Throwback, page 6
They called this transspeciating, a fancy name for transforming into an extinct species. This supposedly prevented you from duplicating any living thing when you time-hopped. But this was a cruel joke—a stinked species, it seemed to him.
That was funny. Smig snorted. But he hated the smell of his own breath.
He thought of all the other things he could have become. Like a Neanderthal. Or a flying reptile. Those would have been fun.
Staying safely hidden behind the Glen Span Arch, he watched the trio on the park bench and the skyline behind them. He’d heard every word the old man and the girl had said. By rights he should have been furious. If there really was a cure, the timing was horrible. Way too late for him.
Also, the girl had called him a rat. He hated when people called him a rat.
Still, he couldn’t keep his eyes from the sight across the street. The gleaming new high-rise silhouetted against the setting sun. A high-rise that had never, ever been there.
As one-time keeper of the Knickerbocker logs, Smig had read all the legends, the ancient tales of mythical people who could do the impossible. Who could change history and thus bend the course of present-day events.
They were called Throwbacks.
But these were myths, tall tales. Silly creatures conjured out of a need to explain something unexplainable. Like sprites in the woods who people claimed to see but never actually caught. No one ever took those stories seriously.
Now, Smig thought, no one would ever not.
He knew people who would like to learn about this. Powerful people. Maybe powerful enough to get this cure for themselves and restore him to the way he had been.
He heard a noise and looked up. The three were leaving now.
With a snuffle that could not be helped, Smig backed away, deeper into the woods.
10
Throwback.
Corey didn’t like when Papou had used the term. It was the kind of thing teachers said—You’re such a throwback to some more civilized era, Corey. It was right up there with You have such a vivid imagination in the list of Top Ten Things That Made Corey Cringe.
But Papou was using that word as a kind of official, technical term. It was the type of time traveler Corey had become. Someone who had the power to do things no one else could do.
As they emerged from the park at One Hundredth Street, Papou was telling Leila the truth about what had just happened. She had taken off her Catwoman mask, and her face was ashen.
“So that photo I found . . . ,” she murmured. “That really was you in it, Corey. You were talking to the stonemason.”
“When I hopped into the past, I was in your bathroom,” Corey replied. “Which means I came out of someone else’s bathroom in the 1800s. She was not pleased. I booked.”
“So a few minutes later she looks out the window, spots you talking to the mason, and takes a photo—to identify you to the constables!” Papou said. “Of course, it would have taken her quite some time to produce the photo—sending the film to a laboratory and what have you. But that photo survived into the twenty-first century.”
The trio stopped at Central Park West. The old man propped himself up on the lamppost, looking around hollow eyed. “The school isn’t the only difference,” he said.
“The street looks like it was paved,” Corey said. “And the stone wall is so clean. No more soot. They weren’t like that when I . . . hopped?”
Papou gestured toward the shops along the street. “Rainbow Brothers Supermarket . . . Faisal Cleaners . . . they weren’t here either.”
“I did that?” Corey shook his head. “Conjured a supermarket? This is so cool. . . .”
Leila cocked her head. “Hello? No conjuring. Faisal has been there since before I was born. Rainbow, too.”
Her words hung in the air for a moment. “I—wait—what?” Corey said.
“For. Ev. Ver,” Leila said.
“That makes no sense,” Corey insisted.
Papou’s face grew dark. He gave Corey a pained look. “Paithi mou, what you have done is very, very serious.”
In the silence, music blasted from the rooftop gym of the Frederick P. Ruggles Middle School across the street. Corey stared. It was freaky to see a building that had never existed before, in a neighborhood he knew like the back of his hand.
It was even freakier when Claudia Ramos ran up to him out of nowhere and planted a wet kiss on his left cheek. “Heyyy, Cee Fletch,” she sang, whipping her Wonder Woman cape across her face. “See you inside.”
“Gahhhh!” Corey said, wiping his cheek in disgust.
As Claudia skipped across the street, Leila scowled at Corey. “Why’d you react like that?”
“Cee Fletch?” Corey repeated. “No one has ever ever called me that!”
“Uh, it’s been your nickname forever,” Leila said.
“Corey Powder, Nerd on a Stick, Fletcher in the Rye—those are my nicknames,” Corey said. “But not Cee Fletch. And the last time I saw Claudia Ramos she said she wished I were a tweet, so she could delete me. She has hated my guts since we were in diapers.”
“You went out with her all last year,” Leila insisted.
“Nooooo!” Corey put his head in his hands and sank next to Leila on the park bench. “Is this what I’ve done? I save a guy’s life, and now I’m forced to like Claudia Ramos?”
“Corey, do you remember the Ray Bradbury story I read to you as a boy?” Papou asked.
“‘A Sound of Thunder’ . . .” Corey nodded. “It was about the butterfly effect. Where a group goes into the prehistoric past, one of them steps on a butterfly, and when they get back, the world is at the brink of nuclear war.”
“I cannot stress enough, Corey, you must never—”
“But that was just a story,” Corey pleaded. “I know what you’re going to tell me. I can’t time-hop ever again. But I did, and nothing bad happened. I saved someone’s life and improved the neighborhood!”
“What if Ruggles had shot you?” Papou said. “What if he went on to have a child who was a serial killer? Or bought a Model T and ran someone over?”
“That’s so morbid,” Leila said.
“When you can change the past, all bets are off!” Papou replied. “The probability for bad things to happen is astronomical. Look at me, paithi mou—you can’t do this. For many reasons. What happens when the word gets out among the time-hopping community? Do you think they’re all granola-eating peace-loving nerds? There are shadow factions, cult groups who have spent ages trying to prove that Throwbacks actually exist, that they’re not like unicorns or griffins. If they find you, they will use you. To try to change history for their own evil motives. Corey, this is way too important to shrug off.”
“What am I supposed to do?” Corey asked.
“I’m afraid you will need to . . . disappear,” Papou replied.
“Like, die?” Leila said.
Papou tented his fingers on his forehead. “No, disappear. To an undisclosed location. With a new identity. I see no other way out of this. These people will kidnap you in the blink of an eye, Corey.”
“What about Mom, Dad, Zenobia . . . you?” Corey pleaded. “Who will I live with?”
“I have friends all over the world. They will help.” Papou stood.
“What about Leila?” Corey said. “Her aunt was in that book club that wasn’t really a book club.”
“The Knickerbockers, yes,” Papou said.
“So she was a time-hopper.” Corey spun to look at Leila. “You’re a blood relation. Maybe you can time travel, too!”
“I doubt it. I’m not like you, Corey. I have no imagination. I’m too normal,” Leila said.
“So I’ll do it myself.” Corey’s mind was churning. “Traveling in time, changing things—that means actually being able to make right the things that should never have happened. How can that be bad?”
Papou shook his head. “Corey, no.”
“Saving Ruggles’s life was good a thousand ways,” Corey insisted. “Think of the other lives I could save, Papou.”
“You’re scaring me, paithaki,” Papou said.
“Wait—nine-eleven did happen, didn’t it?” Corey asked Leila. “Saving Ruggles didn’t stop that?”
Papou muttered something in Greek as he yanked the phone from his pocket. He furiously began tapping away, an expectant look on his face. Corey looked over his shoulder. The screen filled with a list from a website of victims from the 9/11 attack—and there, in alphabetical order, was the name Maria Fletcher.
The old man’s shoulders sank. “It did happen.”
“I could have told you that,” Leila said softly.
“Leila, I can do what Papou couldn’t,” Corey replied. “I can save my grandmother. Was it fair that Papou had to go through the torture of watching her die three times?”
Papou bowed his head. “Four . . .”
“I’m a Throwback,” Corey said. “And you’re someone who was cheated out of a happy life by some maniacs in 2001.”
“This is crazy, Corey,” Leila said. “What if you don’t survive?”
“I can’t die before I was born,” Corey pointed out. “That’s impossible.”
“Did you seriously just say that?” Leila asked. “In the life of Corey, impossible is the new possible.”
“We all know when the planes hit. We know the exact moment. Which means I’ll know exactly when it’s time to run away.” Corey turned to his grandfather. “When Zenobia and I were little, I remember staying at your apartment, Papou. Mom and Dad warned us not to be scared if you talked in your sleep. But it wasn’t just talking. We could hear you through the closed door. You screamed and moaned. You called her name. It seemed to last for hours. Zenobia held on to me the whole time, and we both cried. We felt so bad for you.”
A tear broke loose from Papou’s eyelid and made its way down his cheek. “I—I didn’t know that.”
“You were there for me today, Papou. You’ve always been there for me. Now I want to do what’s right for you.” He kneeled next to his grandfather and put a hand on his bony shoulder. “I’m scared. I didn’t ask for any of this. If you think moving away and getting a new identity is the right thing to do, then say the word, and I’m down for it. But tell me, if you were a Throwback, what would you do? Would you try to save her?”
Papou’s breathing was loud and shallow. He stared at the ground for a long time, saying nothing. Across the street, people shouted Leila’s and Corey’s names, but neither of them responded.
“We don’t have to tell Mom and Dad about this trip,” Corey said softly. “We don’t even have to let them know you’re back until it’s over. It will be quick. Just between us. Or between us and . . . Yiayia. Because you may never have to lose her.”
At the sound of the Greek word for grandmother, Papou shivered. When he finally spoke, his voice was papery and thin: “All right, then. You’ll need an artifact.”
Corey nearly screamed. “Really? You mean it?”
“You can’t be serious!” Leila shouted in dismay.
“Stamati, both of you,” Papou snapped. “Be quiet. My trips to 2001 required a subway token minted in that year. You will find it in my safe, in the room where I used to live. The combination is your birthday and Zenobia’s, July twenty-fifth and February sixth—seven, twenty-five, two, six. I also have notes in there about your grandmother. I knew her routine cold. But on that day, I believe she got off at a different train station. Or went to work early. I can’t know for sure. You see, we were occupying different apartments then. Separated, you would say.”
“Really?” Corey said. “You never told me.”
“It’s not a conversation I enjoy,” Papou replied. “Now, getting to the right time and place is not easy. You may be off by a day or a week. It took me a few times to get the hang of it. The past moments are all there, stacked within our present consciousness. Your brain has to focus on the right one. Like I said, metaphysical and physical. But the time of day will remain the same—you go now, at five, you arrive in the past at five. So to get there in the morning, you must wait until the morning.”
“No, Corey,” Leila said. “No, no, and no. This is too dangerous. I know it’s your wife . . . your grandmother. I mean, it’s so important, I get that. But what did you just say about time travel—all bets are off, right? Saving Ruggles could have gone badly. What if this does, too?”
Papou took her black-gloved hand in his. “Leila, this isn’t only about my wife. I’m thinking about Corey, too. Things have changed for him. He faces danger now, in the present, for who he is. People will be coming after him. He is safer in the past. And if he does change things . . . well, the year 2001 is so much more recent than the Civil War era. The changes aren’t likely to be that great.”
“Really?” Leila asked. “Or is that wishful thinking?”
Papou looked away. But Leila didn’t let go of his hand.
“But, yeah . . . ,” she said. “I do get it. And you can trust me to secrecy.”
“Is that a yes?” Corey said.
Leila nodded. “I guess.”
“Brava, Catwoman.” Papou quietly turned to Corey, his eyes filling with tears. “Go now, paithi mou. Before I change my mind.”
11
Carefully Corey pushed open the door to his grandfather’s bedroom. A classic Papou smell wafted out, sweet and musty. Corey realized the room hadn’t been aired for a long time. Against the far wall was a single bed with a down blanket. The walls were lined with books. Near the front window was a rolltop desk with a stack of newspapers.
He didn’t know the room well. Never had. It was always Papou’s private place. On top of the desk was an empty silver frame. The photo had somehow slipped out of the bottom of the frame and slid onto a pile of papers. Corey flipped it over. What he saw made him grin. In it, Papou was young and dark haired, with a thick mustache and a Greek fisherman’s cap. He was on a sailboat, bare chested and tan, with his arm around a gorgeous young woman with a freckled nose. They both looked as if the photographer had caught them in the middle of a joke.
Corey flipped the photo over and read the blue fountain pen scrawl across the back:
Gus + Maria HONEYMOON
@ LOS CABOS, MEXICO!!!
He’d never seen a photo of his grandmother so young. He tried to slip it back into the slot out of which it had fallen, but the halves of the silver frame separated and fell apart. Something metallic slipped out, tumbling onto the floor.
A key.
Corey scooped it up and put it on the desk. It wasn’t going to do him much good. Papou had given him numbers for a combination lock.
Through the door, he could hear his mom talking on the phone in the kitchen. She didn’t know he was in here, and he didn’t want to have to explain. Quietly, quickly Corey checked around the room for the safe. He had forgotten to ask Papou what it looked like, how big it was. Under the bed he found only slippers and dust bunnies. The dresser drawers contained nothing but clothing. He searched through the papers on the desk and in a file cabinet, then checked behind every piece of framed artwork on the walls. No safe.
Eyeballing the floor for any signs of secret trapdoors, he moved slowly to Papou’s closet. The knob would not move. He yanked on the door anyway, but it was locked tight.
Under the knob was an old-fashioned keyhole.
“Corey!” his mom called from the kitchen. “Can you be ready in fifteen?”
Corey edged to the door, slipped it open, and peeked into the hallway. “Sure, Mom!”
He ducked back in and shut the door. Turning back to the desk, he grabbed the key and shoved it into the closet door keyhole.
It turned easily. With a soft click, the door opened. An automatic light went on inside. The closet was deep, with racks full of hanging clothes on the left and right. On the back wall was a huge framed map of the New York City subway system.
Corey pushed the map to the left. It swung on its hook, revealing a small rectangular door with a combination lock and a handle.
Perfect.
The combination is your birthday and Zenobia’s, Papou had said. 7-25-2-6.
Spinning the dial, he stopped carefully at each number, then pushed down the handle. With a deep click, the door swung open to reveal a small cube padded with gray carpeting. It contained a plastic bag, a small manila envelope, and a spiral notebook.
Corey removed it all and stuffed it into his backpack. He slammed the safe door shut and scooted back to his own room. There, he pulled out the plastic bag and held it up to the lamplight. Inside was a gold-colored coin the size of a quarter but not as heavy. The letters NYC were stamped on it. He took it out, felt it grow warm in his hand, then placed it gently on the desk.
He shivered.
This was his artifact. His portal. The token that would take him to a place no one in his right mind would want to be.
Next he looked at the spiral notebook. On the front, in Papou’s handwriting, were the words MARIA HARVOULAKIS FLETCHER, 9/11/01. His grandmother’s name. Papou’s notes. His attempts at rescue. The pages were graph paper, every inch crammed with handwritten comments and cutout newspaper articles.
Quickly Corey phoned Papou. “So, I have the token. Also your notebook. There’s a manila envelope, too, but I haven’t opened it.”
“Manila envelope?” Papou said. “I’ve forgotten what’s inside that.”
Corey opened it and pulled out a small, worn-out blue booklet. “Looks like a passport,” he said, flipping to the first page. “Dated 1917. Some guy named . . . something Greeky. I can’t pronounce it.”
“Ah, yes—that would be Evanthis Harvoulakis,” Papou said. “He’s your great-great-grandfather, on your grandmother’s side.”
“Easy for you to say.”
“Evanthis—like the name Yvonne, and the first part of the word thesis. Rhymes with fleece.”
“Yvonne Theece,” Corey said. “Evanthis.”
“Your grandmother adored him. She loved to take me to Ellis Island, where he came in as an immigrant. We would go to the address where he grew up, the downtown corner where he ran a fruit stand. Both places are gone now, but she has old photos. We would take them with us and try to match them to the location. Funny, I’m the time traveler, but your grandmother—she really felt a connection to the past.” Papou sighed. “Anyway, paithaki, read my notes if you can. I know you never met her, but sometimes a fresh eye is good. At least you’ll get a sense of what she was like. If you can gain any clues to where she went that morning, bravo to you. I wrote out her usual schedule, but I’m not sure it will help.”
