Lost in Cyberspace by Richard Peck Page B

Havemeyer House lunchroom and bought us a couple of tuna salads on pita bread and some Snapple.
    When I passed through the BOTH COMPUTERS DOWN door, Aaron was hard at work. “I’m practically there. I’ve got a lock on that time Phoebe came from. My technology is really beginning to catch up with concept.”
    I gave him a tuna pita, but he didn’t have time for it. “Look, yesterday I entered these digits, combined them with a graphic, and—”
    â€œYou zeroized.”
    â€œThat didn’t get me anywhere. If I change that last digit to this—”
    It was like the room imploded. Fire flashed. Both computers wobbled. Snapple went everywhere. I grabbed for Aaron, but he stayed where he was. All his red hair was standing up. Air seeped back into the room.
    But we weren’t alone.
    â€œYou two again,” a high voice barked. “Who do you think you are?”
    Aaron and I spun around.
    Cuthbert Vanderwhitney was standing there. We’d only seen him with his feather headdress. His hair was cut in a Dutch boy style. His pudgy fists were on his knickered hips. His freckles glowed in full color, and his lower lip was out a mile.
    Aaron’s head dropped on his chest.
    â€œWhat have you done with Lysander?” I said, because Aaron had me totally psyched.
    Cuthbert scowled. “I beat him up regularly. It keeps him in line.”
    â€œBut—”
    But it wasn’t near 1929 yet. Cuthbert looked the same as the last time we saw him. He’d still be about fourth grade, though he was as big as me, bigger than Aaron.
    His eyes crackled. His feet in high-top shoes were planted wide. He wore long argyle socks, corduroy knickers, and a weird velvet-looking jacket with gold buttons and a big white collar. A wide tie circled his bulging neck.
    â€œYou’re trespassing. And it’s not your first offense. My papa will have you thrown out.” He noticed Aaron’s tuna pita. He grabbed it up and smelled it. “I don’t eat this,” he said, and threw it against the wall.
    The pita stuck where it hit. The wall hadn’t been there in his time. Cuthbert stared. “What have you done with my house? We’re Vanderwhitneys, you know.”
    Aaron was recovering. “Let me put it in a nut-shell for you, Cuthbert,” he said. “You’ve cellular-reorganized three-quarters of a century ahead of your time. Your family’s house is a school now.”
    Cuthbert trained mean, beady eyes on Aaron. “Liar, liar, pants on fire,” he said.
    Which was probably his favorite saying.
    â€œIt’s true,” Aaron said. “Believe it.” With Cuthbert you have to be firm.
    â€œAaron, for pete’s sake,” I muttered, “send him back.”
    â€œIf it’s a school,” Cuthbert said, working this out, “who’s in charge?”
    â€œYou mean like the headmaster?” I said.
    â€œBuster Brewster,” Aaron said, and he had a point.
    â€œHarrison K. ‘Blackjack’ Brewster from Ninety-second Street?” Cuthbert’s eyes narrowed.
    â€œNo, Buster’s probably his grandson or something. Maybe a great-great nephew. Who knows?” Aaron said. “Just stand right there, Cuthbert.”
    Aaron turned to the computers and started entering digits. Four, five ... I was braced. But I looked around at Cuthbert because I really wanted to see him dissolve.
    He was already gone.
    â€œAaron.”
    He looked around. “Hey, I didn’t even—”
    The Black Hole door was open. Cuthbert had walked out. He was at large in Huckley School. The bell rang, so lunch was over, and it was time for History. You can’t sign out of that because Mr. Thaw’s the teacher.
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    Aaron and I ran into each other. Then we ran out the door. We streaked past Mrs. Newbery, but so had Cuthbert. The hallway outside was full of middle-school guys in Huckley dress code.
    â€œIt won’t be