existed.
“You’re lucky,” said my friend Corinne, who was rummaging through our stuff as well. “You’re lucky you’re an only child. I have to share everything with my little brother.”
And then Corinne picked up the many-colored quilt, which lay folded across a plastic teeter-totter.
“I should give this to my brother to replace that disgusting old security blanket he carries around the house,” said Corinne. “How much do you want for it?”
I thought about it. I thought about it a long time. And in the end I let her have it.
“Take it,” I told her. “It’s free.”
And why not? Who was I to stop the quilt on its journey through this world? And besides . . . misery loves company.
SAME TIME NEXT YEAR
I love time-travel stories, but there’s something about them that always bothers me. There is one very simple fact about time and space that time-travel stories always ignore. I wanted to write a story that would take that fact into account, and show what would really happen if time travel were possible. . . .
SAME TIME NEXT YEAR
In a vast universe, toward the edge of a spinning galaxy, on a small blue planet flying around the sun, in a place called Northern California, lives a girl who is quite certain that the entire universe revolves around her. Or at least she acts that way. In fact, if an award were given out for acting superior, Marla Nixbok would win that award.
“I was born a hundred years too early,” she often tells her friends. “I ought to be living in a future time where I wouldn’t be surrounded by such dweebs.”
To prove that she is ahead of her time, Marla always wears next year’s fashions and hairstyles that seem just a bit too weird for today. In a college town known for being on the cutting edge of everything, Marla is quite simply the Queen of Fads at Palo Alto Junior High. Nothing and nobody is good enough for her, and for that reason alone, everyone wants to be her friend.
Except for the new kid, Buford, who couldn’t care less.
Buford and Marla meet on the school bus. It’s his first day. As fate would have it, the seat next to Marla is the only free seat in the bus.
The second he sits down, Marla’s nose tilts up, and she begins her usual grading process of new kids.
“Your hair is way greasy,” she says. “Your clothes look like something out of the fifties, and in general, you look like a Neanderthal.”
Several girls behind them laugh.
“All else considered, I give you an F as a human being.”
He just smiles, not caring about Marla’s grade. “Hi, I’m Buford,” he says, ignoring how the girls start laughing again. “But you can call me Ford. Ford Planet.”
Ford , thinks Marla. She actually likes the name, against her best instincts. “Okay, F-plus—but just because you got rid of the ‘Bu’ and called yourself ‘Ford.’”
“Didn’t you move into the old Wilmington place?” asks a kid in front of them.
“Yeah,” says Buford.
The kid snickers. “Sucker!”
“Why? What’s wrong with the place?” asks Ford innocently.
“Nothing,” says Marla, “except for the fact that it used to belong to old Dr. Wilmington, the creepiest professor Stanford University ever had.”
Ford leans in closer to listen.
“One day,” says Marla, “about seven years ago, Wilmington went into the house . . . and never came out.”
Ford nods, not showing a bit of fear.
“Personally,” says Marla, trying to get a rise out of him, “I think he was killed by an ax murderer or something, and he’s buried in the basement.”
But Ford only smiles. “I wouldn’t be surprised,” he says. “There’s a whole lot of weird things down in our basement.”
Marla perks up. “Oh yeah? I wonder what sort of research was this Professor Wilmington doing when he disappeared.”
Ford smiles, and then stares straight at Marla. “By the way,” he says, pointing to her purple-tinted hair and neon eye shadow, “you’ve got to be the weirdest-looking
“You’re lucky,” said my friend Corinne, who was rummaging through our stuff as well. “You’re lucky you’re an only child. I have to share everything with my little brother.”
And then Corinne picked up the many-colored quilt, which lay folded across a plastic teeter-totter.
“I should give this to my brother to replace that disgusting old security blanket he carries around the house,” said Corinne. “How much do you want for it?”
I thought about it. I thought about it a long time. And in the end I let her have it.
“Take it,” I told her. “It’s free.”
And why not? Who was I to stop the quilt on its journey through this world? And besides . . . misery loves company.
SAME TIME NEXT YEAR
I love time-travel stories, but there’s something about them that always bothers me. There is one very simple fact about time and space that time-travel stories always ignore. I wanted to write a story that would take that fact into account, and show what would really happen if time travel were possible. . . .
SAME TIME NEXT YEAR
In a vast universe, toward the edge of a spinning galaxy, on a small blue planet flying around the sun, in a place called Northern California, lives a girl who is quite certain that the entire universe revolves around her. Or at least she acts that way. In fact, if an award were given out for acting superior, Marla Nixbok would win that award.
“I was born a hundred years too early,” she often tells her friends. “I ought to be living in a future time where I wouldn’t be surrounded by such dweebs.”
To prove that she is ahead of her time, Marla always wears next year’s fashions and hairstyles that seem just a bit too weird for today. In a college town known for being on the cutting edge of everything, Marla is quite simply the Queen of Fads at Palo Alto Junior High. Nothing and nobody is good enough for her, and for that reason alone, everyone wants to be her friend.
Except for the new kid, Buford, who couldn’t care less.
Buford and Marla meet on the school bus. It’s his first day. As fate would have it, the seat next to Marla is the only free seat in the bus.
The second he sits down, Marla’s nose tilts up, and she begins her usual grading process of new kids.
“Your hair is way greasy,” she says. “Your clothes look like something out of the fifties, and in general, you look like a Neanderthal.”
Several girls behind them laugh.
“All else considered, I give you an F as a human being.”
He just smiles, not caring about Marla’s grade. “Hi, I’m Buford,” he says, ignoring how the girls start laughing again. “But you can call me Ford. Ford Planet.”
Ford , thinks Marla. She actually likes the name, against her best instincts. “Okay, F-plus—but just because you got rid of the ‘Bu’ and called yourself ‘Ford.’”
“Didn’t you move into the old Wilmington place?” asks a kid in front of them.
“Yeah,” says Buford.
The kid snickers. “Sucker!”
“Why? What’s wrong with the place?” asks Ford innocently.
“Nothing,” says Marla, “except for the fact that it used to belong to old Dr. Wilmington, the creepiest professor Stanford University ever had.”
Ford leans in closer to listen.
“One day,” says Marla, “about seven years ago, Wilmington went into the house . . . and never came out.”
Ford nods, not showing a bit of fear.
“Personally,” says Marla, trying to get a rise out of him, “I think he was killed by an ax murderer or something, and he’s buried in the basement.”
But Ford only smiles. “I wouldn’t be surprised,” he says. “There’s a whole lot of weird things down in our basement.”
Marla perks up. “Oh yeah? I wonder what sort of research was this Professor Wilmington doing when he disappeared.”
Ford smiles, and then stares straight at Marla. “By the way,” he says, pointing to her purple-tinted hair and neon eye shadow, “you’ve got to be the weirdest-looking
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