Free Magic in the Mix by Annie Barrows Page A

were alive within its walls, still occurring, still existing, still being. The timethat she and Molly lived in, the present, was only the container, the outermost shell holding in a million pasts. What was familiar to them—their bedroom, their living room, their kitchen—was the current version, and it formed sort of a lid over past versions, the way a bread’s crust covered its interior. But the crust of the present could crack, and when it did, the past was ready to bubble up and fill the hole.
    And that, Miri reasoned, was exactly what had happened when her father and Ollie knocked down the back porch: the previous porch, existing all the while trapped under the lid of the one they’d demolished, floated to the surface of time, bringing with it the whole world of its own present—1918.
    It made sense, in its own magic way, but there was still plenty to wonder about. If, for instance, her father had happened to step out of the empty doorframe, would he have landed in 1918? Or, since Miri was pretty sure that the porch hadn’t existed
only
in 1918—would the magic have whisked him off to another year? And that question was minor compared with the mystery of the front door. Why did it bring them back to the twenty-first century? Miri spent a useless hour inspecting the door for clues before she’d had an inspiration.
    â€œOllie?” she called, leaning out a kitchen window. “I think the front door is rotting.”
    Ollie’s thin face lit up. “I better take a look,” he said, and hurried around the house to the front. A long ten minutes passed as he peered at the surface of the door. Finally, he turned to Miri. “No rot,” he said bitterly. “Not a thing.”
    â€œBut what about all those dark spots right there?”
    â€œThat? That’s the
wood
.” He shook his head at her ignorance. “It’s just old.”
    Bingo! “How old?” asked Miri at once.
    â€œOld.”
    â€œAs old as the house?” she pressed.
    Ollie stepped back and looked thoughtfully at the house. “Yep.”
    It wasn’t exactly scientific proof, but it was good enough for Miri. The door had stayed the same, unchanged since the beginning of the house. Nothing had happened to it, so it had simply moved along with time into the present. All its pasts were locked under the crust of now, meaning that it would always open into the present. Miri was grateful for that, at least.
    There were other questions, of course, questions about how, who, and why, but Miri didn’t worrymuch about them. She was too busy worrying about Molly. When the new porch was built, the leak in time would be plugged, and 1918 would be unreachable. Molly would have no choice but to remain where she was—where she belonged. If staring could hammer nails into boards, the new porch would have been finished, but as it was, Miri had to be patient as Ollie measured, pounded, and hauled.
    â€œOooh, he’s the ma-an!” Miri looked up from her thoughts. Ray was doing a victory dance. “Oooh,” he yodeled, waggling the lettuce over his head, “Ray’s the winner and you”—he pointed at Robbie—“are the big fat loser-boy, uh-huh!”
    Since neither of her brothers had ever won a game without insulting the loser, Miri didn’t understand why they both continued to be insulted by the insults. Why couldn’t they just ignore them? But they never could. Robbie, flushed with rage, stopped, pivoted, and charged at Ray. “
Swarm!
” he bellowed over his shoulder.
    Miri shook her head but dutifully began to run. Swarm was a Gill tradition, a sacred obligation, and no one was allowed to question it, much less ignore it. When a swarm was called, all available brothersand sisters were required to descend on the enemy like flies, head-butting, lunging, poking, dodging back and forth, side to side, up and down, until the victim surrendered in