A Year Without Autumn (21 page)

“Here, use this,” he says. He’s holding out a screwdriver.

I stare at him. “How did you — where did you get that?”

“The workmen,” he says with the simple logic only possessed by six-year-old boys.

I grab the screwdriver, then I grab him as well and plant a big kiss on his cheek.

“Geddoff,” he says, wiping his cheek with his sleeve, but also looking secretly pleased with himself.

I work at the old screws, and eventually I’ve undone them all. The plywood falls away — and I gasp as I see what’s underneath. A cracked, wobbly button — and next to it the letter
B.

The basement! There really
is
a basement!

Where will it take me? A year back? I try to remember what my life was like a year ago. Can I face going through the whole year again?

I don’t even have to think about it. Mikey will be dead next week. I don’t have a choice. This is it. My one chance to change all this — to
really
change it.

“Craig, go back to the condo,” I say, shoving him out of the elevator.

“I’m staying with you!”

“You’re not. Go home.”

“No!” he cries, pouting.

I take a tight breath. “OK. But you can’t come in with me. Wait here.”

Before he can argue, I pull the doors closed and stare at the button till my eyes water and the letter blurs. I’ve got to do it.

The button wobbles and sticks as I touch it. Pressing it hard, I watch as Craig’s face disappears from the little window and the elevator clunks and squeaks and whirs, taking me down to the basement.

Pitch-black.

I can’t see a thing. I step carefully out of the elevator and crash straight into a box on the floor. As I stop to rub my toe, my eyes gradually adjust to the dark. I can make out a few vague shapes: boxes and planks of wood and overflowing trash bags everywhere. A giant junk room. I stumble to the opposite wall and feel around for a light, praying there aren’t any rats.

Found it. A switch high up on the wall. I flick it on, and the room bounces into view as a fluorescent light flashes on. There’s a steel door in the far corner. The only way out, it looks like. I head toward it, making sure not to trip over anything.

Please, please don’t be locked.

It is.

No! One steel door, locked solid. I push and pull at the handle. The door doesn’t move an inch.

I scramble around the room, lifting boxes, heaving trunks around, looking for something, anything that could get me out of here. I scan the ceiling. There’s a fancy panel all around the top edges of the walls. An air vent, maybe? There’s a tiny grille in one corner, too high for me to reach, even if I stood on a box — and about as big as my hand.

I slump down onto a box. There
must
be something; there has to be. I scan every bit of the room. Nothing. Not even a window.

“Craig!” My voice echoes around the room, fading back to silence.

What am I doing calling Craig? Even if I hadn’t gone back in time, he’d be a whole floor above me. And if I’ve gotten my calculations right, he won’t be there for another year!

I can’t believe it. No way out. Well, there’s
one
way out — back to the present. The elevator is standing open, waiting for me.

All this, and I’ve failed?

Wait! No. I’m
not
going to let that happen. Maybe the old Jenni would have given up, but this one doesn’t.

I’ll think of something. Perhaps I can go back up and get Mr. Barraclough’s ax, get through the outside door. Or get enough food and water to last a couple of days — long enough for someone to come down to the basement and let me out. Or perhaps I’ll think of an even better idea. I’ll do something — anything! As long as I can figure out how to get out of this building from the basement, I’ll have a whole year before the accident happens. I can stop it — I can!

My heart leaping so hard it feels as if it’s about to jump out of my mouth, I close myself back inside the elevator, and press
1.

I’m going to do this. I’m going to change things.

I hold my breath as the lift trundles upward, getting slower and slower, the rattling and creaking growing louder and louder, the scraping noises spreading out into a slow screech.
Come on, come on. Get me back to the first floor!

More creaking, clanking, clattering.

And then it stops.

I pull the doors across — to be faced with a gray brick wall!

The elevator has gotten stuck just below the first floor! Above the wall, I can see the floor of the foyer. If I jump up, I could probably get back up there.

“Craig!” I call out again. Where is he? Why didn’t he wait for me?
“Craig!”
I shout louder. Nothing.

I grip on to the ledge in front of me, scrabbling up the wall and heaving myself over the top and out of the elevator. I clamber out, pulling myself up on my stomach. My jeans are covered in dust; so’s my hair, but it doesn’t matter. At least I’m out. I’m back at the first floor.

I get up quickly, just as a young couple pass me. They’re smiling, their hands entwined. They look familiar. Have I seen them before?

I dust myself off in front of the ornate mirror. For a moment, it looks strange to see me as twelve-year-old Jenni once more. My clothes are loose again. My hair’s back to how it was, hanging in long, ringletty curls.

I shake myself away from my reflection and focus my thoughts. I just need to stay calm. I can figure this out. I’ve got a few more days until we leave Riverside to come up with a plan to fix everything. I
can
change this. I have to!

The TV’s blaring as I open the door into the condo.

“Craig, how many times do I have to tell you? Turn it
off
!” Dad’s voice blares over it.

“Where did you go?” I ask Craig. He’s sitting cross-legged on the living-room floor, fixing a car while he watches the television.

“What?” He looks up, confused.

Dad comes out of the kitchen. “Forget something?” he calls.

“Huh?”

He dries his hands and wanders back into the living room. “You’ll miss them if you don’t get a move on,” he says.

“Miss who?”

Dad laughs. “Who d’you think? Don’t you
want
to go horseback riding?”

My mouth freezes as a chill creeps around my face and neck. “Horseback riding?” I ask slowly.

“You all right, love?” Dad says, looking at me with concern as Mom comes into the room. Big, round, eight-months-pregnant Mom. “You’ve gone white.”

“Mom,” I gasp, turning around. Then I look back at Dad. “What day is it?” I ask, my voice hoarse.

“Sunday, all day,” Dad says. “At least it was last time I looked.” He holds an arm out toward Mom. She smiles at him and strokes his arm.

It’s happened! I’ve gone back in time. The elevator — it never made it back to the first floor. That must be it. I’ve gone back a day! One day. I look at my watch. It’s ten to two. On Sunday! I’ve still got time!

“I have to go,” I gasp.

“Crikey, where’s the fire?” Dad says. “Hold your horses.” He turns to Mom. “See what I did there? Hold your horses. Might have to write that down.”

Mom smiles indulgently at him.

I run to the door. “Mom,” I say, turning around before I go.

She looks up.

I take a breath. How am I going to put this so she’ll take notice of me? “You have to take it easy today,” I say. “Please look after yourself. Don’t rush. Don’t get stressed.”

Mom laughs. “Stressed? I’m on vacation!”

“Really,” I insist. “I mean it. Just go carefully, all right? I don’t want you to go to the candle museum. Please. It’s too much for you.”

“A candle museum is too much for me? Jen, I’m only pregnant. I’m not —”

“Please, Mom. You’re not
only
pregnant. You’re eight months pregnant, and you need to relax. Please.”

Mom meets my eyes as though she’s looking at someone she doesn’t recognize. Well, she wouldn’t. She’s never had a daughter who’s put her foot down and told people what to do before!

“OK,” she says eventually. “You’re right. I’ve actually been feeling a bit more tired than I’ve been letting on. Maybe I do need to take it easy. Craig will be fine playing here.”

“Good. And, Dad, you need to cancel your squash match.”

Dad looks shocked. “Cancel my —”

“Dad! It’s important. Come on. We all know you’re no good at squash, anyway,” I say with a big smile so he knows I’m not intentionally being mean. I need him to listen to me. “Dad, you need to stay and look after Mom — and you need to pick us up from horseback riding. Please.”

Dad looks at Mom. “Do you know what? I think you’re probably right,” he says, stroking Mom’s stomach. “I don’t think a game of squash is the most important thing in my life at the moment. I’ll phone Mr. Andrews now and tell him.”

I let out a breath as I try to figure out if there’s anything else. I have to be prepared, cover all bases. “And, Dad — be early, OK?”

“Why?”

I cross my fingers behind my back, hoping no one will know I’m lying. “Just that Autumn said they usually finish the rides early, and we don’t want to be waiting around too long.”

“Oh, the glamorous life of a taxi driver,” Dad says dramatically.

I give him a kiss on the cheek. “Thanks, Dad.” With any luck, I won’t even need Dad to come at all, but at least I know he’ll be there — just in case.

I whiz upstairs to change. When I come down, Dad’s just putting the phone down. “Canceled squash,” he says. “See you later.”

“Thanks, Dad. See you in a bit.” I give him and Mom a hug, praying that the next time I see them won’t be in the middle of any kind of disaster, and hoping neither of them has noticed I’m shaking.

Then I have one last thought. “Oh, and, Dad,” I say, forcing my voice to sound as casual as possible. “On your way, drive by Mile End Farm, will you?”

“Mile End Farm — what’s that?”

It’s where the lady on TV said the accident took place — not that I could tell him that.

“Look it up,” I say. “Ask someone — it’s just somewhere I’ve heard about and thought we might like to visit. Thought you could check it out and pick up some leaflets on the way. Please just do it.”

I feel slightly bad about lying to Dad. But it’s the best thing I can think of. And if he figures out that it’s actually someone’s private address and not a place to have a family day out after all, I’ll just tell him I made a mistake. The important thing is to make sure he’s there in case we need him.

Dad shrugs and gives Mom a puzzled look. “Whatever you say,” he replies.

I smile at him. “Thanks, Dad,” I say.

And then I turn and run.

Please let me get there on time. Please!

I’ve got five minutes. Two o’clock on the dot, she said. Please don’t let my watch be slow.

I’m breathless as I reach her block. The car’s there. The Porsche. They haven’t left! I’ve never been so pleased to see a flashy red sports car in my life!

I hesitate for the briefest of moments by the elevator. I don’t dare do it. Not even the normal one.

I run along the hallway and up the stairs, my throat on fire. As I pause outside the door, a flicker of fear rushes through me. What if they’re not here? What if it’s Mrs. Smith again? What if it wasn’t the elevator at all but something else, and Autumn’s still —

“Jenni!” Autumn’s standing in the door, grinning widely. “You just made it. Come on, Mom’s taking us.” She pulls me through the door.

“Where’s Mikey?” I ask. I have to see him for myself.

And then he wanders out of his bedroom, electronic game in his hand, mouth pursed in concentration. I run over to him, kneel down, and hug him tightly.

“Eurgh! Geddoff!” he says.

I laugh. “He’s OK!” I say. I can’t help myself.

Autumn tips her head to the side and rolls her eyes in my direction, as if I’ve lost the plot. “Err, I think so,” she says. Then she goes over and feels Mikey’s forehead and tickles him under his chin till he giggles and pushes her away. “Yep. He’s as OK as he’ll ever be, anyway.”

Mrs. Leonard comes into the hallway. “OK, are we ready?” she asks.

“Just finishing this game,” Mikey says.

“You can play it later,” Mrs. Leonard tells him. “Come on. We’ll be late.”

I stare at Mikey, then Autumn, then their mom. “Mikey’s not coming,” I say. “It’s just me and Autumn.”

“Dad just got a call from Mr. Andrews,” Autumn says. “Apparently he’s got a squash court booked and someone’s canceled on him at the last minute, so Dad’s going to play. Mikey’ll have to tag along with us. Mom’s going to see if he can come out on the ride with us. They have lots of horses, so there shouldn’t be a problem.”

I stare at Autumn. My insides have turned to ice. “You’re kidding me.” I don’t believe it. I’ve managed to get back here, stop Mom from going out,
and
get Dad to pick us up — and in the process I’ve made sure that Mikey goes riding!

Maybe fate has decided what’s going to happen to Mikey, and there’s absolutely nothing I can do to stop it. Maybe that’s how it works: I could go back in time a hundred times — and still achieve nothing. The same thing would happen to Mikey every time.