Surfacing (Spark Saga)

by Melissa Dereberry

  I sit down on the edge of my bed, and finally the sound fades. I rub my forehead, as it began to ache. Next, a jumble of words form in my mind.

  I have been waiting for this day forever, it seems.

  What do you mean?

  To talk to you, to see you. It’s as if you’ve been lost.

  But I’m not lost.

  Never mind all that. I want to teach you everything.

  Everything?

  Ah, yes. It all begins with tiny flickers of light, sparks…like shooting stars…

  This all must be some sort of really intense dream. I lie back down and close my eyes, but I am wide awake, so I start thinking about the next day…another day at school, the stares and the silence. All I want to do is go to sleep and not wake up for a week. That seems to be something I’m pretty good at, and, it has its advantages. Forgetting the past is at the top of the list. But if there’s anything I’ve learned it’s that forgetting doesn’t make things go away. The world goes on, without you, and sometimes, you’re just out of luck. Out of luck and clueless. It’s like showing up for a test that everyone else has studied for, and I’m just left staring at a blank page, hoping for a miracle.

  Zach

  In truth, I have only read The Time Machine all the way through once, when I found it in my father’s things, shortly after he died. Over the years, I have picked it up on occasion, skimming through, pausing on this or that passage that interested me, but I have never given it a deep, careful reading. I never noticed the missing pages. Upon examination, in fact, the text seems to flow from one to the next, as if there were no pages missing at all. I take note and indulge in the irony of this, as my father probably perused the entire book, looking for just the right place—out of all possible places—to leave his message. After all, it had to be hidden, and hidden well. Indeed, it was.

  I find myself wondering if there are parts of life that are hidden. Like the pages in the book, things hidden beneath the obvious surface—a surface so seamlessly constructed as to appear indelible. Are there hidden spaces in me, for example? Revelations, memories, and knowledge that could prove useful in some way, as yet undiscovered? Of course. The book is tangible evidence of it. And yet, there are no spaces that cannot be accessed, no hidden mysteries which we cannot locate, if we simply pry back the layers of what we see to be true. The concept of time travel confirms this. And yet, it was a concept meant to be discovered, almost intuitively. To force it upon someone could prove disastrous. My father’s words echo in my mind: People destroy what they do not understand…

  I ran across Tess at school today. She was standing at the lockers with her friend Cricket, and I could not avoid looking at her. If only she knew—if she really knew—the truth about me, about us. My heart screams out to tell her. I must fight the urge, every minute, not to grasp her in my arms and tell her how we came to be, the story of our love that began in another time and place. And yet, I know to do so would be foolish. Her skepticism and unbelief would prove insurmountable. I convinced her last time around because I had knowledge about the accident that landed her in a coma when she was 13 years old. Granted, that was information I could have obtained anywhere, had Tess put some thought into it. But it was enough, in the moment, to convince her to give me a chance. It wasn’t until I revealed specific details about her life—the Project Zero logs—that she began to really believe me. She could not deny the things I knew. And that intrigued her. How could anyone possibly know that much? How could it be, if not fate?

  I entertain the thought, of course, that it would be possible to repeat my previous method…if not for the fact that I am dating her best friend. Never mind the impossibility of getting her to listen to even one word of my outlandish story. The fact remains that Dani stands between us. At the first sign of my interest in her, Tess would recoil at my perceived betrayal of her friend. And in reality, she would be right. What was I doing? What have I gotten myself into? Dani and I have been together for years. Friends first, then—that night at the park, when she called me to rescue her from Braden Cooper. I’m not sure which one of us kissed the other one first, but at some point, something in my mind changed from friend to something more, and I stopped to simply look in her eyes. You’re so pretty, I’d said. I’ve always thought so.

  I was worried about taking her home in that condition, so I decided to pull over at the park for a while and let her sober up. Her parents weren’t expecting her home until at least midnight anyway, since they’d given her special permission to be out late for Homecoming. I groped around in the back of the car looking for a bottle of water I’d left there the day before and gave it to her. “Drink this, it will help.”

  She took a couple of sips, then contorted her mouth into a frown. I thought she might be going to throw up, but then she just threw her arms around me and pulled me awkwardly closer. “You’re the best, you know that?” She slurred. “I love you, man.”

  After hanging there for a few minutes, she got a semi-serious look on her face. “Do you have any regrets?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean regrets—in life—you know.”

  I considered this for a moment. Of course, there were things I’d done or said in life that I wished I hadn’t. Like telling dad I hated him once in the heat of an argument over some television show I was watching that he didn’t approve. When regret delivers a physical stab of pain, like it did right then and there, you know it’s for real. Because my dad was gone now, and I could never take that back. “Yeah, I guess. I told my dad I hated him once.”

  “That’s nothing. I’ve told both my parents that more than once. They know I don’t really hate them. It’s just they make me so effin’ mad sometimes you know?” She snuggled her face into my shoulder. “Anyway, that’s not what I meant,” she said, with a furtive grin.

  My chest was starting to sweat under my shirt, and my mouth was getting dry so I grabbed the water bottle and took a drink. “What do you mean then?”

  She placed her hand on my chin, turning my head toward her. “I mean, I only have one regret.”

  I was really getting nervous by this time because I was starting to feel warm all over and my stomach had this tingly ache that crept down my legs. “What’s that?” I asked, shifting my body in the seat to ward off the weird feelings that were taking over.

  “I just wish I’d kissed you first,” she said, coming closer. Her face was right in front of me, and even though it smelled like schnapps, I forgave her for it because I was numb with shock by that point. Plus, I was struck completely speechless, which was a good thing, because she planted one on me, right then. It was a little sloppy and slippery, but man, I didn’t care. I had wanted to kiss her for four years. Perfection wasn’t an issue.

  She kissed me again, this time with determination, as if, claiming me. And I was, apparently, in the mood to be claimed. She's stayed with me all these years…And to be honest, we are good together. We work. Our friends accept that we are a couple…no one would expect us to be anything different. Dani and Zach…it's a reality that goes without saying.

  Of course, I feel guilty for what I know. For what I know threatens everything that is—everything that is expected of me, everything that will happen from this moment on. What I know is this: Dani Chase is not the girl I am going to end up with. She is not the woman I will marry. This is undeniable. My father’s research proves it. I have been given a glimpse into the future, and I cannot deny what I have seen. The only problem is—what do I do with this glimpse, this potentially unsettling information? Am I to trust it, unwaveringly? Do I assume, beyond all reasonable doubt, that I will someday marry Tess Turner? Or do I entertain the possibility that what I do today, the steps I willingly choose, will have some irreversible impact on the future?

  In other words, do I have a choice? And if so, how can I possibly choose between them?

  As if the stars are aligned to serve up heaps of irony, Dani texts me. She rarely calls me, preferring text instead.
I sigh and trace my thumb over the screen on my phone.

  -hey did u check out the dresses on my FB page? Which one u like?

  Dresses…My mind scrambles. Oh, of course. She’s posted pictures of potential homecoming dresses. She went with a friend to try some more on after school today. Quickly, I jump over to Facebook and scroll through her pictures. There are five of them. I feel myself getting nervous. Of course we will be going to Homecoming together. She will require a dress. How to choose? My stomach feels a sharp pang of guilt when a momentary image—Tess, in the blue one that Dani has on—flashes into my mind. Tess. The blue dress. Her long dark hair, over one shoulder, in the blue dress. It’s strapless, of course. I cringe. I must focus. Dani is my date, and she’s asking me for fashion advice. As expected, she looks fabulous in all of them. Dani is flat out gorgeous, a fact that sometimes fills me with awe; other times, it makes me feel like a clod. Who am I to be walking around with such a lovely creature?

  Loveliness aside, Dani, I realize, would never appreciate The Time Machine. She would never believe my story.

  I text her back:

  - I like the pink one.

  - Really? I figured you’d pick the blue one.

  (Of course she would.)

  - Well they all look good…

  -  I will surprise you.

  - And it will be a lovely surprise, I’m sure…XXOO

  - Love u

  - Love u too

  My story…oh yes. It’s fantastic, to be sure. Not the sort of thing an average person would entertain, even for a minute. Perhaps someday, when time travel is discovered by the scientific community at large…

  The thought spurs an anxious thud in my stomach. It occurs to me that I am currently (presumably, unless my father has revealed his research to a third party) the only person in the universe who knows about this. The weight of responsibility is palpable. First of all, as I’ve mentioned, no one would believe it. I would be forced to validate the research, back up my claims. But, I’m no scientist either. I picture myself, standing at a podium amid throngs of people with a mix of expressions—from fearful to expectant to indignant. Cameras flash like strobe lights. I open my mouth to speak, not knowing what I should say, how to introduce to the world that what we see before us, the reality we know, is not as it seems. That there is something that changes the fabric of human history. Something…that I have no idea how to adequately explain. I look up, just before saying a silent prayer that the words will come. And in the back of the crowd, just on the fringe of light from a nearby window, I see the thin shoulder, the dark hair swept across it, the woman that time decided would be mine. Tess grins at me and I imagine, for a moment, it’s because she understands me. She knows. She believes. She’s here. But then, she is gone. And standing in her place is the stern face of my father, hand rubbing his chin reflectively, as if to say, “You have only one shot to get this right. Make it good, Son.”

  I hear a knock on my bedroom door. “Zach?” My mom.

  “Yeah?” I slip the book under my pillow.

  “Care if I come in?”

  “Sure.”

  My mom has aged dramatically since my dad’s death. Her once strong, muscular frame has slowly, over the years, gotten more frail and thin, her once broad shoulders dropping, shrinking, as if an invisible hand were pressing down upon her. She’s never remarried—a fact that continues to puzzle me, considering that she is still relatively young at 48, with a big heart and a smile to match.

  She sits on the edge of the bed. “What are you doing?”

  “Just texting Dani...” I hold up my phone. “She sent me pics of her homecoming dress.”

  “You two are pretty serious, huh?” She grins, then bites the inside of her cheek—something she does when she’s nervous.

  “I guess so, yeah,” I shrug.

  “Your father’s birthday is coming up,” she says.

  My heart jumps in my chest with the thought that maybe he’s contacted her, too. Does she know about his research? And how can I find out what she knows without either sounding like an idiot or a fool?

  “I thought maybe you and I could make a trip out to the cemetery on Saturday.”

  An image from my father’s funeral flashes in my mind. Umbrellas, all colors. My mother and me, standing next to each other with solemn stares. The rain dribbling incessantly like inexplicable music. The gray casket perched above the fresh ground. I clenched my jaw to keep from crying. I glanced at my mom, who somehow managed to hold her head up, her eyes distant, yet peaceful—much stronger than she looks now.

  I nod in agreement. “Ok, sure.”

  She smiles and pats my hand.

  My father was an avid hiker, which explains why it wasn’t unusual that he was found, barely conscious in Deer Creek Canyon State Park, one of his favorite hiking spots. He’d called my mom, somehow managing to get himself back to the trailhead. When she got there, she’d scolded him for not calling 911, but it wasn’t until later that she revealed this fact to me. He’d called her, and she came. But, by then, it was too late.

  Tess

  On Saturday, after having successfully survived the first week back at school, Cricket sends me a text and pretty much simultaneously shows up in front of my house. It’s way too early, but I throw on some clothes, brush my teeth, and jog downstairs. There is somewhere she wants to go, something about a writing project for English.

  My mom is in the kitchen already, frying bacon. “Hungry?” She asks, cheerfully.

  “No time, going on some adventure with Cricket,” I reply, grabbing a granola bar and a can of juice out of the refrigerator.

  “Adventure? Sounds intriguing. Where are you headed?”

  “I’ll explain later,” I mutter, rushing to the door. “And actually, I’m not sure.”

  “Well, have fun,” she calls.

  Cricket is texting on her phone when I climb in the car. Who could she possibly be texting at 8:00 on a Saturday morning?

  She looks up surprised. “Oh, I was just messaging you back.”

  I grinned, looking at my phone.

  -Hurry up, dude.

  “Dude? Isn’t that for guys only?”

  She shrugs. “I dunno. It just sounded right. Anyway, who cares. right?” She puts the car in drive and pulls away from the curb with a lurch.

  “Where are we going?”

  “Somewhere.”

  “Ok, well that narrows it down,” I reply.

  “Ok, the assignment is to do something I don’t normally do,” Cricket explains. “And it has to be outside.”

  “Well, that’s…open ended,” I say with a smirk.

  “I know, but it’s a beautiful day, so I thought…why not take advantage of it?”

  “So where is this mythical something you don’t normally do located?”

  “Well it starts with this,” she says, holding up her cell phone. “Ever heard of geocaching?”

  “Vaguely. Isn’t that like a boy scout thing or something?” I was already completely disinterested.

  “Not specifically. Lots of people do it.”

  “Ok,” I sigh. “What do we do?”

  “First, download the geocaching app on your phone,” she instructs.

  I locate the search feature, find the app, and start installing it. “So what is this anyway?”

  “Basically, people go out and hide stuff and you use a program with GPS coordinates to find it. It was on Mr. Davis’s list of suggested activities. And it sounded way more exciting than picking up trash in a public park or visiting a graveyard, so, here we are.”

  “A treasure hunt?” Truthfully, the graveyard sounded better to me.

  “Sort of, except the treasure is basically just finding it. Sometimes they can be hard to find…or so I’ve heard.”

  “Hmmm, sounds wildly entertaining.” And utterly boring, I might add. It’s a good thing I really like you, Cricket.

  “Well, that is what we’re out here to discover.” She pulls the car over on the
side of the street. “The first thing we need to do is put in our location. Then the app will tell us know where the nearest geocache is, and how to find it.”

  “Ok.” I start typing in our location. “It says there’s one about 1.5 miles from here. And there’s a map.”

  “Awesome, let me see!” She grabs my phone and examines the map.

  “Ok, so it looks like we just follow the blue flashing dot that tells us when we are close.”

  “Good thing I love blue flashing dots!” I say with mock enthusiasm.

  Cricket lightly punches me on the arm and pulls away from the curb. After a few seconds of trying to glance at my phone while driving, we both look at each other and she gives it back to me. “On second thought, you be navigator.”

  “Got it,” I agreed. “Turn left at the next street.”

  The map took us to Pine Street. And we found ourselves right smack in front of some old decrepit building. “I’m not going in there,” I warn.

  Cricket glances at me anxiously. “You don’t have any idea where we are, do you?”

  “No,” I admit, my curiosity suddenly aroused for the first time all morning.

  “You don’t remember coming here?” Cricket proceeds cautiously.

  “No,” I shrug.

  “Oh boy.” She scrunched up her mouth. “This is the place I was talking to you about at school. The old building? Where you wanted to meet, where you told me you knew who you were going to marry?”

  I must have given her a confused and/or annoyed look, because she dropped the subject. “Anyway, the geocache has to be accessible, so it has to be outside somewhere.”

  I look at the map. “Well, let’s go.” I hand her the phone. “You take it from here.”

  As we walk up to the building, my eyes follow the old brick façade, rusty guttering, and rickety fire escape to the top of the building where there was a small railing of some sort, extending the width of the structure.