The Time Travel Chronicles, Secrets of the Nile

If you’re reading this, it may mean I'm in trouble. Or that I don't exist anymore. Time travel's like that. Here today, erased tomorrow.

My name is Madison Bryant. I'm 17 now but I'd just turned 16 when my friend Riley Sinclair built his first time machine. This is my account of events that followed. When I'm done, I'll leave sealed copies with people I trust, instructing them to break the seal if I disappear suddenly or if my name no longer seems familiar. That way, my story might survive—even if I don't—and serve as a warning to others.

On time travel and its risks, there's a lot to say. But a couple of points are worth making up front. First, the consequences of our actions—no matter how minor or well-intentioned—can be devastating on an epic scale.

And, second, if Time were a person, it would be a mugger, waiting in an alley. And you'd never see it coming.

Thinking back through all that's happened in the past 14 months—the places I've been, the people I've met and the events that cascaded through the time continuum to bring us to a dark place—my thoughts pull up outside Crows Nest High School, one Wednesday in September. And I marvel at how the beginning of the end seemed just like any ordinary, boring school day.

I was late, as usual. As I sprinted to school that morning, the only thing on my mind was late notes—how I didn't want a second one that week and the detention that went with it—when I ran into Riley at the front gate.

He was wearing his Crows Nest High uniform—grey pants, white shirt, bottle green tie and coat. But instead of white socks, his were the colour of a newborn chick and about as fluffy. Clearly, the boy needed rescuing. Though my margins were slim. Still, when it came to time, back then, I liked to play the odds and stretch it as far as I could—never imagining one day it might snap right back at me.

I stepped in front of my friend, looked down and shook my head. "Yellow socks? Seriously?"

"Oh!" His eyes were moon big as he regarded his feet. "I just grabbed some out of the wash. They must be my sister's."

So much for scientific powers of observation! "Quick! Hide!"

We ducked behind the pink flowering hedge as a pack of guys from our year went by. They were the alphas, not a drop of humility among them and yet so much to be humble about. If they saw Riley in these socks, he was a dead man.

Taking the back way to the Lost Property office, we lurched through the doorway as the first bell rang. Great! Now we're officially late! Mrs Hurley, the secretary, took her time unlocking the door to a storeroom containing two plastic bins overflowing with uniform bits. I was glad it was Riley, not me, burrowing into that mucky pile of battered green hats, suspiciously soiled blazers and manky shirts before emerging with two socks the colour of dead fish.

As he pulled them on, a sour scent wafted up though he didn't seem to notice.

"I was working late last night," he said. "Guess I wasn't too focused this morning."

"Ya think?"

"I had a breakthrough."

The breakthrough, I knew, related to his project for the NSW School Science Fair. He'd won first prize the previous three years and everyone expected even bigger things this time. News reporters had already contacted the school to line up interviews with him. And once, I walked in on the Head of Science, Mr Johnson, rehearsing his acceptance speech. ("I'd like to think I had some part to play in the development of this extraordinary boy." Yeah, bet you would, Johnno!)

I'd have hated all that pressure on me. Riley didn't say much but for the past few weeks he'd been turning up to school with unfocused eyes and wild, wild hair clueing me in to the long hours spent in the lab.

"You can't work all the time, Riley," I said. "You need to get some sleep."

"But I'm so close."

"Yeah, you were close this morning," I said, "to getting seen in those socks and being labelled the biggest loser in the history of school losers. It's all very well to be Mr Super Science but you have your image to think of. And mine." Since I was his closest friend.

"Sorry, Maddy," he said.

We cut through the Humanities block, zipped past the canteen and began crossing the main playground—an expanse of grey concrete with a splash of well-worn grass—when a shrill voice called from behind. "Madison! Wait up!"

I stopped, squeezed my eyes shut and gritted my teeth. By the time I turned back around, I was smiling sweetly.

"Morning, Ms Braithwaite," I said.

"Are you late for class again?" Our Year Adviser, in grey pencil skirt and crisp white blouse, did not look happy. "When I gave you that note on Monday, Maddy, you promised you'd be on time the rest of the week. I should write you up for afternoon detention. Both of you." She took out a notebook and flipped to a blank page.

"We would have been on time, Miss," I said, "except we had to do an errand for Mr Johnson."

"Is that true, Riley?"

Riley opened his mouth to speak, then froze, his eyeballs the only part of him moving as they swivelled from her to me and back again.

"Check with Mr Johnson if you don't believe us," I said, smiling-not-smiling.

She gave me the Laser Stare for several long seconds then the notepad snapped shut, like a croc's jaws. "Just be on time the rest of the week."

She walked away, high heels clip-clopping on the concrete and we took off.

"What was that goldfish impression back there, Riley?"

"Sorry, I didn't know what to say. I'm not as good at—"

"At what?"

"At err..."

"Lying?" I suggested.

"I was going to say improvising," said Riley.

"It wasn't really a lie. We were late because of the socks, which you only had on because you were dazed after a long night working on your project for the young scientist competition, which, if you win, will benefit Mr Johnson. So it was kind of a favour for him."

It took him a few seconds to make all the connections. "What will you do if she checks with Mr Johnson?" he said.

"That won't happen. The two of them don't get along."

"How do you know?"

"I've watched them at assembly. One time, there was a seat free next to her. Johnno walked past that, across the stage to a chair on the end. And I saw the look back he gave her."

"You worked all that out from a single encounter?"

"Well, yeah. People don't tend to make neon signs about what they're thinking. You have to do some detective work to figure it out."

"Like Sherlock Holmes?"

"Plus, I knew Johnno would go along with almost anything we said to keep you off detention so you can carry on working on the science project, for the school's glory and his own. Not necessarily in that order."

Riley shook his head, jaw loose. He was great at lots of things—science, maths, music, gymnastics—basically anything involving patterns. He read heaps, knew all sorts of facts about stuff. But he didn't do sub-text. He wasn't much good at lying either. Luckily, I could help with both those things. They were my areas of expertise.

We passed a tall girl with a super short dress. "Hi, Riley," she said, smiling coyly.

"Hey, Riley," said another, with dark red lipstick like a gash of blood.

He glanced their way with little recognition though, this close to the fair, they'd have to have been see-through and shaped like a test tube to get his attention.

When a third girl swerved onto his path, I stepped forward and shouldered her aside. "Later, Olivia."

"Who made you his keeper?" she shouted.

A fair question. The answer was, I did. All the drooling over Riley was getting to me. It was better before when he was the skinny, geeky guy with a fringe that never sat right and people left us alone. However, sometime in the past nine months he'd grown taller and more muscular. I'd heard girls and a guy or two describe him as 'surfer hot'—I suppose because of his white-tipped blonde curls and eyes as blue as the Barrier Reef. Though, being my buddy, I didn't see him that way.

Riley had no idea what to do with all that attention. It fell to me, as his closest friend, to head off these romantic assaults so he could keep his mind on science—for the benefit of all humankind (and mine—he was my go-to guy for science and maths assignments). You could say I was a bimbo bouncer and a pretty good one, too, though some were harder to deflect than others.

Like my best friend Lauren who lately had the hots for him.

"Hi, guys," she said, catching up to us as we swept through the corridors. "Riley, I didn’t see you in maths yesterday. I saved you a seat."

"I...err...was busy in the lab," said Riley.

"He’s working on his project for the science fair," I said.

"Oh. What’s the project?"

"I...err...can’t say yet," said Riley.

I could see Lauren wasn’t happy with that answer. But she was no quitter. "Well, if you need a break at recess, you’re welcome to sit with us. I know you’re busy but even scientific geniuses have to eat. Right, Maddy?"

Leave me out of this. "Right," I said.

"Thanks, I...err..." He took off at speed.

I shrugged and hared after him.

As we entered the science block, a foul stench arose from an experiment in one of the labs. What is it with science teachers and rotten egg gas?

"Yuck," I said, pinching my nose.

"What?" Riley was clueless as usual.

We walked along the corridor, lined with chemical elements posters, constellation charts and portraits of Albert Einstein. Outside Johnno's office was a glass case with animal parts and insects in jars. On the top shelf were the three Young Scientist of the Year trophies Riley had won. They'd been shifted slightly to the left of their usual spot, as if to make space for a new arrival. I think Riley noticed at the same time as me because he licked his lips like they were super dry.

"You know if it's not working out this year, you could tell them you don't want to do it," I said.

"But I do."

"What is your project anyway?"

I didn't usually ask questions like this—Riley's techno-explanations were so boring they made me lose the will to live. But given the hype around this year's entry, it seemed rude not to ask.

"I can’t say yet." His eyes from side to side, checking no-one could hear. "But it’s something big, something amazing."

"So tell me," I said.

"Tell you?"

"Yeah, tell me. Your closest friend."

Riley pressed his lips together so hard they turned white.

"Unless you think I can't keep a secret?" I added.

"No, it's not that. It's just..." He swallowed, like he was trying to slide a rock past his larynx.

"Just, what?"

Tiny pink specks like fairy footprints appeared along his cheeks. "Well, sometimes you say things you don’t mean to, in the heat of the moment and—"

"You think I've got verbal diarrhoea?!"

"No! You just get excited and...blurt things out."

"Well, excuse me for having some actual human emotions. Just because I’m not as buttoned up as you and say what I feel occasionally, you think I can't control my mouth?"

"No, no. You have perfect control. I see that now."

With a muttered farewell, he escaped through the lab door. It locked shut behind him.

Chapter 2

I felt a little guilty in class later, for saying Riley had no emotions. I mean, he must have had some. Not that I'd seen much evidence of it. Even when his mum and dad split up the year before, he didn't seem that bothered. If anything he was more focused on science than ever, as if the family stuff hadn't affected his concentration one bit. But though he didn't show much, I knew that deep down he probably did feel something.

And if I was mean, it was his fault for not trusting me to keep a secret. What an insult! The worst part was that now he wouldn’t tell me what his project was, I really wanted to know. I hated secrets. They gave me actual physical pain. Riley had never kept anything from me before which made it even more mysterious. And annoying.

So when Mr Johnson announced that the science and history classes were going to an exhibition of Egyptian artefacts at the Australian Museum, I knew who I wanted as my study buddy—Riley, (a) because I wanted unlimited access to badger him and learn the truth, and, (b) what he didn’t know about Egyptology wasn’t worth knowing. We could have the excursion worksheet filled out before we'd even got off the bus.

I was about to put my hand up and request him as my partner when Jamie Fletcher came in and I got distracted. He had these misty green eyes, like a lake in a fantasy world, and super-long lashes. I tried not to look too hard.

"Who would you like to be partnered with?" Mr Johnson asked Jamie.

"Can I go with Hannah?"

"I'm afraid Hannah won't be joining us," said Mr Johnson. "She's had a dental emergency. Let’s see. Who still needs a partner?" He ran his finger down the list. "Err...Maddy, you don't seem to be paired up. You and Jamie can go together."

"What? But what about Riley?"

"Lauren has asked to work with him."

Jamie wasn't impressed. He shot me an angry glare, like I'd done something to Hannah's teeth just to get close to him, then dumped his bag on the ground hard in protest.

Riley turned up to class just after that and Lauren rushed over to tell him the "good news", that they would be excursion partners. His face turned a shade of watermelon, his eyes trawling the room till he found mine. For a few seconds, we regarded each other with mutual distress, then he smiled tightly at Lauren.

At lunchtime, Lauren fizzed over with excitement.

"Riley is sooo gorgeous," she said. "Have you noticed the way his divine blonde hair always seems wild? Like he just got out of bed."

"He probably couldn't find his comb this morning."

My friends, Courtney and Chi bit their lips, trying not to laugh.

"He's so smart, too," she continued. "He really is the full package, not some pretty boy, with an ego the size of a continent and a brain the size of a pea. How come I never noticed him before?" She turned to study me. "Were you trying to keep him to yourself, Maddy?"

"No."

"So you really don’t like-like him?" Lauren asked.

"We're just friends."

When I got home, she bombarded me online with questions about what she should wear to the excursion—besides her school uniform. She wanted to discuss earrings and lipstick and sent me links to hair styles and shades of leg tan.

"Will this style make my head look big?" she wrote, sending an image of a ponytail fanning out at the crown.

"No," I typed. Only as if your brain is erupting inside your skull.

"What about this tan? Isn’t it a lovely colour?"

"Yes." If you were born in Jamaica.

As if that wasn't bad enough, she then started doing a quiz: IS HE MR RIGHT?

"What are his best points? A. His lips, B. His eyes, C. His legs. D. All of the above?" To my horror, my intelligent best friend seemed to be taking it seriously, ticking D. It wasn't long ago, we laughed at lame quizzes like these. I still did.

"I have to go," I typed. "Gran’s lost her teeth and I have to help her find them"

"I have not," said Gran who'd snuck up behind me and was reading over my shoulder. "What's she doing? A quiz? Is He Mr Right? Who's she got in her sights?"

"I don't know."

"Not Riley is it? You have to tell her: 'Hands off! He's mine!'"

"He isn't Gran. We're just good friends." How many times do I have to say it?

Gran gave me one of her interrogatory stares, which I looked away from as fast as I could. Mum, I could fool most of the time. Dad was too easy. Gran, though, was a walking lie detector. It was as if she had a map to every muscle and twitch on the human face. It was from her years playing poker. Not a great person to have around for a teen who wanted to keep secrets occasionally. Although when it came to Riley, I had nothing to hide.