Paperquake (32 page)

Now that the fog was clearing, fear made me feel razor sharp. My head pounded with questions.

What was going on?

I took a deep breath and tried to be calm. Okay. Okay—this guy didn't
look
like an alien. And
he
didn't seem to know what was going on any more than I did; that was clear. While he stood there looking at me, my mind was ticking ahead, trying to figure out what I needed to do.
Run!
screamed some part of me, the part that was pumping adrenaline into my blood.
Stay cool
, whispered another part.
Look around. Figure out what's happened.
How had I come to be here, when moments ago I was in my bedroom with Mom—poor Mom—and looking at that sketch?...

The sketch!
It wasn't in my hand any longer. Where was it? I took a deep breath and looked around the studio—because that's what it was, an artist's studio. There were stacks of canvases along every wall, and shelves full of paints, jars of brushes, books and notebooks. A table in the center of the room held clusters of shells, pottery, a toy dump truck, a bowl of eggs, and lots of other stuff. The windows didn't have any curtains, and the sunlight was streaming in. There was a skylight in the ceiling that sent more light down, like a beacon, across the floor.

"Next time you need a nap," the artist guy was saying to me sternly, "you ought to knock properly on the door, not just walk right in. It's only good manners! Are you a friend of Homer Junior? You look to be right about his age."

Homer Junior?

The artist's voice turned gruffer. "Cat got your tongue? Legs don't work, my boy? Come on now, get your bones outta here! I'm a working man—or at least I'm trying to be."

I moved shakily toward the door. That's when I saw a calendar hanging from a nail on the wall near the sink. I edged toward it. It said
MARCH
1926.

"'March 1926,'" I read, my voice still rusty, as if I hadn't spoken for years. I felt like you do after a bad bout of flu—sort of shaky and faraway.

"April, actually," said the man, reaching over and ripping the sheet for March right off. He balled it up and tossed it toward an overflowing tin wastebasket in the corner. "Always forget to change the dang thing."

Nineteen twenty-six, nineteen twenty-six.
The number kept repeating in my head.

I heard footsteps tapping up the stairs somewhere nearby. The door to the studio opened, and an elderly woman stood there with a smile on her face and a dish towel in her hands.

"Hello, dear," she said in a surprised voice when she saw me. "Now, when did you come to call?"

"He just seems to have dropped in," replied the artist. "Chum of Homer's, no doubt. I wish you'd keep the children downstairs, Mother. How am I going to work with these disturbances?"

"I'm sorry, Fitz, dear," she replied. "But I see his appearance gave you something new to sketch. So that's good, isn't it?"

"I try to sketch whatever's to hand," he muttered. "Might as well. Now take him downstairs, would you?"

"Why don't you come down, too, dear? We're having lemonade on the porch." Then she turned to me. "I'm Mrs. Cotton. My grandchildren and I are down on the porch, and you're very welcome to join us—"

Cotton? Like the guy in Mom's art book?
I turned to the man. "Are ... are you that painter? I mean, Fitzgerald Cotton?" My voice sounded weird. I tried again in a firmer voice. "I mean, you're the famous artist?"

"Famous?" He looked gratified. "At your service, lad. And always in need of people to sit for me, even if they don't knock before coming in. I do portraits mostly."

I was still trying to understand what seemed to be happening here. "You mean"—it couldn't be so, but I had to ask it anyway—"You mean, you're the painter in the art book? The one with the muse?"

In a flash the seemingly mild man turned into a raging tiger. He lunged, toppling me back down onto the floor. "
Who told you about that?
" he roared. His eyes blazed down into mine with a fiery intensity. "
What do you know about
her ?"

I struggled to get him off me, but he was much stronger. He pinned my arms above my head with one big hand. The other hand grabbed the neck of my T-shirt. I thought he was going to hit me—or strangle me.

"Fitzy!" I heard his mother shout over the roar in my head.

"Tell me, young scoundrel, before I thrash it out of you!" the man yelled at me. "What do you know of her? Where is she? Where is my Pamela?
Tell me!
" His voice rose with every word until he was shouting the house down. "
Tell me or I'll throttle you!
"

He knows Mom's name?
I thought in terrified amazement as I kicked him hard in the leg and heard him grunt with pain. But he didn't let me go. Then the woman, waving the dish towel over her head like a lasso, pushed herself between us.

"Fitzgerald!" she yelled. "Stop it this instant! My goodness gracious, what has gotten into you?" She pulled him away from me. Shakily, I got to my feet. The maniac just stood meekly aside as if he'd never done anything wrong in his whole life.

"Sorry, Mother," he said humbly. "I guess I just lost my temper."

"I guess so!" exclaimed the woman, dusting me off with her dish towel. "Now, are you all right, lad?"

"Not really," I said haltingly.
He knows Mom's name. He knows Mom's name!

"He should be thoroughly ashamed of himself."

"I am ashamed, Mother. Indeed I am," said her son meekly. "The lad just—surprised me." Fitzgerald Cotton's words came out in a rush. "I thought he might know something about her. Or at least about a missing sketch of mine. One that is very dear to me. It's the one I did of Pamela—"

"I'm sure he wouldn't take any of your sketches," said Mrs. Cotton. "Would you, lad?" she asked me.

I shook my head. I was feeling dizzy again.

"Just a misunderstanding, then," the artist answered quickly in a mild, friendly voice. But the look he shot me was anything but mild or friendly. It was full of menace.

"He seems to be a good lad," continued Cotton in the same fake voice. "Just moved in around the block, you see. Father's a geologist at the college ... I'm hoping he'll come back and model for me. How about it, boy? Will you come back tomorrow and let me finish this sketch? Then I'll turn it into a portrait."

I didn't answer.

The woman looked at me with a frown. She started to say something, then thought better of it and pressed her lips together. She turned to her son. "Well, I hope you'll pay the lad for his time."

The man nodded his shaggy head. "Of course, Mother. I'll pay him handsomely! I'll pay him for his time today. A whole quarter. How about that, lad?" He fished in his pockets. His hands were trembling as he pressed a coin into my palm. "Now, you be back here tomorrow morning sharp on the dot of nine, and we'll finish up the painting."

I just stared at him and started backing toward the door. I couldn't get my mind around what seemed to have happened to me—and the fact that this man knew my mom. How could any of this be real? A calendar that said 1926? A man with the same name as the artist from the big art book—attacking me? And now, the guy calm again, trying to arrange to paint me?

None of this made sense, and yet a little niggling throbbing in my head was telling me it did make sense, if only I could believe it. I rubbed my eyes, hard.

"You're looking tired, lad," the artist said in his deep, kind voice that nonetheless held that hint of menace. "So we'll talk again tomorrow—about all manner of things. Things that interest us both, my boy. How about that?"

I hesitated, my heart still thumping hard. I wanted to mention Mom again, and the sketch of her that made the wind start blowing, but I was afraid of what he'd do. And if the calendar on the wall was right, and this was 1926...

But of course it
couldn't
be. But what if it really was?

Time travel? A
quick vision of Mom astride a brontosaurus flashed in front of my eyes.

So the crazy artist was right about one thing: We definitely
did
need to talk. I needed to find out what was going on—and how I would get home again.

He shot out his hand, grabbing my arm. "Tomorrow, boy. How about it?"

There was a curious pleading note in his voice. I glanced down at the coin in my hand. It was a quarter. Slowly I held it up, squinted at the year: 1924. It felt hard and cold in my hand, and as real as anything.

Proof that this wasn't all some fantastic dream?

"All right," I whispered.

"Well, if you've got that settled," said Mrs. Cotton, "then why not come downstairs with me for that glass of lemonade?" She smiled kindly at me and tucked a long gray strand of hair back into the bun at the nape of her neck. "The children will want to meet you. If you've just moved here, you've probably not met many playmates, I'll be bound."

"Thanks," I murmured, "ma'am." I don't think I'd ever said the word
ma'am
in my life, but it seemed to come naturally now.

Then she spoke to her son. "You come on down and have a glass, too, Fitz."

He shook his shaggy head. "No, Mother. Not me." Then he looked straight at me. "Nine o'clock sharp?"

Without a word I sidled past him, out of the room. He didn't stop me.

As I started down the steep stairs, following Mrs. Cotton, I glanced back. Fitzgerald Cotton was still standing in the doorway of his studio, looking after me with hard, glittering eyes. I stared back at him, my eyes just as hard.

I felt baffled and threatened at the same time, but I would be back. And I wanted answers.

T
IME
W
INDOWS

"Deft, entertaining and inventive."

—
PUBLISHERS WEEKLY

 

An ALA Best Book for Young Adults
An Iowa Teen Award Winner
A YALSA Popular Paperback for Young Adults

 

D
READFUL
S
ORRY

*"With its skillful plot twists, the book will have readers anxious to solve the mystery. Reiss has crafted a fine tale of psychological time travel."

—
School Library Journal
(starred review)

An IRA Young Adults' Choice

 

P
ALE
P
HOENIX

"A book with everything a reader wants."

—
VOYA

 

A New York Public Library Book for the Teen Age An Edgar Allan Poe Award Finalist

 

T
HE
G
LASS
H
OUSE
P
EOPLE

"The steamy summer heat, the atmosphere of tension in the house, and the family dynamics are well-portrayed."

—
School Library Journal

Kathryn Reiss
is the author of many acclaimed time travel mystery novels for teens, including
Paint by Magic, Time Windows, The Glass House People, Dreadful Sorry
, and
Pale Phoenix.
She says of her work: "Much of my writing touches on various notions of time—memory, perception, history, time travel ... It is probably because I haven't (yet) stumbled upon the key to time travel myself that I am compelled to invent characters who do! My writing has become my time machine."

Ms. Reiss lives with her family in northern California, where she teaches creative writing—and dreams of earthquakes with frightening regularity.