Antsy Does Time by Neal Shusterman Page A

enough alone.
    Â 
 
With about a dozen time contracts to fill out—each one a little bit different—I tried to hurry home from school that day, hoping to avoid anyone else who wanted to shave some time off their miserable existence. That’s when I ran into Skaterdud. At first he rolled past me on his board like it was just coincidence, but a second later he looped back around. He flustered me with his eight-part handshake before he started talking.
    â€œCultural Geography, man,” he said, shaking his head—it was a class we were both in together. “I just don’t get it. I mean—is it culture? Is it geography? You know where I’m going, right?”
    â€œThe skate park?” I answered. Sure, it was closed for the winter, but that never stopped Skaterdud before.
    â€œI’m talking conceptually,” he said. “Gotta follow close or you’re not never gettin’ nowhere.”
    I’ve learned that silence is the best response when you have no idea what someone is talking about. Silence, and a knowing nod.
    â€œI’m thinking maybe one favor begets another, comprende ?”
    I nodded again, hoping he hadn’t suddenly become bilingual. It was hard enough to understand him in one language.
    â€œSo you’ll do it?” he asked.
    â€œDo what?” I had to finally ask.
    He looked at me like I was an imbecile. “Write my Cultural Geography paper for me.”
    â€œWhy would I do that?”
    â€œBecause,” he said, “I’m gonna give up six whole months of my life to your boy Gunnar.”
    That got my interest. No one had offered that much. The Master of Time was intrigued.
    Skaterdud laughed at the expression on my face. “Ain’t no biggie,” he said. “It’s not like it’s never gonna matter—’cause don’t I already know when I’m gonna be pushin’ up posies? Or seaweed, in my case? That date with destiny ain’t never gonna change, because the fortune-teller’s prediction would have already taken into account whatever life I’d give away to Gunnar. Smart, right? Yeah, I got this wired!”
    I was actually following his logic, and it scared me. “So . . . why just six months?” I said, playing along. “If your future’s all set in stone no matter what you do, why not give a year?”
    â€œDone,” said Skaterdud, slapping me on the back. “Don’t forget—that Cultural Geography paper’s due Friday.”
    â€œWhoa! Wait a second! I didn’t say it was a deal.” I was getting all mad now, because I felt like I was a sucker at a carnival, and had gotten tricked into this—so I said the first thing that came to mind, which, sadly, was: “What’s in it for me?”
    Skaterdud shrugged. “What do you want?”
    I thought about how stockbrokers get commissions when they make a deal, so I thought, Why not me? “One extra month commission for me. Yeah, that’s it. An extra month to do with as I please.”
    â€œDone,” he said again. “Let me read the paper before you turn it in so I know what I wrote.”
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I, Reginald Michaelangelo Smoot, aka Skaterdud, in addition to the twelve months donated to Gunnar Ümlaut in the attached contract, do hereby bequeath one month to Anthony Paul Bonano for his own personal use in any way he sees fit, including, but not limited to:
    a. ) Extending his own natural life.
    b. ) Extending the life of a family member or beloved pet.
    c. ) Anything else, really.
    Â 
R.M. Smoot
    Signature
    Â 
 
Ralphy Sherman
    Signature of Witness

8 Who Needs Cash When You’ve Got Time Coming Out of Your Ears?
    I have never been in the habit of cheating at school. I mean, sure, the occasional glance at my neighbor’s paper on a multiple-choice test or a list of dates written on my forearm, but nothing like what Skaterdud wanted me to do. Now not only did