You begin with an apology to get on their good side. "I'm sorry I kept you waiting, Dean Green, Professor Thorne. Truly, I am."
Your words are met with stony silence from all quarters.
Forging onward, you open your lab book and set it on the dean's desk. "If I may, let me show you these entries. Here's where I derived the first of several key temporal-physics principles. See? I've got my supplemental notes in the margins. And here's where I translated my proof of concept into sketches of a viable prototype…."
Professor Thorne gives you a slight nod.
Encouraged, you turn to Darien Vance. Time for a gambit. "What variables determine the brief temporal windows during which time travel is possible?"
"Huh?" Panic flashes across Darien's face. "Temporal windows? Why, the usual variables, naturally."
You have him! "Can you name them? Any of them?"
Professor Thorne's expression shows that she knows full well the import of his flubbing an easy question like this. She opens her mouth, but Vance Sr. cuts her off. "I will not have my son's integrity maligned by this little twerp."
"Agreed," the dean says, glaring at you.
Your enemy's panic turns to relief. His father crosses his arms, confident. Too late, you realize that this outcome was never in doubt.
Dean Mean rises to his full six feet four inches and presses both fists into the blotter on his desk. His knuckles go white. "Do you think this is a joke?" he roars. Your mind blanks on any possible response. You stare down intently at the ornate carpet in front of your feet. "Well, do you, Ana Cruz?"
You can barely manage to get out two words. "No, sir."
He points a beefy finger at you. "I am hereby expelling you for cheating, effective immediately. My decision is final."
Gulp
Wait, what? You walked in here to get that F changed to the passing grade you deserve, and now you've just been expelled? Seriously? Is Dean Mean even allowed to do that?
Professor Thorne rises and takes your arm, tugging you toward the door. Her icy hand grips like iron as she hisses, "Don't make this harder for yourself than it has to be."
At the doorway, you wrench free, whirl around, and point at all of them as you speak your parting words: "You'll regret this. Big-time."
Next Chapter
For months, the memory of that dreadful day when you were expelled—the worst day of your life—rises unbidden to trouble your sleep and mock your waking hours. You replay it in your head a thousand times, trying to discern what you could have said or done differently. How else do you spend your time?
You pick up any number of tricks related to camera angles, film editing, and effective use of voice-overs. And yet, your confidence has been badly eroded. The memory of Dean Mean's scorn and your humiliation torments you, making it hard to concentrate.
In the end, it's Brett who saves you. One day, he shows up at your door wearing a goofy triceratops cap, three horns bobbing about. You have to laugh and invite him in.
"I got you one, too." Brett takes out an even sillier cap. Its elongated brown brim resembles the wide muzzle of a hadrosaur. Two eyes adorn the cap's crown beneath its green top, which is meant to imitate the curved bony crest of some duckbills. "Here, put it on."
You do so, to humor your friend.
Pulling out a bottle of wine, he says, "Hey, remember how we wanted to go see the dinosaurs more than anything?"
You make a face as you pour a couple of glasses. "I still want that. But…" You throw up your hands. "It's hopeless."
"No, it isn't. Sure, it's a crazy hard problem, but solving it would be so worth the effort." He holds up a glass. "Here's to time travel."
"To time travel," you echo, clinking glasses, not feeling it.
"It seemed like you were close, Ana Cruz."
"I thought so too, but…"
"But those bastards did a number on you." Brett's quivering with indignation on your behalf.
Then your friend does a remarkable thing. Gently, patiently, by the time you two have finished the bottle, Brett persuades you to dig out your schematics and tools, and try that modification you'd come up with.
A Fresh Start
You set to work the next morning. Bit by bit, the technical challenges intrigue you once again. Let's face it: they do serve to drive out the memory of that horrible day, at least temporarily. They're trickier than you'd envisioned, but Brett simply won't let you give up. At last, you make real progress. He orders the precision clock mechanisms and solar cells, as well as the fastest, smallest, most powerful computer he can afford for serious, real-time number crunching.
Finally, finally, time travel is within your grasp. Today you'll achieve the premier technological feat of the century!
You take a couple of steps back to admire the glowing green lights on your softly humming time machine. You did it! The long hours holed up in your parents' chilly garage with the winter winds trilling outside while you retrofitted Dad's high-mileage Land Rover have paid off. You look at Brett, who is grinning like mad. Simultaneously, you both whoop with joy, high-five each other, and do an impromptu happy dance around the mustard-colored vehicle.
Brett digs out something from his backpack. "I have a surprise for you." He pops the cork on a bottle of champagne. You both take a celebratory swig or two straight from the bottle, then splash a bit on the Land Rover/time machine to christen it. As you do so, Brett says, "This time machine needs a name."
What's your response?