Lewis was frustrated.
He'd been working on his newest invention for nearly a week now, and he still didn't have any success. No matter how long the 13 year old inventor stared at the paper, none of it made sense. Lewis had calculated and re-calculated his equations a dozen times over, and a breakthrough had yet to be made.
With an exasperated growl, Lewis chucked his pencil across the room and watched with satisfaction as it bounced off of his bed and disappeared behind the little space between the mattress and the wall.
Momentarily distracted, Lewis allowed his gaze to drift around the room, his mind drifting to idle and unimportant musings...
After being adopted by Lucille and Bud Robinson, Lewis had been more than lucky to be granted a life of luxuries, including the entire top floor of their newly-purchased estate. The Robinson residents' was an old observatory, and Lewis had immediately fallen in love with his glass-dome enclosed bedroom/laboratory.
It was more of a lab than anything, and despite the fact that he had a bed and other normal "bedroom" things, the massive space was overrun by piles of his inventions. Some were completed, some were in progress, but not a single one was abandoned.
Lewis was very much proud of his laboratory, but somewhere underneath all his hard work was the room of a typical teenaged boy. While Lewis tended to be a rather organized person, there was no missing the occasional pile of clothes in a corner, or a shelf that needed dusting from time to time. Although he very much had a bed, Lewis seldom slept in it, and it was more often that he found himself falling asleep at his desk, slumped over the work that he constantly occupied himself with.
Unlike most adolescents, Lewis found that he didn't need a lot of sleep, and he could keep himself going with only a few hours of it each night, if he even got around to it. He strongly believed that there was more important things you could be doing at night, besides sleeping, such as trying to work out a very important formula…
Being reminded of said formula set Lewis into motion. He stood from his chair and strode across the room to his bed, chuckling quietly to himself as he thought, 'I really need to stop losing my temper.'
Lewis pressed his knees onto the mattress and sunk into it, crawling on his hands and knees to the other side. Pulling back the blanket a little, Lewis slid his arm down between the wall and the bed frame and fumbled around for a moment, feeling his fingers barely brush against the wood floor beneath.
After a moment of blindly feeling around, Lewis frowned in confusion when his fingers bumped against something that was definitely bigger than his #2 mechanical pencil. With some hesitation, Lewis gripped the slim object and slowly pulled his arm back out.
It was a journal. As observant as always, Lewis held it in his hands and examined it, handling it gingerly as he turned it this way and that in his hands. The cover was smooth and colored plain black, but Lewis noticed that if you tilted it a certain way in the light it almost looked like a dark blue.
It was worn, indicating that it was well used, and probably far from being new. Lewis ran his finger along the spine and felt the soft leather underneath his fingertips. Yes, this was definitely a nice journal but…
It wasn't his.
Suddenly, it occurred to Lewis that he had not been the one to sleep in his bed last. Several days before, Wilbur Robinson had shown up at his door and invited himself in, telling Lucille and Bud (who looked MUCH younger compared to the Lucille and Bud that Wilbur knew) that he was a classmate's of Lewis's who wanted to study with him for the afternoon.
Lewis was a little more than surprised when his future son explained that he just decided to "stop by " a year later to "catch up with his best friend." Lewis, in return, had lectured him about the time stream and just how ridiculous the whole idea was.
Wilbur had only sheepishly grinned as Lewis had hit him over the head with a stack of papers and told him how much trouble he would be in, come thirty years.
But nonetheless, the boys had ended up laughing together in the end, hugging and chatting like old friends. Eventually, Wilbur stayed for dinner, and then for the night, taking Lewis's bed as the young inventor had assured him that he would much rather sleep at his desk anyway. Besides, it was one night, and that's what Lewis did most of the time anyway.
Soon enough, however, one night turned into 2, and Lewis wondered exactly what was going on. Wilbur explained that everything would be fine after Lewis had inquired about the family noticing his absence.
While the whole incident was rather strange, Wilbur eventually went on his way, promising to visit again some other time as he'd climbed into the time machine and gone back to his time.
Lewis squinted at the journal. Was this from the future? Could it belong to Wilbur?
Curiously, Lewis leafed through the pages and looked for any sort of name. The handwriting within looked scribbled and frantic, but as he opened the inside cover, there was no mistaking the name written in black ink.
If found, please return to Wilbur Robinson
Lewis noticed that this was written rather neatly, as if someone had taken great care when documenting the disclaimer. He was puzzled then to read what was written beneath. Another disclaimer, but this piece of text looked sloppy and angry.
Do not read this. These are my personal, embarrassing thoughts, meant for my eyes only. Please don't go any further…
Intrigued, Lewis gently closed the journal, his face tight and his mind reeling. Overwhelmed with conflicting thoughts, Lewis outweighed the pros and cons of the situation, trying to bring himself to a reasonable conclusion on what to do.
Here in his hands he held sensitive information (according to the disclaimer) that belonged to none other than his future son. Somewhere in the back of his mind, alarm bells were going off. He knew he shouldn't read it, but the temptation was too great.
What other opportunity would he have to learn more about the life of his future family?
As bad of an idea as it could've been, Lewis found himself really, really wanting to read the journal. What's the worst that could happen anyway? Wilbur might come back looking for it, and if Lewis confessed that he'd read it, so what if he became a little upset? It wasn't like there was going to be anything all that bad in this thing.
'Besides, I am his dad after all. Doesn't that give me the right to do anything with my son's things?'
With this thought in mind, Lewis reassured himself that it really wouldn't be all that bad to take a little peek… And anyway, who was going to stop him?
Just as Lewis opened the cover again, his mother called him down for dinner. Lewis jumped a little, not realizing how absorbed he had been in his own thoughts until something had interrupted them. With some embarrassment at his own skittishness, Lewis slid the journal under his pillow and leapt to the floor, sliding a little on the slick wood due to the socks he wore.
Lewis threw one more glance in the direction of his bed before turning and hurrying down to have dinner with his family.
'Right,' his conscious told him, 'you wouldn't want to snoop through someone's private diary on an empty stomach now, would you?'
Lewis pretended not to hear.
- (horizontal line)
Nobody understands. From the outside, everything looks normal. There's always talk about how great the Robinsons are. They must be the luckiest family in Todayland.
We're not.
It's like they say, don't judge a book by it's cover. While that's such a horrible cliche, it's very true. The cover of the Robinson family must look great, huh? But if you look further, and read the words on the pages, and the things between the lines, we're more than just a pretty picture.
There's always yelling. I never really noticed before, but recently, it's gotten worse. Maybe dad's stressed because of that big conference he has coming up. Maybe mom's stressed because dad is stressed. Whatever the cause, it's affecting everyone.
And by everyone, I mean me.
The rest of the family knows when to back off, so most of the drama is just between me, mom and dad, but it gets even more irritating when others chime in and try to help. Like earlier. Dad asked about a bad grade I got on a test, and when I'd snapped at him, Lucille had butted in and tried to scold me for being "disrespectful..."
"Sorry that not everyone can be as smart as you!" I'd yelled at Dad.
It was true, and I was glad I said it, but afterwards everyone around had given me these weird looks that were mixed somewhere in between confusion and disappointment. Mom just looked pissed.
Honestly, I don't care. I say what I want nowadays, because it's not like anyone has anytime for me. Lately, when I do something dad doesn't like, he just pinches the bridge of his nose, sighs loudly and closes his eyes, then turns around and ignores me.
I've been getting away with a lot more lately.
For instance, I let a curse word slip by the other day when I was arguing with mom, and she gave me that death look of hers. I'd hid on the roof like usual, and waited for her to come and scold me, but she never came. When I eventually came around again, I don't even think she remembered what I said, let alone noticed that I was missing…
I sometimes wonder when the family became so...distant.
-horizontal
Lewis decided that taking a peek wasn't that big of a deal. He'd eaten his dinner and returned to his room, only to plop himself on his bed and open up Wilbur's journal. He'd been a bit hesitant to do so at first, but now he was just plain curious. Reading about his future self and family was rather intriguing.
Seeing as this obviously wasn't killing anybody (figuratively and literally…) Lewis found himself turning the page and reading on.
Dad spends way too much time on that stupid time machine of his. Doesn't he realize it won't kill him to at least spend a little time with me? Or mom for that matter… she's getting a little irritated too I think.
Dad and I have always been pretty close. That's why I just don't understand him now. He's been so different lately. He doesn't even notice that I disappear in my room for hours on end. Neither does mom. They call for dinner, and that's it.
Carl came and asked me what was wrong. I guess I didn't realize that I'd been staring at the wall blankly for so long, but when I'd tried to move, my body was sore from lack of movement. That was rather unusual for me. Until recently, I'd always busied myself with something in so way.
He told me to stop moping around, and it bothered me to hear for some reason.
"I'm not moping around," I'd insisted, but I found it hard to believe myself even. Maybe I was, but there wasn't much else I could do. I'd become increasingly more bored over these past few months, even to the point where I'd apparently resorted to staring at walls. 7th grade was painfully uneventful, and besides light homework, there was nothing else I could think of to occupy my time.
I could tell that Carl missed spending time with me, even if he didn't directly say so.
Is it so bad that I just want to be alone sometimes?
_-_horizontal
Lewis was amused to see that the time machine had yet to be invented, and therefore Wilbur had yet to meet the younger version of his dad. From his judgement, it would be soon though. Wilbur was in the 7th grade, and that meant he was either 12 or 13.
A few months ago, when Lewis's life had been forever changed by the pointy-haired kid, he'd been 13. Therefore, Lewis expected to read something about time travel sometime soon.
However, as he looked at the next page, Lewis was a little disappointed and somewhat confused to see that this entry looked different from the first two. Instead of little excerpts of thoughts, this text looked more like a story.
Lewis pursed his lips in thought as his eyes read the first line of writing.
_-n
Does the torment never end?
I was already having a bad morning. Dad and I fought the whole way to school, and when I'd gotten out of the hovercar angrily, I didn't even notice that it was pouring. Well great, it only added to my day.
Between the run from the parking lot to the school, I'd managed to get myself completely soaked, ruining my hair and clothes in the process. As soon as I'd gotten under the safe, dry roof of the school, the bell rang, and I had to run to class. I was trying my hardest not to slip on the soles of my wet shoes, but when I finally reached the door to my classroom, the final bell rang and I was late.
Biting my lip, I stumbled into class and stood in the doorway like an idiot. All eyes were on me and I found myself frozen, unable to move. The only sound was my heaving breathing, and the water that dripped from my face and hair and onto the floor. I was shivering and panting, the cold weight of my soaked clothes were chilling me to the bone.
My teacher shook his head and me and called me to his desk. Numbly, I walked over to him with stiff legs, ignoring the stares that burned into my back. There were quiet whispers as the teacher wrote me a pass, then handed it to me with a tight frown. I stared down at it with shocked anger.
Sweep.
If you're late to class, you go to in-school suspension. There's no room for excuses, and there's no getting out until it's time for your next class. So instead of sitting in English class, which I actually thoroughly enjoyed, I was forced to sit alone in a plain, boring classroom, doing absolutely nothing.
After shamefully walking out of class and heading down the hall to the detention room, I sat down at a desk in the back and sulked. The teacher who monitored the "bad kids" was seated behind her desk at the front of the room. She looked up and watched me when I entered, raising an eyebrow because I wasn't one of the "usuals."
I pretended not to noticed the look of pity she was giving me, as I sat with my arms wrapped around myself, shaking like crazy. I was freezing, and pissed off, overwhelmed with anger.
Tears of frustration kept coming to my eyes, but I stared at the top of my desk and clenched my teeth, willing them to go away. My wet hair kept falling down in my face, rain water mixing with my hair products and running down my cheeks and dripping onto the desk.
"...Wilbur? Hellooo..?"
I was pulled from my thoughts as the teacher at the front called my name. I looked up to her with embarrassment, gnawing on my lower lip as she frowned at me.
"Bad morning?"
I was glad she understood, but I didn't answer, knowing that my appearance was pretty self-explanatory.
I ended up pulling out a journal and taking out my anger by scribbling frantically, knowing that the teacher was still watching me with interest. She looked concerned as the pages became soaked and crinkled, and soon I was just writing mindlessly with a dull pencil on a pile of wet pulp.
It occurred to me that I was suddenly anxious with the knowledge that the teacher was still staring at me. Like earlier, when the class had been staring, I realized I was trembling a little, and I felt dizzy.
Since when did I have anxiety issues?
I told myself to calm down, but it hardly did any good. I sat there, just staring at the ruined journal for the remainder of the class, waiting for the bell to ring.
Eventually, it did, but I was far from relieved.
The teacher called me to the front.
"Wilbur, can you come here a minute?"
I didn't realize how scared I was until I heard my own heart, pounding in my chest. I slowly made my way to the front of the room, hearing all the other students in the room file out into the hall. I stood beside the desk of the teacher and stared at my shoes, glancing up when the she cleared her throat.
She looked mildly concerned for a moment, before she asked me what was going on. I mumbled something about having a shitty morning, at which she raised an eyebrow at.
"I didn't think the son of Cornelius Robinson was capable of having anything but a good day."
This angered me, and I stared at her incredulously. Am I not human? Just because I'm the son of "the Father of the Future" doesn't mean that I don't have bad days every once in a while… In fact, I've recently been having more bad than good days…
I wanted to say all this, but I just stood there instead, grinding my teeth as I waited to be dismissed. Finally, she simply shook her head and gave me a small, reassuring smile. Then I left.
The rest of the day wasn't all that bad. Besides my damp, wrinkled clothes and my hideous hair, things were otherwise pretty much normal.
At the end of the day, as I stood waiting for Dad, I remembered our fight earlier, and I had to remind myself that I was mad at him.
So when the hovercar finally pulled up to the curb, I tossed my stuff in the back, slid into the passenger seat, and slammed the door. Dad didn't say anything to me as I crossed my arms and stared out the windshield, anger returning as I recalled our fight from earlier. Sure it was probably over something stupid, but I wasn't about to let that stop me from being the first to apologize.
When we got home, I gathered my things and headed straight for my room, content to simply lock the door and lay on the top bunk of my bed, heavy metal music turned up so loud that I couldn't even hear my own raging thoughts.
But that's ok. Like always, nobody bothered me…