one at all.
He opened his eyes, bringing himself back to the real world, to the dark corner of the dingy room that was his new home. Why on earth had his imagination conjured up magic as a solution? Magic wasn’t his cup of tea. If it had been, he would have bought a book of tricks, not a book of inventors. He liked inventions, solid things, practical items with a purpose. He liked science and physics, not intangible, mystical things.
Just then, the smell of dinner wafted toward him. From his place on the floor, Oliver couldn’t help but look toward the table. There, eyes locked on Oliver, sat Chris. He shoved a large potato into his mouth and grinned widely as grease dribbled down his chin.
Oliver glared, feeling a sense of fury come over him. That was his potato! A strong urge overcame him, to walk over and swipe his arm across the table, sending everything on it clattering to the ground. He could just picture it now. What a sweet victory it would feel like!
Suddenly, Oliver’s sense of fury was replaced by something different, something new that he’d never felt before. With a whoosh, a strange calmness overcame him, a peculiar sense of certainty. And just like that, a loud crack sounded out, coming from the table. One of its legs had snapped right in the middle. The table lurched suddenly to the side. All the plates started to slide along it, and then they fell right off the end, smashing to the ground one by one. The noise was horrendous.
Mom and Dad cried out, both alarmed by the sudden turn of events. As peas and potatoes went flying everywhere, they leapt up from their chairs.
Shocked, Oliver leapt to his feet too. Had he made that happen? Just with his mind? Surely not!
While Mom hurried to the kitchen, looking for towels to clean up the mess, Dad knelt down to inspect the table.
“Cheap, shoddy thing,” he said gruffly. “The leg’s snapped clean in half!”
From the table, Chris’s gaze fixed on Oliver. Whether Oliver had somehow broken the table leg with his mind or not, Chris clearly blamed him for it.
With his gaze locked on Oliver, Chris rose slowly from his chair. Potatoes and peas rolled from his lap to the floor. His face grew redder and redder. He clenched his hands into fists. Then, like an exploding rocket, he came galumphing toward Oliver.
Oliver gasped and turned quickly to the booby trap. His fingers moved quickly to set it up.
Please work! Please work! he thought over and over again.
The whole thing happened as if in slow motion. Chris loomed up before Oliver. Oliver’s foot stomped onto the lever. Oliver held on to the desire for the machine to work, picturing the soldier flying through the air just as he’d pictured the plates crashing to the ground. And then, sure enough, the mechanism began to whir. The soldier launched into the air, sailed in an arc, and smacked Chris with his plastic, pointy rifle, right between the eyes!
Time sped up back to normal. Oliver gasped, awestruck, not quite believing it had worked.
Chris stood there, perplexed. The soldier fell to the floor. There was a small red mark in the middle of Chris’s forehead, a dent from the hard plastic gun.
“You little jerk!” Chris yelled, rubbing his head in disbelief. “I’ll get you back for that!”
But for the first time ever, he hesitated. He seemed too wary to approach Oliver, to sock him in the ear, or rub his knuckles against his head. Instead, he backed away as if he were scared. Then he stormed out of the room and upstairs. The sound of his slamming door resonated through the house.
Oliver’s mouth dropped open. He couldn’t believe that it had really worked! Not only had he made his invention work at the last second, but he’d literally made Chris’s meal fall to the floor with his mind!
He looked down at his hands. Did he have some kind of power? Was there really such a thing as magic? He couldn’t just suddenly start believing in it because of one little experience. But deep down he knew that he was different in some way, that he had some kind of power.
Mind swimming, he went back to his book and read, for the millionth time, the passage about Armando Illstrom. Thanks to his invention, Oliver had scared Chris away for the first time ever. He wanted to meet Armando Illstrom more than ever. And the factory really wasn’t that far from his new school. Maybe he should visit him after school tomorrow.
But surely he would be a very old man now. Possibly so old that he’d passed on. The thought made Oliver’s heart sink. He’d hate it if his hero had passed before he’d had a chance to meet him, and to thank him for inventing the booby trap!
He read again the passage about Armando’s string of failed inventions. The passage stated—in a rather wry tone, Oliver noted—that Armando Illstrom had been on the cusp of inventing a time machine when World War Two broke out. His factory had ground to a halt. But when the war ended, Armando had never tried to finish his invention. And everyone had ridiculed him for trying in the first place, calling him the “lesser Edison.” Oliver wondered why Armando had stopped. Surely not because of some bully inventors laughing at him?
His interest was piqued. Tomorrow, he decided, he would find the factory. And if Armando Illstrom was still alive, he’d ask him, to his face, what had happened to his time machine.
His parents emerged from around the corner of the kitchen, both covered in food.
“We’re going to bed,” Mom said.
“What about my blankets and things?” Oliver asked, looking at the bare alcove.
Dad sighed. “I suppose you want me to fetch them from the car, do you?”
“It would be nice,” Oliver replied. “I’d like to get a good night’s sleep before school tomorrow.”
The sense of dread he felt about tomorrow was beginning to grow, mirroring the building storm. He could already tell he was going to have the worst day ever. At the very least he’d like to be rested in preparation. He’d had so many horrible first days at new schools he was certain the one tomorrow was going to be another to add to the list.
Dad trudged reluctantly out of the house, a plume of wind roaring through as he opened the front door. He returned a few moments later with a pillow and blanket for Oliver.
“We’ll get a bed in a couple of days,” he said, as he handed the bedding over to Oliver. It was cold from having been in the car all day.
“Thanks,” Oliver replied, grateful for even this level of comfort.
His parents left, turning off the light as they went, plunging Oliver into darkness. Now the only light in the room was from the street lamp outside.
The wind began to roar again and the window panes rattled. Oliver could tell the weather was building, that something odd was in the air. He’d heard on the radio that the storm of a lifetime was coming. He couldn’t help but be excited about it. Most kids would dread a storm but Oliver was only dreading his first day at his new school.
He went over to the window, leaning his elbows against the ledge as he had before. The sky was almost completely dark. A spindly tree blew in the wind, angled sharply to one side. Oliver wondered if it might snap off. He could just picture it now, the thin bark snapping, the tree launching into the air, carried away by the fierce winds.
And that’s when he saw them. Just as he was transitioning into his daydreaming state, he noticed two people standing by the tree. A woman and a man who looked remarkably like him, like they could easily be mistaken for his parents. They had kind faces and they smiled at him as they held one another’s hands.
Oliver jumped back from the window, startled. For the first time, he realized that neither of his parents looked anything like him. They both had dark hair and blue eyes, as did Chris. Oliver, on the other hand, was the rarer combination of blond hair and brown eyes.
Oliver wondered, suddenly, if perhaps his parents weren’t his parents at all. Perhaps that was why they seemed to hate him so much? He looked out the window but the two people were now gone. Just figments of his imagination. But they’d looked so real. And so familiar.
Wishful