Wrong Place (Really) Wrong Time Read online

  “Raf, if you’re going to listen, then believe me, okay? She has a library book that’s a time portal, and you can use it to travel back to anyplace in the world in any time period. I’ve already done it—with Matt and Grace. We went back to 1951, when his grandfather was trying out for the major leagues.”

  “His grandfather was a baseball player?” Raf asks. “For real?”

  “Yeah, for real. Anyway, Ms. Tremt picks certain students to take turns using the portal and travel back in time. I think she wants us to experience history or something. Now it’s my turn. So I’ve chosen to go back and meet the pirate William Kidd in the seventeenth century. I’m going to find out where he hid his treasure, because some of it is believed to be in the United States, off the coast of New Jersey, and I’m going to go and find it.”

  I pause to take a breath and study Rafael. He looks like he has a mouth full of toads, his cheeks puffed out and his eyes bulging. He finally spits out a laugh and rolls over onto the bed, clutching his sides and guffawing.

  “Luis, you’re making my stomach hurt! Man, you’re the best. You really ought to be a comedian or something. You sound so serious! I’m going to find out where he hid his treasure. Bwahahhahahha!”

  I punch his leg, hard. I can’t believe he thinks I’m making this up. “I’m serious, jerk. I’m really going. And I’m going to bring something back. I’ll even buy you a new phone with my treasure money.”

  “The latest model, right?” he jokes. “Man, Ms. Tremt a time traveler! I love it. She’s kooky, that’s for sure. Her outfits always crack me up.”

  Rafael gets up to leave my room. In the doorway, he smiles at me. “That was a great story, Luis. You should write it down and submit it to the creative writing competition that’s coming up soon at school. You’d win!”

  He shuts the door, but I can still hear him cackling all the way to his room. What a jerk. I totally get why Patrick, who barely knows me, wouldn’t believe me, but my own brother? It hurts. I never lie to Rafael. It’s against the brother code.

  Now I have no choice—I have to make him believe me. I’ll bring back proof from my adventure even before I find the treasure, and I’ll make Rafael eat his words.

  I get in bed to read before going to sleep, and as I do, something pops into my head. In addition to the “no profiting from the past” rule, Ms. Tremt also has a rule about not taking anything from the past. But rules are made to be broken. Matt brought back a baseball from 1951 signed by Willie Mays! I’m sure I can figure out a way around that. I’ll just take something small and pirate-y, and not valuable.

  Satisfied, I pick up my copy of Treasure Island to help me get ready for tomorrow. There’s a way around everything if you just think hard enough.

  At lunch the next day, after wolfing down my food, I catch Patrick McMann’s eye where he’s sitting at the next lunch table. I make a small motion with my head toward the door, and he nods. Then I get up to throw my trash away and head to the agreed-upon door. He joins me in the hall a minute later, and I’m relieved, since after my talk with Rafael last night, I thought there was a chance Patrick might decide I was just looney tunes and ignore me.

  “I checked the parking lot this morning but didn’t see a DeLorean,” Patrick jokes as we head in the direction of the library. He’s talking about the car in the movie Back to the Future again. Ha. “Are we taking a hot-air balloon instead?”

  “Ha-ha,” I say. “Listen, I joke around a lot, but I’m not a liar. Just stick with me for five more minutes, and you’ll see what I’m talking about, okay?”

  Patrick must sense something in my voice, because he says okay and stops joking around.

  I open the door to the library and walk right into George Washington and Marie Antoinette. The real ones. For real. In the library of Sands Middle School. I accidentally step on the hem of Marie Antoinette’s gigantic ball gown, and she gives me an icy glare that makes me want to hide under a desk.

  Ms. Tremt is standing behind them, looking totally frazzled and slightly sweaty. Not at all her usual self. Beside me, I hear Patrick gulp.

  Ms. Tremt sees me and hurries around Marie’s dress. “Hello, Luis,” she says, with a glance at Patrick. I nod, indicating that he’s my chosen partner.

  Then, under her breath, she whispers, “They don’t want to go back, Luis. Usually I can get them to return right away, but this time they’re refusing. Cover for me with the other students, please!”

  She turns to George Washington and Marie Antoinette. “Actors, please follow me,” she says sharply. She grabs Marie by the elbow and practically hustles her out of the room. Marie looks very annoyed, like she might call for the guillotine for Ms. Tremt at any moment. Her enormous skirt swishes and bangs into furniture as she goes.

  As they follow Ms. Tremt out of the library, I realize I need to do something. I turn to the students working at the computer tables who were staring and say, “Wow, cool costumes, huh? They’re actors in an after-school production Ms. Tremt is directing. I was gonna try out for Washington, but Ms. Tremt said she’d already found the perfect person.”

  “Did you see Marie Antoinette’s dress?” one girl says. “It was four feet wide! I don’t know how she could walk in it.”

  “And her wig was two feet tall!” says another girl. “Our plays never have such good costumes.”

  “Old George had some serious body odor, though,” added a boy. “He walked past me and it was like a cloud of stink. Didn’t they shower back then?”

  “Not as often,” I say. “No indoor plumbing, you know. And, uh, Ms. Tremt likes her actors to be as realistic as possible. She’s a stickler for details.”

  I look over at Patrick, who is stone-cold silent. I can tell by his face that he’s wondering if maybe those weren’t just actors in costumes. George Washington looked way too much like, well, George Washington, to be an actor. And Marie Antoinette’s attitude was so . . . queenly. It’s hard to think of another word for it. They were both just too perfect to be actors.

  After a few minutes Ms. Tremt reappears. Her cheeks are still flushed, but she doesn’t look quite so panicked. “Luis and Patrick,” she says, “I have that book for you. Please, come right this way.”

  Ms. Tremt leads us to her office on the other side of the library. She turns to me. “I assume you have discussed everything with Patrick?”

  Patrick nods. “He told me we were going to ‘time travel,’ ” he says, using air quotes. “I don’t believe him, of course. Although those actors you hired were pretty good.”

  “I understand perfectly,” Ms. Tremt says. “You need to see proof.”

  Relieved I no longer have to defend my honesty, I nudge Patrick. “Just wait,” I say. “You’re gonna love this, I promise.”

  Ms. Tremt unlocks one of her desk drawers and takes out The Book of Memories. As soon as he sees it, Patrick reaches out and touches the cover with one finger.

  “Wow,” Patrick says. “That looks really old. And valuable.”

  “Of course it’s valuable!” I say. “It’s a time-travel device.”

  Patrick still looks skeptical. Ms. Tremt smiles at him and fluffs her scarf a bit. Today she’s wearing a purple and neon green one, with tiny feathers sticking out of it. When she adjusts it, two feathers fall off and float down to the carpet.

  She clears her throat. “Patrick, I’ve found that the best way to explain the book is not by explaining it but by giving a demonstration. Now, if you could time travel anywhere, where and when would you like to go?”

  Patrick is quiet for a moment. “How about to yesterday’s New York Giants game?” he asks. “They won with a touchdown in the last two minutes of the game. It was killer.”

  I momentarily question my choice of time-travel partner. “Patrick, seriously. We have a time machine. You can travel back hundreds of years. And you want to go back to yesterday?”

  Ms. Tremt laughs. “It can be hard to wrap your brain around at first,” she says. “But do dig a little deeper,
Patrick. Luis is right—this is a custom-made demonstration just for you. Don’t waste it on something you can see replayed on ESPN.”

  “Right, okay,” Patrick says. His cheeks are red, like he’s embarrassed he suggested such a thing, but he also looks frustrated, like he’s sure that at any moment Ms. Tremt and I are going to laugh at him for thinking this book is really a time-travel machine, when it’s actually just a dusty old book.

  He chews his lip, then finally says, “Okay. We’ve been talking about Michelangelo a lot in history class. Can we see him painting the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel?”

  “Ahh, now we’re talking! He’s one of my favorites.” Ms. Tremt sighs dreamily and opens up The Book of Memories. She takes a little card out of an envelope, then signs her name, Valerie Tremt, and immediately the book sparkles and the words Where would you like to go today? appear on the title page.

  “Whoa,” Patrick whispers. “Did you see that?”

  “Yep,” I whisper back. “Told ya.”

  In careful penmanship, Ms. Tremt writes, The Sistine Chapel, Rome, Italy, 1508.

  I suddenly remember what will happen next and tug on Patrick’s sleeve to move him away from the wall with me. “Stand back,” I tell him.

  “Why?” he asks.

  Ms. Tremt waves him back with her hand. “You’ll see,” she says. “Back, back.”

  Patrick moves back, and within seconds the book begins to shake and grow . . . and grow . . . until it’s eight feet high and eight feet wide! Then, out of nowhere, an image starts to appear. It’s a man lying on his back on a large scaffold, painting the ceiling of a massive church.

  It’s Michelangelo, and he looks to be in the beginning stages of his masterpiece.

  Patrick’s eyes are huge, and he shakes his head several times, as if to clear it. “Is it a photograph?” he asks. “Or a projection screen or something?”

  I’m about to answer him, when Michelangelo’s paintbrush starts to move. Patrick gasps.

  “Keep watching,” Ms. Tremt tells him. Carefully, she reaches out her hand and touches the image. Her hand disappears into the wall, through it, and then appears in the image, next to Michelangelo’s knee.

  “Wait, what—” Patrick looks stunned. He puts his hand out too, and it starts to go through the wall, touching a jar of paint. He pulls his hand back so quickly that the scaffolding shakes and the jar of paint nearly tips over. Michelangelo is startled by the noise and looks around in confusion before steadying the jar and resuming his work.

  “If you wanted to, you could walk right into this scene and into the year 1508,” Ms. Tremt explains. “But since this is only a demonstration, and we really don’t want to interrupt a master, I think we should say good-bye now.”

  She closes the book, and we watch as it shrinks back down to its normal size. “Michelangelo is brilliant, as you know, but he can be so touchy when people disturb him while he’s working.”

  Patrick is frozen with his mouth hanging open.

  “So, you believe now, right?” I ask him. “You know that was real?”

  “Um, yeah,” Patrick admits. “I’ve never believed in time travel or anything. I don’t even like sci-fi movies, but that . . . that was real.” He looks at Ms. Tremt with an awed expression. “Could we go back there? I won’t bother him. I’d just like to watch him paint for a while.”

  “Another time maybe,” Ms. Tremt says. “Or maybe for your adventure. Today is about Luis’s adventure. Now, tell me where you’ve decided to go. I saw you doing research yesterday, and I know you’re a person who thinks big.”

  I cross my fingers behind my back for luck. I know I have to phrase this just right get Ms. Tremt to agree to it and not smell a rat.

  “I’ve given it a lot of thought,” I say. “And I’d like to go back to 1698 and sail on board a real pirate ship with Captain William Kidd.”

  Patrick looks at me like I’m crazy. Maybe I should have mentioned it to him in advance.

  “Pirates?” he says. “Pirates, Luis? Why didn’t you tell me that?”

  “Luis, this is a highly dangerous situation you’ve chosen,” Ms. Tremt says, studying me. She fluffs her scarf again, and more feathers drift to the floor. “I hope you realize I cannot allow you to take a trip for purely selfish reasons, such as a get-rich-quick scheme.”

  “I know, Ms. Tremt,” I say. “That’s not it at all. I just think it would be fun to be on board an actual pirate ship for a few hours. You know, swab the deck and everything. Listen to them talk. I’ve been reading pirate books ever since I was a little kid. I’ve read Treasure Island four times.”

  Ms. Tremt frowns. “Why don’t I believe you, Luis?” she asks. “Time travel is perilous enough without adding bloodthirsty pirates into the mix.”

  “Please, Ms. Tremt,” I say. I make my face look as innocent and hopeful as possible, even throwing in the big puppy-dog eyes that work on my mom. “I really thought about every place I’d want to go in history, and to be a pirate for a few hours is my ultimate dream!”

  “Very well,” Ms. Tremt says, her expression still more than a little suspicious. “Come back as soon as your classes are finished today and I can outfit both of you for your journey.”

  She pauses, taking a moment to lock the book back up in its drawer. Then she says, “And, Luis, while pirates and treasures may intrigue you, I think you’ll find that you already possess a real treasure inside you. One that I hope you will discover in time.”

  The afternoon crawls by. How can I be expected to get excited about diagramming sentences or conjugating Spanish verbs when I’m about to meet a real live pirate? It’s impossible! Or as we would say in Spanish class, es imposible.

  I count each and every second until 3:10. When the bell finally rings, I leap up from my desk, race to my locker, and toss in my backpack and jacket. Then I walk as calmly and coolly as I can to Ms. Tremt’s office, because I don’t want to be seen running to the library. That would cause suspicion for sure, because no one has ever seen Luis Ramirez racing to get to the library after school.

  When I arrive, I see Patrick already inside Ms. Tremt’s office. They’re talking, and for a second I worry that maybe he’s backing out, or trying to talk her out of letting me go back to see William Kidd. At this point, I’ve psyched myself up so much to find out where he hid his famous treasure that I would probably cry like a big fat baby if she told me I couldn’t go.

  But when I walk in, they’re just talking about school and she’s asking him how he likes Sands and all that. Phew. Everything is fine. Very soon I’ll be on a pirate ship in the middle of the ocean, with a bunch of dangerous and untrustworthy pirates all around me, while I try to sneakily discover the location of the greatest lost treasure in history. What could go wrong?

  Ms. Tremt sees me and exhales an enormous breath. “Well,” she says. “I guess this is it. Although I still don’t care for the choice you’ve made, Luis.”

  I lift my chin, looking confident and mature, as I reply, “It’s going to be great, Ms. Tremt, I promise.”

  “Very well, then,” she says. “Let’s go into the back room. That’s where I’ve stashed your wardrobe.” She unlocks her drawer, removes The Book of Memories, and places it in a tote bag, which she slings over one shoulder.

  We follow her out of the office and to the very back corner of the library. There are some kids in there doing homework, but no one pays much attention to us as we follow Ms. Tremt into the back room. It has a door with no window, so no one will know that we’re about to leave today and time travel hundreds of years into the past.

  In the room, there’s a box on the floor, and from the doorway I can smell something horrible inside of it. I put my hand over my mouth and try not to gag.

  “Is that . . . garlic?” I ask, wrinkling my nose.

  Patrick actually takes a step back and cups his hand over face. “Jeez! Is that a box of old gym socks or something? It smells worse than my brother’s cleats!”

  Ms. Tremt close
s the door behind him and gives us a knowing smile. “I pride myself on making sure my students travel in authentic clothing only. The outfits here are perfect for two young boys serving as kitchen lads on a ship. And they smell because, well, you’re supposed to have been on a ship for ages and there’s no bathtub or washing machine available.”

  She reaches into the box and pulls out two sets of loose, flowy knee-length pants, striped shirts, and bright bandannas to be tied and worn on our heads. I’m hoping for a signature pirate hat, but Ms. Tremt says those wouldn’t have been worn by boys in the kitchen.

  Ms. Tremt leaves us alone in the room for a moment to change, and as we do, Patrick says, “So we’re really doing this, huh?”

  “We really are,” I say. “Listen, I did this once before. It’s easy. We just try to blend in, we don’t say much, and we enjoy being in the past for a bit. Then we come right back. Easy peasy.”

  Patrick doesn’t look convinced, but to his credit, he stands tall in his stinking, filthy-dirty kitchen-boy clothes and says, “Let’s go, then.”

  I decide right then that no matter what happens on this trip, Patrick is one cool kid and I want to get to know him better.

  Ms. Tremt knocks on the door, and we tell her to come in. She smiles when she sees us, but I can tell she’s also holding her breath. “You boys look perfect. You’ll fit right in.”

  “We smell perfect too, I guess,” I say.

  “That too.” Ms. Tremt opens another box and pulls out several wacky, colorful scarves like the ones she’s always wearing. She hands a couple to each of us.

  “No way,” says Patrick. “I’ll smell like gym socks if I have to, but I’m not wearing that.”

  “Me neither,” I say. “Why would a pirate wear a bright orange polka-dot scarf?”

  Ms. Tremt shakes them in our faces and rolls her eyes. “Oh, boys. Haven’t you figured out yet that I don’t wear these scarves for fashion? They have a purpose!”