Spark

by Melissa Dereberry

  I have to erase all of it. It’s the only way.

  *

  It is getting darker. I am standing in a field, on the edge of the trees, looking in the direction of the playground. The wind presses against me, lifts my hair, tosses it in every chaotic direction. I look up just as a whisper of lightning skips across the sky, black clouds flashing, then gone in an instant. Everything is still. Then I hear it. It’s Zach’s voice, and it’s getting closer. I see him coming for me. I know I need to run, but all I want to do is stay there and listen. Stay there and wait for him. I know it’s not safe—for anyone. But there’s something I have to do—something I need to do.

  Light flashes. A crack of thunder.

  The sky lights up again and the world is a huge paper lantern, so pretty yet so thin and fragile at the same time. I want to stop and just look at it, but the rain stings my face. Any moment, the strike is going to tear through the sky and drive into the earth. So I turn. I run—faster than I’ve ever run in my life—my feet pounding the ground. I am strong, my legs are powerful. I am powerful. I never knew how much. I run, harder, faster, further away from everything I know. I slow down, glance back and see that Dani is running toward her parents’ car, to safety. I see someone else following close behind her, a boy. A boy , I realize, that will become my Zach.

  I run because I’m the only one who can set things right. I run so the lightning will follow me instead of them. And I run, because this storm is mine. It’s been following me around my whole life. My story begins and ends, all in one bright, shining moment. My story is a spark. And a spark has great potential, given the right environment. And this is how I make my ending: I have to go back to where it all began. Where Zach and I began.

  The chip in my ear begins to throb, and then I feel a piercing pain. I know it’s attracting the lightning. Sudden heat, like an exploding bubble. I felt the sensation of hitting a wall. Then, darkness.

  Within seconds, I am lying on the ground. And, as luck would have it, I am breathing. In no time, I am surrounded by people, my parents scooping me up and carrying me away. My arms are flailing about. There is more clamoring and fussing, incoherent rambling. An ambulance arrives and some men place me on a stretcher. As we drive away, I look down at the bracelet on my arm and turn the star charm over and over in my fingers.

  Zach

  The next day, I decide to go down to my dad’s lab to start cleaning and packing. Someone wants to rent the building, so we need to get it cleared out soon. Maybe going through some old junk will clear my mind and help me forget about Dani for a while. Ironic how that works.

  When I get there, I am overwhelmed by the mess, the outdated equipment, and the overflowing file cabinets. The computer is covered with dust and I wonder if it still works. I hunt around for the cords and find that it’s plugged in and I just need to reconnect the keyboard and mouse. While it boots up, Dani fills my mind. I can’t stop seeing her lips, so close to mine, the way her hair felt. I see us together, walking across campus, hands entwined. Maybe when we go to college, we’ll spend our nights studying together and watching old sitcoms. It’s foolish, I know, but maybe if I imagine it long enough, it will come true.

  I am surprised to find that the computer is password protected. I sit there staring at the dialog box, thinking about typing in random words, but knowing my chances of guessing it is next to nothing. Where to look? There has to be a cheat sheet somewhere. I start rummaging around in the drawers, finding nothing but boxes of paper clips and pens. Finally, I find a bunch of scratch pads with doodles and notes scribbled on them. I examine them, trying to extract anything that looks like a password. I type in a few of them with no luck. Finally, I find one small yellow piece of paper with the words “Soliloquy 18” written on it. I shrug and type it in, happy to find that it's the right one.

  Various icons are scattered across the desktop. When I click on some of them, I find, as expected, a bunch of outdated programs. Nothing looks all interesting until I get to a folder titled “Research Log.” When I open it, there is a series of yet more folders—dozens of them. The one that intrigues me the most is one called “Project Zero.” Inside are dozens of files; each is dated. I open the first one.

  The heading reads:

  Project Zero: File 6-18-2008, Subject Tess Turner

  My mind doesn’t process this immediately, of course. But when I read it again, my eyes freeze on the name. Tess Turner. How or why is Tess Turner’s name in a document on my dad’s old computer, locked up in a dusty storage room? I look around as if someone might be playing a joke on me. This makes no sense. So I read on.

  The voice I encounter in the first line of the document immediately draws me in:

  My first thought: Am I dead?

  And so I keep reading… I go through every file—there are five of them. When I finish, I still can’t make sense of what I’ve read. What does this have to do with Tess Turner? Is it the same Tess Turner that was in my car just yesterday? Who wrote this? And what are they for?

  There is only one thing to do: Find Tess Turner so I can get to the bottom of it. But first… more. I have to know more. So I start digging. I open every folder, every file, every document… and I read. I get so caught up in the research and the documents about Tess that I lose all sense of time. Minutes turn into hours, and the words that I read start to become real. At one point, I am brought to tears.

  Two things happen next that stir up such a concoction of fear and frustration and intrigue that I am nearly immobilized. First, I find the document titled simply “Zach.”

  My dearest Zach,

  If you are reading this file, you have found my research, and I am gone. As I have no way to discern how far you have gotten into it, let me begin by saying that this project has been the greatest fulfillment and accomplishment of my life. I regret that I was not able to share it, in person, with you. I was very proud of you, and I want to share this with you now, because I think it is very important. This is life-changing, groundbreaking research. And the best part? It’s real. I hope you don’t feel I have toyed with Tess’ life or yours. But even when you were just children, I sensed something powerful between you. Who could have known how this would all turn out? I hope that it has turned out for the best, for both of you.

  I am including in this letter something important for you. If you haven’t already discovered the focus of my research, it is in a nutshell about the miracle of time travel. What I am about to give you is a gift, but it is a gift that comes with responsibility. Use it wisely, son…

  As I continue, I find information about a data chip that facilitates time travel. Its location is revealed, as well as directions for its use—should “the need ever present itself.” My mind wavers, trying to wrap itself around the idea that time travel is even possible, and the thought of implanting a device inside my body.

  What I find next baffles me even more. It is a file titled, “Project Zero – Subject Tess Turner: Wireless Updates.” Upon reviewing it, I find her voice again, telling her story. Only this time, it’s as if it’s happening right now:

  Project Zero: File 7-18-2012, Subject Tess Turner

  Everything complicated begins with something simple, some boring thing that you do every day of your life—like waking up. In those few seconds between dreaming and reality, nothing really happens and anything is possible. You are at zero, the least complicated number, the one that will never—no matter how much you add, subtract, multiply, or divide—have a measurable effect on anything. It’s a calm place, a safe place. Zero is the feeling of being buried under a warm, fuzzy blanket on a cold morning—a good place that never lasts. You have to wake up. You have to leave the warm comfy spot. It’s required. And it’s all uphill from there.

  I awoke. I instinctively tried to raise my head (which, incidentally, felt like a block of cement attached to my neck) to figure out where I was. I wanted to reach
up and rub my eyes so I could see better, but my hand felt too heavy for some reason, like a weight was strapped to my arm. What day was it?

  Apparently, Tess’s chip has been wirelessly updating this whole time. I read on and on and well, you know the rest of the story. But the last file is like a punch in the gut: Tess is going to erase it all. And it might just be up to me to fix it.

  I read the directions carefully for how to insert the chip. It didn’t hurt a bit. And are you ready for your mind to be blown? Apparently, it’s an exact copy of Tess’s.

  *

  I race up to Tess’ door in the rain, ring the doorbell twice. When she doesn’t answer, I send Dani a text to see if Tess is with her. She’s not. I’ve missed her and I don’t know why, but there's only one place that comes to mind: Fuller Park.

  Tess

  I sort of drift in and out of consciousness for what seems like hours. I hear voices, but they are muffled. I feel like I’m in a pool of water, floating, just beneath the surface, my arms spread wide, palms up. I can see light, but it's muted—like I’m surrounded by grayish fog. I sense things like ripples in the water, a person near me, garbled voices saying words I don’t understand. But I’m so afraid to move. I can’t feel my body anyway. My body is stiff, my hands don’t work. What is this called? Where am I? It feels like I’ve been here forever and I just want to go home. But when I try to think of what home is or what it looks like, nothing comes.

  I know I’m not alone. In fact, I’ve always known it. Someone is always nearby. That’s a good thing. Because if I were alone, I would probably die of boredom. Suddenly, the fog clears and the light gets brighter. Something traces across my field of vision—was it someone’s hand? It takes everything I’ve got to do what I’m about to do, but I’m tired of just floating here, and no one is going to come get me, so I reach. I lift my thousand-pound hand and extend it to the light. When I get close enough that I think I can feel the warmth from the light, my fingers stub against something hard and deathly cold. My fingers seem to freeze instantly. There’s something there, between me and the light. It’s like I’m underneath a frozen lake.

  You know what’s really weird? I think I saw Dani, for a split second, standing in front of me. She was so tall, but I know it’s probably just because I am lying down. Her hair was all puffed out and curly and her lips were pink and glossy. Then I remember I’m not exactly awake, so seeing Dani—much less seeing what color her lip gloss was—is virtually impossible.

  I wish I could see past this frosty fog!

  When you’re as bored as I am, you will come up with anything to pass the time, including dreaming up people appearing out of nowhere. Once, I swear I saw my bus driver, Mr. Ragsdale. Those furry, caterpillar eyebrows and that flyaway hair, the jowls—I’d know him anywhere. But, I have to admit, I was confused. First of all, why would Mr. Ragsdale suddenly show up? And if I was just dreaming, why would I have a dream about him, of all people? The cute boy from down the street, maybe, but Mr. Ragsdale? He reminded me of the sour smell of bodily fluids on that dusty, clunky bus. I must be going completely crazy.

  The cute boy from down the street…

  Zach

  I stare in amazement as she opens her eyes. They have glints of silver in them, like captured stars— so alive. She looks at me and I instantly want to swoop in and grasp her hands, touch her face, kiss her. It’s been so long. But of course, I can’t—not yet. Is she my Tess? Or am I nobody to her? Am I just the geeky kid from the school bus, the one who had permanent bed hair, jeans that were too short—whose shoelaces dragged on the ground? Does she know that we are forever connected, drawn together by a miracle of science, fused with the awesome power of nature? Does she know that I know her better than anyone else, that I know everything there is to know about her? Do I dare ask?

  Dani, as expected, starts crying immediately, and I hand her a tissue. She buries her face in it for a moment and then tells me to go get Tess' parents, who have stepped out to get some coffee. “Ok,” I say, taking one more long look at Tess before I go. She’s closed her eyes again, which makes me sad. Then, I take off down the hall looking for Mr. and Mrs. Turner.

  I find them, making their way back toward the room, carrying their Styrofoam cups. The minute they see me, I gesture for them to hurry and they start fast walking. I keep thinking they are going to spill their coffee on the shiny tiled floor. Somehow, though, they make it to me with—full cups of coffee intact. They don’t even stop to ask me any questions, but make a bee-line for Tess’ room. Mr. Turner has a disappointed frown on his face, as if he’s missed the biggest moment of their lives.

  We’ve known for several days that something was going on. The doctors said Tess’ brain activity was changing, that it might indicate a surfacing. One of them, Dr. Miller (where do I know that name?), a mole-faced little man in a perpetually bad mood, warned us that it could mean everything—or nothing, with emphasis on “nothing.” He’s not exactly an optimist. The hardest part for me has been pretending my whole world doesn’t literally rest on Tess’ recovery. I almost have to convince myself… but in my heart I know only one thing: Tess’ surfacing would be the most important day of my life. For outward appearances, Tess is just an old childhood friend to me, someone I used to tease and play rock, paper, scissors with. I’m only here because of Dani. Because we were there, together, the day of the accident. Because we are best friends. To let anyone think otherwise would arouse suspicion, not to mention drive Tess away for good. She’d never understand, not now anyway.

  I go back into Tess’s room and her parents are hovering over her. Dani is sitting in a chair, shaking her head in disbelief, a fresh tissue in hand. I sit down in the chair next to her and put my arm around her. I don’t really know what to say, so I just pat her shoulder. She glances at me, with her red nose and puffy eyelids, her cute pouty lips. “I can’t believe it,” she says. “She’s alive.”

  My heart does a flipflop in my chest, at Dani’s words—she’s alive. Yes, she is. Of course she is. She’s always been alive. For me, anyway. I nod at Dani and rub her back, still not sure what to say. Nothing I could say out loud, at this moment, would capture just how much this means. Dani lays her head on my shoulder and sniffles. I hand her another tissue and we sit like this, for a good fifteen minutes, watching Tess’ parents, the doctors in a flurry of activity, trying to gauge Tess’ condition.

  They say a lot of big words that I don’t understand, put instruments to her head, and scribble things on their notepads. Then, I hear something that slices through me, slowly, like a sharp knife. You know—how you feel the cut, you know it’s there, but there’s no pain, not at first. All of a sudden, your nerves go haywire, sending sharp warnings from the source—then the bleeding starts.

  “She’s not surfaced,” Dr. Miller says. “She’s gone back under.”

  The bleeding starts, and it will never, ever stop. Not until I hear Tess Turner’s voice again. Not until I see the shimmer in her eyes like moonlight on crashing waves. I could dive in there and make the sea my home. It’s not time for that yet, I know. Maybe it never will be. But the dream of it is so strong, I can feel it. A dream this real is the next best thing to reality. See, that’s the funny thing about love. Love can be impossible, unrealistic, and completely out of reach. But yet, it’s there. And sometime you make a decision to follow it. The connection never goes away. Decisions, by definition, are sort of permanent, and eternity is a long time to be wrong. It makes me happy, to dream about loving Tess, to know that I’ve made the decision to, even though I know it may never happen, not in this life.

  My heart starts beating, faster and louder, until I think it will burst.

  And then I hear her voice, for the first time in who knows how long:

  “Zach? Are you here?”

  I am up, on my feet, my hand in hers, before I can speak. She looks at me and I already know what she is thinking
. “I’m here,” I say.

  Stay with me, forever.

  About the Author:

  Melissa Green Dereberry is an award-winning author whose work has appeared in Common Boundary, American Literary Realism, The Quest, Midwest Poetry Review, and Writer’s Journal. She is the author of an instructional guide on the novel The Outsiders. Her first novel, Somewhere Like Here, a literary mystery, was published in 2012. Her awards include the Springfield Writer’s Guild Grand Prize (1998), the Johnson Memorial Grand Prize Award—League of Minnesota Poets (2003), the William Stafford Award—Washington Poets Association (2009), and the Writer’s Journal poetry contest (2011). She has taught college English for over fifteen years.