Surfacing (Spark Saga)

by Melissa Dereberry

  “Hey Tess?”

  “Yeah?”

  “What do you think that last message meant by what is broken will soon be restored?”

  Oh, here we go again. Leave it to Cricket. I love her curious, adventurous spirit, but sometimes enough is enough. “I dunno. Maybe nothing. I mean, it’s a poet playing a prank, remember? He could be talking about anything.”

  “But what’s broken?”

  “Lots of things are broken. The headstone, obviously. The dirt. The relationship that man had with his loved ones.”

  “Woah, that’s deep. But what do you really think he meant?”

  I sigh. “Honestly? I don’t care. It’s obviously some personal thing that we will never know the answer to.”

  “But it has something to do with Zach Webb, remember? There’s a way to find out.”

  “Oh no, you’re not suggesting…”

  “I’m just saying that there is an answer. For someone. Maybe not us.”

  “I’m guessing definitely not us,” I mutter. “We’re just the two nuts who happened upon it.”

  “It was fun though, right?”

  “Yeah,” I admit. “It was fun. But I’m glad we’re outta there. It was sorta creepy.”

  “I’m just sayin’ if this ever comes up in casual conversation with Zach…”

  “Yeah, like that’s gonna happen.”

  “I said if. I mean, there’s always the possibility.”

  Cricket, always ready for something new. “Well I’m not counting on it.”

  We arrive at the dress shop, and I get a whole new wave of anxiety. I can’t even remember the last time I wore a dress.

  “Come on, Princess,” Cricket chirps. “We’re gonna knock ‘em dead.”

  Zach

  Dani and I go to our favorite Japanese restaurant for dinner and we are seated at an intimate table in the back, lit by candlelight. I pull out the chair for her and she smiles at me, her hair cascading across one shoulder in one swift, silky movement. I touch her shoulder and squeeze slightly as she sits down.

  “I just love this place,” she says.

  “It’s good,” I reply, sitting across from her. In the candlelight, she looks radiant, even in the simple burgundy sweater she’s wearing. Her eyes glitter, a hint of gold eye shadow across her lids. She has less makeup on this evening than usual, and I tell her so, adding, “And you look absolutely beautiful.”

  She glances down slightly, as she normally does when I compliment her. “Thank you,” she murmurs. She is uncomfortable with praise, and yet, there is something in her eyes that acknowledges it, and owns it.

  “You are,” I add, and I mean it. Even after all this time, Dani still makes me a little nervous. Sometimes I wonder what she even sees in me. She could have anyone she wants, and yet here she is. Maybe we really did bond that day at Fuller Park, years ago. We were friends first, but what changed, and when? Perhaps it started that night I rescued her at the tunnel.

  “I’ll never forget what you did for me,” Dani says, as if she’d read my mind. “That night at the tunnel.” She blushes a little. “Do you remember?”

  Her kisses are what I remember most—the feeling of being so close to someone, and then suddenly, she accepts me, and wants to be with me. “How could I forget?”

  “Do you think we’ll always be together?” She says this both hopefully and tentatively, as if she senses something that is already in my heart, the conflict raging within it. How could I begin to answer such a question? I long to tell her the truth—everything, from the beginning. She would never understand it. She would be devastated. The thought of it makes me weak.

  “I can’t imagine not being with you,” I admit. It’s true…and yet.

  “Me either. You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”

  I grasp her hand. “You are something special. You mean so much to me, Dani.” The words tumble out so naturally, I feel like a fool. How can I possibly say such things with my heart so entwined? If time really is like the surface of water, with all points relative, moving and changing with each tiny movement, then how can love really have the depth necessary to sustain itself? My mind grapples with the irony. If what I know of the future is accurate—if Tess and I are meant to be together—then how do I continue? How do I live? What do I choose? After all, I’m assuming that I do have a choice. How do I live with the reality that I can change everything, with a single action? I can embrace the love I have for Dani, erase all memory of what I’ve shared with Tess, and presumably that would be the nature of my choice. And yet, I can’t shake the notion that to make such a choice would be tempting fate.

  “So, I picked out my dress,” she says. “It’s a surprise.”

  “I’m looking forward to it,” I smile. Will it be the blue one? I can’t help but remember imagining Tess in that dress, and I feel guilt seize me. What if she really does choose the blue one? My mind reels. “I’m sure it will be perfect.”

  Dani just smiles, and I can’t help but love her for who she is. Dani Chase. My dearest, closest friend. The girl who stole my weak, inadequate heart. Dani. “I love you, Dani Chase.”

  “I love you too, Zach Webb.”

  Later that night, I sit starting at my email inbox, the folder where I’ve saved all the messages from E.G.W. I have read them all a dozen times. I realize that it’s my turn to respond, but I am completely baffled as to how. Am I ready? And does being “ready” hinge on my confidence that these messages are, indeed, from my father? My mind grapples with a way to test the messenger, to come up with some question that will verify who he is. Of course, why didn’t I think of it before? I simply have to come up with a memory that is so specific, no one else would even guess it.

  On the other hand, if my father has a memory chip, then all of that can be copied and reviewed. Nothing is guaranteed to prove that he is my father. Perhaps I should ask to see this person. I mean, if it’s some person out there with privileged access to my father’s files, then they will balk at the idea of meeting or create some diversion or clever excuse. If I ask this person to prove his identity—beyond the hidden pages in an old book—then we might be getting somewhere.

  And so I begin:

  September 3, 2012

  TO: E.G.W.

  FROM: Zach Webb

  RE: Reservations

  Dear sir,

  As you may suspect, my lack of response in this matter is due to my inherent skepticism (of which you, a scientist—if your identity proves accurate—should appreciate). Upon our initial correspondence, I was sufficiently convinced as to your identity. But, upon further consideration, I have come to the following conclusions:

  Given the nature of your research, the availability of personal information regarding you (i.e., your memories and experiences) are subject to the possibility of outside access.

  Your sudden, urgent communication seems inconsistent with what a man in your position might be prone to (i.e.: Why now? Why has contact been delayed for years?).

  It seems unlikely that a man would contact his own son and not ask about his mother.

  The nature of electronic communication is, by its very essence, unreliable and potentially deceptive.

  Please understand my prudent and practical considerations regarding my further communication with you, and any disclosures resulting from said communication.

  Sincerely,

  Zach

  I hold my index finger over the “send” button, taking several quick, short breaths. If this really is my father, he will understand completely—and, perhaps, even admire my wise decorum. If it’s a saboteur, then this whole crazy mystery will be cracked wide open. Either he will fade away or pursue me with newly fueled vigor. Either way, I’m prepared. I must know the truth. I must know if any of this even matters now—and if it does, what it means for my future. I have no desire to tempt fate, but then again, I don’t want to miss an amazing opportunity to live the life I was meant to live. Choice—while seemingly free and independe
nt of outside influence—is inseparable from what comes before, and after. To choose right is, and should be, the only real goal in life.

  I press “send,” and sit back with a huge sigh of both relief and anxiety. Now, I am ready. But for what? My mind begins stacking up scenarios. One, some lunatic will storm our house and kidnap me. Or two, a black SUV with government plates will pull up silently in front of my house and two men in black trench coats will come arrest me. Or three, perhaps I’ve just been watching too much television.

  Realistically, this is will simply continue to carry on the dialogue, bent on whatever agenda he has concocted. Or, he will do nothing. Either way, I’m at peace with my decision. In fact, I’m fairly certain my father would be proud of my diligence.

  It’s late. I check my phone for any recent texts from Dani, but there are none, so I take this as my cue to go to bed. One way or the other, this situation will play itself out—perhaps without my help. In the end, if I’m so skeptical about the identity of this person, then how can I realistically validate anything that I’ve read or discovered up to this point? In other words, what if this whole fantastic tale is, in the words of the Time Traveler, merely a “hatched…fiction,” a “stroke of art”? What if this is nothing more than a really good story?

  Tess

  A tall woman in a red dress with enormous hoop earrings greets us at the dress shop. “Hello, ladies,” she says. “Can I help you find something?”

  “No, we’re just looking,” I mutter.

  She eyes us with a frown, looking at my shoes over the top of her rhinestone rimmed eyeglasses. I knew it. “Ok, then. Let me know you’d like to try on anything.”

  Cricket goes straight to the big display with all the latest trendy dresses in all colors, from lime green to pale pink. “Ooh, these are cool,” she says, and starts rummaging through the racks immediately.

  I stay back and take a look at the sale rack, with last year’s styles, rejects, and ones that are too flashy or complicated, or just plain ugly. I sigh, picking up a purple dress with a mid-length tulle skirt and sequined, strapless top. I hold it up. “What do you think of this one?”

  “Too frou frou,” Cricket replies. “How about this yellow one?”

  “That’s really pretty,” I admit, joining her at the display. “How much is it?”

  “$120.”

  “Yikes. This one is only $50.”

  She pinches the fabric and looks it over. “Yeah, well, it’s got some sequins missing. Plus, it’s sorta ugly.”

  “Thanks,” I mutter. “For the vote of confidence.”

  The Rhinestone Lady hovers in the background and I can feel her watching us, just waiting to pounce. “May I try this one?” I ask, holding up the purple dress.

  “Sure, just follow me,” she says, heading to the back of the store. “And what would you like to try, miss?” She looks at Cricket.

  “The yellow one,” she says, looking at me defiantly.

  We are standing in front of a huge three way mirror, Cricket in the yellow dress and me in the purple one, my skinny knees looking puny and inadequate beneath the frilly skirt. Cricket’s dress is a form-fitting sheath-type dress, with minimal beading and two thin straps atop a plunging neckline. We look at each other and burst out laughing immediately. Rhinestone Lady crosses her arms and sighs.

  “Maybe we should switch,” Cricket notes. “This dress is so not me… and that one—” She stifles a giggle. “Is so not you.”

  “I don’t know that dresses, in general, are me,” I admit.

  Rhinestone Lady pipes up, “Are you girls shopping for the Homecoming dance?”

  I almost let loose another laugh, thinking…what else would we be doing, shopping for formalwear this time of year? I just nod.

  “If I may make a suggestion?” She says, snatching a handful of dresses from the racks. She hands a dress to each of us. “These will look lovely on you.” She gives us a big, ridiculous fake smile. “And we take all major credit cards!”

  “Thanks,” I murmur, as we both retreat to the dressing room.

  I look skeptically at the dress—an electric blue strapless with gems. It’s definitely pretty, but nothing I would ever pull off the rack myself. I sigh and shrug myself into it. On first glance, it looks surprisingly good, especially with my dark hair. I shimmy back and forth, the silvery threads in the dress glimmering in the light. I pull my hair up on top of my head and lean in closer to the mirror. It looks good, but I definitely need makeup.

  As I emerge from the dressing room, the lady smiles approvingly, and Cricket gasps. “OMG, you look amazing in that!”

  I inspect myself in the three-way, and I have to admit, it does look nice. I take a peek at the price tag: $150. My heart sinks. No way are my parents going to spring for this.

  Cricket is wearing a burgundy strapless dress, and she, too, looks great in it. “I like that one too.”

  “Ladies, you look beautiful!” The lady chirps.

  On impulse, I twirl around and smile at myself in the mirror. “I like it.”

  “Me too,” Cricket agrees.

  “I’ll have to ask my parents,” I say. “Can you hold this one for me until Monday?”

  The lady hesitates, but then agrees. “I can. What’s your name?” I tell her. “And what about you... miss—”

  “Cricket Barnes.”

  “Got it,” she replies. “We will see you ladies Monday then.”

  When I get home, my mom is rolling dough on the counter. “Whatcha makin’?” I ask.

  “Chicken and noodles.”

  “Yum!” I grab a soda out of the fridge and stand across from her, watching as she pats down a ball of dough with a little bit of flour, and slams the rolling pin down onto it.

  “So I’m going to Homecoming.” I say casually.

  “Oh, how nice!” she croons. “I’m so happy for you! Who’s the lucky guy?”

  “Alex, but we’re just going as friends. Cricket is going with us.”

  “Oh, that sounds like fun, honey!”

  “So, I was wondering….”

  “You’re going to need a dress,” she says, continuing with the dough. “When would you like to go shopping? The dance is Friday, right?”

  “Well, I sort of already went shopping. With Cricket.”

  “Oh.” She looks a little disappointed. “Did you find something?”

  “Yes, but it’s too much.”

  “How much is too much?”

  “$150.” I cringe, waiting for her to say no.

  “Oh, well…this is a special occasion.”

  “I need to let the lady know by Monday if I want it.”

  “Sure honey. We’ll go after school.”

  I give her a hug. “Thanks, Mom!”

  Now, to find out what Alex thinks about the plan. I send him a text:

  -hey what’s up?

  -not much, just getting ready to go for a run

  -so, about the dance on Friday… Cricket doesn’t have a date, and I invited her to come with us…is that ok?

  -Um, ok…I guess

  I can almost hear the hesitation in his typed words.

  -we went shopping for our dresses today

  -cool… did u find one?

  -yep...it’s expensive but my mom agreed to buy it

  -nice

  -ok, I’ll let you get to running

  -k, ttyl

  I sprawl out on my bed, a little exhausted from the day’s activities. I think back to the geocache hunt, those strange clues, and the grave at the end. It was certainly interesting. Someone went to a lot of trouble to play a prank. It occurs to me that maybe that someone is Zach Webb. It makes sense. I mean, what are the chances that we’d end up at his father’s grave? Who else would plant a geocache there, of all places? The next question is…why? Why would Zach do that?

  A jolt of recognition surges through me. If Zach Webb planted the geocache at his father’s grave, then he also planted the others, which means he is also connected to the
old building, and Fuller Park, and Fuller Park is connected to me. As if that wasn’t enough to make me feel suddenly nauseated, I realized that the old building is apparently also connected to me. Cricket had said I took her there once. So all of this adds up to one thing: Zach Webb and I are connected. But how? And why? Surely, this is not a coincidence, and the fact that he is also my best friend’s boyfriend seems to confirm it.

  Time to talk to Dani. She’s at the football field. I assume she’s there with Zach, so I ask her to meet me at the parking lot and that I’ll text her when I get there.

  “So, what’s up?” Dani pulls down the visor in my passenger seat and looks at herself in the mirror. “Ugh, I have a zit.”

  “Ok, so here’s the deal. You ever heard of geocaching?”

  “Um, no.” She looks at me with a curled upper lip. “Sounds like a science project.”

  “It’s sort of like a treasure hunt—anyway, never mind, more on that later. Cricket and I were searching for these clues today and—”

  “You’re still hanging out with her?” Her tone surprises me.

  “What, you don’t like her?”

  “She’s ok…. Just a whack if you ask me.”

  “You don’t even know her,” I said, getting angry. “And where did you get that idea, anyway? She’s actually pretty cool.”

  “Whatev. So what’s the story?” She looks at her phone.

  “Ok, you know what? Never mind.”

  “Tess, I know you better than that. Spill it.”

  I tell her about going to the old building, the clue we found there, and the rest of the adventure, including the last one that took us to the grave. “My question is, how is Zach connected to that building?”

  “They own it. It was his father’s, then he died when Zach was eight or nine.”

  “Do you know what it was used for?”