Time Drifters

I didn’t go back to school for two days. Nothing felt the same.

It had been Mr. Danby’s turn to be skeptical, but I told him—in fits and spurts—about the other Drifters and about Major Andre and the attack in the cabin. He kept pushing more food across the table at me when it seemed like I was going to stop, until he heard the grandfather clock in the living room. He startled Teabag when he jumped out of his chair and hurried me to change back into my own 2001 clothes. He loaded my bike and dropped me near the school, asking me repeatedly, “Are you really alright?”

I had said “Yes,” but when I looked at the square brick structure and saw the last kids running inside for another day of education, it all seemed too foreign. Too modern, if that makes any sense. And too simple. I was giddy and happy and bursting… and dizzy.

Waving at Mr. Danby as he drove away, I saw Patriots Park across the road. I don’t remember getting over there, only standing by the statue and looking back towards our school carved into the hill where the forest used to be. And then there was pavement and cars speeding north along it in the same place where we’d walked. I tried to place the bush we’d hidden inside and figured it was right about where the church now stood. My mind spun, thinking that it had been minutes ago that I’d stood in this very place… minutes that turned into centuries. And everyone was in too much of a hurry to recognize how important this place had been. And still was.

I started for my house. I wondered if Miss Prankle was home. I wanted to tell her everything. But the world was tilting every time I blinked.

I wasn’t surprised to see Mr. Danby beside me again, loosening my grip from the handlebars of my bike as I left the park. I helped him with directions back to my place… it really wasn’t far.

By the time Mom was finally able to bring me to consciousness later that afternoon, she was totally frantic that I’d dropped into a coma.

“No coma. Just tired,” I said. In truth I was exhausted. She kept bringing me around, checking my head for a fever. I couldn’t care about anything but my cheek staying on the pillow. It wasn’t until Dad came in after work, that I was able to stay awake long enough to convince him that I would promise to keep my eyes open so I could eat something. My ravenous appetite soon assured them that the long list of diseases they kept talking about was coming down to a much simpler solution; a twenty-four hour “bug.”

I’ll admit that the bathroom light felt brighter that night. The toaster sounded louder the next morning. The cars on the road still seemed to be driving much faster.

I don’t remember dreaming, but when I woke, I had the weird feeling that I didn’t recognize where I was. For an instant I thought I was back in time, until I registered that I was in a modern building with a squared ceiling. Then I noticed the familiar shape of my bulletin board on the wall, and the calendar hanging on my closet door. And the weird feeling that I’d done something wrong and great at the same time.

That afternoon, I went into Dad’s office and pulled out the encyclopedia edition for words and topics starting with “R,” desperate to find the Revolutionary War. I wanted to know if it still all happened just as I had remembered it. Had we changed history?

Everything appeared to be correct, or, at least just the same.

I was a bit shocked when I saw the notes about Major André. First, that he had been listed here all along and I just hadn’t ever bothered to look—it had been enough to see his name on the plaques in the square downtown.

And secondly, beside the paragraph about his execution, there was a self-portrait sketch that he had done just two nights before he was put to death. He was leaning back in a chair, looking quite casual and composed. I got very sad and I felt like I couldn’t swallow properly. I didn’t know he was so good with drawing, particularly since it was something I loved doing, too.

Mom appeared just then and she looked startled to see me on the floor with a book open on my lap. I wanted to ask her if she thought we’d done the right thing. It was bothering me like an aching itch I couldn’t reach, or like something inside was bruised and I couldn’t reach it to make it okay.

“There may still be something wrong with you,” Mom said, kneeling down beside me and messing with my hair, “but I don’t think school is going to make it any worse.”

And that was that.