OK, that was enough of that. I had to tell the buffoon. If I didn’t, he was going to do this all day. 

I braked to a stop, and Bones, looking quizzical, stopped next to me. I pulled out Stevie’s phone and held it out in front of him. 

“Bones, when you booted the phone with your size fourteen clogger-hoppers, you must have fat-footed the destination date.” I opened the LightYear app. “Oh, and look at that. You even managed to send us back a day, too. It’s Friday, not Saturday. School starts early . . . in 1978.” 

Bones leaned over his handlebars and squinted at the screen. “Oh boy, Lump. This is bad. Not good at all.” 

His lips were all tightened up with not even a hint of a smile. 

“I’m sorry, Bones,” I said. And I truly meant it. “I know there’s no cure for cancer in 1978. We’re just gonna have to figure a way to get back home and use the app—” 

“Huh? What are you talking about, Lump? Queen is in their prime!” He dug his hands into his jean pockets and pulled their lining out. “And we’ve got no money to buy concert tickets!” 

I’m worried about his cancer and he’s worried about some weird rock ’n’ roll band my dad listened to when he was a kid. Unbelievable.

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