Mumnesia (2 page)

‘See?’ I yell. ‘Dictator!’

It’s official. Lucy hates me. She
slams the kitchen door behind her, making the cups on the
draining board rattle and my head pound painfully. Terrific.

I finish washing up, put the leftover stew in a
tub in the fridge, then decide to get an early night –
anything to get rid of this splitting headache. I pause outside
Lucy’s room, hoping she’s still up, but she’s
snoring gently. I trudge to my own room, my heart heavy. I hate
going to bed without resolving an argument. I wish I could just
be honest with Lucy, about Saturday night, about her dad, about
everything
. Then maybe she wouldn’t think I’m
such a tyrant. But I guess it’s a mother’s job to be
the bad guy now and then.

Sometimes I really hate being the grown-up.

I lie still, eyes shut, pretending to snore
until she goes away.

#Grrr

I hate her. And I hate being a kid! Life is so much simpler
for grown-ups – they can do
whatever
they want,
whenever
they want – not to mention get to
completely and utterly dictate their kids’ lives.

Doesn’t she see how hard it is being nearly thirteen?
Doesn’t she
care
?

I wish, just for a day, she could remember what it’s
like being twelve.

My eyes fly open, my heart racing a mile a
minute, sweat sticky on the back of my neck, my duvet over my
head.

I take a deep breath and try to calm down.

I must’ve had a nightmare – a
terrible nightmare – but what about?

I can’t even remember . . .

Whatever it was, it was just a dream, I remind
myself. It wasn’t real, and I’m safe in my own bed .
. . But as I reach for my pillow, I realize it’s not!
My
pillow’s pink, but this one’s brown!
Bizarro. Where’s it come from? And where’s mine . . .
?

I yank the duvet off my head, and my jaw
drops.

Holy guacamole! WHERE ON EARTH AM I?

Where’s my pink bed and dressing table?
Where are my posters and keyboard? I gaze at the HUGE bed, pine
furniture and white walls, goosebumps prickling my arms.

Where am I? How did I get here? WHAT’S
HAPPENED? My heart beats loudly, making it impossible to think,
to remember . . .

Have I been
kidnapped
? Oh my giddy aunt,
THAT’S THE ONLY POSSIBLE EXPLANATION!

Deep breaths, take deep breaths, I tell myself,
trying desperately not to scream. What would Nancy Drew do?

Escape!

To my surprise, the door isn’t locked. I
peek outside and see a long white hallway, with several other
doors and a window, but they’re all closed. I hold my
breath and tiptoe carefully out.

Then suddenly I hear a toilet flush and one of
the other doors opens!

I freeze.

What should I do? Run? Hide? Find something to
hit the kidnapper with? I grab the first thing I see – an
orchid in a pot from the windowsill. Terrific.

I clutch it tightly, ready to defend myself. But
to my surprise a girl in school uniform hurries out. She
must’ve been kidnapped too!

‘Psst!’ I hiss.

She spins around, startled. ‘You scared
me!’

‘Shh!’ I whisper, grabbing her hand.
‘Come on!’ I drag her quickly along the corridor.

‘What the . . . ? What’s going on?
Why are we whispering? Wait –
Is there someone
here?
’ Her eyes widen as she stops dead.
‘OMG!’

OMG?
Is that our kidnapper? I try to think
of anyone I know with those initials . . .

‘Sharon!’ she gasps, pulling her hand
free.

I stare at her. ‘You
know
me?’

‘Well, I’m not so sure any
more!’ she exclaims, putting her hand on her hip.
‘How did this happen?
When
did it happen? After I
went to bed? And what’s with the plant?’

‘SHH!’ I hiss nervously.
‘Let’s just get out of here!’ I grab her arm
but she doesn’t budge.

‘We can’t just
leave
!’
she protests.

‘
Why not?
’

‘Well, you’re in your
nightie
,
for a start!’

‘
So?
’ I hiss. This is totally
not the time to worry about
fashion
!

She folds her arms. ‘Look, just tell him
it’s time to go.’

My jaw drops. She wants me to
find
the
kidnapper and say we’re
leaving
? Nancy Drew never
did anything like that!

‘I . . . I can’t!’ I
squeak.

‘Fine. I’ll do it then! This is
ridiculous!’ She knocks loudly on the door of the room I
woke up in. ‘Hello?’

‘There’s no one in there,’ I
whisper.

She frowns, then marches boldly down the
corridor, sticking her head in through every doorway.
‘Hello? Is there anybody there?’

I hover behind her, orchid at the ready.

‘Hello?’ She calls. ‘Hello,
hello, hello! There’s no one here, Sharon.’

‘What about this room?’ I point to
the one door she hasn’t checked.

‘He’d
better
not be in
there!’ the girl growls, storming inside. ‘Nope.
Coast’s clear!’

‘Thank goodness!’ I breathe a sigh of
relief as I follow her – and then my eyes nearly pop out of
my head! Unlike the pristine hallway and the room I woke up in,
this bedroom is majorly cluttered, with stuff spilling over every
surface –
but what crazy stuff
! A bookshelf is
overflowing with what look like impossibly flat, plastic books
– except one’s lying open and there aren’t any
pages, just a doughnut-shaped hole . . . bizarro! Then
there’s a huge, wide, ridiculously thin screen attached to
the wall, and – wait – something just moved on the
bedside table. My eyes flick to the picture frame. Weird –
I swear it was a different photo a moment ago . . . Oh my giddy
aunt, it just changed
again
! What is going on? Is O.M.G. a
spy? An alien? Have we been kidnapped by
alien spies
?

‘Holy guacamole!’ I gasp. ‘Look
at this place!’

‘Don’t start,’ the girl
grumbles. ‘My room, my mess. If you don’t like it,
don’t come in.’

‘
Your
room?’ Wait. She
lives
here?

She rolls her eyes. ‘OK. Technically
it’s
your
house, so it’s
your
room.
Satisfied?’

‘
What?
’ Now I’m majorly
confused.
My
house? I gaze around at all the strange
machines and contraptions, my head spinning. Where am I? How did
I get here? How does this girl know me?
And why can’t I
remember?

Then my eyes fall on a calendar. And I
scream.

‘
What’s happened?
What’s wrong?!’ My heart beats fast as I spin round
to find Mum’s favourite plant pot smashed at her feet,
orchid and wood chips strewn all over the carpet.

‘Is . . . is this a joke?’ she stammers, her face
deathly pale as she pulls my calendar off the wall. ‘What .
. . what’s the date?’

‘Monday the . . . I dunno, fourteenth of October?
You’ve got the calendar.’

‘So this . . . this is
this year’s
calendar?’ Mum thrusts it under my nose.

‘Er, yes,’ I say, taking it. ‘Why would I
have a calendar for any other year?’ #Weird. And why
isn’t she at all bothered about the broken pot?
#UberWeird

‘Oh my giddy, giddy aunt!’ Her hands fly to her
cheeks. ‘How has this
happened
?’

‘What? What’s happened?’ I scan the calendar
anxiously, but there’s not even anything marked on it for
today. ‘Have we missed something important?’

‘Only about thirty years!’ Mum’s face
crumples. She looks as if she’s on the verge of tears.

‘
What?
’ Fear flutters in my stomach.
‘What are you
talking
about?’

‘You won’t believe me.’ She shakes her head.
‘
I
don’t believe me. Oh my goodness, how did I
get
here? And why
here
? Why
now
?’

A cold shiver runs down my spine as I watch my always-calm,
always-in-control mother lurch wildly around my room, staring at
my stuff as if she’s never seen any of it before.
‘Look, just . . . just calm down, OK?’ I beg.
‘You’re starting to freak me out!’

‘
I’m
freaking out!’ she squeals.

‘But
why
?’

‘Because I – I must’ve TRAVELLED THROUGH
TIME!’

She looks at me, her eyes wild and confused, then suddenly
bursts out laughing.

‘Is . . . is this a joke?’ I say uncertainly.
‘Because I don’t get it.’

‘No!’ She insists. ‘It’s not a joke!
Yesterday when I went to bed it was 1985, and now . . . I’m
in the FUTURE! This is AWESOME!’ She gazes round the room.
‘Is that a
television
? It’s
enormous!’

#OMG. She’s finally flipped.

‘And what’s this?’ She picks up a DVD case
from the floor. ‘
X-Men
. . .’

‘Um, I have no idea how that got here,’ I lie
automatically. ‘Kimmy must’ve lent me the wrong
movie. By accident.’

‘It’s a
movie
?’ Her eyes widen as she
pops the disc out. ‘Cool!’

‘
Cool?
’ My heart pounds in my ears. Mum
absolutely
hates
superhero films – she says
they’re mindless violent fantasies. ‘Who are you and
what’ve you done with my mother?’

‘I’m so sorry!’ she cries. ‘I thought
you knew – I’m Sharon Miller, nice to meet
you.’ She shakes my hand. ‘But I don’t know
where your mother is. Sorry – I just got here.’

What?
My mind feels like it’s about to explode.
Is she having a nervous breakdown? What should I
do
?

She gazes intently at the DVD. ‘
Totally
space
age. Can I take one back with me?’

‘Back?’

‘Yeah. I mean, if I can take stuff – I don’t
know how time travel works!’ She laughs. ‘My science
teacher said we couldn’t – or was it shouldn’t?
– travel through time, because of the danger of creating
rifts in the space–time thingummyjiggy – so
he’d totally flip out if I brought this into
school!’

‘
School?
’ I stare at my middle-aged mother.
‘How
old
are you?’

She straightens her shoulders. ‘Twelve.’

My eyebrows shoot upward. ‘
Twelve
?’

She nods. ‘Why? How old are you?’

Suddenly all my panic turns to rage. ‘Oh, I
get
it. This is all some kind of twisted role play to show me how
immature I am? Nice one, Mum. Funny. Not!’ I snatch the DVD
off her and shove it into my school bag, my cheeks burning. I
can’t believe I
fell
for that!

‘Wait,’ she says quietly. ‘You’re my .
. . my
daughter
?’

‘According to my birth certificate.’ I scowl,
yanking the zip closed.

‘Oh my . . .’

Something in her voice makes me turn.

‘For real?’ she says, all colour draining from her
face.

My heart skips. If she’s acting, she deserves a flipping
Oscar.

‘Mum, seriously . . .’ I swallow hard, and my
voice is barely a whisper when I say, ‘Are you
OK?’

‘No!’ She shakes her head frantically.
‘I’m not supposed to travel within my own timeline!
What about the space–time thingummyjiggy?’

OMG, she really, truly, thinks she’s
time-travelled
? I bite my lip. Is that even
possible
. . . ? I try to remember what we learned in
physics – if only I’d paid more attention!

‘I mean, of all places to time-travel to – of all
the people to meet!’ Mum clasps my hand. ‘I
can’t believe you’re my
daughter
! But how did
you
recognize
me?’

My jaw drops.

‘Of course – you must’ve seen old
photos!’ She smiles suddenly. ‘Dad’s always got
his Polaroid camera out. It’s, like,
so
embarrassing.’

‘Um . . . it’s not from photos,’ I say
slowly.

She frowns. ‘Then how?’

I take a deep breath, then lead her to my wardrobe –
with its full-length mirror . . .

A blood-curdling scream rips from my
throat. ‘What’s
happened
to me?’ I back
away from the mirror in horror. ‘I’m OLD!
Majorly
old! Like, at least twenty-five!’

The girl snorts. ‘And the rest!’

‘I . . . I must’ve somehow
transported into the body of my future self!’ I frown at my
ancient reflection, then gasp in disgust as my forehead creases
into a million lines. ‘Gross! I’ve got
wrinkles
!’ I wail, trying to smooth them out with my
fingers. ‘And
grey roots
!’

The girl nods. ‘I’ve been telling you
to dye them for ages.’

‘Why didn’t I?’

‘It’s like you stopped caring ever
since D—’ She stops suddenly.