The Impossibility of Tomorrow

by Avery Williams

  She never fails to crack me up.

  “And Echo, you are quite the moon goddess,” Mrs. Morgan tells her.

  “Thank you,” Echo replies. “I take goddess references very seriously.” We all laugh, and I have to admire Mrs. Morgan’s choice of words. Echo’s hair is woven with silver ribbon and pulled up in twin high buns. A silver rose is pinned at each temple, giving her glittery, space-age outfit an art nouveau flavor. Opal earrings drip from her ears (“Reed’s birthstone,” she informed me), and she’s wearing a necklace that she made herself: a cross-section of a large blue geode, strung on a midnight-blue ribbon that matches her sparkly sapphire dress. Its hem floats several inches above her knees, revealing, as Rebecca promised, her mile-long legs.

  “Anyway, I thought you girls should know that Reed and Noah are here. They’re in the living room being cross-examined by my dear husband. So you might want to come out and rescue them.” Mrs. Morgan delivers this news with a wink.

  Bryan appears behind Mrs. Morgan. “I don’t mean to crash this girl-power party,” he says, “but, Ley? I think I need help with this tie.” He holds out the aforementioned tie, a gift from Leyla. Of course its design is a single wide strip of bacon.

  “There’s my hunk of beef,” she says fondly. “Come here, I’ll do it.”

  “My little filet mignon,” he replies, plopping heavily down on the bed as she approaches. Luna leaps up and scampers through the open door, apparently offended by Bryan’s invasion of her space. “Did you know ‘mignon’ means cute? In French? I googled it.” He smiles proudly.

  “Truly, your research capabilities are stunning,” Leyla replies, making short work of the tie. “There,” she says. “Are we ready?”

  In the living room, Reed and Noah are seated on the sofa, Mr. Morgan looming over them. “I’m only going to ask this once. There aren’t any plans for after-parties in hotel rooms, right? No staying out all night?”

  I clear my throat. “Dad, no. I’ll be sleeping in my own bed, safe and sound.”

  He whirls around, catches his breath. “Kailey, you look beautiful. So much like your mother when she was in college.”

  Noah rises. “I’ll second that,” he says. “I mean—not the part about Mrs. Morgan. I wasn’t born yet. But you look gorgeous, Kailey.” He grins.

  Mr. Morgan grabs the camera that’s resting on the coffee table. “Photos! Gather around the fireplace.”

  He starts snapping away, Mrs. Morgan standing behind him with a wide smile on her face. He takes picture after picture: group shots, couple shots, individual portraits. He only pauses once, briefly, when Noah suggests a different setting for the camera’s flash.

  “Just one more,” Mr. Morgan says.

  Bryan adjusts his meat tie. “Dad? We’re not getting married. I think you’ve got enough.”

  “Seconded,” I add. “We should be going.”

  Noah leans over me, whispers in my ear. “Let him have his fun. You’re lucky that your dad cares.”

  “Or, keep taking photos if you want,” I tell Mr. Morgan, but he shakes his head.

  “I’m good. You kids have fun tonight.” He sets the camera on the table.

  Mrs. Morgan hugs me tightly. “I’m so glad you decided to go,” she whispers. “Have the best time ever.”

  “I will,” I promise.

  Luna darts out from behind the couch and plants herself in front of the front door, holding her ground even as our large, noisy group approaches. I kneel in front of her. She meows, plaintively, like she doesn’t want me to leave.

  “I’ll be home before you know it, little kitty,” I say, stroking her fur and noting happily how much she’s filled out in the last few days. I couldn’t save Kailey, and I couldn’t save Taryn. But at least I saved Luna.

  THIRTY-NINE

  Noah’s hand closes tightly around mine as we approach the entrance to the Claremont hotel. “Madison’s really outdone herself,” he observes.

  “She’ll go down in winter dance committee history, which I guess was the point,” I agree, taking in the spectacle that lies before us.

  Bryan and Leyla’s grilled-cheese truck is parked on the circular drive, a long line of formally dressed Berkeley High students extending from its service window, all in search of melted cheesy fare. Fire breathers roam the area, and a troupe of acrobats wearing crowns of holly handspring around the lawn.

  Noah places his hand on my lower back to guide me forward into the ballroom. I can’t believe that only last weekend that we were both here setting up the decorations, so far apart from each other, on opposite sides of the vast gulf that Cyrus created.

  The ballroom has been utterly transformed. I had a part in it, but I’m still impressed at how everything came together. The ceiling drips with thousands of tiny white lights among the glittering snowflakes. In the center of the room is a spinning globe in place of a disco ball, casting a soft, feathery glow on the dancing couples below. Flanking the dance floor are buffet tables laden with tiered trays of cupcakes and tacos, punctuated by blue bowls of punch.

  A hand falls on my shoulder, and I whirl around to see Madison and Rebecca, each wearing a silver dress. Rebecca’s is more muted compared to Madison’s highly reflective material, making them look like a lopsided star system.

  “Well, don’t you two make a lovely couple,” says Madison, her tone sounding just the smallest bit insincere.

  “Any loveliness is because of Kailey,” Noah grins. “I take no responsibility.”

  “I agree,” says Madison with a wink. “Kailey, you are beautiful tonight. That dress is perfect for you.”

  “Actually, I bought it because it reminds me of an old friend. She has a dress just like this.”

  “Who?” asks Madison. “Anyone I know?”

  I shake my head. “She doesn’t live here. Her name’s Char—” I pause. “Charlene.” I clap my mouth shut, momentarily horrified that I almost just blurted out Charlotte’s name.

  It doesn’t matter anymore. When will you stop acting like prey? When are you going to get used to Cyrus being gone?

  “I can’t imagine anyone else wearing that dress as well.” She smiles. “You’re very lucky,” she adds, turning to Noah.

  “Thanks?” I say, not quite sure if I should take her at face value. The way she interacts with Noah feels fake, an act she’s putting on for my benefit to show she’s not attracted to him anymore. And if she ever did like him, the way he looks tonight would make her weak in the knees.

  He’s wearing a dark suit with no tie and a charcoal dress shirt that clings to his chest. His hair, as usual, is haphazardly parted in the middle and hanging to his chin in tangled black waves. I love the combination of his messy hair falling around his crisp collar, tousled above his immaculate suit.

  None of us speaks, and the moment stretches out, edging into awkward silence. I wish Leyla were here. She’d have some witty quip to make us laugh. But no—I crane my neck and see that she and Bryan are already on the dance floor. And I’d have to be color-blind to miss Nicole shimmying through the crowd, dressed to kill in a skin-tight cherry-red sheath dress that earns her appreciative glances from more than a few male students.

  Madison follows my gaze. “Well,” she says haltingly, “don’t let me stop you two from dancing. That’s what you’re here for, isn’t it? You don’t want to lose your chance.”

  I frown at her strange phrasing, glancing at her face. Her mascara is smudged, and even in the dim light I can see her eyes are red. She’s probably exhausted, I think. Planning this party has taken a lot out of her.

  “Good idea,” says Noah, holding out his hand to me. “Shall we?”

  I nod, taking his hand and following him into the crowd. My hips unconsciously begin to sway as we walk toward our friends, matching the bass line of the song that the DJ is playing. I am caught in the music as Noah and I finally reach the middle of the crowd, our friends closing around us in a tight circle. I watch their faces—Leyla, Bryan, Chantal, Nicole, Echo, and R
eed—as I listen to the words, indescribable happiness floating over me like a fallen star.

  I’ve been on this earth for more than six hundred years, yet I just learned what love is really like. It’s not a handful of powder thrown hastily on a fire, a combustible display of fierce color, a possessive arm thrown around my shoulders, a prison that I entered at the age of fourteen.

  It’s this, it’s now. I close my eyes. It’s as though the whole terrifying stretch between the night on Treasure Island and now has been erased. No breakup, no Cyrus, no choking elbow against my throat in the forest. I’m with my friends, with Noah. I’m six hundred and sixteen at once, old and new. Everything I’ve been through has led me to this moment.

  Noah reaches for my hand and I take it, sliding my other arm up over his shoulder. He pulls me close, till our bodies are pressed together, till we’re one. I turn my head to the side and rest it on his chest as we sway.

  We dance for a long time, songs melting into one another like candle wax in a house made of glass. I lean my head on his chest and listen to the sound of his human heart beating. How is it possible, I wonder, that it took me more than six hundred years to find Noah? And then I realize that if Cyrus had never placed that drop of elixir on my lips, I would have died in the fourteenth century. Not even a footnote to history. I never would have met Noah. I never would have known the greatest love of my life. And now that Cyrus is dead, I can almost, in a strange way, be grateful to him.

  For song after song, we stay like this. Finally I pull away. “I need to go to the bathroom,” I whisper to Noah.

  “Okay,” he says. “Come back.”

  “I will,” I say, turning on my heel to fight my way out of the crowd.

  I run into Echo at the edge of the dance floor. “Where are you going?” she asks, putting a protective hand on my shoulder.

  “Bathroom,” I answer. “Back in a sec.”

  She doesn’t reply, just blinks at me with big brown eyes rimmed in silver pencil.

  “You shouldn’t go,” she says at last. I wonder if I heard her right—the music is so loud.

  “When Mother Nature calls, I answer,” I retort with a smile that she doesn’t return.

  “You shouldn’t go alone. I’ll come with you.”

  “It’s okay,” I say quickly. “I don’t need an escort.” Echo’s long-distance stare and slow speech are creeping me out.

  “Okay,” she answers, nodding, as though unseen forces are telling her to back off. “You’re right. Good-bye, Kailey.” There’s a strange finality in the way she says it.

  I slip past her into the hallway that leads to the women’s restroom. Something feels . . . off. I can’t put my finger on it. I open the door to the bathroom and hear muffled sobs. I pause, surprised. It’s Madison.

  She’s leaning on the counter, staring at herself in the mirror, fumbling in the silver clutch that sits on the counter in front of her.

  “Maddy, what’s wrong?” I ask, quickly traversing the space between us. She looks so distraught. Her shaggy hair’s a mess, like she’s been raking her hands through it over and over. “Are you okay?”

  She shakes her head, sniffing. “I have something to tell you,” she says.

  I brace myself, hoping that it’s not something to do with Noah. Did something happen between them while we were broken up? “What is it?” I ask.

  “Seraphina,” she whispers. “It’s me. Charlotte.”

  My eyes widen. My heart pounds against the walls of my chest.

  My ears hear her words, but it takes a minute for my brain to catch up. My first instinct is to lie, to stay in hiding, where it’s safe. To say “Seraphina? I have no idea who you’re talking about.” But it’s Charlotte.

  “Char?” I ask slowly.

  “That’s what I said, dummy.” She smiles, reaches out to stroke my hair. “I’ve missed you, Sera.”

  “Me, too,” I reply. Tears sting my eyes.

  “Listen,” she says. “We don’t have much time. You’re in danger. Terrible danger.”

  “What are you talking about?” I ask.

  “Cyrus,” she whispers, glancing around as if to confirm that the bathroom is, indeed, empty. “He’s here.”

  “Impossible,” I breathe. “I killed him. Three nights ago.”

  Her brow furrows. “Are you sure?”

  “I’m sure. He followed me to Sonoma, pretending to be a police officer. But I—I took care of him.”

  Charlotte swallows hard, her gaze darting upward as her eyes fill with tears. “Oh, Sera. I’m so sorry,” she says sadly, taking my hands in hers, gripping them so tightly the bones scrape together. “That was Jared.”

  My mind reels, and I stagger backward. Officer Spaulding was Jared? I thought Jared was in San Francisco, working with the police to keep them occupied in the investigation of Mr. Shaw’s supposed death. If Jared was the police officer, then who is Cyrus?

  “Noah,” she whispers, as though she can hear my thoughts. “Noah is Cyrus.”

  “You’re wrong,” I say immediately. The idea is ridiculous. “Noah is Noah. I would know if he were Cyrus.”

  “Sera,” she says gently. “Why do you think he forgave you so easily after the breakup? Why do you think he was standing right next to you when Eli’s band played that song on Treasure Island?”

  “No,” I whisper. I am falling apart. My world is shattering like glass into a million tiny pieces that can never be put together again. “No. Noah isn’t dead.”

  “I’m sorry,” she answers. “But the boy you think you’re in love with isn’t even Noah. He’s Cyrus—he’s been Cyrus ever since Eli disappeared. Noah died two weeks ago. I wanted to tell you sooner, but I didn’t know if you were Seraphina.”

  I stare at the walls. I wait for the tears, sobs. I will break. But I don’t. I can’t. All I can think of is Noah’s hands running across my body three nights ago, of kissing him deeply, of being so deliriously in love with him that I nearly lost control of myself.

  But it wasn’t Noah. It was Cyrus.

  I feel like I’m going to be sick.

  This, this is betrayal. This is pain. This is what he wanted me to feel.

  “Sera, I’m so sorry,” she whispers again.

  I look up. I meet her eyes. “How dare he?” I ask. I’m shaking with rage.

  “You know what you need to do,” she says.

  She’s right. I do.

  I whirl around and tear out of the bathroom.

  FORTY

  There are no tears, not yet. I have forever to mourn. Right now I want revenge.

  I have enough presence of mind to run to the janitor’s closet and throw open the door. My hammer is there, right where I left it.

  I tear into the ballroom and scan the crowd. I don’t see Noah anywhere. I push my way through the dance floor, dodging boys in suits and girls in gowns, holding the hammer low at my side.

  “Sera!” Charlotte hisses, and I spin around. “He’s outside. In the back, by the kitchen loading dock.”

  “Show me,” I say firmly.

  I follow Charlotte’s silver dress down a shadowy hallway, so grateful that she’s here with me. I just can’t believe I didn’t realize it sooner. I should have known.

  She points to a steel door, holds a finger to her lips. I push it open.

  I think, suddenly, that my life has been made of nothing but doorways, a whole house full of doors. Some I walk through many times, back and forth. And some I only walk through once. They lock behind me. They are doors made of consequences that cannot be undone.

  Noah—Cyrus—stands under a bare bulb at the bottom of the sloped driveway. The night has filled with dense fog, and the light he stands under makes the surrounding mist glow like a halo. The air hums with air conditioners and generators. Behind my back, I slip my hammer into my other hand, so he won’t see it as I hurry down the stairs, my footsteps slowing as I meet him.

  “Are you okay?” he asks, his brow wrinkled in the perfect imitation of concern,
of love.

  “I’m fine,” I say, my voice shaking with anger. I can’t bear to look at his face, the face that Cyrus ruined. The soul that Cyrus evicted.

  “Maddy texted me that you were sick, that you were out here all alone.”

  Thank you, Charlotte, I think.

  “I am sick,” I answer, taking a step toward him. My fingers curl around the hammer, so solid and deadly in my grasp.

  “What’s wrong?” he asks. “Is it your stomach?”

  “No,” I answer. I take another step. “Not my stomach.”

  “What, then? A migraine? I’m worried. Should I take you home?” He holds out his arms. I take another step. I’m close enough now. Within striking distance, as they say.

  “I don’t have a home,” I say softly. “Not anymore.”

  “Kailey?” His eyes are so blue.

  I let my eyes drift past him to the top of the driveway. “What the hell is that?” I gasp, pointing theatrically. He turns to look in the direction I pointed. I say a prayer of thanks that I won’t have to see his face when I kill him.

  “It’s so foggy,” he says. “I can’t see anything.”

  In answer, I raise the hammer. I grasp it with both hands and aim at his black hair.

  And just as I’m about to slam it down, I hear a voice, a voice I know too well. A voice that’s never lost the soft brogue that she inherited from her Irish-born parents no matter how many new bodies she occupies.

  “Stop! Sera, stop!” the voice yells.

  I freeze.

  She comes running down the hill toward us, red hair streaming behind her.

  I drop the hammer.

  It’s Charlotte, in the body I last saw her in.

  And if Charlotte is here, who the hell is Madison?

  FORTY-ONE

  Charlotte skids down the hill. Through the fog, I see a figure behind her—Sébastien, his dreadlocks tied back in a low ponytail. He starts to run after Charlotte.

  I steal a glance at Noah’s face—he’s utterly, painfully confused. “Kailey?” he asks, but I just shake my head. I don’t know how to begin to explain.