Yesterday Is History

by Kosoko Jackson

  Michael sits up. “Don’t stop now. You have your whole life planned out. Why stop ten years from now? Why not keep going? How about twenty years from now? Or thirty?”

  My chest tightens, only for a moment, in a twinge of annoyance that I know will spread like thick, hot lava if I don’t tame it.

  “What would you prefer I do?” I ask. “Flap around in the wind like you? See what happens?”

  “There’s a space between trying to control everything, which yields no control, and just leaving it up to luck. You’re young, Andre! You’re…”

  “Don’t,” I warn. And before he can ask, I add, “Don’t tell me that I’m young and that I have my whole life ahead of me. Don’t act like my parent.”

  “That wasn’t at all what I was going to say.”

  “Sure.” I wave my hand in a wide arc, in a “the floor is yours” sort of way.

  “What I was going to say was, your life is your own. You don’t owe anyone anything. Not your parents. Not society. You can take this opportunity to live life to the fullest. So I’m here to ask you: Are you going to medical school because you want to or because your parents want you to?”

  The molten hot lava inside bursts into pure white rage. How dare this guy judge me? What right does he have? How long has he known me? A few hours?

  “What makes you think this isn’t what I want?”

  “Maybe it is. But that’s not the vibe I get.”

  Deep down, somewhere dark and damp, with locks upon locks, I know that being judged isn’t what made my hackles rise. It’s the small pilot light that Michael has stoked. The small flame he’s given life to that had been forced into silence months ago and had stayed silent. That small voice that asked, What about photography or writing or music? What about trying something new? That’s what college is for, right?

  It was the voice of rebellion that I killed long ago.

  The perfect quippy arrowhead of a comeback is right on the tip of my tongue. But before I can fire it, a rush of air suddenly swirls around me. Colors mix, and the ground rises up faster than it should, like I’m crashing in reverse. It happens so fast this time that I’m barely able to prepare myself for it. In a heartbeat, I’m standing back in the McIntyres’ home.

  No, not standing—sitting in the middle of the living room.

  Claire doesn’t even seem phased when she looks up from the mantel where she’s leaning.

  “Welcome back,” she says, checking her watch. She walks over and grabs my hand, helping me stand before dusting me off, much like a mother would. “You were gone roughly three minutes, by the way. I imagine your friend Isobel is going to be coming in very soon, so we don’t have much time. You should start wearing a watch—it’s going to be your most valuable tool as a traveler. How was the trip?”

  I stand there dumbstruck. It takes me a few seconds to get my bearings. To shake off the jet lag of traveling through time and space. There’s a dull, almost mistakable throb in the pit of my stomach, but I think that’s just nerves. Besides, I have bigger things to worry about.

  “Wait, wait, three minutes? How…”

  “How can that be?” Claire finishes for me. “Rule of thumb. One hour whenever you travel is one minute in your current time period. It’s a simple rule to remember. Not one of the three cardinal rules, but…”

  She keeps talking, but her words fade out and sound fuzzy as my mind seems to disassociate from my body.

  My name is Andre Cobb. I’m seventeen years old, born and raised in Boston, Massachusetts. I’m a cancer survivor and a student at St. Clements Academy. I’m the son of Jennifer Cobb and Daniel Cobb, and the most unique thing about me?

  “I’m a time traveler.”

  Claire grins brightly. Her hands find their way to my shoulders, and she squeezes. “That you are.”

  Holy fucking shit.

  Nine

  Mom and Dad were already pissed when Isobel and I came home late. Not as pissed as Isobel was when I wouldn’t share any information with her about what had happened inside the McIntyres’ house, but close.

  “Where were you?”

  “Out with Isobel.”

  “Where did you go?”

  “The McIntyres’.”

  They pause, confused.

  “They’re the family who gave me my liver,” I say, clarifying.

  Mom’s eyes grow wide, and Dad spits up the drink he’s sipping.

  “That’s not…” Dad starts but pauses.

  “Protocol,” Mom says. “That’s not protocol.”

  “They reached out.”

  “How did they find your number?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “What did you say?”

  I shrug. “They just wanted to check in, see how I was doing. I thought I owed it to them, considering.” I point to my liver. “You know.”

  Mom’s face goes on a journey of expressions: frustration, then confusion, then indecision, before finally resting on understanding.

  “I told them thank you,” I say. “They’re nice people, Mom.”

  “I’m sure they are,” she says in a way that’s not fully condescending, but not fully convincing either. She’s still processing everything that’s happened. We’re not so different in that regard.

  “Can I go upstairs? I’m feeling a bit tired.”

  “Sure, champ,” Dad says. I’m sure he and Mom want to talk about me visiting the McIntyres’. Surviving cancer gives me some leeway, but the rope isn’t endless.

  I take the steps two at a time, close my door behind me, and take a deep breath for what feels like the first time since I got in the car with Isobel. The world just needs to slow down for a moment.

  I change into my pajamas for the night and flop into bed.

  Twenty minutes after dozing off, I feel my phone vibrate. A text appears from Claire.

  617-555-1431. Blake’s phone number. When you’re ready.

  “When I’m ready,” I repeat. When is anyone ready to learn how to time travel? How do you wrap your head around that? And I’m pretty sure Blake is not keen on teaching me.

  That doesn’t matter. Right now, the only thing I need to focus on is getting sleep, going back to my normal routine, and figuring out how I’m going to be myself, when I haven’t felt like myself in almost a year—most of all now.

  Problems for future Andre.

  * * *

  Headmistress Welchbacher has silvery hair that she pulls back into a bun and sharp features that make her bone structure look modelesque, which I can’t help but notice as she examines my file for a good three minutes with her bright blue eyes. The only sound is the metronome on her desk ticking back and forth.

  There are three certainties in the world: death, taxes, and that Headmistress Welchbacher and I greatly dislike each other.

  I wouldn’t go so far as to say she’s racist—that’s a bold claim. But she’s never liked me. Maybe because I started out as a scholarship kid here. Or maybe because my mom beat out her best friend for PTA president. Who knows, really. There are lots of possible explanations for why she turns her nose up at me, takes longer to answer my family’s emails, and does half a dozen other small things that no one else notices.

  But the way she reads my file, slower than need be, and doesn’t even say hello or ask how I’m feeling when I enter always sets me off.

  “So, you’re feeling better?” she finally asks, after five minutes of me sitting there, listening to the obnoxious sound of the metronome on top of her desk. I wonder how many music students here have PTSD from that constant sound.

  “Yes, Headmistress Welchbacher, thanks for asking.” I know she only did it as a formality, but maybe thanking her will make her feel guilty.

  “Good, good. Now…” She pulls out a second file—thicker, but just as organized as everything else in this room.
It’s almost more sterile than a hospital. “About your graduation…”

  This is exactly why I came here and what I’ve been waiting for. I’m sure she has more than a dozen reasons why I should stay back. I’m sure they are all well within the school’s guidelines, and I’m sure she’s been waiting with great anticipation for the past month to tell me those reasons.

  But I have something she doesn’t. Determination.

  “Ms. Harper said I could take summer school courses to complete the three I missed last semester,” I remind her, pulling out a crumpled printout of the email from my canvas messenger bag. Headmistress Welchbacher takes it, grabbing it by two fingers only, and looks at it with disgust.

  “She’s not wrong, but you understand…”

  “I’ll lose my salutatorian status, yes, I know.”

  Headmistress Welchbacher pauses, glancing up at me. She doesn’t like being interrupted. That’s 60 percent of why I did it. The other 40 percent is that I don’t like being around her for any longer than I have to be.

  I don’t like being held back because of something out of my control.

  “That’s correct. You’ll need to take calculus, a history class, and a creative elective.”

  “A community college nearby has all those classes.”

  “Will you be able to register in time? There are only two months left of summer. I’m worried.”

  No you’re not. You’re hoping that I can’t, I think. But Mom and I already talked about this possibility when a transplant was first discussed. Silently, I pull out another piece of paper.

  “I’ve already registered for Calc One, History of the Modern World, and a creative writing class. All of these start online next week, and they fulfill the Northeastern collegiate requirements for learning that St. Clements abides by.”

  Headmistress Welchbacher’s jaw tightens as she examines the documents, searching for any reason to say that the classes won’t work. But I got up early today when I couldn’t sleep and spent all morning before this meeting double- and triple-checking them. These classes are perfect. And considering that St. Clements has an agreement with the community college that allows juniors and seniors to take part-time classes there, this should be easy.

  “I suppose these will work,” she concedes.

  “Excellent.”

  I put the document back in my bag, swinging it over my shoulder.

  “Andre,” she says when I reach the door. “Our standards here at St. Clements are high. Higher than a public school. You’ll need to earn a minimum of an eighty-eight in each of your classes for them to count.”

  “They only do letter grades there.”

  “A B plus then.”

  “And if they don’t do pluses and minuses?”

  “An A.”

  Of course.

  I nod to her curtly before slipping out and letting the heavy oak door shut loudly behind me. There aren’t many students here, only those attending the summer programs for kindergarten through third grade, as well as a few students interning from other schools, hoping to bolster their applications to St. Clements or to college.

  I make my way down the hallway, turn left, and weave through the school, taking a shortcut to the back parking lot, where the Camry sits. I’ve walked these halls thousands of times since coming here in ninth grade. Things were good. Like, really good.

  And then? Shit hit the fan.

  I stop at the wooden bench that faces the south lawn, running my fingers over the polished wood. There are three indentations on the arm, small ones, but they are the only imperfections on the bench. And they’re from me.

  I remember the pain that shot through my body like a bolt of electricity. I remember gripping the wood so hard that my nails cracked, leaving those marks. I remember collapsing and some senior finding me. And then I remember waking up in the hospital.

  The pain and the humiliation isn’t what I remember most. What I remember most is feeling like I didn’t have control over my life.

  But now I do. And now I have an ability that I never knew was possible. What limits are there to time travel? Can I see problems around the world and fix them? Can I fix my own timeline? Right my past mistakes?

  What can I do, and what can’t I do?

  That’s a question that only one person can help me answer.

  “Damn it.” I sigh, pulling out my phone. I find the text from Claire, tap it, and call Blake. The phone rings twice.

  “Blake?”

  He hesitates. “Yeah?”

  “It’s Andre. Andre Cobb.” I’m not sure how he’s going to respond, so I wait. After a moment, I say, “From last night?”

  “I remember you. What’s up? How did you get this number?”

  “Your mom, of course.”

  He sighs. “Of course.”

  “Yeah, seems like she’s…”

  “A lot?” he offers. “You have no idea. Or do you? Not sure how the whole transference of someone else’s organ works when it comes to memories.”

  I want to tell him that’s stupid, but then I remember that my time-travel abilities are something I got from an organ, so I settle on saying, “Fair.” Then I continue, knowing that if I stop, I’ll lose steam and hang up. “I don’t know if you’re busy, but… I wanted to see if we could talk.”

  “Is this about what my mom proposed last night?”

  “Mm-hmm.”

  “I have a few hours before practice. Come on over. I’ll make smoothies. You like berry ones, right? With Greek yogurt and just the right amount of mango?”

  The description makes my mouth water, for good reason. “How did you…”

  “Three years ago, when your mom was diagnosed as prediabetic, she started to change her diet. You and your dad joined in, a whole family endeavor, to be healthier for her. She got her numbers to a better place in a few months, and you learned how to cook. One of your favorite things to make was a berry smoothie, with Greek yogurt and just the right amount of mango.

  “Time travel isn’t just about going to the past or seeing amazing historical moments. It’s about reliving the small moments too. Like the first time you made a smoothie and walked to the store by yourself to get the ingredients, so you could make it for her when she came home from work. A person who cares that much about such a small thing is someone…” He sighs, pausing for a moment. The blender stops. “Just come over. Don’t make me say please.”

  “What are you, some sort of vampire who is weakened by displaying any sort of manners?”

  He laughs on the phone, but it’s not an actual laugh. It’s hollow and forced, but I applaud the effort.

  It’s only ten o’clock in the morning, but already the sun is starting to warm not only the asphalt but also my own dark skin. Beads of sweat form and ripples of clear heat rise from the parking lot. The memory is something so small, so insignificant. But now, hearing Blake talk about it? It brings back every sense. The smell of the fresh rain that afternoon. The weight of the bag I carried a mile and a half home. The tourists in the store with me and their bright “We’re from Kansas, Say Hi!” shirts.

  “You’re a time traveler and a stalker, a bad combo if you ask me, Blake McIntyre from Boston.”

  “Wrong and wrong on both counts. But how about you come over, and I’ll tell you the truth, the whole truth. And why did you just say my name like that?”

  “No reason.” That’s a lie, but I quickly answer his question. “On my way.”

  Ten

  When I arrive at the McIntyres’ home, Blake is shirtless, wearing a pair of workout sweats that he obviously cut into shorts himself.

  He’s standing at the front door, leaning against it, chewing on a half-consumed green apple. He doesn’t move to greet me, except for giving a short wave when I park the car.

  “Not even a hello?” I ask.

 
He only shrugs.

  Part of me wonders if I should follow him. Maybe I should play this like a game of chicken. Make him say something to me, instead of just assuming that I’m going to trot after him. It’s a power move, after all, and playing into it is like giving unlimited oxygen to a house fire.

  But then again, he has all the knowledge, which gives him the power, and there’s nothing I can do except play his game.

  For now.

  Before I can step over the threshold, he speaks without bothering to turn around.

  “Take your shoes off,” he shouts.

  I toss them into the corner before following his voice into the kitchen. There he is, leaning against the counter, swiping idly through his phone, his right bicep slightly flexed. He doesn’t look up but gestures toward two glasses on the counter. Sure enough, they are filled with the same purple-colored smoothie that I remember making dozens of times.

  “Let me know if I made it right. Not sure I got the percentages down. Do you use whole milk or skim milk?”

  “Whole. But I’ve switched to oat milk recently.”

  “Of course you have,” he mutters.

  I walk around the other side of the counter, taking the drink and sipping it slowly. From the thickness, I can tell that there’s a little too much yogurt, and from the tartness, I can tell that it’s the plain kind.

  “So you can do it too?” I ask.

  Blake looks up from his phone, turning it screen-side down. For the first time, I notice that he has the most beautiful green eyes I’ve ever seen. The type that look like some sort of biosphere lives and thrives inside of them.

  “Yes and no.”

  “I feel like ‘can you time travel’ isn’t the type of question that can yield a ‘maybe.’”

  “Har har,” he says. “I can’t. Mom did it. She likes…learning about people. It’s the scientist in her.”

  “What’s her field?”

  Blake shrugs. “She’s a self-proclaimed scientist. Mom’s actually a lawyer. The fancy type that helps foundations keep out of legal trouble. But I think, deep down, all time travelers think they are scientists. I mean, if you can observe and make logical deductions about anything in the world, in any time period, isn’t that what a scientist is?”