Arnesto Modesto: The World's Most Ineffectual Time Traveler Page 5

  “Speaking of death, our debate is tomorrow,” Pete said. They both enjoyed their Speech, Discussion, and Debate class, as the homework was unusually light, a small price to pay for the occasional embarrassment of having to speak in front of the class. They had been given the task of arguing against gun control versus Michelle Parker and Nicole Clark, two of the better students in class, who were arguing in favor of gun control.

  “Oh my god, no. We need to prepare.” Arnesto said, looking distraught.

  “Don’t worry,” Pete said. “I’ll pretend I’m sick and then we can work on it over the weekend.”

  “Pete, no. We tried that. It didn’t work. We got shellacked.”

  “What happened?”

  “You fought bravely, my friend,” Arnesto sighed. “Really, I remember this all too well. You try to convince Mrs. Spencer that you aren’t up for it, but she doesn’t back down. She’s not mean or anything about it. You give it a shot, and it seems we’re in the clear, but then she comes back at you, repeat. Your debate with her about whether you’re fit to debate lasts twice as long as the actual debate! And then we wind up having to have the stupid debate anyway!”

  “Jesus,” was all Pete could say. After a couple bites of his burger, he continued, “I guess we’d better prepare then.”

  “Good. It’s not like we have to bust our asses. We only need to spend a little time—”

  “Unless,” Pete interrupted, “I can talk our way out of it this time. No, hear me out. Now that I know I will lose the battle, can’t we prevent it? What do you remember us saying exactly?”

  “Nothing! I don’t remember what either of you said because it was so painful to watch that I blocked it from my memory as soon as I could. All I remember is a lot of back and forth.” They were now debating the debate of whether they would debate.

  “Come on, let me try. I know I can get us out of it this time. Please,” Pete said.

  Arnesto thought about it. What did it matter anyway? It was one graded assignment for one class. Did it ever affect their lives after that? Not really. But it did give them something to laugh about down the road.

  “Fine,” Arnesto said at last.

  ***

  Less than twenty-four hours later, it was time for battle.

  “Next up: gun control. Who’s debating?” Mrs. Spencer asked.

  “Uh, Mrs. Spencer? I’m not feeling well,” Pete said.

  Here we go, thought Arnesto, while remaining steadfastly silent like the rest of the class.

  “I’m sorry, Pete, but it won’t take long,” Mrs. Spencer said in her usual encouraging tone.

  “I can’t — I’m really not feeling well today.”

  Go, Pete, go, Arnesto thought. No, what am I saying, don’t get your hopes up.

  “You don’t look that sick, are you sure you can’t give your debate?” Mrs. Spencer asked.

  “I’m sure. I can’t do it, I’m sorry.”

  “It will only take ten minutes. Could you please try?”

  While history was awkwardly repeating itself, Arnesto tried to think. He could rattle off the names of dozens of subatomic particles, many of which had yet to be discovered, but he couldn’t remember any decent arguments against gun control, other than gross misinterpretations of the Second Amendment. All he could come up with were slogans from bumper stickers, like, “If guns are outlawed, only outlaws will have guns” and “Gun control means using both hands.” Well, if history was going to repeat itself, and it sure seemed like it was, it couldn’t hurt to join in. Maybe he could save them.

  “Mrs. Spencer? Pete’s really sick, I would like to motion for a continuance.” Pete turned and glared at Arnesto while Mrs. Spencer and half the class turned their heads toward him in bewilderment.

  “I’m sorry, boys, I must ask you to try. And this is a school debate, not a courthouse hearing.” Several students snickered.

  “Alright,” Arnesto said, getting up and walking to the front. Pete had no choice but to follow.

  Michelle and Nicole went first and gave several well-thought-out and articulate arguments. Though unprepared, Pete did a surprisingly good job arguing. Arnesto’s rebuttal, on the other hand…

  “Statistics, statistics, statistics. Sure, we can cite statistics all day, but then we’d be ignoring the human element.” It only got worse from there.

  When it was all over, the remaining students voted on whether they were in favor of gun control. Like Arnesto remembered, they lost twenty to one.

  “I had it. Now we’re screwed,” Pete hissed at Arnesto.

  “It’s over now,” Arnesto whispered back. “Besides, you get a B+.”

  “Oh,” Pete said, feeling satisfied. The following Monday, they would, in fact, receive the same grades Arnesto remembered, a B+ for Pete and a C- for Arnesto.

  Words Hurt

  Homeroom

  Thursday, March 2, 1989

  Eager to put the debate debacle behind them, the boys chose to focus on other subjects. Pete was already seated in homeroom and engrossed in a textbook when Arnesto walked in and sat down.

  “Hey,” Arnesto said.

  Pete abruptly turned. “Oh, I didn’t hear you swish into class. You’re wearing jeans?! What happened to your corduroys?”

  “I wanted to be prepared for when cords go out of fashion,” Arnesto whispered.

  “Yes, it’s good to be prepared for five years ago. Hold on, something else is different about you. Your eyebrows...”

  Arnesto smiled and rubbed the freshly shaved spot between his eyebrows. “I have two of them now.”

  “Look at you making yourself over. I’m impressed. Any other surprises?”

  “No other shurprishes.” Arnesto quickly covered his mouth with his hand but then slowly lowered it when he realized Pete wasn’t about to stop staring him down. Arnesto gave a fake smile, revealing the metal underneath.

  “You’re wearing your retainer again? Why?”

  “I didn’t wear it enough,” Arnesto said, “and I have the feeling my teeth might get a little crooked later in life.” He removed the retainer from his mouth. “It’s still annoying, though. Excuse me while I go rinse this off in the drinking fountain.” Arnesto left and returned a minute later.

  “What’s that?” he asked, nodding toward Pete’s book.

  Pete flashed him the cover of the SAT prep guide he was reading.

  “Ah, the SATs,” Arnesto said. “An excellent measure of one’s ability to... take the SATs.”

  “Here,” Pete said, “let me ask you one. Yogh is to Futhorc as Kalian is to…? Is the answer, A) Witenagemot, B) Cacomistle, C) Simoom, or D) Chaulmoogra?” He saw Arnesto’s deer-in-the-headlights look and laughed. He held the book so Arnesto could read it for himself.

  “Are you serious?” Arnesto asked. “What did they do, read Shakespeare and say, ‘Oh, hey, guys, here’s another word that’s never been used anywhere else in history, let’s hit them with it!’? It’s bullshit.”

  “I concur, it’s retarded.”

  “I haven’t heard of any of these, and I mean, ever. Alright, I’ll pick ‘A’, wine-age-moth or whatever.”

  “Witenagemot? I’m thinking it’s ‘B’, Cacomistle, but who knows. Let me see,” Pete said, flipping to the answer guide in the back. “Aha, it’s ‘C’, Simoom. ‘Just as a yogh is a single letter as opposed to a futhorc which represents an alphabet, along the same scale, a kalian, which is a pipe, draws in a small amount of smoke, as compared to a simoom, which is an entire wind.'"

  Arnesto simulated flipping his desk in rage. “Is there an answer guide for the answer guide? I guess they expect us to read the dictionary?”

  “If they do, that’s pretty retarded.” Pete resumed reading.

  Arnesto looked around, then leaned over and tapped Pete on the shoulder. “Why do you keep saying the r-word?”

  “What? What r-word?” Pete thought for a moment. "'Retarded?'"

  “Yeah, it’s offensive. It’s like the n-word,” Arnesto said.


  “Just because you got that question wrong doesn’t mean you’re retarded.”

  “No, not me, people who are… specially abled.”

  “You’re saying,” Pete said, “the r-word is offensive. Wait a minute.” His eyes narrowed into slits. “Since when?”

  Arnesto thought for a little while. “I’m not sure. One of these days. Or years. Wouldn’t you like to get a headstart on it though?”

  Pete rolled his eyes. “Okay, any other terms that suddenly become offensive?”

  “Just you wait. After 2010, people get offended by everything.”

  ***

  Two Saturdays later, they took the SATs, and three weeks after that, they received their results in homeroom. Arnesto opened his envelope and after a quick peek, put his results down.

  “1250. I cannot believe I got the same exact score.” Though it was a good score, he was still disappointed.

  Pete finished looking at his own score and grabbed Arnesto’s. His eyes widened as he slumped back in his seat. “You’re an idiot,” he said. Still slumped and looking downward, he grudgingly held out Arnesto’s results. Taking a closer look, Arnesto’s own eyes widened when he saw his score: 1520. He couldn’t believe it. He was only eighty points from what in 1989 was a perfect score of 1600, placing him in the top one percent nationwide.

  Unable to show his ebullience (one dare not boast about academic achievements in school), he decided to focus on Pete.

  “How did you do?” he asked. Pete meekly raised his open palm toward his own results. Arnesto accepted the invitation and grabbed them off Pete’s desk. “1340. That’s great.” It was. “You improved 10 points, I think,” he whispered. Pete finally turned his head and looked at Arnesto.

  “Fuck you.”

  Foul Play

  Arnesto's Bank

  Tuesday, May 2, 1989

  Lunchtime

  Arnesto liked to run errands during lunch. This gave him the chance to get off school grounds for a bit, even though it was against the rules to leave campus during school hours. You could get suspended for sitting in your own car with the engine off. Even so, he never got caught. On days when he planned on making his “prison breaks,” as he called them, he parked in the wide-open east parking lot. Faculty must have thought no one would be foolish enough to try to leave from that lot, so it was the least patrolled.

  On this particular day, Arnesto escaped to the bank to deposit his work check and some cash. He and Pete had just started betting again and with each paycheck, he snuck a little more of his gambling winnings into his account. It was safer in the bank than one of his hiding spots in the woods behind his house.

  With all other variables equal, Arnesto had managed to walk into the bank at roughly the same exact time as he had in his previous life. However, the extra cash increased the duration of his transaction by a few seconds. It was that small but important extra time that allowed Norma, the teller in the next window over, to finish up with her customer before Arnesto’s business concluded.

  “I can help the next person,” Norma said as Arnesto was being handed his receipt. Eula Romero was that next person. “Well, hi, Eula, how are you?” Eula and Norma knew each other from way back, and had a nice chat. This put Eula in a better mood, making her less of a bitch, according to Ashley.

  Ashley Morris was a sensitive, teenage nurse’s aide working her first part-time job at the retirement home. She was not happy to be working that night with Eula, who was the charge nurse. Ashley felt Eula was particularly hard on her, while Eula felt Ashley needed more discipline. However, that night, Eula’s mood seemed slightly better than usual.

  Normally when her shift was over, Ashley left in a hurry before Eula could nag her any further. Instead, Eula let Ashley go early, so there was no need to rush. Perhaps that’s why Ashley caught something moving out of the corner of her eye as she passed Doris Cook’s room.

  Doris Cook was suffering from dementia, and wasn’t long for this world. She was also a fall risk and trying to get out of bed to fetch her glasses, unaware they were already within reach on the tray table right next to her bed. One can hardly blame a senile, old woman with poor vision for such a mistake.

  “Mrs. Cook!” Ashley exclaimed, reaching Doris just in time to catch her before she fell. Ashley helped Doris get back under the covers then handed the old woman her glasses before returning to the nurse’s station to inform Eula, who was grateful, though she didn’t show it.

  Eula wanted to transfer Doris to a bed with sidebars, for Doris’s protection, though she was still trying to wrangle permission from Janet Howard, Doris’s daughter. It was a fine line between protecting the patient and patient rights. Since Ashley caught her in time, Eula wouldn’t have to fill out an incident report, nor would she have to call Janet, who would undoubtedly have been upset and rushed right over.

  Having not received any unexpected phone calls from her mother’s nursing home, Janet Howard was now free to drive her son David to the game. David Howard would have made it in any case, as his father would have driven him. But Janet, being more uptight than her husband, helped David get there sooner.

  David was thirteen years old, and found it hard to contain himself, especially as he and his mother were allowed into one of the employees-only entrances at Boston Garden. It was the third game of the first round of the playoffs, and the Celtics were already down two games to the Pistons.

  As David’s dad told him, “You’re going to get more time on the floor than Larry Bird!” This was true, as Bird had quit the season early due to medical issues. David was ready. Once he arrived on the floor and the game began, he was so focused on his job as towel boy, he didn’t even know who fouled whom. All he knew was that it was only the first quarter and this was his chance to shine. After the whistle, he ran out with his towel and wiped up the players’ sweat off the parquet floor. He did a fine job, then ran off the court even faster than he had run onto it. And that was all it took.

  If David had instead arrived at the arena a little later, due to his father’s driving, then Philip would have been the one mopping up the sweat that time. And Philip, being less conscientious, would have missed one little spot which one of the Pistons would have pointed out to him. The Pistons player would have subconsciously altered his position as a result, and in doing so, would have been in a slightly better position to catch the rebound of the missed free throw. But that didn’t happen. Instead, the Celtics got the rebound.

  That one little extra rebound changed the entire flow of the game from that point on. The Celtics scored more than they should have, and the Pistons scored fewer. In the end, some chaos theory-induced series of events caused the Celtics to barely claim victory in a game they were not supposed to win.

  This was upsetting to Pete, who had bet a couple thousand dollars on the game. “What the hell?!” he yelled at Arnesto the next day after school.

  The results were even more upsetting to Arnesto, who had bet the same amount. “I don’t know!” Arnesto yelled back.

  “You told me,” Pete said, gritting his teeth, “that the Pistons sweep the series.”

  “They — they did!”

  “Obviously, they didn’t!”

  “I don’t understand. I clearly remember them winning all three games. As a Celtics fan, I would remember something like that.”

  “Arnesto, are you sure it was this particular series? This season?”

  “Well — yeah. Something’s wrong. One of us must have... changed history. Did you drive over Isiah Thomas on the way home from school today?”

  “I don’t think so. Fuck. How can we ever bet on anything ever again?”

  “Pete, I’m sure this was an isolated incident. I hope. The Pistons are still favored to win. I’m still going to bet on them.”

  “Not me. I’m out.”

  Learning Shortcuts

  Shopping Mall

  Thursday, June 29, 1989

  Afternoon

  At last, they were in the home str
etch. It was the summer after junior year and senior year was coming. Pete was excited, not to be going back to class but to be that much closer to the freedom of college.

  “Are you looking forward to Mr. Hinkley’s physics class?” he asked Arnesto as they browsed the video game selection at Babbage’s. “I get the feeling it’s going to be hands down our most interesting class this year.”

  “I’m… not taking it.”

  “What? You told me you were, C period, like me.”

  “Pete, I have to tell you something. I got accepted to State Commonwealth University of Massachusetts. Early entrance.”

  “What?! I mean, congratulations. When are you going?”

  “September,” Arnesto said.

  “This September?! I guess it would have to be. What about high school? Are you not going to finish?” Arnesto shook his head. “Jesus H. Christ. So you’re done? You’re not going back ever?!” Pete asked. Again, Arnesto shook his head. “Well, I knew high school wasn’t your favorite thing, but I didn’t know you hated it that much.”

  Arnesto gave Pete a quick head jerk to indicate they should walk out into the mall where they could expect a little more privacy. “It’s not that exactly,” Arnesto explained. “Pete, you have to understand. You’ve had three years of high school. I’ve had seven. Seven years at that place. I’m ready to get my life rolling. I’m also eager to meet my wife.”

  “Your wife?!”

  “Technically, my first wife. We had many great years together, and I can’t wait to see her again.”

  “I guess I can understand that. Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”

  “I didn’t want to tell you until it happened. I just got in finally.”

  “And your parents are alright with this?” Pete asked. Arnesto winced. “You didn’t. They don’t know? Are you kidding me! Wait, they must have had to sign something.”

  “The process does require a parent’s signature, yes,” Arnesto confirmed. Pete stared at him in disbelief.