! Maybe I fly futuristic jets that run on meteors or something!

  Otto’s excitement faded quickly. There was no way to know for sure what TimeStar did in the future without asking. That mystery was the least of his concerns because . . . well . . . there was something TimeStar hadn’t brought up, the thing Mr. James had asked about.

  QUESTION: If TimeStar is really Old Me (and that seems more and more likely), then . . .

  . . . where is his Sheed?

  29

  The Missing Sheed

  Sheed did not know where he was exactly.

  He was jerked left, wrenched right, yanked up, and lurched down. It was like being stuck inside a rolling water balloon, but instead of actual water, the balloon was filled with a galaxy of stars, making him an astronaut with no suit. He held on to the camera he’d been entrusted with because there was nothing else to hang on to.

  His stomach was not going to tolerate this ride much longer. Just when he thought a vomit comet was about to fly . . . he stopped moving.

  No more bouncing, just stillness, settling his gut. The night balloon he’d been trapped inside popped like a soap bubble, and he landed on a hard floor surrounded by Clock Watchers. Among them, the black-suited Mr. Flux.

  From the ground, the towering man seemed a million feet tall. Two million if you counted his hat. He bent at the hip and stretched his spaghetti arms, his flattened dough hands, and his spider-leg fingers toward the camera. Sheed tried scooting away, but his path was blocked by the sweaty, dripping Clock Watcher who’d tossed TimeStar around back at Petey’s.

  “Crunch Time,” Mr. Flux said, “give the boy some breathing room.”

  The sweaty hulk backed away, a light rain of perspiration pattering on the wooden floor.

  As a disgusted Sheed avoided the puddle Crunch Time left behind, he barely felt Mr. Flux lift the camera strap from his neck. “Hey!”

  Mr. Flux examined the device, which looked tiny and toylike in his ghoulishly stretched hands. His satisfied grin lengthened to a point where it might split his head in half as he peered through the viewfinder and pointed the camera at Sheed.

  Sheed braced himself—​or rather, tried to relax into a comfortable position he might be okay with should he be stuck in it for all eternity. The pose he settled on was something like a baseball player sliding into third base, but with his head propped on his elbow as if taking a nap. It was a pose he’d seen on Grandma’s old R&B album covers. She said when singers posed like that, you knew they were feeling good about their music. Sheed wanted to feel good about being stuck forever, so it seemed like the right move.

  He waited for the inevitable, time-freezing flash.

  “Go on,” Sheed said, sounding braver than he felt. “I ain’t gonna beg you not to.”

  Mr. Flux lowered the camera. “I was hoping we could talk, actually.”

  Was this a trick? It had to be.

  Surrounded, out of options, what choice did Sheed have but to play along? “Talk about what?”

  “Walk with me, Rasheed.”

  He didn’t move, fearing a sudden flash at the awkward moment he attempted to stand, and being stuck half bent over, staring at his shoelaces forever.

  Mr. Flux said, “I promise if I’m going to freeze you, I’ll allow you the opportunity to position yourself as you like. Hopefully, that won’t be necessary. I’m all about opportunity, as you’ll come to know. Please, walk.”

  Pushing himself off the ground, Sheed found himself among a gang of Clock Watchers rivaling the library gathering. A bunch of Second Guessers and Minute Men who’d obviously abandoned Father Time and switched sides, the person-shaped living galaxy Night Time, plus many, many, many more. They parted as Mr. Flux moved, creating a path in this cramped standing-room-only place. Wherever they were.

  The floor was made of solid wooden planks, old and knotty. Dim light beamed through gaps in boarded-up windows. Above their heads the frozen wheels, barrels, hooks, flies, cams, gears, and all the other intricate parts of Fry’s giant clock.

  They were in the tower in Town Square.

  “Ten-oh-four a.m.,” Mr. Flux said, pointing at the gears overhead. “All those precise parts to tell the people of the town what time it is. Where they should be at said time. What they should be doing. Yet it doesn’t really tell anything, does it?”

  The Clock Watchers around them murmured, shifted uncomfortably.

  “Oh, don’t take that the wrong way,” Mr. Flux told the room. “I’m not diminishing your former roles. I’m just expressing to the young man that time itself is not what determines a human’s actions. It’s not time that tells a woman when to be at her office. Her boss may dictate the length of the workday; then she chooses whether to be early, late, or on schedule. Isn’t that right, Business Hours?”

  A group of Clock Watchers—​half of them women, and half of them men—​all in matching blue suits, raised brown leather briefcases in an affirmative salute.

  Mr. Flux continued, “When a child is naughty and is sent to sit in a corner, who insists on the length of the punishment? Tell us, Time Out.” He pointed to a pouting toddler-size Clock Watcher with pigtails. Her arms were crossed, and one leg tantrum stomped.

  Time Out said, “The mean mommy or daddy.”

  “Exactly. Do you see, Rasheed? Yet another example of humans deciding what to do with time. With opportunity! How often do you think they make the right decisions?”

  They’d walked to just beneath the clock face, where the outside light glowed honey gold through its translucent glass cover. From inside the tower, the Roman numerals were reversed; the huge bells responsible for hourly gongs were giant sleeping bats in the gloomy rafters above. Mr. Flux waited for an answer.

  “I don’t know,” Sheed said honestly. It wasn’t something he’d ever considered.

  “Nor do I. I can tell you one human whose error caused me grave pain.”

  Sheed suspected he knew the human Mr. Flux spoke of.

  “Petey Thunkle did not use his time wisely. Not a grave sin in itself. But, there was a single critical moment that changed everything. Would you care to hear about it?”

  There was no choice here. This was one of those rhetorical things Otto liked so much. Sheed nodded, and settled in for . . .

  30

  The Terrible Tale of Peter Thunkle’s Missed Opportunity

  Petey Thunkle wanted only normal smarts, because then maybe he’d get only normal teased. But Petey had smarter smarts than the smartest students at Fry High. As a freshman, he quickly worked his way into the most advanced science
and math classes the school offered, stunning every teacher at every turn. Particularly on project days, when Petey showed up with inventions of a mind-boggling variety. He gave chemistry teacher Mr. Golden a “Grade Sorter.” A machine that scanned the room, identified each student and their current seat, then sorted graded papers into the proper order, preventing the teacher from the inefficient practice of zigzagging all over the place when he needed to return exams. Mr. Golden loved it, gushed about it in front of the whole room. “Now I can get y’all your D’s and F’s much faster.”

  No one laughed at that joke.

  Still, Mr. Golden loved Petey. And if teachers loved Petey, students hated Petey. With the exception of the lovely and sweet Anna Archie, who’d been voted Nicest Person every year since kindergarten.

  She said, “I think your Grade Sorter is an awesome idea! Besides, I get A’s, so I’m happy to have my tests back faster.”

  As wonderful as Anna was, her kindness did little to soften Fry High’s general treatment of Petey. By the time Mr. Golden finished lavishing him with praise, even the “nerds” were bullying Petey. Though no nerd could outdo master bully Donny O’Doyle.

  (At this point, Mr. Flux stopped the story and passed a hand over his own face. “My stunning resemblance to that lowlife O’Doyle is but one result of Petey’s curse, and perhaps the least of them. You shall see.”)

  Physical harm was not Donny’s greatest skill. His verbal violations were heavyweight punches. His shouted slander, kung-fu kicks. His boorish barbs, poison blow darts. All bruising, breaking, and slowly killing Petey’s spirit.

  If Petey brought a new invention to school, Donny would say it was ripped off from the Home Shopping Network. Not true, of course, but it didn’t have to be. If Donny caught wind of Petey acing another math test, he’d say Petey was only good in math because he smelled like dog crap and needed to calculate the range of his own stench.

  Always getting picked on, always getting laughed at, and all while fighting the natural doubts any person is prone to when trying to create—​it wore Petey down.

  The genius inventor didn’t want to stand out anymore.

  He wanted invisibility, to disappear. People didn’t bully what they couldn’t see. Near the end of freshman year, he had a chance.

  Mr. Golden, still getting maximum usage from his beloved Grade Sorter, raved about the design to one of his former classmates, the director of a big city think tank in Richmond, Virginia. This particular think tank was the Thornton Unified Research and Development Institute. On the teacher’s recommendation, they were interested in having Petey take a coveted summer intern position.

  Mr. Golden explained think tanks were groups of smart people who worked on solving the world’s problems. “These positions are usually reserved for college students,” he said, “but I showed them your designs and grades, and told them that I think you’re a smart young man who can use this shot. They want to meet with you. It’s the chance of a lifetime.”

  At this same time, the spring production of Lincoln: The True Story of Honest Abe’s Honesty was well into rehearsals, with opening night looming. Good news because Petey’s wonderfully innovative holographic set designs would be displayed for the whole town. Bad news because Donny O’Doyle had somehow managed to be cast as Lincoln, so they saw each other every day, during school and after.

  The teasing was bad, but whenever Donny got Petey with a good one, Petey touched the Thornton Institute letter in his back pocket, knowing his interview was coming up. For the first time in his life, he was confident things would go his way.

  Until the day he lost the letter.

  It was the final dress rehearsal, and Donny had called him Pee-Pee Petey to get the other actors and crew members laughing and relaxed. When Petey reached for his lucky letter, it wasn’t in his pocket. He searched between all of his holographic projectors mounted in the catwalks above the stage, and under auditorium seats, and in the bandstand. Found nothing. Only deep into the play’s final act did he notice a white scrap of paper visible behind a flickering, holographic prop stove he’d been working on earlier.

  Donny gave his final rousing monologue, right before the John Wilkes Booth character snuck up on him. Petey, unable to resist, stepped from behind the backdrop, hoping to snatch his letter unseen. Donny—​supposedly assassinated by then—​was peeking, and shouted, “Hey, what you doing, Pee-Pee?”

  Donny’s Lincoln returned from the dead, ran over, and snatched Petey’s letter.

  For once, Petey fought back, attempting to reclaim what was his. Donny held the letter out of reach as he read it.

  “Wait!” Donny said, and the auditorium went quiet. “Did y’all know Petey has a meeting with a think tank on Saturday?”

  Unsurprisingly, no one in the room seemed to grasp the significance. That didn’t stop Donny. “Thornton Unified Research and Development Institute. That sounds like a pretty big deal, Petey. Is it a big deal?”

  “Why, yes,” Petey said. “It is a big deal. The Thornton Institute is one of the biggest think tanks in the country.”

  “Huge-huge?”

  Petey, feeling proud, said, “Ridiculously huge.”

  Donny nodded, gently handed back Petey’s letter, and said, “Good stuff, bro. Thornton Unified Research and Development Institute. Tell me something, did you notice what the initials spell?”

  (Sheed, familiar with acronyms because of the BTSFOASTG on Grandma’s calendar, considered Donny’s question and . . . dannnnng . . . understood just how bad things were about to go for Petey. The acronym for the Thornton Unified Research and Development Institute was . . .)

  “TURD!” Donny shouted. “Everyone, Pee-Pee Petey is going to a huge TURD institute.”

  Donny hooked his elbow around Petey’s neck, dragging him to the edge of stage in a headlock, leading a chant of “Huge TURD! Huge TURD!”

  Everyone in the auditorium joined in. Actor. Stagehand. Director.

  The doors at the back of the auditorium opened, and the roving yearbook photographer roamed in, needing a picture of the drama club. Petey’s humiliation hit a new peak when he recognized her.

  It was Anna Archie.

  The chants continued. “Huge TURD! Huge TURD!”

  Sweet, kind Anna went to the director and pleaded with him to stop the teasing. He rolled his eyes and claimed they were all just having fun, but eventually asked the cast to give it a rest so they could take a picture.

  Even as the drama club posed for their group photo, Donny maintained Petey’s headlock. And Petey, not wanting to appear weak and abused in front of Anna, smiled as if he was in on the gag.

  Anna aimed her camera and instructed the group. “On three, say ‘cheese.’ One, two, three . . .”

  The entire drama club said, “Huge TURD!” as the flash exploded.

  The photo of that moment was immortalized in the yearbook picture Otto and Sheed would discover many years later.

  Mr. Flux, reaching the tale’s end, said, “Petey never went to that interview. He decided then and there that no way he’d be caught dead at TURD Institute. He missed the opportunity Mr. Golden had granted him.”

  With a reptilian sneer, Mr. Flux said, “That was the day I was born. Any questions?”

  31

  Questions. Lots of Them.

  Sheed said, “You were born because Petey missed an opportunity? Shouldn’t there be a bunch of Missed Opportunities, then? Like millions?

  “I believe I am unique.” He seemed to be bragging and defensive at the same time. “A one in a billion—​no trillion—​anomaly, born from the oddness that saturates your county.”

  “But there could be others?” Sheed pushed.

  “I doubt that.”

  “You don’t know for sure? What if you have brothers and sisters? Or cousins, like me and Otto?”

  “I don’t have cousins.”

  “You might, though.”

  “I do not!”

  Sheed jerked at the snap in Mr. Flux’s v
oice, but recovered quickly and moved on to his other questions. “Okay. One time me and Otto were playing basketball at the park. I had the opportunity to hit the game winner, but I passed to Otto instead, and we lost. So I could have a Mr. Flux out there mad at me for not using my sweet crossover to win?”

  “No.”

  “Okay. One time I missed an opportunity to stick Otto’s hand in a bowl of warm water while he was sleeping. Since I didn’t do that, there could be an Otto missed opportunity walking around with permanently wet sheets?”

  “Enough!” Mr. Flux roared. “I didn’t mean for you to actually ask questions. I thought you’d nod and look grim with understanding. My point was to tell you how I got here and why I’m doing what I’m doing. That’s all. I’m not a missed opportunity tour guide.”

  “I still don’t understand. Freezing time so no one else misses an opportunity, is that you being helpful or you being vengeful?”

  Mr. Flux’s jaw clenched; he was clearly flustered by Sheed’s line of questioning.

  Sheed continued, “Sorry. I’m just thinking if people miss opportunities all the time, why is yours so special that you gotta turn all bitter and villainous instead of just moving on like everyone else?”

  Mr. Flux exploded, “Because I was trapped with these idiots!” He swept an arm toward the Clock Watchers, who looked hurt and offended, but kept quiet otherwise.

  “Whatever strange magic infects this county you live in made my birth possible. But it also trapped me. I couldn’t leave! Every time I tried to venture into the world beyond Logan, I’d hit an invisible wall at the county border.”

  Sheed said, “You were like a bird that flies into really clear glass?”