“Michael, your shoe’s untied.”

My sister, Tara, sat on the front steps, grinning at me. Another one of her dumb jokes.

I’m not an idiot. I knew better than to look down at my shoe. If I did, she’d slap me under the chin or something.

“I’m not falling for that old trick,” I told her.

Mom had just called me and the brat inside for dinner. An hour before she had made us go outside because she couldn’t stand our fighting anymore.

It was impossible not to fight with Tara.

When it comes to stupid tricks, Tara never knows when to quit. “I’m not kidding,” she insisted. “Your shoe’s untied. You’re going to trip.”

“Knock it off, Tara,” I said. I started up the front steps.

My left shoe seemed to cling to the cement. I pulled it up with a jerk.

“Yuck!” I’d stepped on something sticky.

I glanced at Tara. She’s a skinny little squirt, with a wide red mouth like a clown’s and stringy brown hair that she wears in two pigtails.

Everyone says she looks exactly like me. I hate it when they say that. My brown hair is not stringy, for one thing. It’s short and thick. And my mouth is normal-sized. No one has ever said I look like a clown.

I’m a little short for my age, but not skinny.

I do not look like Tara.

She was watching me, giggling. “You’d better look down,” she taunted in her singsong voice.

I glanced down at my shoe. It wasn’t untied, of course. But I’d just stepped on a huge wad of gum. If I had looked down to check my shoelaces, I would have seen it.

But Tara knew I wouldn’t look down. Not if she told me to.

Tricked by Tara the Terror again.

“You’re going to get it, Tara,” I grumbled. I tried to grab her, but she dodged out of reach and ran into the house.

I chased her into the kitchen. She screamed and hid behind my mother.

“Mom! Hide me! Michael’s going to get me!” she shrieked.

As if she were afraid of me. Fat chance.

“Michael Webster!” Mom scolded. “Stop chasing your little sister.”

She glanced at my feet and added, “Is that gum on your shoe? Oh, Michael, you’re tracking it all over the floor!”

“Tara made me step on it!” I whined.

Mom frowned. “Do you expect me to believe that? Michael, you’re fibbing again.”

“I am not!” I cried.

Mom shook her head in disgust. “If you’re going to tell a lie, Michael, at least make it a good one.”

Tara peeked out from behind Mom and taunted me. “Yeah, Michael.”

Then she laughed. She loved this.

She’s always getting me into trouble. My parents always blame me for stuff that’s her fault. But does Tara ever do anything wrong? Oh, no, never. She’s a perfect angel. Not a bad bone in her body.

I’m twelve. Tara’s seven. She’s made the last seven years of my life miserable.

Too bad I don’t remember the first five very well. The pre-Tara years. They must have been awesome! Quiet and peaceful—and fun!

I went out to the back porch and scraped the sticky gum off my shoe. I heard the doorbell ring and Dad calling, “It’s here! I’ll get it.”

Inside, everybody gathered around the front door. Two men were struggling to carry something heavy into the house. Something long and narrow and wrapped with padded gray cloth.

“Careful,” Dad warned them. “It’s very old. Bring it in here.”

Dad led the delivery guys into the den. They set the thing down on one end and began to unwrap it. It was about as wide as me and maybe a foot taller.

“What is it?” Tara asked.

Dad didn’t answer right away. He rubbed his hands together in anticipation. Our cat, Bubba, slinked into the room and rubbed against Dad’s legs.

The gray cloth fell away, and I saw a very fancy old clock. It was mostly black but painted with lots of silver, gold, and blue designs, and decorated with scrolls, carvings, knobs, and buttons.

The clock itself had a white face with gold hands and gold Roman numerals. I saw little secret doors hidden under the paint designs, and a big door in the middle of the clock.

The delivery guys gathered up the gray padding. Dad gave them some money, and they left.

“Isn’t it great?” Dad gushed. “It’s an antique cuckoo clock. It was a bargain. You know that store across from my office, Anthony’s Antiques and Stuff?”

We all nodded.

“It’s been in the shop for fifteen years,” Dad told us, patting the clock. “Every time I pass Anthony’s, I stop and stare at it. I’ve always loved it. Anthony finally put it on sale.”

“Cool,” Tara said.

“But you’ve been bargaining with Anthony for years, and he always refused to lower the price,” Mom said. “Why now?”

Dad’s face lit up. “Well, today I went into the shop at lunchtime, and Anthony told me he’d discovered a tiny flaw on the clock. Something wrong with it.”

I scanned the clock. “Where?”

“He wouldn’t say. Do you see anything, kids?”

Tara and I began to search the clock for flaws. All the numbers on the face were correct, and both the hands were in place. I didn’t see any chips or scratches.

“I don’t see anything wrong with it,” Tara said.

“Me, either,” I added.

“Neither do I,” Dad agreed. “I don’t know what Anthony’s talking about. I told him I wanted to buy the clock anyway. He tried to talk me out of it, but I insisted. If the flaw is so tiny we don’t even notice it, what difference does it make? Anyway, I really do love this thing.”

Mom cleared her throat. “I don’t know, dear. Do you think it really belongs in the den?” I could tell by her face that she didn’t like the clock as much as Dad did.

“Where else could we put it?” Dad asked.

“Well—maybe the garage?”

Dad laughed. “I get it—you’re joking!”

Mom shook her head. She wasn’t joking. But she didn’t say anything more.

“I think this clock is just what the den needs, honey,” Dad added.

On the right side of the clock I saw a little dial. It had a gold face and looked like a miniature clock. But it had only one hand.

Tiny numbers were painted in black along the outside of the dial, starting at 1800 and ending at 3000. The thin gold hand pointed to one of the numbers: 2003.

The hand didn’t move. Beneath the dial, a little gold button had been set into the wood.

“Don’t touch that button, Michael,” Dad warned. “This dial tells the current year. The button moves the hand to change the year.”

“That’s kind of silly,” Mom said. “Who ever forgets what year it is?”

Dad ignored her. “See, the clock was built in 1800, where the dial starts. Every year the pointer moves one notch to show the date.”

“So why does it stop at three thousand?” Tara asked.

Dad shrugged. “I don’t know. I guess the clock-maker couldn’t imagine the year three thousand would ever come. Or maybe he figured the clock wouldn’t last that long.”

“Maybe he thought the world would blow up in 2999,” I suggested.

“Could be,” Dad said. “Anyway, please don’t touch the dial. In fact, I don’t want anyone touching the clock at all. It’s very old and very, very delicate. Okay?”

“Okay, Dad,” Tara said.

“I won’t touch it,” I promised.

“Look,” Mom said, pointing at the clock. “It’s six o’clock. Dinner’s almost—”

Mom was interrupted by a loud gong. A little door just over the clock face slid open—and a bird flew out. It had the meanest bird face I ever saw—and it dove for my head.

I screamed. “It’s alive!”