I don’t know what it means that I am still alive right now and whether I should keep this new, healthy body or dive into the harbor to finish what I started last night. But I do know one thing: I am never, ever going back to Cyrus. And if I can help it, Cyrus will never find his book.
I scale back down the ladder, jumping onto the pavement when I’m still four rungs from the ground. Ignoring the burning pain this ignites in my shins, I push my legs fast, making a sharp right onto Second Street and dashing toward the bar. Maybe the bartender there knows Taryn, and if I could get her last name, I could track her down.
I am thirty feet from the saloon when the wail of police sirens pierces the air. My forehead is covered in a fine mist of sweat, my stomach clenches, and I feel the precursor to an anguished cry choke my throat. I consider making a break for it, but I’ll never be able to outrun a police car. So I stop in my tracks, panting as I watch the officer who had been following me earlier get out of his vehicle and walk toward me.
“Excuse me, miss,” he says, “but shouldn’t you be in school?”
Bending at the waist to catch my breath, I swallow a stream of curse words. I had forgotten how young I look in this sixteen-year-old body. The backpack isn’t helping, either.
“N-No, sir,” I stammer. My mouth feels stuffed with cotton. “I’m on my way to work. I don’t have class at the university until tomorrow.” It’s a plausible lie—UC Berkeley isn’t far and being a college student would certainly explain the backpack.
“Sure you do,” he says, with a withering smile. “Let me see your ID.”
“Oh. Um, I don’t have it with me,” I try.
“I mean it, miss. Hand it over.”
I feel my face go hot and have no words as I open the bag and hand over Kailey’s driver’s license. He looks at it for a long time, then shakes his head.
“Get in.” He nods toward the police car.
“Why?” I ask.
“I won’t make you ride in the back, but we need to go to the station where we’ll call your parents.”
Oh my God, the Morgans. The last thing they need is to think their daughter, who they almost lost yesterday, has turned into a delinquent overnight.
“Please, sir,” I beg. “Please don’t call them. I promise I’ll never skip school again.”
The officer smiles ruefully. “Do you know what your problem is, Kailey?”
My problems would fill his citations notebook and make him question everything he thinks he knows about the world, but I keep my mouth shut.
“Your problem,” he continues when I don’t respond, “is that you’re a terrible liar.”
fourteen
The station smells like old coffee and men’s cologne, and the fluorescent lights overhead turn my hands a sickly shade of yellow green. I am sitting on one of the hard plastic chairs behind the reception desk when the entire Morgan family walks in. Mr. and Mrs. Morgan won’t look at me, but Bryan raises his eyebrows with grudging respect.
The officer pulls Kailey’s parents into a private room to talk to them, and Bryan takes a seat next to me. “I had no idea you were such a badass,” he whispers.
I don’t say anything—I just shake my head slowly. He elbows me in the side, and I allow a small smile.
Mr. and Mrs. Morgan exit the conference room, both of them tight-lipped and still refusing to make eye contact. Mr. Morgan’s face stands in flushed contrast to Mrs. Morgan’s ashen pallor, but I can tell they’re both furious.
As soon as we pull out of the parking lot, the floodgates open.
“First we have to come pick you up at the hospital, and then at the police station. What’s next? The morgue?” Mr. Morgan explodes, banging his hands on the steering wheel for emphasis.
I flinch at the word “morgue,” where this body should be right now. Before I can answer, Mrs. Morgan sighs. “Honestly, I blame myself. We’ve been entirely too permissive.”
“No!” Mr. Morgan snaps. “This is not our fault. Kailey, the officer told me you lied to him. Sneaking off is one thing, but I thought we raised you to always tell the truth.” He frowns. “I’m very disappointed in you.”
“Where were you even going?” Mrs. Morgan demands. “Does this have something to do with why you were there on Saturday night?”
“I, um,” I hesitate. Why would Kailey have been down there that night?
I glance at Bryan, who’s enjoying this way too much. I shoot him a poisonous look, but he just smiles wider.
“I’m painting the cranes,” I finally finish. “It’s my new project.”
“At night?” Mr. Morgan says skeptically.
“You’re grounded, of course,” says Mrs. Morgan, watching us in the rearview mirror. Bryan smirks. “For two whole weeks, if not longer.”
Mr. Morgan nods vigorously. “No going anywhere but school. And no TV.”
They continue to berate me the entire way home, but I tune them out, instead focusing on the whisper of an idea that’s taken root ever since the police officer slammed the door of his car on me.
Every push I’ve made to end my life has been thwarted. Every single one. It could be simple incompetence—after all, I’ve been with Cyrus for six hundred years, and I should expect some hiccups making my way through the world alone. But then I think of the night I switched into Kailey’s body, of the vision of my mother whispering, Not yet, and it feels like something, or someone, doesn’t want me to die.
I think of the disgusted expression Cyrus would wear if I said such a thing to him. Cyrus doesn’t believe in fate or anything at all beyond the physical world that he moves through so certainly. Modern science is the child of alchemy, he’d say. All magic has a rational explanation.
The hairs on my arm stand up as I consider that the universe might be trying to tell me something. As much as I think Cyrus is close minded in his staunch rejection of anything resembling spirituality, I have to admit that I’ve never actually witnessed anything to convince me otherwise. I’ve never seen a ghost, never heard a prophecy, never really believed in anything beyond this life. But now, as I’ve tried to leave it, I feel as if I’m brushing up against an invisible hand that is steering my course.
And though the body I’m in now is completely different from any other I’ve ever occupied, its heart beats as surely as any other’s, reminding me with each thud that I am very much alive. Maybe, the voice whispers, you should stay that way.
I shift in my seat, the seat belt scraping my neck, and train my eyes out the window. I pull Kailey’s hat down over my ears and close my eyes, letting the sun wash over my eyelids. I don’t know the specifics of my plan, but I’ve come to a decision.
I’m not going to end my life. Not right away. I am not this family’s daughter, but I owe them a debt. I will stay here, pretend to be Kailey, and figure how I can bring the Morgans peace. I will try to track down Taryn so I can find and destroy the book. And I will work on my plan of escape. Today’s events tell me it won’t be easy—My car is missing, I have no money, and I have no idea if Cyrus is on my trail, but thanks to Kailey’s healthy body, I have some time to figure it all out.
After a stone-silent family dinner, I return to Kailey’s room, close the door behind me, and immediately boot up her laptop. I try every possible search for Taryn—Facebook, MySpace. I Google “Taryn + Berkeley,” “Taryn + Saloon,” “Taryn + black hair,” but my attempts yield nothing. I next turn my attention to the saloon, finding a phone number listed on Yelp.
It rings twice. “Hi, is Taryn there tonight?”
“Who?” the man on the other end barks.
“Taryn. She’s a patron—she was there two nights ago,” I say, wondering if I’m speaking to the man who had studied my ID before begrudgingly serving me.
“Taryn?”
“Yes! She has black hair—”
“I have no idea who you’re talking about,” the man interrupts, then the line goes dead. I stare at the phone for a few seconds, disappointment mingling with frustration
. Now that I’m grounded, it will be difficult to get back to the bar to ask more questions in person.
But Taryn’s not the only person I have to find. I need to learn every detail of Kailey’s life if I’m going to pull off living as her. I look around the room, pondering the best way to prepare myself.
Considering her artistic skill, I am betting there is a diary around here somewhere. I approach the bed and reach between the mattress and the box spring, but come up empty.
My eyes are drawn to a framed print to the right of the vanity. It’s of a young girl wearing a wreath of flowers, a silvery crescent moon rising behind her. She holds one hand to her mouth as though she’s afraid to speak.
I gently lift the frame off the wall, feeling its uneven heft. Turning it around, I see that a sketchbook has been tucked into the gap between the frame and the wall. Bingo.
Sitting at her desk, I thumb through the pages. I feel guilty, like I’m spying, but looking at her artwork, I can almost sense her presence. It comes through so strongly. I feel like she’d want me to look at these, that she’d want me to recognize what she lost.
They are mostly portraits: a drawing of her mother in their garden, of Bryan tying his shoes, a wry expression on his face. She had a remarkable ability to capture the essence of their personalities with the smallest of details. This was her language, I realize. This was her way of interacting with, and chronicling, the world.
Several of the portraits look like Kailey herself, but they’re fantastical. In one she is kneeling next to a fire hydrant, a pile of broken glass in front of her, wings erupting from her shoulders. In another she has her hand outstretched, one finger pointing down a deserted street to a dragon who stands next to a parked car. They are gritty, realistic, but always with one detail that tells me this is a girl who believed in magic.
It reminds of Cyrus’s book, the carefully painted manuscript where he recorded his research. My stomach twists at the thought of Taryn poring through it just as I’m scouring Kailey’s journal now.
Flipping to the inside back cover of the sketchbook, I find a cryptic message: “FB—fairy510, EM—same.” I immediately grasp what it is: her Facebook and e-mail passwords. Score, I think, and settle in for some research.
Her e-mail doesn’t provide much personal information, though I do find an attachment with her class schedule. I pull up the website for Berkeley High School, which has a map. The campus is made up of many different buildings arranged in a square, with common areas mostly outside. I compare the layout to the locations of Kailey’s classes and commit everything to memory.
I click over to Facebook and log in. Kailey has more than seven hundred friends. My mind reels—Despite my long life, I can’t even think of seven hundred people that would know my name, let alone those that I would call friends.
I begin to sort through her list of friends and am quickly overwhelmed. There’s no way I can memorize them all. My heart sinks. I start scrolling faster, and the faces blend together and become meaningless. But one face jumps out at me. It’s the neighbor boy, and his name is indeed Noah. Noah Vander.
Scanning the posts on her wall, I see that there are only four girls who write with any regularity. These must be her close friends. There’s Leyla Clark, the girl with the magenta-streaked hair who I recognize from the photos. It seems that she is Kailey’s best friend, and therefore will be the hardest to fool. The easy camaraderie of her posts makes me sad; I miss Charlotte deeply. I wish I could contact her somehow, let her know I’m okay and ask for her help, but I know it’s impossible. She could never keep the secret from Cyrus. He would punish her for her involvement, then come straight for me.
I copy down the names of Kailey’s other close friends—Chantal Nixon, Madison Cortez, and Piper Lindstrom—and study their photos. There’s one girl who appears in many of the group shots, though oddly she’s not on Kailey’s friend list. I note her name as well: Nicole Harrison. She’s pretty, with shiny brown hair and a light dusting of freckles. She appears to be friends with the rest of Kailey’s crew. I wonder what happened between her and Kailey.
Kailey’s profile says she’s single, and though there are a couple messages from boys in her in-box, they’re not overly familiar or flirty. No boyfriend, as far as I can tell, which will make things easier. Although it does deepen the mystery of where Kailey was going the night she died. Like her parents, I realize I had assumed she was going to meet a boy.
A thwack from the direction of the window sets my heart thudding, and I leap up and back away toward the door. Oh God, I think, suddenly sure I will see Cyrus’s face at the window. The thought arrives with a sheen of sweat and a shot of adrenaline coursing through my veins.
I grab the nearest heavy object—a metal jewelry box from Kailey’s dresser—and flick off the light switch next to the door. The room is plunged into darkness, and I kneel on the floor. I hear sounds from outside, scratches and scuffles on the exterior walls. I squeeze my eyes shut and then open them, my breaths coming in alarmed gasps.
“Kailey! It’s okay,” a voice whispers. I open my eyes and reluctantly look at the window, where a face slowly comes into focus. It’s Noah.
“You scared me!” I say sharply, standing up. I am furious, but relieved.
He rather unceremoniously climbs the rest of the way through the window, a canvas grocery bag banging into the wall. I hold my finger to my lips and murmur a low “Shh.”
“I hear you’re grounded,” he whispers with a smile. “Bryan told me.” He climbs over the bed and stands next to me. He’s quite tall and is wearing gray corduroy pants and the same black sweatshirt he had on the first time I met him. I can smell the night air from the folds of his clothes.
“You really shouldn’t sneak up on people. You almost gave me a heart attack,” I hiss, gesturing for him to sit on the bed. I flick on the light, but it feels overly bright. I’m hit with the fear that it will bring the Morgans in to check on me and quickly turn it off.
Noah unzips his hoodie. “You know, light doesn’t actually make any noise,” he informs me. I can’t suppress a small laugh.
“I’m sorry if being on lockdown’s made me paranoid!” I whisper, sitting in Kailey’s desk chair, but pushing it back a few feet. There’s an awkward silence.
“Yeah, I heard you did some hard time today.”
“The hardest,” I joke feebly. “Two whole hours.”
He rakes back his black hair. It’s hard to tell in the dark, but I think I detect a blush on his tanned face. For some reason I’m reminded of the first time I met Cyrus, and I wonder why Noah has come here tonight. Is this a usual occurrence?
As if reading my thoughts, he clears his throat. “Any way, I knew you were trapped in here, so I come bearing gifts.” He reaches into the bag and pulls out treats: a cupcake, a brownie, and a bottle of sparkling pomegranate soda.
“Thank you,” I say, sincerely touched that Kailey had someone in her life who would sneak her cupcakes.
“Sure.” He looks away and fiddles with the shoelaces on his worn sneakers. “It’s no big deal.”
There’s another long silence, but I make no move to fill it. Experience has taught me that people will always start talking if the gap is long enough, and right now I need as much information as possible.
“So where did you sneak off to today?” He looks me in the eye.
“I didn’t sneak off anywhere. I just wasn’t in the mood for school,” I say curtly. “Did anyone ask about me at school? You didn’t say anything about my accident, did you?”
He tugs at the collar of his button-down shirt, looking stung. “Of course not, Kailey. I promised.”
I realize I’ve hurt his feelings. “I’m sorry.” I heave a sigh. “I’ve just had a long day.”
He smiles again, brightening. “Yeah, I suppose a run-in with the law could take it out of you.”
“You have no idea,” I admit. “Thanks for the cupcake, though. Chocolate is my favorite.”
“Anytime.
I guess I should leave you to your beauty sleep.” He flashes me another smile as he climbs onto the ledge, and I’m struck again by his deep blue eyes and strong jaw. “Oh! I almost forgot.” He jumps back down and picks up Kailey’s iPhone. “I assume you’re not allowed TV. What about phone?”
“They didn’t mention the phone,” I reply.
“Fair game, then,” says Noah, tapping on the touch screen. He hands it back to me. “Good night,” he says softly, slipping back out the window. I close and latch it behind him, shutting out the autumn night air, then look to see what he typed into Kailey’s phone.
He’s opened Words With Friends, the free Scrabble-like application. I tap the icon and see he’s already started a game with me. His first word is “sneak,” the K landing on a double-word square.
I look at my own letters: ZPJNMNY. No vowels at all. I build off his S, writing “spy,” then sit back down on the bed where he had been sitting. It’s still warm.
I wonder what Noah and Kailey’s relationship was like—Were they actually friends? I pick up the jewelry box from the floor and return it to the dresser, turning on a lamp. A small framed photo catches my eye—it’s a picture of her and Noah when they were kids, maybe five or six years old. She looks impatient, hands on her little hips, her eyes looking straight at the camera with a challenging glare. I guess she didn’t feel like smiling.
fifteen
Tuesday morning dawns gray and rainy, water coursing down the old wooden windows of the Morgan house. The morning plays out as the previous one did, except Mrs. Morgan is icy toward me and now Bryan makes me sit in the back, not because I’m an invalid, but a “criminal.” Little does he know.
We drive in silence, listening to Noah’s new Broken Bells album, and arrive in the school parking lot much too soon. I check Kailey’s schedule for the umpteenth time, then get out of the car. Once again Noah jets away, but now that I know they share the same first-period biology class, I wonder why he runs off without his friend. Bryan motions me forward, and we hurry across the parking lot, dodging puddles, their filmy surfaces covered by rainbows from the oil slicks on the asphalt. This time—no doubt on his parents’ instruction—he waits to make sure I’m actually inside the building before he takes off with a quick “See ya.”
The Alchemy of Forever Page 7