Boundless

by Damien Boyes

  “I crawled past the desk,” I say, and he laughs.

  “It must be something very important for you to need to sneak in here, Ms … ah ...”

  “Parker,” I say.

  His eyes twitch behind his glasses and he says, “Parker, yes. You’re one of my students?”

  What do I say now? This man clearly doesn’t know me. What am I supposed to do?

  “No,” I say. “I’m just ...”

  His face grows concerned. “What is it?” he asks. “Are you in trouble?”

  I drop down into the leather chair in front of his desk, suddenly exhausted. I thought once I found him he’d be able to help me, but now that I have I’m still lost as ever.

  “Parker …” he says and leans back in his chair, thinking. “I don’t seem to remember a student named Parker, though you do look familiar.”

  Then a thought hits me, and without thinking I say it out loud. “Mom.”

  He gives me an odd look. “Excuse me?”

  “You know my mother,” I say. “Lauren Parker.”

  It’s one of those things I didn’t understand for a long time, why they gave me Mom’s last name and not his. Mom once said Dad did it to protect me, but for most of my life I had no idea what he was protecting me from. I used to daydream about it, that he was famous or hiding from the Chinese Mafia or something, but it wasn’t until later I realized the truth.

  Most people are great, but Buffalo isn’t always the most accepting town, lots of places in the country aren’t—and it was even worse when Dad first came here. I know he often felt like he wasn’t welcome. He looked different and he had a funny accent. He was a foreigner. Some people immediately saw him as an outsider, and that didn’t change no matter what he did or how much he tried to fit in. He didn’t want me to face the same prejudices he did by sticking me with his last name. With a name like Jasmin Parker, no one made any assumptions about me.

  I sometimes wonder how different my life would have been if I’d grown up as Jasmin Wong? Would I still be the same person? And would I still be sitting here, right now, with my dad a stranger and my entire world ripped away from me?

  And I wonder how she handled it. The other me everyone thinks I am. Did she run straight to Daddy too?

  He sits back in his chair, his eyes glazed over just like mine must be. He didn’t even notice me space out in my head there for a second. We’re both prone to drifting off in thought, and after all this, whatever he was expecting me to say, I’m sure it wasn’t his old girlfriend’s name.

  “Lauren?” he says, as if the word has grown dusty in his head. “Why, I haven’t heard from her in years—you must be her daughter.” My throat has suddenly closed up and I all can do is nod. “How is she?” he asks.

  I clear my throat to get it working again and say, “I was hoping you might know how I can find her.”

  Dad’s eyebrows edge closer together. “You don’t know where she is?” he asks slowly.

  “We lost touch,” I say. “Things have been ... rough ... lately.”

  “Last thing I heard she’d moved out West and was writing, but that was years ago. What brought you to me?”

  “She used to talk about you.”

  “She did?” he says, clearly confused, and looks inward, again lost in thought. After a moment, he says, “We nearly married, did you know that?”

  I nod. “What happened?”

  “A tragedy.” His face grows clouded and his eyes get heavy. “We lost a baby. After that, things just fell apart.”

  My head buzzes, and I can barely make out what he’s saying. They lost a baby. “I’m so sorry,” I say.

  “She would be nearly eighteen now,” he says, and I can see the thought still pains him, even after all these years. “Just a little older than you. You must be, what? Fifteen or sixteen? You’re here alone?”

  I start to tell him I’m nearly eighteen, and in fact, I might be immortal—but that won’t help anything. Eighteen years ago he and Mom lost a child. How could she have had me at the same time?

  “Yeah. I’m sixteen. My grandpa’s waiting in the lobby for me.”

  He takes his glasses off and cleans them while studying me, then says, “Well, I’m sorry I couldn’t be more help. If there’s anything I can do, please let me know. I’ll tell Shelley you’re allowed past without an appointment from now on.”

  Then I know for sure—I may have found Julian Wong, but as much as I want him to be, he isn’t my dad, and this isn’t my world.

  Wherever I am, Jasmin Parker died before she was born.

  So what does that make me?

  20

  Confusion

  I get out of Dad—Dr. Wong’s—office as fast as I can, and ignore Shelley yelling something angry at me as I flee everything I’ve ever known.

  My home is gone. Dad doesn’t know me. And wherever Mom is I bet she’d be just as indifferent if I walked through her door.

  I’ve got no one.

  Outside the hospital I dash across Broadway, tires screeching behind me, and keep running. I don’t know where I’m going but I can’t stop. If I just keep moving maybe something will eventually make sense.

  I sprint through the red at St. Nicholas and keep going for blocks, but I never get tired. I want to run myself ragged, to exhaust my body until it’s as raw as my head, but I keep right on moving my feet without breaking a sweat.

  Then I hit the trees and zigzag through until I come to the highway along the river.

  Nowhere left to run.

  I spin around, unsure of where I am or how I got here—but most of all, I don’t know who I am anymore.

  My face swells up like I’m about to explode into the worst crying fit of my life, but the feeling breezes right through me and out the top of my head and leaves me feeling, if anything, refreshed.

  So, that’s it then, I’m alone. Everything’s the same—everything except me.

  The Jasmin Parker this world’s Julian Wong knew died before she got a chance to exist, and I guess, because of that, my parents never married. From the sounds of things, me not being around hasn’t slowed anyone down. Dad has his dream job, and Mom, she’s living it up on the West Coast as a big-shot writer.

  Without me around, they have the lives they’ve always wanted.

  I want to feel sorry for myself, but I don’t. If anything, I feel better than I can remember. A burden has lifted, a weight I barely knew existed suddenly gone.

  I’ve lived with guilt my whole life. For the time my sickness took from my parents’ lives, for the things they had to sacrifice. They only got married because I was born. My dad took the first job he could to support us, and my mother gave up her career to keep me alive. Now that I never existed, none of that ever happened.

  And I don’t have to feel guilty anymore.

  I want them back more than anything, but at least I know they’re still alive, and not only alive—better off without me.

  There’s only one person left in the world that I care about, and that’s Gabriel. I don’t know where he is right now, but I know where he will be: whoever Gabriel Bennett became in this world, I bet he’s got tickets for the New Order show at the Paradise Garage on July 7. That’s only a week away.

  I don’t have any money, so it’s not like I can get a hotel and wait, but I don’t think I need to. I don’t know what the Paradise Garage looks like, not enough to get a fix on it in my mind anyway, but I do know it’s right near Washington Square Park, so I think about the big gray arch and then zap I’m there, standing in the trees beside it.

  Something feels off though. It takes a second to figure it out, but then I realize—the air is cool. Way too cold to be June. The sun’s setting and people are wearing warm coats and scarves. It’s the fall. I’m in the right place, but I’ve gone too far.

  There’s a newspaper box on the other side of the street and I cross to read it. November 23, 1985. 1985? I’m more than two years off where I want to be. I must have got lucky with my last jumps, I
only missed those by a few days. How am I supposed to control where I end up? Can I even go backward? Those other boundless had those bands on their arms to help them get around—what if I can’t control where I go and end up jumping around forever?

  No, I can do this. I just need practice. I cross back over to the park and seclude myself in a bush and try again, this time trying to keep the date where I want to end up in my head, but not trying to move anywhere other than exactly where I’m standing.

  My first shot lands me in snow up to my ankles, and I immediately try again and arrive in the middle of the night. It’s warm though, so maybe I’m closer.

  The streetlights are on and the park is quiet, with only snores coming from the benches. I’ve never been in the city by myself, and definitely never at night, so I’m a little skeeved out as I run across the street and check the newspaper box again, but it’s empty.

  Arg.

  Now what? Wait, or try another jump?

  I decide to give the delivery trucks time to arrive and wander around the perimeter of the park. A couple of creeps give me the side-eye, but no one bothers me. Less than a half hour later a paper truck has rumbled by and refilled the box with the morning edition. July 6, 1983.

  I clap my hands and laugh in spontaneous joy, then reflexively look around, grateful no one just saw me just spaz out at the newspaper box.

  I’m close.

  But it’s still a day away, I can slip a little closer than that. Besides, I’m starting to get hungry and fifteen dollars isn’t much to live on.

  It’s probably close to 5 a.m. now, and the show’s at midnight tomorrow. If I fast-forward through thirty-six hours or so, that should land me with lots of time to get something to eat and then head to the show and wait for Gabriel to arrive.

  I look back to the bush across the street but instead I risk staying exactly where I am, and when I open my eyes it’s still dark. The street’s a little busier, though no one seems to notice me wink into existence on the sidewalk.

  There’s one paper left: July 7, 1983.

  I made it. Though I think I overshot. I was aiming for 5 p.m., and since the sun’s already set, it’s got to be way later than that. Close enough though. I’ll skip eating and see if I can find Gabe first.

  The Paradise Garage is right nearby, and I walk through a night that’s warm and thick with the smells of the city. It doesn’t smell great, but somehow not bad either. Just the right blend of sweat, car exhaust, and polluted sea water to cancel each other out.

  I’ve always wanted to be here, in New York, but now that I am it’s all wrapped up in grief. I got what I wanted, but lost everything in the process.

  The low-rise apartments and brownstones of Greenwich Village give way to the larger industrial buildings down closer to the river, and if possible, the streets get even dirtier. I don’t care though. I don’t even let the punks and wasteheads bother me. I can jump through time. And I’ve seen what the other boundless can do. If anyone bothers me, I think I’ll be okay.

  I hear the concert before I get there. Yup, definitely overshot. I don’t recognize the song but I can tell from the bass it’s New Order playing inside. The Paradise Garage was actually a garage before they turned it into a club. It’s only two stories high, which makes it the shortest building around here by far. It’s covered in brown brick, and a big roll-up door acts as the main entrance. The crowd outside is heavy, spilling out into the street, people who couldn’t get in but still came to the party, and the air is thick with smoke—cigarette and otherwise.

  I don’t know how I’m going to find Gabriel. I suppose I could try to jump inside, but without a clear line of sight or even an idea of what’s in there I have no idea what would happen. I might miss it by days. It’s probably cramped in there too—what if I jump and land inside someone? Is that even possible?

  No way am I risking that. I’m here now. Gabriel’s in there somewhere. I’ll just wait until the show’s over and find him when he comes out.

  I head down the sidewalk on the other side of the street, looking for a place to perch while I wait, and immediately spot Gabriel standing in a group with a bunch of guys right outside the front door.

  My heart skips—it’s so good to see him. He’s wearing all white: a tight short-sleeve white IZOD buttoned to the neck, white short-shorts, white shoes, and socks with red stripes pulled nearly to his knees. He looks Mod as hell, like he’s ready for a tennis game. Even though I know it’s not him, not my Gabriel, my mood can’t help but perk up.

  His friends are all good-looking and well put-together too. It’s the prettiest group of guys I’ve ever seen in the same place at once. They’re smoking, with beers in their hands, but why are they out here instead of inside watching the show?

  I cross the street and run right up to Gabe, stop just outside their circle, and tap him on the shoulder. He spins and gives me a squint, looks me up and down and I can see his judgy wheels spinning. I know I look like crap, my hair must be a mess, and I’m not wearing any makeup or anything. He’s going to have a field day.

  “My goodness,” he says, just like the old Gabriel, “what are you wearing?”

  I spin and give him a good look. “I call it the ‘I-slept-in-my-clothes,’” I say, and he flashes a surprised grin.

  “Nailed it.” He takes a long drag on his cigarette as he studies me. For a second I think this feels so right and so familiar, that maybe Gabe really might remember me, but my stomach sinks when he says, “So what can I do for you?”

  I try to keep the disappointment off my face as I struggle to come up with a reason why I tapped him. “I ... um ... can I bum a smoke?”

  I am not good at this.

  Gabe gives me an odd look but unrolls a crumpled pack of cigarettes from his shirtsleeve and shakes one out to me. I take it and put it between my lips, off to the side like I’ve seen Joan Jett do in pictures, and then he fishes a lighter out of his front pocket and lights it.

  I take one puff and immediately bust out in a coughing fit.

  The guy beside him lays his hand on Gabriel’s arm. He’s a little older than Gabe, and a little taller, and he’s got a kind smile and his thick reddish-brown hair is parted off to the side. I wonder if this is one of those secret friends Gabriel was never talking about.

  “Who’s your friend?” the guy asks Gabriel.

  “Haven’t the faintest,” Gabe says.

  “I’m Jasmin,” I say, wiping my eyes as I struggle to remember how to breathe. Why do people like these things?

  “I’m Russel,” the guy beside Gabe says, “and this is Gabriel. You here by yourself?”

  “Yeah,” I say, trying to keep my story simple. I hold the cigarette between my fingers, but keep it down by my leg, far away from my lips. “I thought maybe I could score a ticket after the show started. Why aren’t you all inside?”

  “We saw the rehearsal,” Gabriel says, as if seeing a New Order show wasn’t the most important thing in the world to him the last time we talked. “They haven’t even released this song yet. Besides, they won’t play ‘Blue Monday’ ’till near the end.”

  Looks like Gabriel’s life is going just fine. He’s standing outside the Paradise Garage while New Order plays in the background, and he’s already over it. Without me to hold him back he’s living the life he always wanted.

  Well, I guess that does it. Everyone I’ve ever loved is officially better off without me.

  It doesn’t feel great, but at least it’s freeing. Means now I can do whatever I want.

  The guys are finishing their cigarettes and about to head back in when a group of Wall St. types, all flashy suits and slick haircuts, push past as they parade along the sidewalk. They smell terrible, like they’ve been drinking cologne.

  “Hey, out of the way, queers,” one of them says, a guy in a navy suit with gold buttons and a bright red tie. “Why don’t you go pack fruit somewhere else?”

  One of them says something else but I can’t hear it over the rush of
angry blood in my ears. Who do they think they are? Just because they’re rich they think they can go around demeaning people?

  I want to do something about it but Gabe and his friends just turn and head back into the club, like this kind of thing happens all the time.

  “Might want to put that out,” Gabe says, and for a second I don’t know what he’s talking about but then I remember the cigarette dangling from my fingers. It’s burned right down to ash and I drop it. He gives me a hesitant smile then follows his friends past the red rope and into the club.

  Well, that settles it. My life is gone. The Jasmin Parker that lived here is dead—or never was, I guess.

  Now I suppose I need to figure out who this one is going to be.

  21

  Roadrunner

  Without anywhere in particular I need to be, I pick a random direction and start walking.

  I cut down to Spring Street and into SoHo, past the squat walk-ups and restaurants and corner bodegas. It’s a beautiful night, alive with all the promise I’d always imagined the city would hold, but now that I’m free to explore it, I have absolutely no idea what I’m supposed to do.

  Thrane and his army are still out there, somewhere, and there might be something I can do to stop him from conquering the next world, except I have no idea what’s happened to me or how my powers work, so what good could I do? The Remnants took out a whole trained team of boundless. Even if I did hunt Thrane down I wouldn’t stand a chance against him.

  I could always try to find the Omega Guard—except I don’t have the first clue about where to start. For sure they won’t be in the phone book. All I know is they live in a place called Eternity Station, which is in something called nullspace, and that I’ll never get there without a loop.

  What am I supposed to do, just jump around through time aimlessly and hope I stumble across this impossible-to-find place?

  No, I’m on my own here. I have to rely on myself. This was the plan, after all—take off and see the world, so I guess that’s what I’ll do. But that’s not so easy either. I’ve got no home, no money, and nowhere to go, so without any better options I’ll just keep putting one foot in front of the other and hope I eventually come up with something.