Time Drifters

“Squish this in your palms and smear it into your hair,” Mr. Danby said, placing a large dollop of clear gel in my hands.

“Seriously?” I said. “It’ll be like varnish.”

“Perfect,” he answered. “And then we’ll use this,” he said, producing a simple black comb, “to part it down the center and rake it into place.”

“Dweeby!”

“The Dweebier the better,” he proclaimed.

I put half the goo back into the little tub after he’d left the room. But when he returned, he placed dark pants, leather shoes and a heavy black trench coat he was carrying on top of the bathroom dresser and proceeded to add the missing portion of hair-slicking-slime back into my hair until it was utterly pasted down to reveal the shape of my skull.

“Is this a funeral?” I asked, noticing all the black I’d be wearing. Mr. Danby gave a quick grunt, immersed in reading something.

“It’s November, 1965,” he called out over his shoulder. “I think you’ll be glad of the jacket… and gloves,” he added, handing me a pair made of soft shiny leather. I tossed them on the couch as I finished tucking in my shirt.

“Do I have to wear them?” I asked. Even in the middle of the night, it was really warm.

“Suit yourself,” Mr. Danby said. “But the jacket goes on, like it or not. It’s June here, not there. Stuff the gloves into your inside pocket… deep, so they don’t … fall out.”

He made a dismissive, fussing motion and I took it he wasn’t too sure about how secure things needed to be. I was about to ask him what was going to happen that would make them “fall out,” but I realized he didn’t really have all of the facts of our “mission.” He seemed more unsteady this time.

I supposed that it was the same way with teachers. They knew some things. Definitely about their own subjects, even if they didn’t know about others. It didn’t mean they weren’t right about what they were saying.

I reluctantly pulled on the coat and walked back to the mirror in the front hall.

Mash stayed on the couch, flicking her tail as I paraded past but Bangers jumped down to follow. He probably thought I was headed for the kitchen and he didn’t want to miss out on any scraps or treats.

“It’s kind of tight,” I called back.

“That was the style,” Mr. Danby responded. “Tight and uptight. There’s a matching cap with pull strings, if you’d like it.”

I already looked dorky enough. “No thanks,” I said.

“Come along then,” he continued, pushing the hat down into my pocket as we went. “Just two minutes. Let me have a look.”