I hadn’t told a living soul about the magic clicker. The only other people who knew it existed was Bob Phillips and Zeb, the half-zebra—if indeed he existed at all. But the deeper I got involved with Clifford, the more I felt the need to confide in someone with what I was up to. Hubert was the only person I could trust to keep my secret.
Hubert and I had just gotten off the Spit Buckets—a Theme Farm ride where an overhead skyway transports guests across the park. The buckets were actually oversized, cow-milking pails suspended from cables high above the ground.
While skyways are a common sight at theme parks, they usually prove to be a major headache for Management. Countless complaints are routinely filed by park guests who have been spat upon by discourteous riders. Theme Farm took a different approach to this problem. The park regarded this tasteless behavior as a form of free expression, and since people were going to do it anyway, why not encourage it? The difference was that the Spit Bucket ride employed an invisible shield that prevented the wet projectiles from ever reaching the ground, keeping the unsuspecting guests below comfortably dry.
We had just exited the ride as our stomachs were telling us: “Lunch, please!”
“Suppose we try Democracy Diner today,” I said.
This was one of our favorite Theme Farm restaurants. It’s the only place I know where you are served a tasty meal while getting a lesson in Civics at the same time. Liberals are seated on the left; Conservatives to the right; counter seating is reserved for Independents only. Menu specials include the Presidential Veto Burrito and Rhetoric on a Stick. I “elected” to order the Minority Whip Dip, while Hubert got the Sex Scandal Platter. For dessert, we voted unanimously to each get a slice of the diner’s most popular dessert: Impeachment Pie.
This was as good a time as any to let Hubert in on my covert activity.
“Remember that Theme Farm attraction you told me about,” I asked him, “Used-to-Be TV?”
“I hear that communicating with anyone on it is pretty fruitless,” said Hubert. “There’s some kind of detection system that censors anything it doesn’t want you to say. A constant bleeping keeps a slip of the lip from changing history.”
“That’s true. But what if I told you I didn’t have that problem?”
“I’d say that would be very dangerous. Can you really say whatever you want to people in the past?”
“Yes, I can. And it is dangerous. You may not believe this, but I said something stupid that changed the color of Jiffy Fizz Cola cans from red to blue.”
Hubert smiled and shook his head. “What do mean, red? The color of their cans is a universal trademark. They’ve always been blue . . . haven’t they?”
Hubert wasn’t smiling now.
I pulled the magic clicker out of my pocket.
“What’s that?” asked Hubert.
“The device that can change history.”
“Can I see it?”
“If you’re careful.”
I checked to see if anyone was watching us before I handed the clicker to Hubert. He put it up to his eye, checking it out from end to end.
“I don’t suppose you’ll let me see inside,” said the incurable tinkerer.
“Better not,” I said. “I don’t know how fragile it is, and as far as I know it’s the only one there is.”
“How do you work it?”
“You aim it at any TV in the attraction, hit that button, and you can speak freely with whomever is on the screen with no bleeping. I’ve been using it to talk to a boy I met in 1963.”
Hubert looked at me with deadly seriousness. “How much have you told him about the future?”
“Not much.”
“Not much could turn into a whole lot if you’re not careful. That was a pivotal time in American history. I hope you’re not thinking of meddling with the ‘60s.”
“There is a certain power you feel with this clicker in your hand. I don’t deny it. But I’ve resisted the urge to give away any damaging information. The Jiffy Fizz thing was just kind of an accident.”
“You idiot!” snarled Hubert. “I should destroy this thing right now.”
“Don’t you dare!” I yelled, grabbing the device out of his hand.
“An accident, you say!” said Hubert, his face red with rage. “You burn yourself on a stove. That’s an accident. You hit the wrong number while dialing a phone. That’s an accident, too. We can recover from those. The Fukushima nuclear power plant melt down. Even that we can survive. But you reveal one slip up about the future, in some stupid theme park ride, and your ‘accident’ will be permanent.”
Hubert had put into words what I did not want to admit to myself. I was playing with fire, like a willful child who should know better. Changing the color of a soda can was one thing, but changing the landscape of the future was quite another.
“But I can’t destroy the clicker,” I said.
“Why not?”
“Because I will also be destroying the sunshine of my life.”
“Oh, no!” said Hubert, his hand on his forehead. “Don’t tell me. You’ve fallen for some schlep in 1963.”
I bowed my head while raising my eyes up at Hubert, like a puppy that just got caught soiling the carpet.
“I should have known,” he said. “You always make the worst choices when it comes to boys. When are you going to start listening to your head instead of your heart?”
Under normal circumstances, I would have stood up to Hubert and defended my integrity. I would have blasted him with a million reasons why he was wrong—only this time he wasn’t. I was in way over my head, and I knew it.
“You don’t have to be so cruel,” I said.
Hubert placed his hand on my shoulder. “I’m sorry, Amy,” he said softly. “You’re the last person I would ever want to hurt. I just want you to understand how serious this is.”
“You haven’t told me anything I don’t already know. I just wish I knew what to do about it.”
“Tell you what. I don’t agree with what you are doing, but if you ever get the urge to alter history, I want you to call me. I’ll be your own personal support group. It’ll be like Alcoholics Anonymous for people who want to destroy life as we know it. Okay?”
“Okay, Hubert. I’ll call you if I start to get the shakes.”
“Promise?”
“I promise.”