The Last Last-Day-of-Summer Page 5

  Following the sound, the boys moved past rows of lockers until they came to an intersection of hallways. The tracks led in a direction the boys were familiar with, toward the gym where the Fighting Flamingos played all of their rivals. A basketball court in the highest building in town was the highest court in the land, Sheed once noted when Grandma brought them to a game. She laughed, and said he made a fine point there.

  I’m going to be a Fighting Flamingo one day, Grandma. You and Otto can watch me hit a bunch of buzzer beaters.

  Grandma agreed that was an even better point. Otto said Sheed would probably ride the bench, because Otto was a hater sometimes.

  At the far end of the gym was a big glass trophy case, filled with plaques and medals and glossy golden cups commemorating Fry High achievements in sports and academics over the years. In front of the case, staring at the glass, were A.M. and P.M. The Golden Hours were not looking at the 1979 Chess Club trophy, but staring at their really-not-so-bad reflections, horrified.

  Sheed, irritated, said, “Hey, why’d you two run off like that?”

  A.M. said, “We’re sorry.”

  P.M. said, “That was rude.”

  “Dang right it was,” Sheed said. “We’re trying to figure how to fix time, and you’re the only people we’ve met who know anything about what’s going on.”

  There were many questions to ask, but Otto’s deductive mind needed a single curiosity settled. “How’d you get here so fast? We were on bikes and couldn’t catch you.”

  A.M. frowned, as if the answer should be obvious. “We already told you we’re the Golden Hours. We’re responsible for the best light of the day.”

  P.M. said, “Wrangling light requires agility and efficiency. In order to properly do our jobs, we must—”

  Sheed, so excited he squealed before speaking, said. “Oh. I know this one. It’s light speed. You two can move at light speed. Like a starship!”

  A.M. beamed. “That is absolutely correct.”

  Otto was surprised by Sheed’s guess (mostly because he didn’t think of it first).

  Sheed read Otto’s face. “What? You thought you were the only one who could deduce stuff? Man, please.”

  Otto rolled his eyes and moved on. “You ever hear of a guy named Mr. Flux?”

  A.M. and P.M. mulled it over.

  A.M. said, “No. The name is not familiar.”

  P.M. added, “We’ve worked with everyone who’s anyone. If he were someone to know, then we would know him.”

  That was disappointing. If the Golden Hours didn’t have a clue, who did?

  Otto said, “You’re agents of time. You don’t have any idea how to fix what’s happened?”

  “No,” said P.M. “That’s why we came here. For guidance.”

  The boys glanced around the cavernous space. Schools were places for information, and answers, and guidance, but was there supposed to be information, and answers, and guidance about frozen time at Fry High’s empty gym?

  “Have you found any?” Sheed asked, skeptical.

  “No,” said A.M. “We’ve yet to visit the library.”

  P.M. said, “We got distracted by—”

  She faced the display case and, being greeted by her reflection, she began to scream, “Noo—”

  Sheed grabbed her shoulders, gently turned her away from the cruel glass. “Let’s go to the library.”

  The Golden Hours nodded enthusiastically and allowed Otto and Sheed to lead them.

  Because the boys were middle-schoolers still, and unfamiliar with the maze-like hallways of Fry High beyond the gym, they relied on handy direction arrows mounted on the walls of each intersection. They took three rights. A left. Went up two flights of stairs. Took another right, a left, and two more rights before arriving at a set of double doors beneath a big brass LIBRARY sign.

  Long before reaching the doors, they’d heard a soft rumbling that grew in volume the closer they got. Now, just mere feet from entering, they recognized it as the low roar of many voices speaking at once.

  Concerned, Otto asked, “Are those your friends in there?”

  A.M. and P.M. replied at the same time. “Some of them.”

  Sheed said, “Is this dangerous?”

  “Oh no,” A.M. said. “As far as we know, we’re indestructible.”

  The boys thought that over a second. Otto pointed at himself, then Sheed. “We’re not indestructible.”

  P.M. said, “You may want to be careful, then.”

  The Golden Hours shoved Otto and Sheed into the room.

  11

  Sylvester the Wise

  Any librarian worth her salt would not approve of the activities taking place inside. There were a set of clear rules mounted on the bulletin board just beyond the entrance. The sign read:

  Please be quiet. Silence is Golden.

  Do not dog-ear books. No paper foldin’.

  No food or drink. If you spill it, it gets gross, and we couldn’t figure an appropriate word that rhymed with “golden” or “foldin’,” so just don’t do it.

  After reading the last rule, Sheed said, “Now, that’s disappointing. Moldin’ was the obvious choice. They got off to such a good start.”

  “Sheed,” Otto said, more concerned with the chaos beyond the mis-rhymed bulletin board.

  The library was crammed with people, but no one the boys knew from Fry, and they knew everyone. Some were the strangers who’d stampeded past Mr. Archie’s store. Otto could tell by their odd dress. In the room there were suits, pajamas, and gowns. Ties, suspenders, and belts with big buckles. Rompers, ribbons, and raincoats. Slippers, socks, and sundresses. Tank tops, tube socks, and tuxedos. So much variety as the people milled about, bumping into one another, tipping chairs that froze mid-fall once they were no longer being touched and knocking books from their shelves so they hovered in the air. Thank goodness the librarians weren’t there; they would’ve been screaming in their frozen states.

  At the center of the disturbance was a wise-and-wizardly-looking man. He wore a regal blue robe decorated with roman numerals. Otto counted quickly and recognized numerals I through XII. Standing on a table in the center of the ruckus, the man held a wide leather volume open, while raising one hand high and calling for calm.

  “Please, children!” he shouted, though Otto and Sheed could barely hear him over the noise. “Settle down so we can come to answers together.”

  Sheed felt motion behind them. A.M. and P.M. had sidled up very close. Their previous despairing expressions were replaced by wide, sunny grins. They were clearly happy to see this old man.

  Otto asked, “Who is he?”

  “That, boys,” said A.M., “is Father Time.”

  “Settle down!” Father Time said, making no headway with the rowdy crowd. “Children, please!”

  Exasperated, he signaled someone. Immediately, a woman bounded onto the table next to him. She wore high-top sneakers, soccer shin guards, a tennis skirt, a football jersey, a hockey mask tilted upward so that it rested on top of her head, leaving her face exposed, and on her eyes, swim goggles. A whistle dangled from her neck; she brought it to her lips, inhaling mightily.

  Otto and Sheed, recognizing what was about to happen, jammed their fingers in their ears and braced themselves.

  The woman blew into the whistle, and the shrill sound it produced nudged away everyone around her like a tiny explosion. All the people crowding the library cupped hands to their ears as the whistling stretched on far longer than the cousins expected. That lady had really good lungs.

  Finally, she dropped the whistle, letting it bounce from its cord, and yelled, “Whoo! Listen up, team. We gotta come together, lean on each other, and let Coach show us the way!”

  Low murmurs buzzed throughout the room, but no one disagreed.

  “Who is that?” Sheed asked.

  P.M. said, “That would be Game Time.”

  Game Time flexed her muscles. “Ohhh yeah!”

  An uncomfortable looking Father Time pat
ted Game Time on the shoulder. “Thank you, child. You can stop posing now.”

  “Whoo!”

  Game Time cartwheeled off the table, leaving Father Time to it. “Well. I know you’re all quite anxious about the circumstance we find ourselves in. As Clock Watchers, we perform functions that have, for some reason we don’t understand, become unfunctionable, as time seems to have stopped.”

  The murmurs got louder; the Clock Watchers shared and amplified their fears.

  “I know, it is frightening. We’ve never experienced this sort of change before. But, as you also know, we have not been left without guidance. Behold”—​he raised the bound volume, the Fry High School crest clearly visible—​“a Yearbook!”

  Gasps in the room. Some of the Clock Watchers bowed.

  With a dramatic gesture, Father Time whipped open the Yearbook to a seemingly random page. Jabbed his index finger to a place only he could see. “Ah! Yes. Prepare to receive the wisdom of page eleven, column two—​Senior Quotes!”

  Excitement spread, Clock Watchers awaiting solutions they so eagerly craved. Otto and Sheed exchanged confused looks. Where was this going?

  Father Time said, “This, from Sylvester Juniper.”

  The room was electric with anticipation.

  “YOLO!” Father Time said. “You only live once!”

  Silence. The Clock Watchers looked left, then right, measuring the reaction of their neighbors. One of the beings at the front, a petite man among a large group of petite men said, “Sylvester the Wise has spoken!”

  Cheers throughout the room, followed by group chants of “YOLO! YOLO!”

  Sheed shook his head. Unbelievable. “That’s enough!”

  He waded into the room, and Otto followed, though he had reservations. Sheed was irritated. When he got irritated, well . . .

  “I’m sorry, everyone, I don’t mean to be a buzzkill, but YOLO doesn’t answer anything.”

  Someone in the back of the room retorted, “But Sylvester the Wise says it is so.”

  “Fine, then,” Sheed said. “Tell me how that fixes time. Anybody?”

  Nobody. Not a word from anyone in the room.

  Sheed focused on Father Time, “Do you know how YOLO fixes time?”

  Father Time tugged at his sheet of a beard. “Not in and of itself. Perhaps there are more instructions in the Senior Quotes.” He flipped pages. “Vanessa Taylor says, ‘Keep On Keepin’ On.’”

  More gasps. Someone shouted, “Vanessa the Wise!”

  “No!” Sheed said, stomping one foot. “Those’re just things people say before they graduate from high school. I mean, some of it might be wise, but it doesn’t help with today’s problem.”

  Otto grabbed Sheed by the shoulder, hoping to calm him before he went totally nuclear. “What my cousin is trying to say is, you did good coming here and trying to find solutions. Maybe we can find some together.”

  “That’s not what I’m saying.”

  “Stop talking, Sheed.”

  The agitated Clock Watchers surrounded them. The petite men at the front of the crowd were the most irritated. They all had scowls, and clenched fists, and pleated pants, and suspenders, and flat heads. There were so many of them, they were hard to count. Perhaps fifty or sixty. Though they were relatively small—​the size of puppies standing on their hind legs—​they took up a lot of space and couldn’t seem to stop knocking into one another.

  “Hi . . . fellas?” Otto said.

  “Hello,” all fifty or sixty tiny men said at once, startling Otto and Sheed.

  “Maybe,” the men began in unison, “you two just don’t understand the wisdom of Sylvester and Vanessa.”

  Sheed shook his head. “No. It’s not wisdom. It’s just—”

  “Or maybe,” the men said, “you understand all too well. Hmmmm.” And all fifty or sixty men stroked their chins, as if in deep thought.

  Otto twisted toward A.M. and P.M. and whispered, “Who are they?”

  P.M. whispered back, “The Second Guessers.”

  “They work with the Minute Men,” A.M. added, pointing to the opposite side of the library where another group of fifty or sixty men in loose fitting jogging suits gathered. “Together, they handle some of the more tedious time-management tasks Clock Watchers are responsible for.”

  “Or maybe . . .” the Second Guessers said again.

  Sheed ignored them, sliding past the tiny men, his sights set on Father Time. “Hey, you!”

  “Yes?” the old man said, sheepish.

  “What do you know about a guy calling himself Mr. Flux?”

  Father Time glanced to Game Time, who shrugged hard enough to bounce her bulky shoulder pads to her ears.

  “It is not a name I’m familiar with,” Father Time said.

  Otto joined Sheed and held the camera high for examination. “What about this? Have you ever seen it before?”

  Father Time shook his head. “I’m afraid not. But maybe there’s something useful in the Yearbook?” He flipped to another random page. “Ah, Alan Baker says . . .”

  The boys weren’t paying attention, though. Stumped by the mystery of Mr. Flux and his time-freezing camera.

  “Somebody has to know something about how this happened,” Sheed said.

  “But nobody in here does,” said Otto.

  “We have to find a way to fix this. That’s what we do.”

  “I know, but I think we have to find Mr. Flux first. He could be anywhere by—”

  Otto did not get to finish his thought. The building shook mightily, with enough force to unbalance several terrified Clock Watchers, toppling them.

  “What is that?” Sheed asked. Instead of an answer, there was another thunderous shake, and another. Big, booming vibrations that grew closer and louder and faster.

  “Get away from the door,” Otto said.

  “Maneuver #22!” Sheed shouted.

  The boys dived under tables just as the double doors and the brick wall they were mounted to exploded inward, destroyed by the force of the giant, furry platypus beast barreling inside.

  Father Time bellowed, “It’s a Time Suck. Run!”

  Terrified Clock Watchers scrambled.

  The boys didn’t need to worry any longer about finding the man who’d given them the camera.

  On top of the beast, with a scraggly tuft of the creature’s fur coiled around each fist, was Mr. Flux.

  He’d found them.

  12

  Maneuver #38

  There were side doors in the library, and they became clogged with everyone attempting to squeeze through. Mr. Flux seemed unconcerned with the fleeing Clock Watchers. He was tugging the Time Suck’s hair the way a cowboy tugs the reins of a horse, directing the beast toward one particular Clock Watcher. Father Time.

  The bearded man became wide-eyed with fear. Tucking his sacred Yearbook into his robes, he ran first left, then right, as if he couldn’t decide which frightened crowd he wanted to join.

  Mr. Flux grinned, his mouth packed with too many teeth, like the Big Bad Wolf. He skulked the beast closer to Father Time.

  “We have to help him,” said Sheed.

  Otto said, “How?”

  A coiled length of rope was still looped over Sheed’s shoulder. He shrugged it off and passed one end to Otto, pointing at a support column near their hiding place. He pointed again, that time to another support column across the room.

  Otto understood. Sheed wanted to use the rope to trip the beast. Acting quickly, Otto tied the rope low around the nearest support column with his best knot. Tying the other end would be more troublesome. Mr. Flux would see them. Unless.

  “A.M.! P.M.!” Otto whispered.

  The Golden Hours appeared at his side, almost out of thin air. Their light speed making them faster than the eye could see, which was exactly what they needed.

  Sheed said, “Can you two get this rope tied around that pole way over there? Without the man on the Time Suck seeing you?”

  The Golden Hours
nodded. “Of course!”

  Otto said, “Wait until he’s moving, at the last possible second. Okay?”

  “Certainly.”

  Mr. Flux did not rush. Being the meanie that he was, he moved slowly, getting great pleasure from Father Time’s fear. The old Clock Watcher shook like a freezing chicken beneath his flapping robe.

  “You thought these books were going to help you, old man?” said Mr. Flux. “That I’d sit back and let you ruin my opportunity?”

  “There is wisdom in the pages.” Father Time’s voice was as shaky as his body. “Why are you terrorizing us? Why are you upsetting the natural order of things?”

  “Perhaps the natural order of things upset me first.”

  Mr. Flux dug his heels into the Time Suck’s sides, spurring it forward.

  Otto and Sheed said, “Now!”

  A.M. and P.M. vanished, and then the rope snapped tight across the library floor, anchored to the far post, where the Golden Hours gave Otto and Sheed a thumbs-up!

  Neither Mr. Flux nor the beast saw the fresh trap, and the creature’s legs tangled, snagged by the line. It tipped forward, its snout dipping between its own feet until it was in an uncontrolled roll that hurled Mr. Flux across the room. While he flew, Father Time stepped out of the sliding beast’s path, and it collided with the far wall, destroying it as it burst out, then down, since the library was on the school’s top floor.

  The beast took lots of debris with it—​from single bricks to whole chunks of the building that looked like big ole puzzle pieces—​before the pieces refroze, paused in midair, a brick and concrete avalanche trail locked in time all the way to the ground.

  The tough Time Suck recovered from the fall quickly, though was a bit wobbly on those thick legs. Free of Mr. Flux, it proceeded to graze in a nearby field. Otto wondered if they should follow its lead and make their escape.

  Mr. Flux was laid out on a toppled nonfiction shelf. His stretchy arms and legs rested limply on dislodged volumes.