I slide back into my room and glance at the textbook Brightonshire was reading. American history, open to a chapter on the years leading up to the Second World War. Hitler stands behind a podium in a black-and-white glossy photo on one page, while a photo of kids playing with German marks takes up the other.
“You shouldn’t be looking at this.” Who knew how much history he could change if he went back to his time and started telling people about this country called Germany and a man who would try to take over the world in a hundred and fifty years? I mean, granted, it’d be nice if someone could have stopped Hitler before he even began, but as Dad used to say, changing one event in history, especially something as big as a world war, can lead to unspeakable damage. If not to the space-time continuum in general, then it could at least potentially lead to a big change, like someone warning Hitler about what not to do, and bing-bang-boom, suddenly things don’t fall the way they were supposed to and we’re all speaking German.
That’s an exaggeration, of course, but it’s why we don’t mess with the past.
But Brightonshire’s not paying me any attention. His hands roam over my bookcase, filled with everything from old picture books to required school reading to Dad’s favorite John Grishams.
“These covers are remarkable,” he says, pulling out one book after another. To Kill a Mockingbird. Lord of the Flies. The Firm. “And these.” He pulls out my Berenstain Bears picture books. “The neighboring children would love these.” He reads the first page, then holds the book out in front of him, shaking his head. “Though the writing is terribly informal.”
I grab the books and shove them back where they belong. “Look, I get this world is new to you and all, but please try to behave yourself. At least until dinner’s over.”
“And these,” he says, clearly not listening. He picks up a framed photograph of me, Mom, Dad, and Uncle Joe from when I was six and we went sledding on Christmas Day. His thumb caresses the edge of the photograph. He sets it down and picks up another—me and Meredith, seventh-grade field trip to the Statehouse. “What artist could have possibly painted these?”
“They’re not paintings,” I say, gentler this time. He doesn’t mean to be annoying. I’d probably act the same way if I zipped through a future threshold and wound up surrounded by flying cars. “They’re photos.”
He looks up at me with a mixture of confusion and wonder in his eyes. “Photos?”
“Look, I’ll explain every single thing in this room later if you’d like, but right now I have to get back to my mom before she thinks something’s up, and the only way I can do that is if you swear you won’t make any more noise.”
It’s a dangerous thing to promise him, but these are dangerous times, and I need to get back downstairs before Mom suspects anything.
He sighs and puts the picture frame back on top of the bookcase. “I will not be a bother. I swear it.”
“Good. And don’t read any more history books. Or science books. Or, you know what? Just stick to the Berenstain Bears and the books that say classic on the binding. I’ll try to sneak you up some bread or something. I won’t be able to get you anything else until the coast is clear.”
He looks confused. “There is a coast nearby?”
“No.” I sigh. “It’s just an expression.”
He shakes his head. “Does everyone in your time speak in such a fashion?”
“’Fraid so.”
“It seems there is much I must learn.”
That’s what I’m worried about. If he’s going to stay here until he finds out what happened to his parents and, by extension, my dad, it’s inevitable he’s going to pick up some things about our time. I can’t exactly put my computer or my alarm clock or anything else in storage without Mom poking around or without putting myself in serious academic jeopardy. But the longer he stays here, the more he learns, the more I risk pulling apart the very fabric of time.
Brightonshire picks up the second-place ribbon from my sixth-grade science fair project on the potential of asteroid mining, revealing something colorful behind it. A Rubik’s Cube. I grab the cube, swipe my sleeve across the dust, and swap it out for the ribbon. “Here,” I say. “Play with this. You turn it like this, see? And you’re supposed to make it so each face of the cube is one color. Like this side should be all blue, and this side should be all green, and so on. My friend Meredith beat it once, but I think she cheated.”
He stares at it.
“Go on,” I say, backing toward the door. Mom’s bound to send a search party soon.
He twists it once and his eyes light up.
“There you go. I’ll be back soon, okay?”
But he isn’t listening, and suddenly my room is filled with the sound of the old Rubik’s Cube squeaking with every turn and the wind whipping tree branches against my window.
*
After dinner, I help Mom take the dishes to the sink and wait until she’s fiddling with the dishwasher—plates clacking against one another and the water in the sink running—to stealthily tear off a chunk of French bread. I hide it behind my back and ask if there’s anything else she needs me to do.
“I’ve got it, honey,” she says. “You should work on your presentation.”
“Okay. G’night, Mom.” I turn away from her, keeping the bread close to my chest so she won’t see it.
“Winter?”
I freeze. “Yeah?”
“Don’t work too hard. You’re looking a little…”
I glance back at her. “A little?”
She sighs. “Frazzled.”
“I’m fine.”
“If you say so. But just—just don’t try to hide things from me. Okay?”
Sweat sprouts in the creases in my palms. “What do you mean?”
“I mean if things are getting to be too much for you, I can help. You just need to trust me.” She doesn’t say it, but it’s written in the quiver of her lower lip, the shine in her eyes. Like your father should have trusted me.
I pause, wondering if I could tell her. If maybe she would know what to do. But no. Dad always made it clear that this was our fight, a fight no one else—not even Mom—could understand. And if there really is a plot to overthrow the council, letting Brightonshire into my world may be even more dangerous than I initially realized. I don’t want to put her safety at risk. “Thanks, Mom. I will. But right now, I’m okay.”
She stares at me and I don’t know if I’ve convinced her, but she lets it go. “All right, then. Good night.”
When I get back to my room, Brightonshire is swiveling around in my desk chair, the Rubik’s Cube completed on his lap.
“Apparently that thing’s easy for everyone except me,” I say, closing the door behind me. “Awesome.”
He reaches his hand out to catch himself on the desk. “This chair is pure genius! Who came up with this device? I must meet its maker.”
“That might be a little hard,” I say, “considering I think it was invented by Thomas Jefferson. Well, not that particular chair, but the original idea for it.”
His eyebrows draw together, creating a dimple between them. “That rebel cur?”
“Easy there, Brightonshire. You’re in America now, and we tend to think of him as a forefather.”
He grits his teeth. “Apologies.”