Lost in Cyberspace by Richard Peck Page A

anyway?”
    â€œIt was in a big silver bowl of fruit over there on a table.”
    â€œAaron, I don’t see a big silver bowl of fruit. I don’t see a table.”
    â€œNot now,” he said. “Then.”
    He strolled over to the terminals. He’d shut them down. They were blank-screened and cold. “Let me show you how I did it. Two keyboards helped. I entered half the formula on this one, half on that one. It set up a real matrix.”
    â€œSo what is this formula anyway?” I said.
    His red eyes peered up at me. “It’s a forty-eight-character combination of numbers and letters, clustered. With some visuals.”
    â€œAh,” I said. “Right.”
    â€œJosh, why tell it to you? It took you till third grade to remember your zip code.”
    â€œRub it in,” I said.
    â€œAnd I’m not writing it down,” he said. “This could be dangerous information in the wrong hands. I’m keeping it up here.” He tapped his temple. “The human brain—”
    â€œIs the ultimate computer,” I said. “Aaron, I’m doing my best, but I still can’t buy in. Numbers on a screen, clustered. Visuals. The whole forty-eight-character ball of wax. But how does it get you ... there?”
    Aaron looked a little worn, like a teacher after seventh period.
    â€œLet me give you a metaphor, Josh. It’s the best I can do. You can fax a letter, right? You can fax a document, right? You can fax a photo, right?” He dropped his voice even lower. “Josh, you can fax yourself.”
    I stared.
    â€œYou helped,” he said. “You scared me about Buster. You gave me the boost. Adrenaline is a definite factor. I just lined up my numbers with my need and ... went.”
    â€œBut you didn’t have your laptop with you. How did you get back without entering your formula or whatever?”
    â€œGood point,” Aaron said. “Important point. I didn’t have to. I hadn’t needed it the other day up that tree in Central Park. Cellular reorganization is a temporary condition. In layman’s terms, when your time’s up, you’re back. It’s fairly painful both ways.”
    â€œSo you’re—”
    â€œThat’s right,” Aaron said. “I’m bidirectional.”
    I stood there, trying to stare him down, trying to see into his quirky brain. Skeptical dies hard.
    â€œHow long were you gone?”
    â€œNot long,” he said. “Minutes. Then I was back. But I was locked in here for the night. I had to sleep on the floor.”
    â€œI covered for you,” I said. “I told your housekeeper you were sleeping over. I told her we were putting up a tent in my living room.”
    â€œNobody older than third grade does that,” he said. “Couldn’t you think of anything better?”
    Which was the thanks I got.
    â€œOkay, Aaron. Let’s get down to basics. Where did you go?”
    His eyes shifted away from mine. He’d nibbled his apple down to the core. Also, he probably had to go to the bathroom. “Zero distance,” he muttered.
    â€œMeaning you weren’t up a tree again?”
    â€œI was right here in this room. But it was then, not now. Way back then.”
    â€œAaron. When?”
    â€œPut it this way,” he said. “I’ve just eaten an apple that I estimate to be about seventy-five years old.” He showed me the core.
    Â 
    A shadow fell over us. A voice spoke. “Are you boys losing track of time?”
    It was Mrs. Newbery in the doorway. We jumped. “You’ve practically missed Mr. Headbloom’s homeroom,” she said. “If you don’t cut along, you’ll be late for Linear Decoding.” We started to cut along.
    â€œI’ll take my key if you don’t mind.” Mrs. Newbery put her hand out. Then she said to Aaron, “Better tidy up before you go to class. You look like you’ve slept