giant.”
He started to leave, then, stopped. “By the way, someone gave me a couple of free tickets to that Woodfield Fair. I took you last year, remember?”
“And lots of other times when I was a kid. I love that thing,” she said. “Thanks, Dad.”
“It’s full of strange folks and a lot of magical thinking. Good place to research time travel,” he said with a laugh.
• FOUR •
They were standing around the fruit juice machine outside the school cafeteria. The next class was in five minutes.
“What do you see in him, Carol?” said the one in pink.
“He’s scruffy and yucky,” said the tall one with long brown hair.
Carol shrugged. She’d heard this kind of talk before.
“I mean really. You’ve got some class, girl. You don’t need this guy.” She shook her shiny brown curls as though she were shivering with disgust.
“You know something, Junie?” Carol put on a profound earnestness as though she were about to convey a stupendous piece of information. “It’s none of your goddam business.” She walked away. They were a little taken aback, and, then, the two of them had a mutual fit of the giggles.
The school had a machine shop if you could call it that. In one corner of it a couple of kids were trying to build a home-made car. A flivver, the supervisor called it. It was a very old-timey word, and he always smiled when he said it. The thing still wouldn’t run, but they worked on it almost every day. Somebody else who was in there almost every day, too, was Mathew. He was trying to bring an old bike back to life—not too successfully, but he was a lot further along than the flivver guys.
“Look at this, Carol,” he called out as she walked by. He wobbled it across the shop, grabbed at an overhead wire and came to a stop. “No brakes yet,” he said.
She shook her head. “Goof,” she said. “I thought you were saving for a new one.”
“I am. But this one’s pretty good fun.”
She also knew he’d be a very long time getting the money together to buy a new one. “Are you taking me to the Fair today?” she asked.
“No!” he said emphatically.
She seemed to shrivel a bit. ‘‘You promised!”
“Can’t. I’m racing my Formula One at the Arena.”
Her expression changed dramatically. “You total jerk! You’re taking me to the Fair!” She knew she should be used to his lying by now, but he still managed to fool her sometimes. She winged an oil-smeared seat cushion at him and caught him on the side of his head. “Six p.m. Mathew Manolo--at my house.”
“Yes, mam,” he said grinning. “I believe I can just fit you in.”
She marched out.
He went back to working on his bike. One of the flivver makers came over to pick up a tool. “She’s cool, that girl.”
“Yeah, I suppose,” he said. “If you like that kind of thing.”
The flivver guy looked puzzled. “Listen, she’s way more than cool, Mat. She’s---super. How do you do it? You’re such a slob.”
Mathew glanced at him sideways and grinned. “Must be because I’m super, too.”
“Are you kidding? Come on, what’s your secret? How did you get a girl like that?”
Mathew thought about it. “I don’t bother her, Jimmy. I know she likes me, but she doesn’t want to be—bothered. So I don’t.” He paused. “I even push her away sometimes.”
The flivver guy nodded like he was trying to understand but couldn’t really. “Well, listen, if you get tired of her—let me know.”
“First thing, guaranteed,” said Mathew, but he didn’t mean it. He knew she was super.
Carol had talked her Mom into dropping them off at the Fair.
“I’ll find a friend to drive us back,” she said. She would, too. Carol was pretty popular. “Have fun, dear. You, too, Mathew. You got money?”
“I’ve got plenty, Mom.”
Her mother didn’t have to ask if Mathew had any. He never did. That meant Carol would pay—as usual. Which meant her parents would pay—as usual. Her mother didn’t approve of this arrangement, but Carol liked him, and he did seem harmless enough. A bit odd---but harmless. At least she hoped so.
They walked into the Fair. Carol had been to it every year as far back as she could remember so when she passed under the arch with its spangle of lights spelling out Woodfield it was like remembering all those fairs at once. The toddler’s fear and wonder, the breathless excitement of nine years old, the cool pride of going with a boy when you were an almost teen—all rolled up together like a gaudy piñata about to burst open.
“Isn’t it great?” she whispered. She took his arm briefly. In front of them two rows of stalls with games and food and a galaxy of lights arrowed away from them toward the jungle of rides that anchored the far end. Music was everywhere.
“They just don’t get you,” she said casually. “You’re not like them.” She paused. “Don’t ever be like them, Mathew. Promise me?”
He laughed. “I don’t care for them either,” he said quietly.
“That’s not enough. Hate them!” she said biting it off. “Hate them as hard as you can,” she said.
“Woof! Why so ferocious today?” he asked. “Come on, let’s go find a ride that’ll take us all the way to Mozart.”
They skipped down the middle of the Midway—or rather she did. He couldn’t bring himself to skip. Too girlish somehow so he hopped. Near the end of the Midway they found it. A crazy, whirligig ride with seats sticking out of it like spokes from a giant wheel. Music was pouring out of it. “Just in time, just in time!” shouted the Ridemaster. He strapped them in. He looked more like a rodeo rider than a carnie—with his cowboy hat and pasted-on smile and his pie-plate sunglasses.
“Mathew, listen. It’s another Mozart piece. All jazzed up.”
“So you’re not the only thief in this town,” he said to her. Carol grabbed the Ridemaster’s arm. “Hey, can you take us to Mozart?’ she asked eagerly.
It seemed to stump him for a moment, but, then, he said: “Girlie, this ride’ll take you wherever. Just sit back and dream.”
“This guy’s good,” she said. “Okay, that’s what we’ll do!” she shouted as the ride took off on a wild whirly twirlie zoom into the air and down and up and down again---and again and again.
“I think I’m going to throw up,” she said.
“Not over me!” yelled Mathew.
Suddenly it jerked to a stop. They got out, and he almost immediately lost his balance and fell down. “Oops,” he said, laughing.
“I’ve got to pee,” said Carol, and she wobbled off to a women’s Got-to-go.
Mathew stood by the ticket window and waited for her. The Ridemaster came over. “She’s something else, that girl of yours. I never heard such shrieking.”
“Gee, was she shrieking?” Mathew said. He had been so lost in the twirling he hadn’t even heard her.
“Did you see your Mr. Mozart?” the guy asked.
“Uh, no. Were we supposed to?”
“She was looking for him. Want another ride? Next one’s free. It isn’t busy yet. It’s better if we look busy. Maybe you’ll see him this time.”
“Don’t think so,” said Mathew. “He’s been dead a couple of hundred years.”
“You’re kidding! Listen, you should visit Madame Oolala over there by the hotdogs. That’s not her real name, but I can’t pronounce it. She says she can connect with dead people.”
Mathew saw Carol coming back from her pee. “Thanks for the tip,” he said to the Ridemaster and went off to join her.
“He’d never heard of Mozart,” said Mathew, “but maybe Madame Oolala has.” He told her what the guy had said about the Madame’s special powers.
“Yes, let’s do it,” said Carol. “There must be somebody here who can take us into the past.”
They approached a small booth just off the main Midway. It was all enclosed and covered with painted stars and half moons. Her name, stenciled in red on one side of it, sure wasn’t Oolala. Carol carefully sounded it out. “Madame Ouspenskaya from Odessa. Fortunes and Predictions.”
Madame appeared from inside the booth the minute she heard her name being pronounced. She looked as exotic as her name. Heavily-lined eyes peered out from a purple shawl criss-crossed with gold threads. “Not bad for someone who doesn’t speak Russian,” she said with a heavy accent. “Do you want me to look into the future for you—or the past?” She gave them both a quick once-over. “Well, I can see you don’t have much of a past yet. You probably want to know what tomorrow will bring.”
“Wait,” said Mathew. “Can you really see into the past?”
“Of course,” she smiled. “How far back do you want to go?”
“Two hundred years,” he said.
“That’s expensive.”
“It’s all right, Mathew. I want to see what she can see.”
“The lady’s going to pay?”
“Yes,” said Carol. “We need to talk to someone from way far back.”
“Who?
“Mozart. We need to go back to his last day.
“That was December 5, 1791,” said Madame Oolala.
Mathew was amazed. How the heck did she know that?
“Come with me,” said Madame. She was much too plump, thought Mathew, but she must have been quite pretty once. She led the way into her booth where she had a tiny table covered with green felt and three wooden chairs placed around it. In the middle of the table was a small clear crystal globe. She closed