Parallelogram Omnibus Edition

by Brande, Robin

  I smile at that. Even though I’ve never seen the footage, I’ve heard about it, and I still think the whole thing sounds so amazing. I think Halli was only twelve at the time. Wow.

  “I’m sorry,” I say, “I don’t remember. It was all . . . kind of a blur.”

  “I’m not surprised,” Ms. Newsom says. “Sharks, dehydration, third-degree sunburn, your grandmother’s broken collar bone—”

  “Yeah,” I say, “good times.”

  Bryan and his producer both laugh.

  “You’re in good hands,” Ms. Newsom says. “Bryan is one of our best. He won’t get in your way. He’s just going to shadow you while you’re in London, be the viewers’ eyes and ears. People are very curious about what you’re doing these days, as I’m sure you can imagine.”

  “Yeah,” I say. “I guess I can.”

  “Well, if there’s anything at all you need from us,” she says, “feel free to ask Bryan or to contact me. All right?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Thank you.”

  “Please,” she says. “Faith.”

  “Then Halli,” I tell her back.

  “Thanks, Halli,” she says. “We’ll be talking again soon.”

  The holographic head disappears. Bryan puts away his tablet.

  I watch it go back into his bag. “If there’s anything at all you need from us, feel free to ask Bryan.” Maybe that’s what I’m going to have to do.

  Because even though I brought the loaner tablet with me from the island, it’s not like that’s going to do me any good. I still haven’t figured out how to work it, or how to access that search function Celeste used to find Daniel, and even if I could accomplish both things, there’s still the problem of Halli’s parents’ snooping and listening in to whatever I do. So I might as well have packed a piece of driftwood from the shore, for all the good that particular item of technology is going to do me.

  So maybe Bryan is the answer, although I’m going to have to ask him the right way. He is a reporter, after all, and I can’t have him wondering why Halli Markham might be interested in finding a certain young gentleman in London.

  Or have Jake overhear me asking and wonder that, too.

  I’m just going to have to figure it out as I go, just like I seem to be doing with every other aspect of my life right now.

  Back home Lydia is always trying to get me to be more “yoga” by “going with the flow” and “not pushing the river,” and all sorts of other catchy phrases. But pushing the river has always felt better to me. I like to get in there and make things happen, not just sit back and take it all as it comes.

  Which is why I’m stuck here in a parallel universe in a parallel body.

  So maybe I need to shake up my tactics a little.

  What would Lydia do right now? How would she be all yoga? She’d lean back in her seat, take a nice calming breath, and just be here in the moment.

  And right at this moment I’m sitting across from a reporter who apparently is going to be with me night and day for the next week. So I might as well get used to it.

  “So,” I say to him, “that Faith woman seems nice. How long have you worked for her?”

  “About five years,” he says. “That job with you and your grandmother was my first. I probably wasn’t that much older than you are now.”

  “So you just . . . go wherever she says and film whatever’s interesting?” I still don’t really understand why he was at that board meeting. Did Halli’s parents invite him, or did his producer send him?

  “I bounce around all of the organizations,” he says. “Whoever has the next job. We all do that. Way to make a living.”

  “Oh. Uh-huh. I see.” I’ve run out of things to say.

  “That Faith, though,” Bryan says. “She’s really top rate. I’ve worked for a lot of history producers over the years, and some of them can be real—”

  “Excuse me?” I interrupt, suddenly sitting up straight. “What did you just call her?”

  “No, not her,” Bryan says. “I’m saying some of the other ones can be real—”

  “No, no—before that. Faith is a history producer? That’s what you call her?”

  “Yes,” he says. “Why?”

  Why? Why? Because right here, right in front of me might be the unveiling of a certified miracle.

  “So you know other history producers?” I ask.

  “Sure. A lot of them,” Bryan says. “Why?”

  I’m trying really hard to stay calm, and not let Bryan know that his answer to my next question might be the most important answer he’s ever given someone in his life.

  Because I have heard the term “history producer” only once before in my life, and it made such a little impression on me at the time, I’m surprised I even remember it.

  It was when Daniel was showing me some biographical information about himself—a list of his awards, some details about his family and his schooling—and there among the details were his parents’ names and their professions.

  His mother, an archaeologist.

  His father, a history producer. I had no idea what that meant at the time—nor did I think I’d ever care.

  And I didn’t pay attention to their names, because why should I care about those, either? And the problem is all the people here seem to take their mothers’ last names, so knowing Daniel’s last name is Everett doesn’t help me identify his father.

  “There was this one producer,” I say, choosing my words carefully. “I met him at one of my things a few years ago, and I can’t remember his name, but I think he said his wife was an archaeologist, and I just thought that was really interesting. Do you know who I’m talking about?”

  “Oh, sure,” Bryan says. “Sam Wheeler. Great guy. Worked for him on a few productions myself.”

  I’m sitting perfectly still. I want to jump up and down in my seat. I blink a few times just to expend the energy.

  “Do you . . .” I calmly clear my throat. “You wouldn’t happen to know where I could find him?”

  I’m sure Jake is listening right now—his seat isn’t that far from us. But I can’t turn around to check, because I don’t want him to see me do that and think that this is important.

  “Sam works for History 14,” Bryan says. “Right there in London, matter of fact.”

  “Hm.” I nod like it’s no big deal. “Okay, thanks.”

  Then I excuse myself and go back to my original seat. And give Jake a casual little smile.

  “Everything all right?” he asks.

  “Yep. Just fine.”

  I look out the window to pretend I’m not excited out of my mind right now.

  “Who’s that guy you were talking about?” Jake asks.

  “This girl’s father,” I say, which is at least partially true. Sam Wheeler does have two children, a girl and a boy. “I was thinking I might try to look her up while I’m over there. I think she lives in London.”

  “What’s her name?” Jake asks.

  “Sarah. Sarah Everett. Really nice girl.”

  Jake leans forward in his seat. He looks past me to make sure we’re not being watched, or worse, filmed.

  Then he whispers, “You’re a really nice girl. Wish we were alone right now.”

  I nod and give him a smile. Jake leans back again like there’s nothing going on.

  I force myself to look out the window.

  If this is what it’s like to go with the flow—to stop pushing the river—then maybe I’ve been doing it wrong all along. Maybe I should just wait for things to drop right into my lap. Because this piece of news might be the best thing I’ve heard in the past forty-eight hours.

  I have a way to find Daniel. Which is fantastic.

  Even if there’s a whole complicated river after that.

  31

  It’s late here in London, some time close to midnight. The city is beautiful and busy, and it’s traveling in the wrong direction. I’ve almost been hit by cars three times in a row now. Jake keeps having to pull me back
on the curb.

  “Look right, then left, then right again,” he advises. “The opposite of what you’re used to.”

  I have to say it out loud to myself while I do it, just to make sure. “Right, left, right.” We make it safely across the street. Into the next danger zone.

  Halli’s parents own an apartment. A “flat,” they call it here. Jake says it has two bedrooms. There are three of us.

  Obviously Jake and Bryan will have to share a room, but still. It’s the proximity thing. I’ve never spent the night somewhere so close to someone I could potentially be making out with 24/7.

  We enter the high-rise, and are greeted by a man in a very snappy uniform. I thought Lyman dressed well. This man, decked out in bright red and gold, looks like he could be leading a parade.

  “Miss Markham!” he says with a huge smile. “Welcome. Your parents let us know you were coming. So good to have you here, Miss.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Bates, how are you?” Jake asks.

  “Very well, sir, thank you.”

  “This is Bryan Stewart,” Jake says. “He’ll be staying with us for a few days.”

  Bates gives a little bow. “Good to meet you, sir.”

  “Is the flat ready?” Jake says.

  “Checked it myself,” Bates says. “Everything for the lady.”

  All the way up the elevator, I’m wondering what that means. As soon as Jake opens the door to the flat, I see.

  There are roses everywhere. White ones, red ones, pink, yellow, lavender. The whole place smells like perfume and bubble bath. I’m actually kind of embarrassed the guys have to stay here, too.

  There are fruit bowls piled high with grapes, oranges, apples, pears. A platter covered with crackers and spreads. A basket full of cookies. Several plates holding a variety of sandwiches. And three bottles of champagne.

  I wander into the next room. There’s a bedroom in there, so girly it almost makes my head hurt. Curtains and bedspread and tablecloths and lampshades, all made out of the same flowery cloth—white fabric dotted with pink and red roses. It’s a miniature flower explosion.

  Red doesn’t seem to mind. He hops onto the pile of pillows on the bed and settles right in.

  On a hunch, I open the closet. Just like the one in the mansion, it’s stuffed full of dresses, gowns, all sorts of frilly outfits. And once again there are more shoes in my size than I’d ever wear in a year.

  And once again I throw Halli’s battered duffel onto the perfect bedspread. And have a little smile to myself, knowing I’m once more going to rebel and wear what Halli would wear—what I want to wear.

  Jake stands in the doorway behind me. “What do you think?”

  “Hold on, let me check the bathroom.”

  I walk into the little space off of the bedroom, and find a claw-foot tub, currently filled with two huge bouquets of roses. I think I sense a theme here. I’m surprised there are no roses floating in the toilet.

  I look at Jake and have to laugh. “Who does this?”

  “Their decorator,” he says. “I forgot which one. Each property is different.”

  “If you guys want to send all these flowers away, I’ll understand.”

  “Why?” Jake says. “They’re for you. Enjoy them.”

  We walk back out to the front room, where Bryan is sitting in one of the frilly chairs, basically stuffing his face. I noticed he also sampled freely all the food they kept offering him on the airplane. Reporters must not get to eat like that too often.

  “So,” Bryan says, not bothering to swallow his food first. “I assume we start first thing in the morning?”

  “Right after breakfast,” Jake answers. “If that’s all right with you, Miss Markham.”

  “Hm. Sure.” I’m not really paying attention, because I’m busy looking around the room, trying to figure out where these guys are supposed to sleep. There’s only one couch, and it doesn’t look like it opens out into a bed. Considering how rich Halli’s parents’ are, I can’t imagine they expect people to roll a cot in here or sleep on the floor.

  Jake is now gathering up some food for himself. “So when you’re ready,” he tells me, “just knock on the door.”

  “What door?” I ask.

  He stuffs a cookie into his mouth and points. There’s a painted white door stuck in the middle of the wall. I go over and open it.

  And here’s the rest of the flat. I thought the rooms we were in were much too tiny for Halli’s parents’ taste. Now I see what I was missing.

  This other side is about twice as large as my side. There’s a huge living room, a decent-sized kitchen, a bedroom with two king-sized beds in it. I think the one on my side is only a double.

  The colors in here are completely subdued—just tan walls, tan rugs, boring, although I’m sure expensive, antiques. And no flowers or fruit bowls or champagne. No wonder Jake and Bryan are loading up.

  Bryan has half a sandwich in his mouth, and another whole one on his plate. He’s also carrying one of the bottles of champagne. “Hope you don’t mind. I heard you don’t drink.”

  Why does he know that, and Halli’s parents don’t?

  “No, of course not,” I say. “Help yourself.”

  He reaches back for one last cookie. I hand him the whole basket, which he wedges under his arm. “See you in the morning.”

  “Yeah, see you,” I say.

  “I’ll be right in,” Jake tells him. “I just need to go over a few things with Miss Markham about tomorrow’s agenda.” Then he closes the door. And quietly locks it.

  Then so fast I can barely react, he pulls me to one of the walls Bryan isn’t on the other side of, flattens me against it, and starts kissing the living wits out of me.

  “I’ve been waiting for this all day,” Jake whispers, and I realize I have been, too.

  I used to pride myself on having a brain that works. I liked challenging it with the hardest physics books I could find, with the longest hours I could spend studying, with the highest ambition for myself about which college I might get into.

  But lately I seem to take a lot more satisfaction in finding the things that allow me not to think at all—that grueling workout with Ferguson yesterday, and these workouts with Jake, which are sometimes just as sweaty, but involve much less exertion. I can understand now how making out got to be so popular. Right now I can’t think of anything more rewarding to do with my time.

  When we finally come up for air, Jake grins at me. Then he rests his forehead against mine, and whispers, “I should probably get back in there. We don’t want him wondering.”

  And I’m suddenly very grateful for there being a history reporter in the next room. Because right now he might be the only thing standing between me and making the wrong choice—a choice I might regret later, once I get all my brain cells working again.

  “Yeah. Okay. You should. In a minute.” And this time I flip him around and press him against the wall.

  Which I’m somehow sure is a thing Halli would do.

  Finally we both have to breathe again. Jake smoothes my hair away from my face. It’s the perfect time to look into his eyes. Those dark, familiar eyes I’ve grown up knowing, and always wished would look at me this way.

  But for the first time, I realize something: I’m glad he’s not Will. Will would never do this. He would never hold me like this, kiss me this way, say the things Jake says to me. Will is my friend. He could never be anything more. It would feel weird if he ever was.

  I think I finally just got that. Which is kind of amazing to me.

  “I should go,” Jake says again.

  “You should,” I agree. “Right away.” Then I close my eyes because he’s kissing me again.

  Sometimes it’s best not to think.

  Sometimes it’s the only thing you can do.

  32

  Halli’s parents must own half the world. At least that’s the impression they must be trying to give when you first walk into one of their buildings.
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br />   Everything is all marble and gold and dark, shiny wood, and there’s no point in putting up a wall anywhere if you can put up floor-to-ceiling windows instead. So if you walk in at the right time, like we just did, the sun coming in through the lobby can blind you and make you a little dizzy.

  “Miss Markham?”

  There’s a man holding out his hand for me to shake. I shield my eyes with one hand, and offer him my other.

  “Jake,” he says, “good to see you again.”

  “You too, sir.” Jake introduces us. “This is Johnson Chilton, Chief Operating Officer of the London office.”

  Bryan is off to the side, filming.

  “Where would you like to start today, Miss Markham?” Mr. Chilton asks. “Operations, accounting, off-site facilities, research and development—”

  “Research,” I say. “That sounds good.” Give me some science. That, maybe, I can handle.

  I didn’t sleep well last night. Maybe it was the gagging perfume of those flowers, or the gnawing emptiness in my stomach once I realized I hadn’t eaten since the morning, or maybe it was the jet lag or the time difference.

  Or maybe it was the guy sleeping on the other side of a door I purposely made myself lock.

  I always thought “tossed and turned” was just a quaint cliché, but I can confirm that a person in my position last night actually does toss and turn. So much so that if Halli’s parents were watching my tracking information, they must have wondered whether the microchip in my chest had gone haywire. Nobody can twist and flip and flop around in a bed that many times in one night. But she can if her mind has suddenly turned back on and decided to process things for the next seven or eight hours.

  Things like:

  Why did Mrs. Scott leave? Is she back here in London? Can I find her and talk to her? I don’t care what Jake says—I know Mrs. Scott is on my side. And I believe she can help me figure out how to protect Halli’s interests in her parents’ company.

  But why should I care? I’m just a temporary tenant in this body. If I can find Halli, if I can reverse what I’ve done, then isn’t it Halli’s choice how she wants to handle things with her parents?

  Jake said Halli already spoke with Monsieur Bern and agreed with him how things should be handled. Why is it up to me to mess with that? Why don’t I just butt out?