by L. E. DeLano
“Maybe you should relax after the recital is over. Take some time off. I was talking to Mrs. Lampert about your schedule—”
My head snaps up. “Mrs. Lampert? When were you talking to my school counselor?”
“I e-mailed her last week and we were going back and forth—”
“Wait.” I hold up a hand. “Why are you ‘going back and forth’ with Mrs. Lampert? I’m doing fine. My grades are good.”
“This is about more than grades,” Mom says. “She has some concerns, after all that’s happened. And so do I.”
I want to groan out loud. In the weeks that followed Finn’s death—and Ms. Eversor’s disappearance—all hell broke loose around here.
My former creative writing teacher, Ms. Eversor, apparently tendered her resignation at the high school the morning of our confrontation at the old Greaver mine. She left at lunchtime and never came back. That was only half of the scandal. She disappeared on the same day as another student—who happened to be male and more than a little good-looking. The last anyone heard, she had booked a flight to Mexico, probably to avoid prosecution. The speculation was that I’d lost my boyfriend to a predatory teacher. The looks I was and still am getting, the whispers, the talk that stops as soon as I come into a room (or worse, doesn’t stop) are now finally dying down, but that doesn’t make it any more bearable when it happens.
I was questioned in my mother’s presence by an officer from the local police department regarding the incident, but since Finn was recorded as being just over eighteen, and the teacher had already resigned (and no one could find either one of them) the incident wasn’t pursued further.
This, of course, led to a full-on sit-down talking-to from both of my parents, who could see how devastated I was over all this. They had no idea, of course, that I was being hunted by a reality-shifting teacher working on behalf of an immortal being who wants to wipe out most of the universe.
Add into all this the stress of college applications, facing the last semester of my senior year … and Finn’s death. Let’s just say it’s a lot to deal with.
“I’m fine,” I say tightly. “Everything is fine.”
“You’ve been pushing yourself too hard,” Mom says. “First with this dance thing and then with school. You spend all your free time up in your room studying and doing homework. It’s like we never see you anymore. And when we do see you—well, you’re different. Changed.”
“That’s because she kicked herself in the face,” Danny interjects.
Mom lets out a long breath. “Now really isn’t the time to have this conversation,” she says.
“No, it’s not,” I snap. “We don’t need to have it at all.”
“Honey, what is wrong with you?” she asks. “Honestly, it’s like you’re a different person lately. You’re so preoccupied.”
It’s been like this for weeks—she’s always nudging, prodding me, trying to figure out why I’ve changed so much. I can’t tell her what I’ve been through. I can’t tell her that I’m different because I’m not always the Jessa she knows.
“I’m just stressed. I have a big assignment due,” I grit out. I do have an assignment due, in creative writing.
“Well, if it’s got you that wound up, you should work on it and get it out of the way. When is it due?”
“Tomorrow.”
Her eyebrows go up. “Then you’d better get started.”
“Yes, ma’am,” I say, giving her a salute. My sarcasm goes over badly. I push away from the table and stomp up the stairs to my room.
“Jessa—”
“Don’t kick yourself!” Danny calls after me.
I sink down onto my bed, wishing it could be that easy. If only I could kick myself in the head and forget all this.
I yank my messenger bag up onto the bed beside me and pull out my journal, tossing it aside. Then I reach for some loose-leaf paper and lay my binder on my lap like a desk as I stare at the blank sheets. I pick up my pen, tapping it impatiently on the edge of my binder, willing something—anything—to come to my mind.
It doesn’t.
I throw the binder and papers to the floor, and then for good measure I hurl my journal at the wall. Between the chaos in my mind and the chaos downstairs, it’s impossible to focus. Just impossible.
I stare at the mirror longingly. God, do I need to get away.
The traveling I did earlier today was to facilitate my newfound love of dance. That’s strictly for me. And for my counterpart.
This next travel is a job, and unfortunately, I have more than an hour to kill until I need to step into another reality and become a different me.
I make a grumpy face at myself in the mirror, going over my assignment again in my mind.
I can hear Mom and Danny downstairs, and I know she’s not through lecturing me. As soon as she clears the table, she’ll come upstairs and I’ll probably have to talk to her again.
I am in no mood for this. I need to escape, and today’s assignment is exactly where I need to go. It’s not really breaking the rules if I show up a little early, is it?
Part of me knows Mario might get irked, but I’ve been to this reality before. It’s as safe as safe can be, and I really need to be there right now.
I move to the mirror over my dresser, laying my palm to the glass, concentrating on my other self.
Do me a favor, I mouth. I stare back at myself curiously at first, and then, to my surprise, I break into a wide grin and give myself a nod. I don’t even pause to question my good fortune. One solid push and I am out of here.
3
Unexpected
I take a moment to adjust to what I’m seeing.
I am brilliant platinum bleach-blonde, and I am wearing entirely too much eyeliner. The first time I came here, I started to wipe it all off, but then I forced myself to leave it alone. I know how irked I get when the other Jessas screw with my face or my stuff while I’m gone. I still haven’t grown out the bangs I got when one of the other Jessas hacked my hair off. I’m not a fan of this look, but I’m not going to screw with it.
Right now, I’m in a bathroom at what I think is a pizza place, judging by the pictures of pizza slices and Italian food framed on the walls, so I step away from the mirror and reach for the door. It opens forcefully from the other side at the same time, and before I can let out a squeak of surprise, my arm is being yanked and I am half tripping, half running along behind a familiar head of long, dark spiraled hair.
This is Olivia, and she is talking a thousand words a minute.
“They called your name! Come on! OhmyGod, Jessa, come on! You’re not backing out of this! Come on!”
I let her pull me along as I chuckle at her over-the-top enthusiasm. Olivia is almost unbearably perky but not in an annoying way. She’s crazy optimistic—which is very much unlike me over here.
This is only my second visit to this reality, and Olivia was an instant friend. No. More than a friend—a sister. Liv and I have been stepsisters for nearly four years, since Dad married Shanice—that’s Olivia’s mother. And I’m in Philadelphia, where Liv and I attend a private school.
“I don’t know what you thought you were doing in there, but you are not getting out of this one! Come on!” She tugs me forward again.
“I was going to the bathroom!” I protest.
“Well, you were taking forever, and now it’s time to pay the piper!”
She finally releases her death grip on my hand and gives me an enormous shove from behind as an older guy hands me a microphone. A spotlight hits me right in the face and I squint as my eyes adjust. I finally notice the crowd, and they’re all staring at me.
The pieces begin to fall into place.
Oh my God. I’m singing karaoke. In front of people. A lot of people.
I don’t sing.
I mean, I really, really don’t sing.
My panicked eyes find Olivia, and she’s doubled over, laughing, the traitor. I narrow my eyes back at her as the memory trickles
in.
She bet me that I wouldn’t score as high as her on my precollegiate interviews today. She was right. I didn’t even come close, and I’m really perturbed about it, too.
And now I have to sing here at Martinetti’s open mic karaoke night, as my loser’s price.
“Liv…,” I mouth pleadingly.
“Sing!” she shouts back, and the crowd—many of whom go to school with us—echoes loudly behind her.
I let out a groan as the music comes blaring over the speakers.
My eyes widen and I give her a searing look.
“Oh, you did not do this to me…,” I grumble under my breath.
I am in no way, shape, or form qualified to sing “Somebody to Love” by Queen. Or anything, for that matter. But a bet is a bet, and my memories assure me that Olivia will never speak to me again if I don’t honor our agreement. Dammit.
I open my mouth to sing, and nothing comes out. I swallow and try again. Something comes out this time, and I focus on the words scrolling on the video prompter in front of me. Hey, I’m doing this! I’m singing!
Then I look out at the crowd, most of whom are staring at me like I’m up here strangling a frog. Because that’s what my voice sounds like. Like I’m strangling a frog. Oh God.
I shoot another panicked glance at Olivia, and she’s smiling and shaking her head as if to say, You’re not getting out of this.
I go back to looking at the prompter, and the irony of singing about dying a little when you wake up each morning isn’t lost on me, the girl who’s been murdered in more realities than I can count.
And with that thought, the tears rush to my eyes, and I blink them back furiously as I stare at a spot on the floor and try to pull myself together. My voice falters, and I’m really not sure I’m going to make it through this. My eyes swing back to Olivia again, but she’s not there.
Instead, I feel her arm come around my shoulders from behind, and her hand wraps around mine on the mic as she starts to sing with me, and wow, can she wail. Her voice is amazing, and the crowd is singing along. So am I, for that matter, and I don’t need my memories to tell me why I adore this girl. We end to thunderous applause as we join hands and take a bow. Then I hand the mic off and walk right out of the restaurant.
The cold hits me in the face, and a moment later, a blast of warm air as Olivia comes through the door, carrying my coat and my backpack.
“Hey,” she says. “You did better than I thought you would.”
“That’s because I had you.”
She bumps my shoulder with hers. “You’ve always got me. But damn, you really can’t sing.”
I roll my eyes at her. “I know. That was the whole point, right?”
“The point was to get your mind off today. You didn’t do that bad, you know. Your score was still in the upper twenty-fifth percentile.” She pulls me along as we head toward the train station. “Come on,” she says. “We’ll get coffee on the way.”
As we walk and sip coffee, I use the time to catch myself up on my memories over here, because things here are more than a little different.
We’ve just completed three weeks of intensive testing through the school and after school as well. The school conducts practice sessions before we do the formal interview with our career actuaries, who will let us know what collegiate or technical school courses we’ll be approved for. We had a set of preliminary interviews today and I lost points for being too insubordinate and combative.
“Dad and Shanice are going to kill me,” I say matter-of-factly. “So is my mom, for that matter.”
“So?” Olivia shrugs. “It’s not like you can’t leave it all behind anytime you want to.”
I’m startled for a moment, and then I remember that Olivia knows everything. She knows I’m a Traveler. I told her more than a year ago, and so far, she’s kept the secret.
“This is home, Liv. That means something. Even when I have the power to go anywhere, it still means something.”
“I hear you. But things are what they are here, and it works—for most of us.”
“We don’t have a choice,” I point out, ticking things off on my fingers. “Our aptitude and skills are tracked from preschool. We’re sorted into classrooms by peer group. Once we finish our selected college and become established in our selected careers, we find a relationship actuary to determine our potential romantic interests. It’s nuts!”
“That’s not a requirement by law,” she counters.
“It’s practically unheard of to date someone who isn’t actuary-selected.”
“And again, you don’t have to settle for that if you don’t want to,” Olivia says. She stops in her tracks and steps in front of me to look me dead-on. “Maybe you aren’t meant to be stuck here. People like you—the system doesn’t work for them. You’re too—”
“Insubordinate and combative?”
“You laughed through the introductory interview,” she reminds me.
I search back through my memories and I chuckle. “I couldn’t help it. Mrs. Braden has ugly bug-brows. But I did answer all their questions.”
“I feel like I babbled a lot.” Olivia groans as she starts walking again. “And why did I wear this stupid dress? It’s like wearing a corset, it’s so tight.”
I glance over at her and then realize with a start that I’ve met her before, at a grand ball in a steampunk reality, right before I went out to the garden to see …
I can’t help but smile a little at the memory of a certain flirty pirate, even though the memory is followed up by a shaft of pain. I barely knew Olivia over there.
“You wanted to make a good impression,” I remind her.
“And you wanted to buck the system,” she says smartly. “Jeans? Really?”
“Maybe the system needs a good bucking.”
She sighs. “Fine. I’m just saying … play their game until you’re old enough to be on your own, and then you’ve got no limits. Except for singing.”
“Thanks,” I say awkwardly. I should probably tell her I’m not her Jessa, but that would create a whole world of trouble for my counterpart if Liv thinks she welched on a bet.
That thought snaps me back to reality. I have a job to do and I forgot about it. I check the time and I’m relieved to see I have twenty minutes left.
“I’m not going back to the dorm,” I tell her.
“What?”
“I have to catch a different train.”
“Where are you going? We have a test in biology tomorrow to study for.”
“I know,” I say apologetically. “I won’t be gone long. I just have something to do.”
“Something—” she starts to protest and then her eyes go wide with realization. “Oh. You better be back by ten.”
“I will.”
She gives me an impulsive hug. “I’m sorry I put you through that tonight. I should have chosen a different song.”
“It’s okay.” I shift uncomfortably and glance up at the clock on the platform.
“All this stuff will fall into place, Jessa,” she says. “We just gotta have a little faith in the system. Who knows.” She shrugs. “Maybe they’ll find your soul mate someday.”
“Right.” I give her a nod, even though I think what she’s saying is total bunk. She gives me a wave as she boards her train, and then she’s gone.
I can hear the announcements for the various trains coming over the loudspeaker, and I have ten minutes until my train leaves.
I take the escalator up so I can change platforms and I wander around the newsstand for a few minutes, killing time. I’m just about to head down again when I remember with a jolt that I’m supposed to buy a pack of Juicy Fruit gum. Crap!
I dig out the money and slap the gum down on the counter, drumming my fingers as the clerk rings me up. Finally he gives me my change, I swipe the gum up, shoving it into the front pocket of my hoodie, and race for the platform. I’m almost there when the gum slips out and hits the ground.
I hesitate.
Mario told me specifically to buy it, so I could offer it to the girl in the seat next to me. He wouldn’t have mentioned it if it weren’t an important detail. I need to get it, and I need to get that train. I start to bend down, when a hand appears, grabbing the pack of gum and holding it out to me.
“Thanks,” I mumble, and as we both straighten up, I feel all the air in the universe rush into my lungs, and my heart freezes in my chest. I am immobile, my eyes locked with his.
Finn.
His hair is cut differently—a little spiky, with sideburns that travel a bit farther down his jaw. He has a bump on the bridge of his nose like it’s been broken at some point in time. It doesn’t look bad, but I fixate on it, because I know if I look at those green, green eyes, I’m going to make a sound no human being should make.
“Hey.…” He speaks, and the word wraps around me, warm and familiar, the timbre and the slight hesitation as he tries to break the ice. Oh God. The sound of it flows into me like a hot knife in my chest, and before I’m even conscious of it, I turn and run.
I make it through the doors just as they close behind me. The car is very crowded, and I reach for the metal pole to steady myself, not even remembering that’s exactly what I’m supposed to do.
As the train pulls away from the platform, I see his face through the windows, staring in at me, his eyes carrying a question, and I look away. I put a second hand on the pole, aware that I am shaking almost violently.
It takes me nearly ten minutes to be able to focus past the turmoil in my brain, the rocking of the train, the jostling of the people around me, and the curve of the pole, covered in fingerprints. I take a few deep breaths, forcing myself to focus, and then I am back.
But not in my room. This is the bathroom at Mugsy’s, and I’m lost.
I throw myself down on the floor in the corner, and the tears come again, tears I’ve held back for weeks, sobs that rip through me and force me from my formerly peaceful little place of nothingness. I’m holding my knees and I’m rocking.
You will find him again, Mario had warned me once. But so far he’s respected my grief and my wishes and limited my dreams to actual memories of Finn—and blessedly few of them. I’d been lulled and let myself believe I could just erase it all somehow by erasing him. As if I could ever erase him.