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Paolo goes back to 2155 again |
I went straight to the basement to Miss Helen's room but it was dark and
locked. I looked at the clock in the hallway. Dang! I was five minutes late to
my next class. I didn't even try to explain to Miss Blanche what had happened.
She would be all sympathetic and understanding and then go call the guys in the
white coats.
The next day I came to school really, really early. I went down to the basement
and no one was anywhere near the class yet. The door was still locked but a fonecard did the
trick. The tile was back in place. It still had a big brown spot on it and it was moist although I
didn't notice any water on the desk underneath it. I climbed up on the chair, pushed back the tile and
yesssss.
It was still Margie with the eleven year old boobs. I knew that somehow even
before I looked down and saw them. Not bad for just eleven. I was back in her brain. And she was
in her bedroom taking off her blouse-what great luck-and putting on something lighter.
It was kind of warm. Her bedroom was so pink it looked like pepto bismal. She was moving
quickly to another room. It was small-almost like a really big closet There was a big robot
with a
computer screen for a chest. On the screen were the words "Please insert yesterday's
homework in the proper slot." Margie pulled out something that looked like an index card, only
light brown, with holes in it.
And she slipped it into a slit in the robot, kind of like you'd insert a
diskette. I'd seen something like that card once -oh yah, my grandfather showed it to me. He'd worked for
awhile as a keypuncher, I think that's what you call it, in the days when there were big
mainframe computers, not PCs or macs. What was she doing with a card like my grandfather used to use
in 2155? Well, whatever, the robot told her she'd got everything right. And she thought
something like "Oh yah, sure since the County Inspector
fixed you. Now it's geography for
dummies instead of grad school geography. Either way it's a drag. "
I sort of caught an image, not a thought but a picture, of a round little guy
with a red face and a lot of tools and dials and wires. He was taking the robot apart and putting it
together again and handing someone, Margie I guess, an apple and saying "It's not the little
girl's fault, Mrs. Jones." Something about the geography sector being geared too quick and his slowing it
up.
Next thing I knew I was back with the books and the dusty carpet.