The Time Traveler's Almanac

Dear Cher, My name is Cecily Walker and all my friends tell me I look just like you. Well, a little bit. Anyway, the reason that I’m writing to you is this: I’m starting my senior year in high school, and I’ve never had a steady boyfriend. I’ve gone out with a couple of boys, but they only want one thing, and I guess you know what that is. I keep thinking there’s gotta be somebody out there who’s the right one for me, but I just haven’t met him. Was it love at first sight for you and Sonny?

*   *   *

Alan sat on a London park bench with his printout and tried to figure out what he’d done wrong. Under Location: Setting, it just said “See page 29.” Great, he thought. And he had no idea what year it was. Every time he tried to ask someone, they’d give him a funny look and walk away in a hurry. He folded up the bike and took a walk. It wasn’t long before he found a news-stand and saw the date: July 19, 1998. At least he had the right century.

Back in the park, he sat astride the machine with the printout in one hand, frowning and wondering what might happen if he twisted a particular dial from right to left.

“Can’t get your bike to start, mate?” someone shouted from nearby. “Just click your heels three times and think of home.”

“Thanks, I’ll try that,” Alan shouted back. Then he vanished.

*   *   *

“I am a pirate from yonder ship,” the man with the eye patch told her, “and well used to treasure. But I tell thee, lass, I’ve never seen the like of you.”

Cecily groaned and ripped the page in half. She bit her lip and started again.

“I have travelled many galaxies, Madeleine,” the alien bleeped. “But you are a life-form beyond compare.”

“No, don’t. Please don’t,” Madeleine pleaded as the alien reached out to pull her towards its rock hard chest.

Her mother appeared in the doorway. “Whatcha doin’ hon?”

She dropped the pen and flipped the writing pad face down. “My homework.”

*   *   *

The next thing Alan knew he was in the middle of a cornfield. He hitched a lift with a truck driver who asked a lot of questions, ranging from “You work in a gas station, do you?” to “What are you, foreign or something?” and “What do you call that thing?” On being told “that thing” was a folding bicycle, the man muttered something about whatever would they think of next, and now his kid would be wanting one.

There were several Walker’s listed in the Danville phone book. When he finally found the right house, Cecily was in the middle of her third birthday party.

He pedalled around a corner, checked his printout, and set the controls on “Fast Forward”. He folded the machine and hid it behind a bush before walking back to the house. It was big and painted green, just like in the story. There was an apple tree in the garden, just like in the story. The porch swing moved ever so slightly, rocked by an early summer breeze. He could hear crickets chirping and birds singing. Everything was just the way it had been in the story, so he walked up the path, nervously clearing his throat and pushing back a stray lock of hair, just the way Cecily Walker had described him in Woman’s Secrets, before finally taking a deep breath and knocking on the door. There was movement inside the house. The clack of high-heeled shoes across a wooden floor, the rustle of a cotton dress.

“Yes?”

Alan stared at her, open-mouthed. “You’ve cut your hair,” he told her.

“What?”

“Your hair. It used to hang down to your waist, now it’s up to your shoulders.”

“Do I know you?”

“You will,” he told her. He’d said that in the story.

She was supposed to take one look at him and realise with a fluttering heart that this was the man she’d dreamed of all her life. Instead, she looked at his orange jumpsuit and slapped her hand to her forehead in enlightenment. “You’re from the garage! Of course, Mack said he’d be sending the new guy.” She looked past him into the street. “So where’s your tow truck?”