Time Runs Away With Her

By Christine Potter

It’s not easy being Bean. Bean Donohue lives for her guitar, but her mom threw her out of the house during a snowstorm for singing. No way she’s going to get permission to go see The Grateful Dead at the Fillmore East.

Zak, her almost-boyfriend, will get drafted if he doesn’t get into art school, pot makes Bean paranoid, and her best friend can’t stop talking about sex. 1970’s not for wimps—but neither was 1885...or 1945. So why does Bean keep sliding backwards in time?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Evernight Teen
• Release date: Dec 10, 2015
• ISBN: 9781772335224

Book preview

Chapter One

January 1970

There was no reason why anyone whose real name was Rebecca Donohue should be called ‘Bean’. There was also no reason why the clunky things on Bean’s feet should be called ‘stadium boots’. Bean was sixteen, it was a school night, and she wasn’t on her way to a stadium. She wasn’t even supposed to be out of her house––except she’d been thrown out. The boots? They belonged to her mom.

Bean shook a light dusting of snow out of her long, copper-colored hair. She had always liked the way snow smelled: prickly and almost sweet, like bubbles popping in a glass of ginger ale. Given the chill, she was very glad she’d grabbed her gray tweed maxi-coat, and a bit less glad about the purple India-print tunic she had on underneath it. The tunic came from Constant Karma, the only hip store in Stormkill, but it was cotton––not warm. She’d had to wrap its dangling kimono sleeves around her arms to stuff them in the coat, slowing down an otherwise excellent door-slamming exit.

Still, the night didn’t seem too bitter, and the snow was weightless and glittery, ankle-deep. Bean kicked it into the air as she walked, her mood surprisingly light. She hadn’t expected to be happy right after she’d yelled that’s right back at her mother, yelled that she really was not only depressed about her life, but also absolutely crazy, and did in fact need to get her head examined.

You don’t care anyway! she’d yelled. But Bean’s mom hadn’t yelled back. She’d just said, Oh, go ahead. Get out, in a voice low and poisonous.

When Bean first stepped outside, her face still hot and teary, she’d wondered if the contrast with the air would make steam. It didn’t. It just felt good. She’d been singing and practicing guitar along with Simon and Garfunkel’s Scarborough Fair when The Big Fight broke out. She figured the turntable was clicking itself off in her empty bedroom by now.

A few steps past her neighbors’ driveway, Bean turned to peek back at her house. Glowing at the top of the living room’s bay windows were three red and purple, stained glass panels. She loved their pattern of grapes and flowers. Her father had found them hidden under layers of painted-over black tape, back when she was in grade school.

This place has some real history! he’d said as the two of them took razor blades to the sticky adhesive gunk. But Bean had finished the job, not her dad. Because of course, he’d left. Bean’s mother hung heavy, charcoal-colored curtains over the glass right after that. She said it was to save money on heating. Every day after school, Bean pulled the curtains wide open anyway.

Now, through the falling snow, Bean saw her mom standing in the windows’ lower, transparent panes. She watched her put down a mug of coffee, squint out into the darkness, and draw the drapes.

She hasn’t spotted me. Or come running out. That’s actually kind of perfect.

Bean hadn’t quite decided where she was going, but the mile to her best friend Suzanne’s house wasn’t too far to walk. She headed down Cedar Street, turned onto the snowy sidewalk beside Route 8E, and started up a steep hill. At its top was Deerwood Academy, a sleep-away school for rich girls. Bean’s mom had gone there. No way Bean ever could—no money.

Bean’s grandparents had cut her mom off when she married Bean’s dad––boom, out of the family. And then they’d both been silly enough to die young. A skiing accident and cancer, only a year apart. Bean was too little to go to the funerals. They’d had plenty of dough––at least according to Bean’s dad. That’s what he’d called it: dough. But Bean’s uncle inherited every penny. He and Bean’s mom didn’t even send Christmas cards to each other anymore. And Bean went to public school.

It actually is a bit chilly, she thought, and put her head down so the snow wouldn’t blow into her face. After three blocks, her toes stung inside the stadium boots. There was a puff of wet wind, and the Stormkill plow passed, flashing orange lights.

Past Deerwood Academy was Boxberger Park, and then another hill…it really was snowing, wasn’t it? Of course, there was always Zak’s house, not even half a mile away, just beyond the park. Bean could be at Zak’s house in ten minutes. But just thinking that made her as breathless as the uphill slog.

Zak was…well, Zak was Zak. Everyone said he was crazy, but in a good way. He’d drawn cartoons since grade school. In third grade, he’d won twenty-five dollars in a statewide contest for his poster of The Friendly Atom: hot pink and green electrons with smiling faces. Zak always got called to the stage during end-of-the-year assemblies for an art award, sometimes two or three of them.

Bean privately thought he was gorgeous. He was the first boy in her grade to manage hair longer than his shoulder blades: amazing, white-blond. Zak took Studio Art, with kids a year older than himself.

Once, he’d given Bean a picture he drew with the super-fine-point pen he used for everything, even taking notes. The pen was called a Rapidograph, and the picture was of a blimp with a huge eyeball on it, floating above an Egyptian pyramid. On top of the page were the words Good Nutrition in wavy letters, and in the bottom right corner a cartoon of a character who looked very much like Zak. A speech bubble came out of its mouth, enclosing the word bizarre.

Suzanne swore the drawing was solid proof that Zak liked Bean. As in like-liked her. But he’d handed it to her weeks ago––just shoved it in her hand after Health, the only class they had together. He hadn’t even said anything. Bean taped the cartoon inside her locker door anyway.

She kept walking. So, okay…it’s cold. It’s very cold. It’s officially very cold, she thought. And I bet the hairs inside my nose are freezing. It’s freaky when that happens.

And Zak would absolutely have called if he really liked her, right?

Bean’s mother would certainly say so. Bean’s mother would enjoy saying so. Saying so would be speaking The Awful Truth, something Bean’s mother adored. Bean remembered trying on an extremely cool maxi-dress that nipped in just above the waist with her mom next to her in the dressing room.

God, Bean, that thing makes you look just like a sack of potatoes, tied in the middle, her mom had said. And laughed. It was classic Awful Truth, classic Mom: random and nasty enough to be funny. So of course, Bean told Suzanne.

"A sack of potatoes, said Suzanne. Juuulia!" Julia was Bean’s mother’s first name. Bean and Suzanne liked to pronounce it with plenty of u’s, straight through their noses, like Julia Child, the French Chef: Juuulia, Juuulia.

Snowflakes spangled the long red hair spilling over Bean’s collar. Only three blocks to Zak’s house, she told herself––but that was nuts. She was also well on the way to Suzanne’s if she kept going. In one house she passed, a couple sat, facing away from their picture window, watching a woman in a sparkly red gown singing into a microphone on TV. Blue light from the screen flickered out into the night. Zak probably gives drawings to everyone, Bean thought. Mine’s only a doodle. Doesn’t mean anything. There was almost no traffic, just the occasional car driving by slowly and almost silently in the snow.

Then she was at the corner of Route 8E and Sickles Avenue. Zak’s house was two doors down, on Sickles. Bean had seen the school bus drop him off there back when they were in junior high, before everyone was way too cool to ride it: The Loser Cruiser. She looked down Sickles. Snow falling under the streetlights made the night a little less dark.

What was it Mr. Kaminsky had said about frostbite in Health? She couldn’t actually have frostbite, could she? Bean slipped one hand out of its glove and felt the tip of her nose just to make sure. How could you tell, really? Maybe you could have creeping frostbite. Stealth frostbite.

"Oh, hell," she said out loud to nobody, and turned left. This really was a special situation.

The windows of Zak’s house were mostly dark, but upstairs were some orange paisley curtains with lights on behind them. It looked like someone was maybe watching TV downstairs, too.

But there was no car in Zak’s driveway. Probably only Zak’s mom was out. That would be a good thing, right? Bean knew Zak was like her in one way: his parents were divorced. What would he think if she knocked on his door? Were girls even supposed to do that? She shuffled through the snow and stood for a moment in front of the house, stomping the stadium boots to warm her feet.

A shadow passed behind the paisley curtains, and Bean’s stomach lurched. Was that Zak? She thought of how far it was to Suzanne’s house, of the walk back to her own house, of her mom closing the drapes. Then, she stumbled up Zak’s slippery front steps, and rang the bell.

Right away, Bean heard footsteps, someone running. It was Zak’s ten-year-old brother Eddie.

"It’s some girl!" he yelled after he’d pulled open the door. Bean stepped inside, smelling something faintly garlicky Zak’s mom must have made for supper. On the coffee table in front of the living room couch was a half-assembled model Harley-Davidson motorcycle. Eddie threw himself back down on the couch, and put his feet on the table, knocking some tiny plastic parts onto the floor. A ripple of fake laughter came from the TV show he’d been watching.

"Who?" That was Zak’s voice.

Bean was suddenly miserable. Maybe she should just turn around, and––go where, exactly? There was nowhere to go. Okay, Suzanne’s. But Zak was already padding downstairs. Maybe she should have grabbed her guitar on the way out of her house. She’d have had some sort of prop then, something that would have made her sudden arrival seem less…what was the word? Aggressive. She’d heard that girls who even called boys were aggressive. But she’d been thrown out. That had to count for something. Bean stood inside Zak’s front door and tried to figure out what to say.

But then he was in front of her, blue flannel shirttails hanging out over his jeans. Light from his open bedroom door made a halo of his pale hair in the dim hallway.

"Bean?" he said. She searched his face for a sign of what he might feel about her being there. Some of the snow in her own hair melted and ran down her neck.

Hey, Zak, she said. The snow dripped further down inside her collar and headed for the small of her back. Zak smiled, and then they both spoke at once:

So what. . .

My mother threw me out. That last thing wasn’t funny, but Bean giggled.

Whoa, said Zak. You should probably take off your coat. She unbuttoned it, and he held out a hand. He tossed the coat onto the back of the couch.

C’mon upstairs, he said.

Uh…my boots?

Down by the door.

Bean kicked off the stadium boots and followed Zak upstairs, her toes prickling as they warmed up. Downstairs, Eddie’s TV show ended. Bean could hear him clicking through the channels: voices and music streamed in tiny chopped-off bits, with static in between.

"Your mom threw you out?"

Bean’s words came out in a rush: "She stomped into my room and told me to stop singing through my nose because I was giving her a headache. She hates my guitar playing, too. I tried to have an honest discussion with her about how totally crappy I feel sometimes, and she said I think about myself too much. She said life is tough. Suzanne’s mom says I should try to communicate with her. So I did, and she ended up telling me I was crazy and throwing me out."

That pretty much sucks. Zak turned the shade on his bed’s clip-on reading lamp to the wall and leaned back into a giant brown corduroy pillow. He patted a space near the foot of his bed and Bean stared at it. He patted it again and smiled, and Bean hesitated, thinking. Five minutes earlier, she had been out in a snowstorm. Now she was in a boy’s room, in front of a boy’s bed. Zak’s bed.

None of this would faze Suzanne even slightly, Bean thought. Suzanne loved giving advice about situations like this one, about boys and beds. She was on The Pill, and proud of it. Suzanne’s mom liked to say that being open and honest about perfectly normal physical needs would solve most of the world’s problems.

Men start their wars, Suzanne’s mom liked to say, "…because they are frustrated!" Suzanne agreed. Suzanne’s mom sure wasn’t Juuulia.

It does––um––suck, Bean said. My mom’s always got something nasty to say. And then she laughs.

"Bizarre," said Zak. Bean examined his room: India-print bedspread, impressive-looking stereo with a green-glowing FM tuner and big speakers, those orange-paisley curtains, a desk covered with more Rapidograph pens, a huge watercolor set. There were some good-enough-to-be-funny cartoons of their schoolteachers pinned to a bulletin board on the wall, along with a poster of Frank Zappa, and one of the Grateful Dead.

She took a breath and sat down on the bottom of his bed, at which point Zak jumped up and put on Dark Star from the new Grateful Dead record. He slumped back into the pillow. There was an almost-silence, with a few sparkly-high electric guitar notes mixed into it.

Don’t you and Suzanne Koch have a band together? said Zak.

Not really a band. It’s just the two of us.

She plays banjo, right? I heard you guys last summer. You sounded pretty cool. Folkie stuff.

Thanks. I really like The Dead, too, by the way, Bean said, and tried leaning back against the wall of Zak’s bedroom. It felt cold through the cotton of her shirt. Dark Star went on for a long time. How could anyone guitarist play so many twinkly, high notes? They did sound like stars. Bean wondered if Zak had smoked some pot. Lots of kids––especially the ones who liked The Grateful Dead––did when they could get their hands on some. But Bean just knew Juuulia would somehow find out the second she inhaled. So she never had.

Besides, she’d heard pot could make you paranoid. I’m good enough at thinking everybody hates me without smoking anything, she thought. Except she didn’t feel like anyone hated her now. The cozy room, the music, the snow falling outside...

Bean silently admired Zak’s hair again, and the intense way he was listening to the guitar solo. He’d said he liked the music she and Suzanne played. That was encouraging, she decided.

Zak got up again, took a big white pad of paper and a pen from his desk and began to doodle. He turned the light on his bed around again so it shone on his artwork.

So, what are you going to do? he asked.

Oh yeah, Bean remembered––right. I’ve been thrown out.

I guess call Suzanne and see if her mom can come get me, said Bean, Is your phone...?

"Um, it’s not like you have to rush or anything, said Zak. There’s an extension in my mom’s room and one in the hall."

I should call Suzanne, said Bean, and didn’t want to. She got up anyway. Just outside Zak’s room, she flipped a switch for the hall light, and nothing came on. But there was enough snowy-night shine coming in the windows to see. Next to a little table that held the telephone was a laundry basket containing several pairs of inside-out guys’ underpants tangled up in some well-used t-shirts. Yikes! Are those Zak’s? She tried not to stare into the basket as she dialed.

"Zak’s house? said Suzanne, with a little squeal in her voice. And then: Listen to me, Bean. Juuulia is an absolute bitch. I can’t believe this. And then: You don’t want us to come get you right away, do you?" The squeal had come back into her voice. Bean looked down the hall at the half-open door to Zak’s room.

No. Give it, I don’t know, an hour? I mean I didn’t even call him first.

Suzanne was giggling, now.

It’s not like–– Bean started to say.

"I’ll tell my mom. We’ll come get you, eventually, said Suzanne. But before she hung up, she giggled again. Have fu-un!" she sang.

When Bean walked back into Zak’s room, it was easier to sit down on his bed. She picked a spot a little closer to him, and crossed her legs underneath herself. Zak looked up from his sketchpad and pulled off a piece of paper: a sketch of a girl with long hair. Bean recognized her own kimono-sleeved top. All around her Zak had drawn snowflakes, and one shooting star. And at the bottom of the page was that same caricature of Zak, with the same word in the speech-bubble: Bizarre. She felt her cheeks burn.

Wow, she said.

Zak looked like he had heard her, but instead of responding, he started to sing along with the record. The lyrics were pretty, but she had no idea what they meant. Was it a love song? Bean panicked for a minute. Was he singing it to her? But he just laughed and started another picture.

What are you drawing now? she asked.

"Something else...bizarre!" he said, and laughed again. Bean leaned back against the wall again, listened to the music and watched his pen move. She tried to think of what to say and then decided that maybe she didn’t need to say anything. Zak kept sketching, a small smile on his face. Music. Music and pen scratches.

Then, the album side was over and he got up to flip it over. Zak sat back down on the bed. There was the sound of a key in the lock downstairs and Zak’s mom calling, Hall-ooooo!

Eddie, enough TV, she said. Time for bed in half an hour.

Bean Donohue’s here, Zak called down to his mom. She’s in Health class with me.

Hi, Bean, came up the stairs. Good grief, did you walk here? It’s really snowing!

I did walk, said Bean. It’s pretty out.

It’s getting very cold, said Mrs. Grant.

It sounded like she’d been grocery shopping. Bean could hear her putting paper sacks down on kitchen counters.

You guys want a snack? she called upstairs.

Food sounded good to Bean. Dinner at her house had been Campbell’s clam chowder, with an extra can of clams and a little cream thrown in. That was something Bean’s mom started making after the year they’d gone to Cape Cod for two weeks, but it didn’t taste like summer, or like Cape Cod. Bean’s dad was still living with them then, and he said it was real gourmet food ––but Bean knew he was lying.

Just then someone pounded at the front door. Suzanne and her mom, already? They wouldn’t knock like that. Bean pushed aside the orange curtains. In the snow sifting down under a street lamp sat Bean’s mom’s black Ford, headlights and wipers still on, motor running. She saw her mother’s footprints, leading across the street and up to the Grant house.

Is Rebecca here? That was Juuulia’s voice. She hadn’t even said hello first.

It’s my mom, said Bean to Zak, and got up to run down the hall. He followed her.

Wet, cold air drifted up the stairwell. Juuulia stood on the front stoop with her arms crossed in front of her. Zak’s mom leaned out toward her, one hand on the open door. Um, this is my mom, said Bean. Mrs. Grant nodded.

Julia Donohue. Haven’t we met at ‘Another Mother For Peace’? said Mrs. Grant, trying a smile, which Bean’s mother did not return.

Rebecca, get in the car, she said. Mrs. Grant held out Bean’s coat, which made stuffing the purple kimono sleeves in a bit more graceful. The collar was still damp and cold as Bean flipped her hair over it. She slid her feet back into the stadium boots and followed her mom out to the Ford. As Juuulia put the car into gear, Bean looked back at Zak’s house. Mrs. Grant still stood in the doorway with Zak, a head taller, behind her. He waved, and Bean raised a hand to the car window.

She steeled herself for a long speech from her mother. But except for the tinkling of classical piano on the radio, it was silent. Finally, Juuulia spoke. "The Kochs called me. It was terribly embarrassing. I have no idea what you told them," she said, and then she bit her lower lip.

Bean didn’t reply. She stared at the radio’s dial on the dashboard, the official Civil Defense stations marked on it with tiny triangles inside of tiny circles, for emergency info if they were about to drop The Bomb. As if that would do any good in the two point five minutes before you got incinerated. Juuulia had been listening to WQXR, from The City, and now there was the sound of a clock chime, and a man’s deep voice announcing, Symphony Hall!

Bean had been afraid of that announcer as a little girl, when her mom used to put her to bed with the radio on. Even now, he sounded creepy. But Bean loved all kinds of music: folk, rock and roll, jazz...Classical was cool, too, even if it came with undertakers for DJ’s.

Juuulia was driving very carefully in the snow. She leaned forward, frowning. Bean tried to remember the smell of Zak’s room: incense and dust, mostly.

Now they were passing Deerwood Academy. Sometimes Bean thought it would be cool to have enough money to go there, despite the fact it was Juuulia’s old school and