by Jen Brooks
She’s right. I was too young to dream up intoxicating myself. Even now I’m not sure I would have chosen that parameter. It’s bizarre to think of my worlds anticipating my needs, and maybe knowing me better than I know myself.
Tess continues. “Same in Kylie-Simms-is-your-girlfriend. You certainly did make one parameter on purpose—that Kylie love you. She has loved you all this time because she’s bound by that parameter. But there are other parameters you set up, again probably without meaning to. Like the fact that you don’t lose class credit for being absent.
“Just now you changed the parameter of intoxication in Jonathan’s-smokin’-hot-dance-club, just like you can change any rule about any world. You can add rules too. Like if you want your smokin’ hot dancers to prefer break dancing, they’ll do head spins to ‘Rockit.’”
I’m still stuck on the Kylie-loving-me parameter. What would happen if I went to Kylie-Simms-is-my-girlfriend and changed it?
“Changing parameters is actually a trickier skill than simply manipulating objects,” Tess continues, “which was the more basic lesson that I was trying to teach you by putting a Kylie clone in the dance club. I changed the first dancer who approached you, and you changed her back. Lesson accomplished.”
“Tess . . .” I have a question, but the asking of it has me extremely nervous. I concentrate on the yellow frilly dress with kneesocks, and Tess’s clothes change again.
This time she leaves them on and just draws up her feet so she sits cross-legged on the bed.
“How can I do that?” I ask.
She knows that what I’m asking is not, How do I have this ability? She knows I’m asking, How come I can do it in the real world?
“You’re a world-maker. You can do certain things.”
“But I didn’t make this world.”
“True.”
“I don’t understand.”
“You don’t have to understand, Brother dear. You just have to know what you can do.”
“Why can’t you be straight with me?”
“I’m being as straight as I can be. Some things are just the greater mysteries of the universe. Now, do you want your other two lessons?”
“What if I said no?”
“Then I would go. It’s entirely your choice.” She hasn’t changed out of the little-girl dress and pigtails.
“Whatever,” I say.
“Maybe you’ve had enough for tonight.”
I don’t confirm or deny that, but all the energy has gone out of me.
Tess scoots off the bed, and when her shiny shoes land on the floor, she’s shrunk about two feet. She looks up at me with a little girl’s face, the one that she wore when she was six.
“Everything will be okay, Jonathan.” Even the pitch of her voice is raised like a little girl’s. “I’ll show you everything you’ll need.” She clasps her small arms around my thighs and gives me a squeeze. My hands find her pigtailed head and awkwardly return the hug.
Then she’s gone.
I’m alone with my fears in the dark, wondering again what Tess is.
CHAPTER 17
NO MATTER WHAT HAPPENS THE night before, the sun always rises.
I wonder if sunrise is a parameter I can control in one of my worlds. Not going to try it today, though, in case I make the earth crack in half or something.
I get showered and dressed like I do every morning, check the contents of my backpack, and stop in the kitchen on my way out because something smells yummy. Uncle Joey has made French toast, which he does from time to time, and now he’s down the hall getting ready for work. He’s left me three pieces on a plate next to the bottle of syrup. I planned on grabbing a muffin and eating while I walked, but I never pass up a hot breakfast.
I eat quickly because the first bell rings in half an hour, and it takes me twenty minutes to walk there. Uncle Joey doesn’t emerge, so I holler a good-bye and slip out the door with a plastic cup full of OJ.
As I trudge up the sidewalk along the high school’s driveway, a car full of students slows beside me. I risk a split-second glance to see who’s doing the staring, but I only vaguely recognize a bunch of junior girls. As seconds pass and I get farther in, buses that stop for every speed bump begin clogging up the flow, so it feels like every car is slowing to gawk at me, Jonathan Aubrey, the guy Kylie Simms went all funny over in class yesterday.
When I reach the building, I’m invisible, as always. People have eyes only for spotting their friends or dashing final visits to lockers when it’s this close to the bell. I’m indescribably relieved that there isn’t a gang of gossips assembled at the door.
I endure first-period Non-Western History, then hurry to creative writing. I hope to beat Kylie and pick a seat without having to worry whether or not to sit next to her. Turns out I’m the first to arrive. The desks are in rows, so I claim my usual back corner away from the window. Other students file in and take seats. I cringe when Kaitlyn Frost sits next to me, but I didn’t exactly put a SAVED JUST IN CASE KYLIE WANTS IT sign on the seat.
The class fills up and the bell rings. Kylie is not here, and the seat in front of me remains disappointingly open.
Kylie’s had practically perfect attendance since kindergarten. And this afternoon is a track meet. Today is not a Kylie-like day to miss school. Could she have her guidance appointment?
The minutes tick by, and it’s all I can do not to worry about her as Eckhart drones on about descriptive characterization and characterized description.
Finally, with twenty minutes to go, Kylie comes in with a note for Mr. Eckhart. A seat is open next to Emily and Zach, which she looks at while Eckhart reads the note. “Thank you, Kylie,” he says, and places the note on his desk.
Kylie turns directly toward me. My pulse quickens as she glides up my row and settles in the empty desk in front of me. Mr. Eckhart has lost the class’s attention as several people outright turn their heads to watch her. Kylie’s face gives nothing away as she quietly takes out her notebook. When the class goes back to listening to Eckhart, my cell phone buzzes. I jolt but manage not to make a scene. Eckhart doesn’t notice.
Kaitlyn Frost watches me take out my phone. I want to tell her to turn around and mind her own business, but she catches herself staring and scribbles in her notebook. I’ve received a text: Are you coming to the meet today? I actually love that she spelled out all the words.
I have to be at the meet happening in Kylie-Simms-is-my-girlfriend. I’m scheduled to run the two-mile, which is the first event. Maybe I can work it so I get back to the real world in time to watch Kylie run, if that’s what she’s asking.
I text back, What are you running? and hear the muffled vibration of her phone.
After a minute my phone jolts me again. I think I startle Kaitlyn out of her newfound concentration on the teacher.
Triple jump, 100, 4 x 100.
I don’t know if girlfriend Kylie is competing in the same events in her world. I’ve never had a reason to stay in the real world on a track meet day, so I don’t know how closely related the two meets are. The triple jump usually happens during the two-mile, so I often miss Kylie triple-jumping. The hundred is after the hundred hurdles, which is after the two-mile. I could make it back here to watch the hundred as long as the other Kylie isn’t running it at the same time. Then is the four-hundred, then the four-by-one-hundred. All practically in a row. Kylie will be done when the meet is only half over.
I send my reply: I’ll definitely be around for the 4 x 100.
Today’s meet is only sort of important for the boys’ team, but Dunford’s girls’ team is really strong. Dunford and Pennington always treat this meet like it will determine the conference title, because most years it does. The four-by-one-hundred will be important to win because the relay winners take all the points, unlike in a regular event, where there are points for second and third.
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Kylie doesn’t text again, so I assume her original intent was to see if I was going to watch her run. We sit the remainder of class while Eckhart reads examples of good characterization and description and asks the class to comment. Kylie’s chair touches the front of my desk, which means that as I try to catch up on the notes Eckhart has written on the board, her hair is about twelve tiny inches from my hand. It’s all I can do not to reach out and touch it.
When the bell rings, Kylie turns around. “Are you sure you’ll come?”
“I’ll pick a spot by the third exchange to cheer for you.”
Technically there is no way I should know that’s where she’d want me to stand, but she’s not bothered by my special knowledge.
She smiles like I’ve just made her whole day, the way girlfriend Kylie smiles at me, or did until yesterday. I walk Kylie to where E-Hall and F-Hall split and stay for my last two classes in the real world. The other Kylie asked for space, and staying out of her world is the most space I can give.
* * *
After school I go to Kylie-Simms-is-my-girlfriend. I try to avoid Kylie before my race, and I’m pretty sure I’m successful only because she’s doing her part to avoid me right back. She doesn’t even come to the line before the gun to wish me luck. She doesn’t look up from the triple jump—which is a total of two feet away from the track—in order to cheer as I run by. Eight times.
I finish the race in third, so I earn us a point that Coach wasn’t counting on. That makes me happy even though I don’t think we’re going to need the point.
I do a hasty cooldown so I can spend a minute or two in the background watching Kylie triple-jump before I leave for the real world. In one way I’m distressed that she’s so distant today, and in another I’m relieved to be spared the guilt over leaving to watch real Kylie.
A small group of Pennington girls is gathered on the grassy hill opposite the triple jump pit. One of them is Rob’s girlfriend, Jessie. I sit beside her. “Hey.”
“Hey,” she says back. “What’s wrong with Kylie?”
Oh no. “What do you mean?”
“She’s got in a thirty-two footer, but her steps are all messed up. She fouled her first two.”
“What place is she in?”
“Definitely not first. That girl”—she points to a very tall, athletic girl on the other team—“jumped thirty-five something. And that one”—she points to a different girl—“is in the thirty-twos with Kylie somewhere.”
“So she’s at best second, at worst third.”
“I think so.”
Kylie jumped a thirty-six last week, so it’s not out of the question that she’ll do it again for the win with one of her three final attempts.
Jessie and I watch nervously while Kylie goes to her mark. Her face is haggard. She does her little routine of lean back, up on the toes, lean back, up on the toes, before taking off down the runway. She jumps and lands on the far side of what’s been raked in the pit, but as soon as her feet touch the sand, the official hollers, “Foul!”
The spectators from Pennington groan, and Kylie’s jump coach holds up a thumb and forefinger to show her the foul was only by an inch. She nods and shuffles back up the runway with her head down. She’s not her usual, confident Kylie self. She looks so tired, I don’t think she got any of the sleep she told me she wanted last night.
I’m torn. Normally I would go down and say something encouraging. She’d tell me about what she’s done to adjust her mark and such, what she’ll try next, and then she’d jump and be fine.
But I don’t think she wants me to go down. She doesn’t even seem conscious of the fact that people are watching her. She just sits on the track and watches her two key opponents as they take a thirty-three- and a thirty-six-foot jump. Now Kylie will have to get in a better jump to place second, or do a season-best to win.
I turn to Jessie. “What does your coach hope for here?”
“He knew about the one girl but not the other. Kylie said he thinks she’ll be second but really expects her to win.”
Kylie is the kind of athlete who does well under pressure. She’s been known to get her very best jump in at the end, but today is different. She compensates for her foul by moving back a whole foot and ends up jumping only a thirty-two from two feet behind the takeoff line.
This time her coach pulls her over for a side session. I can’t hear what he says, but he has Kylie nodding every few seconds. She waits there with him as the two leaders jump. Neither attempt is an improvement.
Kylie goes back up the runway and returns her mark to its original position. She puts her toe to it and takes a huge shoulder-raising breath. Lean back, up on the toes, lean back, up on the toes, run, run, run, run, run, run, run, run, run, run, run, run, hop—skip—jump. She sails through the air like she’s making a triple jump how-to video and lands perfectly in the pit. It’s at least thirty-six, but I bet it’s even farther.
The spectators are on their feet, craning necks as if they can measure the jump with their eyes. The official raises his pencil to his clipboard and hollers, “Foul!”
Kylie kicks sand on the way out of the pit.
Her coach tries to talk to her as she passes, but she ignores him. Now I really should go down and see her, and I think Jessie’s wondering why I don’t. Kylie doesn’t watch as her competitors do their final jumps. It doesn’t matter now. Kylie will finish third. Eight points for enemy Dunford, one point for Pennington. Not good.
Kylie sits by her discarded warm-up clothes to change her jumping spikes for her racing spikes. She has a one-hundred to run in a few minutes. “See ya, Jonathan,” Jessie says as she and the other girls sneak off to watch some other event.
I decide that the worst that can happen is that Kylie will tell me to shove off, so I gather my courage and cross over to where she’s tying on her racers. She hears me approach and looks up.
Her eyes are done up in purple and silver makeup shaped like butterfly wings, and her irises glow a bright violet. She was not wearing makeup a minute ago.
I stop cold.
“This isn’t a good time,” she says.
Something comforting should come out of my mouth, but it’s frozen shut. She squints at me, and her long, false lashes dim her violet eyes.
Seven billion fears race through me. Was Kylie really there last night? If not, did my being there, or the creation of the Kylie dancer, somehow rob her of sleep? I want to clean that slutty paint off her face. I want to tell her it’s okay about the triple jump. I want to tell her the truth about everything.
“Great,” she says, as if her makeup is perfectly normal, and when I look again, it is. But there are very dark circles under her eyes. “You don’t have to make me feel worse.”
“I didn’t mean—”
“Never mind. I have to get down to the hundred.” She grabs her stuff, and I fall into step beside her, anxious to say the right thing, which is tricky because when Kylie doesn’t do well, no amount of me saying she did fine or it doesn’t matter is going to help.
“I’m sorry, Kylie.”
“Sorry for what?”
“Sorry the triple jump didn’t go so well.” Sorry I messed up your life.
“It’s done. I’ll make it up in the hundred. Just leave me alone till I’m finished, okay?”
She jogs away before I can answer.
Ideally I would leave now for the real world and real Kylie’s hundred, but I’m worried about this Kylie. Since I’m not expected in the real world until the relay, I go to the perimeter fence to watch the hundred here. The boys are first, and we do pretty well, a second and third. Then the JV boys run the hundred in several heats because it’s the JV sprint race for today.
Finally the girls’ varsity race gets on the line. There is tension down here close to the finish. The officials hold their stopwatches up, knowing that th
eir accuracy might be the deciding factor in who gets what points. Kylie steps into lane three, and she puts her hands on the track to back into her blocks along with the other competitors. Once everyone’s settled and not moving, the starter raises his gun and yells, “Set!” The runners move into set position, hips in the air. The gun goes off.
Kylie gets a decent, if not awesome, start, but so does the Dunford girl beside her. They barrel down the track to screams of “Go, Kylie!” and “Go, Bethany!” The field falls quickly behind them, but it’s impossible to tell whether Kylie or her competition is ahead. Stride for stride they approach the finish and dive with mighty leans across the line. People in the crowd yell that Bethany won. Others that Kylie won. The officials form a tight circle to compare observations and stopwatches. The circle breaks, and the coaches get the news. A cheer goes up from the knot of Pennington girls around their coach. Kylie won. Twelve point six seconds for one hundred meters in April is a good time.
Kylie gets pats on the back from teammates and coaches, but she’s not smiling. The finish was too close, the team win is still in doubt, and Kylie knows her triple jump loss has made it that much harder to win the meet, and thus the conference title.
Since she still has a four-by-one-hundred to run and she told me to stay away, I don’t bother her again. If she’d lost the race, I would have had to stay, or condemn myself as the worst boyfriend ever, but the victory gives me leave to visit the real world for a few minutes. I head up to the locker room. It’s museum-echo empty, so I quickly exchange my Pennington track uniform for my T-shirt and jeans, reapply some deodorant, and will myself back to the real world.
I choose to emerge in the far corner of the locker room just in case someone is there, but the real-world locker room is empty. I waste no time getting out to the track, which is good because this meet is running ahead of the other one. The boys have started their four-by-one-hundred already. I’ll get to see real Kylie run before going back for my girlfriend’s four-by-one-hundred.