Any librarian worth her salt would not approve of the activities taking place inside. There were a set of clear rules mounted on the bulletin board just beyond the entrance. The sign read:
Please be quiet. Silence is Golden.
Do not dog-ear books. No paper foldin’.
No food or drink. If you spill it, it gets gross, and we couldn’t figure an appropriate word that rhymed with “golden” or “foldin’,” so just don’t do it.
After reading the last rule, Sheed said, “Now, that’s disappointing. Moldin’ was the obvious choice. They got off to such a good start.”
“Sheed,” Otto said, more concerned with the chaos beyond the mis-rhymed bulletin board.
The library was crammed with people, but no one the boys knew from Fry, and they knew everyone. Some were the strangers who’d stampeded past Mr. Archie’s store. Otto could tell by their odd dress. In the room there were suits, pajamas, and gowns. Ties, suspenders, and belts with big buckles. Rompers, ribbons, and raincoats. Slippers, socks, and sundresses. Tank tops, tube socks, and tuxedos. So much variety as the people milled about, bumping into one another, tipping chairs that froze mid-fall once they were no longer being touched and knocking books from their shelves so they hovered in the air. Thank goodness the librarians weren’t there; they would’ve been screaming in their frozen states.
At the center of the disturbance was a wise-and-wizardly-looking man. He wore a regal blue robe decorated with roman numerals. Otto counted quickly and recognized numerals I through XII. Standing on a table in the center of the ruckus, the man held a wide leather volume open, while raising one hand high and calling for calm.
“Please, children!” he shouted, though Otto and Sheed could barely hear him over the noise. “Settle down so we can come to answers together.”
Sheed felt motion behind them. A.M. and P.M. had sidled up very close. Their previous despairing expressions were replaced by wide, sunny grins. They were clearly happy to see this old man.
Otto asked, “Who is he?”
“That, boys,” said A.M., “is Father Time.”
“Settle down!” Father Time said, making no headway with the rowdy crowd. “Children, please!”
Exasperated, he signaled someone. Immediately, a woman bounded onto the table next to him. She wore high-top sneakers, soccer shin guards, a tennis skirt, a football jersey, a hockey mask tilted upward so that it rested on top of her head, leaving her face exposed, and on her eyes, swim goggles. A whistle dangled from her neck; she brought it to her lips, inhaling mightily.
Otto and Sheed, recognizing what was about to happen, jammed their fingers in their ears and braced themselves.
The woman blew into the whistle, and the shrill sound it produced nudged away everyone around her like a tiny explosion. All the people crowding the library cupped hands to their ears as the whistling stretched on far longer than the cousins expected. That lady had really good lungs.
Finally, she dropped the whistle, letting it bounce from its cord, and yelled, “Whoo! Listen up, team. We gotta come together, lean on each other, and let Coach show us the way!”
Low murmurs buzzed throughout the room, but no one disagreed.
“Who is that?” Sheed asked.
P.M. said, “That would be Game Time.”
Game Time flexed her muscles. “Ohhh yeah!”
An uncomfortable looking Father Time patted Game Time on the shoulder. “Thank you, child. You can stop posing now.”
“Whoo!”
Game Time cartwheeled off the table, leaving Father Time to it. “Well. I know you’re all quite anxious about the circumstance we find ourselves in. As Clock Watchers, we perform functions that have, for some reason we don’t understand, become unfunctionable, as time seems to have stopped.”
The murmurs got louder; the Clock Watchers shared and amplified their fears.
“I know, it is frightening. We’ve never experienced this sort of change before. But, as you also know, we have not been left without guidance. Behold”—he raised the bound volume, the Fry High School crest clearly visible—“a Yearbook!”
Gasps in the room. Some of the Clock Watchers bowed.
With a dramatic gesture, Father Time whipped open the Yearbook to a seemingly random page. Jabbed his index finger to a place only he could see. “Ah! Yes. Prepare to receive the wisdom of page eleven, column two—Senior Quotes!”
Excitement spread, Clock Watchers awaiting solutions they so eagerly craved. Otto and Sheed exchanged confused looks. Where was this going?
Father Time said, “This, from Sylvester Juniper.”
The room was electric with anticipation.
“YOLO!” Father Time said. “You only live once!”
Silence. The Clock Watchers looked left, then right, measuring the reaction of their neighbors. One of the beings at the front, a petite man among a large group of petite men said, “Sylvester the Wise has spoken!”
Cheers throughout the room, followed by group chants of “YOLO! YOLO!”
Sheed shook his head. Unbelievable. “That’s enough!”
He waded into the room, and Otto followed, though he had reservations. Sheed was irritated. When he got irritated, well . . .
“I’m sorry, everyone, I don’t mean to be a buzzkill, but YOLO doesn’t answer anything.”
Someone in the back of the room retorted, “But Sylvester the Wise says it is so.”
“Fine, then,” Sheed said. “Tell me how that fixes time. Anybody?”
Nobody. Not a word from anyone in the room.
Sheed focused on Father Time, “Do you know how YOLO fixes time?”
Father Time tugged at his sheet of a beard. “Not in and of itself. Perhaps there are more instructions in the Senior Quotes.” He flipped pages. “Vanessa Taylor says, ‘Keep On Keepin’ On.’”
More gasps. Someone shouted, “Vanessa the Wise!”
“No!” Sheed said, stomping one foot. “Those’re just things people say before they graduate from high school. I mean, some of it might be wise, but it doesn’t help with today’s problem.”
Otto grabbed Sheed by the shoulder, hoping to calm him before he went totally nuclear. “What my cousin is trying to say is, you did good coming here and trying to find solutions. Maybe we can find some together.”
“That’s not what I’m saying.”
“Stop talking, Sheed.”
The agitated Clock Watchers surrounded them. The petite men at the front of the crowd were the most irritated. They all had scowls, and clenched fists, and pleated pants, and suspenders, and flat heads. There were so many of them, they were hard to count. Perhaps fifty or sixty. Though they were relatively small—the size of puppies standing on their hind legs—they took up a lot of space and couldn’t seem to stop knocking into one another.
“Hi . . . fellas?” Otto said.
“Hello,” all fifty or sixty tiny men said at once, startling Otto and Sheed.
“Maybe,” the men began in unison, “you two just don’t understand the wisdom of Sylvester and Vanessa.”
Sheed shook his head. “No. It’s not wisdom. It’s just—”
“Or maybe,” the men said, “you understand all too well. Hmmmm.” And all fifty or sixty men stroked their chins, as if in deep thought.
Otto twisted toward A.M. and P.M. and whispered, “Who are they?”
P.M. whispered back, “The Second Guessers.”
“They work with the Minute Men,” A.M. added, pointing to the opposite side of the library where another group of fifty or sixty men in loose fitting jogging suits gathered. “Together, they handle some of the more tedious time-management tasks Clock Watchers are responsible for.”
“Or maybe . . .” the Second Guessers said again.
Sheed ignored them, sliding past the tiny men, his sights set on Father Time. “Hey, you!”
“Yes?” the old man said, sheepish.
“What do you know about a guy calling himself Mr. Flux?”
Father Time glanced to Game Time, who shrugged hard enough to bounce her bulky shoulder pads to her ears.
“It is not a name I’m familiar with,” Father Time said.
Otto joined Sheed and held the camera high for examination. “What about this? Have you ever seen it before?”
Father Time shook his head. “I’m afraid not. But maybe there’s something useful in the Yearbook?” He flipped to another random page. “Ah, Alan Baker says . . .”
The boys weren’t paying attention, though. Stumped by the mystery of Mr. Flux and his time-freezing camera.
“Somebody has to know something about how this happened,” Sheed said.
“But nobody in here does,” said Otto.
“We have to find a way to fix this. That’s what we do.”
“I know, but I think we have to find Mr. Flux first. He could be anywhere by—”
Otto did not get to finish his thought. The building shook mightily, with enough force to unbalance several terrified Clock Watchers, toppling them.
“What is that?” Sheed asked. Instead of an answer, there was another thunderous shake, and another. Big, booming vibrations that grew closer and louder and faster.
“Get away from the door,” Otto said.
“Maneuver #22!” Sheed shouted.
The boys dived under tables just as the double doors and the brick wall they were mounted to exploded inward, destroyed by the force of the giant, furry platypus beast barreling inside.
Father Time bellowed, “It’s a Time Suck. Run!”
Terrified Clock Watchers scrambled.
The boys didn’t need to worry any longer about finding the man who’d given them the camera.
On top of the beast, with a scraggly tuft of the creature’s fur coiled around each fist, was Mr. Flux.
He’d found them.