Once Was a Time

by Leila Sales

  I narrowed in on some articles on the theory of relativity, something called “space-time,” the Gödel metric, Stephen Hawking’s chronology protection conjecture. All of this seemed like it had something to do with time travel, but none in any way that made sense to me, and I started to wonder why I had thought that reading scientific journals might help me at all. I wasn’t my father, I wasn’t a scientist; I was just a girl.

  A couple hours had gone by, and Miss Timms had made the “half hour until closing” announcement, when I finally hit the jackpot.

  It was an article that had been published more than twenty years ago, in 1992, in an Italian journal called Giornale di Fisica—which meant The Journal of Physics, according to an online translator. It was written in Italian, of course, which was why I hadn’t found it more quickly. It said nothing about me or Kitty, specifically—not that I’d thought it would.

  But it did mention my father.

  It just included his last name, in parentheses, which I knew meant that this article was referencing his research. Breathless, I ran the entire text—eleven pages, each filled with tiny font—through an online translator. The phrasing seemed awkward in places, probably due to the automated translation, but I could still make some sense of it. Well, not really, but about as much sense as I’d been able to make out of any of these articles.

  This was what I read, in the paragraph with my last name:

  “The now-familiar ‘grandfather paradox’ posits that time travel to the past is theoretically impossible because, if the time traveler journeyed to the past and were to kill his own grandfather before the grandfather met his grandmother, then the time traveler would not be able to exist—meaning that he would not be able to go back in time and kill his grandfather. To many this has been seen as philosophical proof of the nonexistence of journeys to the past. But if one looks at time as omnipresent, rather than as a straight line of cause and effect, then he can see how both the man and his grandfather exist ‘simultaneously, with the difference in years nothing more than a perceived prism, or a curtain that could be, at least for a moment, swept aside’ (Bromley 1928).”

  Even without understanding exactly what that paragraph meant, or what it was doing in this article, I felt my heart leap. Because there was my father’s name, defending the existence of time travel. Whoever wrote this article was someone other than me who knew who my dad was, who had listened to what he had to say.

  I muddled my way through the rest of the article. Its name translated to “Theoretical concepts in the space-time continuum.” Pretty much all I understood was that this scientist believed time travel was possible, and he had some theories as to how it might function. There was nothing seriously useful, though; nothing that said, “Here are step-by-step instructions to creating a portal,” or, “Here is a complete list of real people who have time traveled.”

  But there was one other paragraph that stopped me. And this is what it said:

  “What these hypotheses do not account for is the possibility—indeed, the likelihood—of spontaneously occurring time travel portals. What if a portal were not always a man-made device or machine, but rather an occurrence as natural as an earthquake or a rainbow, only far more rare and localized? What if a portal could simply appear in front of you, shimmering and rippling in midair?”

  That idea—a portal that just randomly appeared, shimmering in the air—that was my father’s vision of how time travel worked. And it was what had happened to me.

  Which meant that the scientist who wrote this article somehow knew and believed my father’s secret research. Maybe he had time traveled himself, or maybe he’d spoken to someone who had, just as my dad had interviewed that man who saw the portal in Wales.

  And maybe the person this scientist had met . . . maybe that was Kitty.

  “Five o’clock!” Miss Timms called. “Everyone, please come check out your books. We will be open again next Tuesday!”

  Quickly, I printed the article and stuck it in my bag.

  “No new books today, Charlotte?” Miss Timms teased as I passed by the front desk. “You’ll never get through the Ms at this rate!”

  I shook my head and touched the time travel article with my fingertips. For the first time in my life, books failed to interest me. The only thing I cared about reading and rereading now were those eleven pages.

  Chapter 23

  The author of “Theoretical concepts in the space-time continuum” was an Italian scientist named Dr. Ron Alama. Once I got home from the library, I scoured the computer in the living room for any information about him, anything that might explain how he came to such an accurate picture of a time travel portal.

  I found a number of other scientific papers by Dr. Alama, and even more that referenced his work. None of these had to do with time travel. Apparently he had, way back in the 1980s, invented some form of cancer treatment, a radiation therapy that was used in hospitals around the world. There was one photo of him that I saw over and over, showing a distinguished-looking middle-aged white man with a short beard and a big nose.

  But he had no social media pages, no contact information that I could find, no information about what university he might currently work for. If I’d wanted to write to him to ask what else he knew, I was completely out of luck. I hated to admit it, but Dr. Alama might just be a dead end.

  But I still had the Hotel Firenze.

  Kitty’s postcard was from Italy. And Dr. Alama was from Italy, too. So maybe Italy was where they had met.

  I recalled what my dad used to say: “When something seems like an unbelievable coincidence, then consider that it might not be a coincidence.”

  When Melanie and Keith joined me in the living room for dinner, I closed every window on the computer so they wouldn’t see my research and question my sudden interest in Italian physicists. Then I joined them on the couch.

  Keith handed me a container of General Tso’s chicken and Melanie turned on Lifeguard Bums, the new spin-off of Beach Bums that she was obsessed with. Personally I didn’t like Lifeguard Bums any better than I’d liked Beach Bums. In fact maybe I even liked it less, because at least in Beach Bums there were sometimes dolphins. I often wished I could read during dinnertime, but on the occasions when I had, Melanie and Keith kept asking with great concern what was wrong, and if I wanted them to change the channel, and it wasn’t really worth it.

  Tonight, though, I didn’t want to read. I wanted answers.

  “What do you know about Florence?” I asked.

  “It’s supposed to be a beautiful old city,” Keith replied. “Lots of famous art and architecture.”

  “Michelangelo lived there,” Melanie said. “Oh, come on,” she added to the TV as the guard who was always saying “I must have been a mermaid in a previous life” wiped out on her Jet Ski.

  “Have you ever been?” I asked.

  “Where?” Keith said. “To Florence?”

  I nodded.

  “No,” he said. “I’ve never been outside of the United States.”

  “Yes, you have. We went on that cruise to Jamaica once, remember?” Melanie said.

  “Oh, that’s right. Well, I’ve never been to Europe, anyway.”

  “Do you want to go?” I asked. “We could go together! It might be fun.”

  Keith and Melanie chuckled in unison. “I watched a Travel Channel episode set there, and it definitely looks beautiful,” Melanie said. “But it’s so expensive, and we already have that great Italian restaurant at the mall, and that’s not too far a drive. As for the art, I’m sure it’s impressive to see Michelangelo’s David in person, but seeing pictures of it is nice, too.”

  “It’s so complicated, too,” Keith added. “You have to get all the way to Chicago to get an international flight, so by the time you even get on the plane, you’ll already have been traveling for hours. And then it’s, what, a ten-hou
r flight to Europe? And airplanes are so uncomfortable these days. They make you pay through the nose just for basic comforts like enough space for your legs, and they place all those restrictions on what you can carry with you . . .”

  “And once you get there,” Melanie picked up, “how would you possibly get around? I don’t know any languages other than English. I guess I might remember some French from high school, but trust me, that was a long time ago. And figuring out transportation in those old, unplanned cities sounds like a nightmare. I get lost just when I go to Madison!”

  Keith laughed. “That’s true, you do.”

  The more they talked, the better time travel seemed as a means of transport. I remembered that it had made me almost unbearably sick to my stomach. But at least I hadn’t needed to worry about leg room.

  I used to feel about travel the same way that Keith and Melanie did. When I lived in Bristol and I’d never really been anywhere else, I hadn’t felt like I needed to go anywhere else.

  But now I did.

  “Do you think I could go?” I interrupted.

  Keith and Melanie both stopped and looked at me. “To Italy?” asked Melanie.

  “I’m sure you could go anywhere you set your mind to,” Keith replied.

  “But, like, now?” I asked.

  They laughed some more. Melanie said, “What’s the rush?” and turned up the volume on the TV.

  After I helped clean up from dinner, I ran up to my room and called Dakota. “I need your help with something,” I said when she picked up.

  I thought she would be glad for me to ask her. Dakota usually enjoyed it when she got to be an expert. But instead she sighed loudly and said, “Honestly, Charlotte, I’m shocked that you think I’d help you, after what you did today.”

  My hands grew cold. How would Dakota know about my research today? How would she even piece it together in a way that made it suspicious?

  She went on, “Or should I say, what you didn’t do.”

  “What did I do or not do?” I asked.

  “Oh, please. You know.”

  “I . . . went to the library.”

  She shrieked. “So that’s why you wouldn’t go out with Gavin? Because instead you went to the library?”

  “Wait. Are you mad at me because I didn’t go to the pool with Gavin this afternoon?” How did Dakota even know this? Why did she even care?

  “That was a dumb move,” Dakota said. “Why didn’t you ask me before you made this decision? Why didn’t you even tell me? You at least should have done that. We’re best friends, Charlotte, and this is one of the most exciting things to happen in your life, ever. I shouldn’t have to hear about this news from Sydney. It’s like you don’t even care.”

  I didn’t understand how Sydney had heard about this, either, but that was beside the point. I guessed I could understand why Dakota would be irritated. I remembered when Kitty had gotten her Film Stars invitation, and how upset I’d been that she didn’t even tell me about it, when it seemed so tremendously important. If a boy asked her out and she kept it a secret, that would have upset me, too. It would have seemed like she didn’t trust me or didn’t think I mattered. And technically, yes, Dakota and I were best friends.

  But ours was a different sort of best friendship.

  Nonetheless, I said, “I’m sorry, Dakota. You’re right. I should have told you. You know so much more about boys, so I’m sure you could have helped me.”

  “And you should have said yes to him,” she instructed, already sounding mollified.

  “I should have said yes. I think I just got nervous.”

  “Oh, Charlotte.” Dakota tut-tutted. “Charlotte, Charlotte, Charlotte. You have nothing to be nervous about. You’re adorable and popular and fun.”

  “Thank you,” I said. “You are, too.”

  “Yes,” Dakota said. “This isn’t about me, though. Do you want me to talk to Gavin for you, to see if he’ll give you a second chance? I can make up some excuse for today and explain that you really do like him.”

  “Sure,” I said, because that was obviously what she wanted me to say. “That would be brilliant. Thanks ever so much.”

  “You’re welcome! Is that what you wanted my help with? Because I really don’t mind taking care of that.”

  “Actually,” I said, “that was just part of it. The other part is, do you have any ideas for how I can convince Melanie and Keith to take me to Italy?”

  I’d had enough of Internet research and birthday candle wishes and waiting and hoping and sitting around. Now that I knew Kitty had lived, and had made it into the future, too, it was time for me to act. The sooner the better.

  And if anyone could work out a strategy to wheedle and connive an Italian vacation out of my foster parents, Dakota would be the girl for the job. She always got what she wanted. Surely she would have ideas to help me do the same.

  But Dakota said, “Ugh. Why do you want to go to Italy?”

  “Because . . .” I began, without any plan for how I was going to finish that sentence.

  “Let me try again,” Dakota said. “You don’t want to go to Italy.”

  “Why not?” I asked.

  “Because it’s not cool.”

  “It’s a country, Dakota,” I pointed out. “I don’t think entire countries can be cool or not cool.”

  “Well, you can think whatever you like, but I’m just telling you the truth. Big Fat Baby Jake Adler is going there on vacation with his family.”

  “Seriously?” I asked. “How do you know that?”

  “My mom saw his mom buying a new suitcase, so she asked where they were going. The Adlers think they’re so fancy. It’s nauseating.”

  “So annoying,” I agreed, but I wasn’t even listening. Because even though she didn’t want me to go to Italy, Dakota had unwittingly helped me work out a strategy of my own.

  And that strategy started with Jake Adler.

  Chapter 24

  I biked over to Jake’s house first thing the next day. It was odd, being back after three years. When I’d first been here, I didn’t know what year it was, or where I was. I hadn’t met Miss Timms or Melanie and Keith or Dakota. I was six inches shorter. I was a different person. But here was Jake’s big white house, looking exactly the same.

  I dropped my bike on the Adlers’ front lawn and took a few deep breaths as I stared at their closed front door, mustering up the confidence to knock. I tried to channel Dakota. Why would you be afraid of Big Fat Baby Jake Adler? You’re popular and adorable, and he’s nobody.

  But even though I knew what Dakota would say, I couldn’t make myself believe it. Maybe it wasn’t that I was afraid of Jake, exactly. Maybe I was afraid of myself.

  I tried some anagrams to calm myself. Jake Adler. Leaked Jar. A Lead Jerk. I wondered if he had a middle name. That might help.

  I turned away from the front door and slowly walked around the side of the house. Just another minute, and then I’ll knock. Honest.

  When I came to the backyard, I saw an easel set up, facing a big oak tree with a wood swing hanging from it. A watercolor sat on the easel, only half-finished, but already I could pick out the lush green leaves of the tree before me, the texture of the clouds in the sky behind it.

  “What are you doing here?”

  I turned abruptly to see Jake standing in his back door, holding a paintbrush and a cup.

  “Oh, hullo,” I said, laying on my accent as thick as I could. “I’m ever so sorry to intrude. I was just looking for . . .” I trailed off.

  You. I was looking for you.

  Jake kept staring at me in silence, so I cleared my throat and started over. “Is this your painting?”

  “Why do you want to know?”

  “It’s beautiful. It looks so peaceful. I love the way you got so many different shades of green in the leave
s.”

  Jake blinked at me and took a couple steps closer. “I didn’t think someone like you would care about art.”

  “What do you mean, someone like me?” I asked.

  He blushed and looked down at his feet. “Never mind,” he mumbled. He looked up. “Yeah, okay, I’m painting that. It’s just a dumb thing. You don’t need to tell anyone, or, whatever, make a whole deal out of it.”

  “I won’t,” I said. “Don’t worry.”

  I really did think his painting was good. But I also knew what he meant. Most kids in our class wouldn’t care if Jake was a good painter. They would just make fun of him for it, because art was for girls. Which didn’t make a lot of sense, now that I thought about it, because a lot of great artists had been men. Like Michelangelo.

  “Michelangelo was Italian, right?” I asked.

  Jake gave me a confused look, like he wasn’t sure how we’d suddenly gotten onto the topic of Italian painters. “Yeah.”

  “And Leonardo da Vinci.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Is that why you’re going to Italy?” I asked. “Because so many good artists are from there?”

  “Who told you I was going to Italy?” Jake asked.

  “It doesn’t matter,” I said, not wanting to invoke Dakota’s name around him. “When are you going?”

  “What’s it to you?” he asked, moving closer to his painting, as if to protect it.

  “Just curious,” I said. “Just making conversation.”

  “Look, Charlotte,” Jake said, his cheeks bright red, and his words indistinct. “You barely ever talk to me, you and your friends laugh at me when you know that I can hear you, and now you’re showing up acting all nice and asking me questions about where I’m going and what I’m doing. I might be weird, okay, but I’m not an idiot. I don’t know what you’re planning this time, but I do know that you’re not ‘just making conversation.’” He hugged his arms around his skinny chest and looked at the ground.

  My cheeks felt hot with shame. I wasn’t that mean to Jake. There were kids in our grade who treated him a lot worse than I did. Other than that one time, years ago, when Dakota dared me to call him names, I had never gone out of my way to hurt Jake’s feelings. I never even talked to him, so how could I be mean to him?