I cringed. When you put it that way, it sounded totally lame. It seemed so simple at the time. I certainly didn’t think anyone would get hurt or that I’d get caught. But someone did get hurt, and I did get caught. And now, I was deeply ashamed.
Still, I found myself defending my actions. “But it was just a tiny edit—”
“The smallest event can set off mind-boggling chain reactions,” the Regent interrupted, frowning. “Mistakes are as serious as the results they cause, and sometimes those results take years to manifest.”
“I barely changed anything,” I argued. “I never thought it would hurt—”
“An Editor, who can’t control himself, is dangerous, Mr. DeMille. Surely you can see that. Far more disturbing, than the results of your actions, is the total lack of forethought. Mastering the Prime Dictate is the litmus test for entry into the ranks of the Guild, for earning the privilege to travel back in time. It signifies mastery of oneself.
“Changing the timeline is not something you do on a whim. There are three, possibly four Shadow Editors out there that are wreaking havoc in ways you can’t even begin to imagine. Each of them began with what you call a “tiny” edit, altering their timeline a little here and a little there. Our whole economy runs on predicting the future. When you have the unlimited ability to provide information to yourself in the past, you can amass unimaginable wealth and power. You can also become addicted to that power.”
He shook his head and glared at me. “Addiction is a powerful force. An Editor’s addiction to exponentially increasing power puts the entire planet in jeopardy. We cannot afford to lose you to that kind of obsession. Nor can we afford to let you just skip through time as if it was your own personal amusement park. We might not be able to control the Shadows, Mr. DeMille, but we can control you.”
“I know that,” I told them, looking as repentant as I could. “I deeply regret what happened, and believe me, I’m paying for it.”
“And you will continue to pay,” said the head Regent, looking to the others for agreement. They nodded one by one. He stood to pronounce my sentence. “Constantine Evan DeMille, this is the rule of the Board of Regents. Your signature has been blocked from the root matrix. You can no longer travel through time.” He banged his gavel. “Let it be so entered into the records of this hearing.”
Every cell in my body shivered with dread. This couldn’t be happening! This was way bigger than just me suffering the consequences. My family shouldn’t have to pay for my mistake. I had to change their minds. “But the accident…my brother…please, let me just go back one more time and fix it,” I pleaded.
“What’s done is done,” the Regent said. “The most important lesson an Editor must learn is to control his impulses. You must learn patience, adherence to rules, and that there are consequences to your actions. You must learn restraint…forethought.”
“But you can’t just leave it this way! My brother’s paralyzed. My family’s losing it—”
“They are not our concern. You, however, are. Let this be a lesson, Constantine. It is a grave responsibility to be an Editor, to travel back in time. You knew that. You willingly defied our most sacred rule. This action today is of your own making.”
“But someone else—”
“The decision is final,” he said, standing up to leave. His voice was like winter, spare and cold, and so were the eyes that stared me down. “Every member of the Guild has been informed and barred from interfering in this matter. We change the timeline to better humankind, young man. Editors can’t just be out there rewriting anything they want. A line has to be drawn somewhere.”
“But—”
“Silence, Mr. DeMille,” hissed a stern, grey-haired woman. “This is not open to discussion. You should be grateful that you haven’t been dropped from the Editor Program completely. We will revisit the option of renewing your privileges two years from this date. Until then, your signature is blocked. You are lucky to get this chance. I suggest you take it seriously. This meeting is over.”
And as far as I was concerned, so was my life.
I met up with Lex at the locker bay. In direct contrast to my outfit—if you could call an oversized, black hoodie an outfit—she wore a sky-blue sweater, thigh-highs, and a very short skirt. She had a smile on her face. Her lipstick was smeared, and her blonde hair was messy. Obviously, she’d spent seventh period in the stacks…not reading books.
“Jason Jackson?” I asked, dialing my combination.
“Umm humm,” she answered, licking her lips. She thumbed a text and grinned when one pinged her back immediately.
“Lipstick’s smeared,” I said.
“I bet,” she said, looking in her locker mirror. “Amazing I have any left on at all.”
“Fun?”
“You have no idea,” she mumbled, fixing her lipstick.
That was true. I didn’t have any idea. How could I? I’d never made out with anyone in the stacks…or anywhere else, for that matter. However, I did have a good imagination. “Nice to be you,” I said, dumping books in my locker.
She grinned. “Ready?” She slammed her locker door.
“You have no idea,” I said, echoing her earlier response. I was always ready to leave school. The hallway noise was unbearable, and my brain felt like it was carbonated.
We maneuvered through the crowd, her paving the way. By the time we hit the front steps, she had music going. So I stuck my earbuds in, and we walked home listening to our own separate tunes. We had the warm fuzz of familiarity that came from years of living together. We could tell each other anything, but we didn’t always have to talk.
Every once in a while Lex did a few dance steps and sang a line or two if it was a song she really liked. It was her walk-home ritual. She says the music washes the school off her brain. She likes to leave school at school where school belongs. That way home can be home.
Home for us is a tree house. Seriously. I’m not talking some little shack with a rope ladder and a “no boys allowed” sign. It’s a sleek, two-room cabin with polished wood planks, worked metal, and stained glass windows, set high in the sky in a massive oak. We have hardwood floors, a locking door, and even a little porch. There’s electricity, heat, and a tiny, working kitchen. The bunkroom can sleep four. It’s tight, yeah, but we make it work.
We had a unique arrangement, the three of us and our respective parents. Not that there was an intentional plan or anything. It just kinda happened, mostly from each of us having a ginormous parental vacuum and filling that vacuum with each other.
I’ve known Lex since we were five and in the same Montessori school. On my very first day, Austin Whitney dropped a worm down my new red dress. I squealed and tried to shake it out, but it was slimy and stuck to my back. I was desperately shy and scared and started to cry. Austin just laughed and came at me with another worm.
Then this feisty little blonde girl, in what had to be designer clothes for kiddies, ran up, and shoved Austin aside. She grinned at me, reached down my dress, and got the worm. Then she smashed it in Austin’s face. Austin never bothered me again. She’s been my hero ever since.
Lex rocks. She just does; there’s no better word for it. You’d think, with parents like hers, she’d be messed-up. But she’s just…not. While I hide, she’s totally out there, pretty much fearless. If I could be anyone, it would be her, hands down. There’s just something about her, and it’s not just her blonde hair, or her long legs, or all that other stuff that makes guys drool.
Okay, I’m not an idiot. Of course, some of it is that stuff.
But everyone likes Lex…well, except for the Bratz Doll and her sidekicks. But Lex could fit in with any of the cliques at school if she chose to. Even hanging with Ipod and me doesn’t taint her. But the thing about Lex…she doesn’t care what anyone thinks. We’re her family and she has our backs.
Her parents are both hotshot attorneys. When Lex was six, they realized Boulder was too small for the both of them. Her dad lives in New York now with hi
s new family.
Her mom, Pat, is like one of those hyper, little Chihuahuas, which is what we call her. Her hair’s so blonde its almost white. Her body’s toned. Her clothes are expensive. Back in high school she would have been the mean girl, the slutty girl, the one who slept with everyone’s boyfriends. We would have avoided her like the plague. Lex always seems to be a surprise to her. Like “right, I forgot. I do have a Armani Jacket and a sixteen-year-old daughter. Hmmm, how can I use them to further my career?”
I think it was a huge relief to the Chihuahua when we “adopted” her “forgotten accessory.” Lex spent the night so much that after a while she just never went back home. No one ever even mentioned it. The Chihuahua’s known Sam since college when he was still single and a functioning member of society. So it’s not as if she left her kid with a complete stranger.
Still…
Sam’s good looking, I guess, for an old guy…tall, wiry, blond. He was buffed back in college when he ran track and knew the Chihuahua. I think Sam was scared of her back then. Still is. But Lex’s mom trusted my dad, conveniently ignored the shape he was in, and basically turned the raising of her daughter over to us.
Case closed.
Ipod’s name is really Ivan Parker. Sam started the nickname. Ipod had just rattled off some long explanation about something or other. Sam ruffled his hair and said, “Kid, you download faster than my Ipod.” We thought it was funny because it fit his initials, and we’ve called him that ever since.
Ipod’s mom was from Japan which explains his raven hair and slightly Asian features. But, like mine, his mom is long gone. The story is she was spineless, irrational, and lazy, and ran back to Japan rather than live up to her responsibilities as a wife and mother. All we know is she left as though Ipod didn’t exist. She never said goodbye…never even wrote a freakin letter.
His dad? We figured he came from hell. The exotic, olive green of Ipod’s eyes are from his father’s genes. The haunted look in Ipod’s eyes? Yeah, that came from his father…but not from his genes. Part of it came from his fists. The rest came from whatever those fists might have grabbed—belts, coat hangers, burning cigars—whatever was handy.
We hooked up with Ipod the Halloween we were eight. Lex was Britney Spears and I was Spider Man. I was obsessed with the idea of climbing up stuff with those Velcro finger pads. I’d been wearing my costume for a week. It was freezing, and we had coats on over our costumes which sort of ruined the effect. Still, it was Halloween, and we were excited.
We’d planned to hit the outdoor mall alone while it was still light and then come back before dark to meet the sitter, who would trail us through the neighborhood. My mom hadn’t “checked out” yet, but she was fading fast. Sam had taken her to a “spa” for a “rest” and was there visiting.
We headed for the shortcut down the alley. We’d gone a few blocks, when we found him in a ditch—literally—behind a garage. He was just lying there on the ground, curled up in a ball. We thought he was dead at first. But when Lex felt for a pulse—we did watch TV—he opened his eyes and gave her his best lost-puppy-dog look. So we took the lost puppy dog home.
We didn’t know him, because he went to Catholic school. He had no coat on and was clammy and shivering. Lex wrapped hers around him, and I pulled my Spider Man gloves over his shaking hands. He’d been beaten up pretty bad but not anywhere that showed. We found out later that his dad was meticulous that way. We wanted to call 911, but the look of pure terror in Ipod’s eyes shut that down immediately. He didn’t say much. You could tell he was used to sucking up his pain.
We got him home in the wagon, moving slowly, trying not to jiggle him. The tree house has a system of pulleys and a canvas sling we use to ferry up supplies and stuff. We gently laid Ipod on the sling, curled on his side. Then Lex and I, with a heck of a lot of effort, hefted him up and pulled him inside. Okay, it sounds dangerous in hindsight, but we were only eight. Fortunately, we got him to the top without dropping him.
We found out later that he had burns and bruises from his knees to his neck. We never saw the backs of his legs. But he about passed out when we tried to sit him up, and there was blood leaking through his jeans in stripes. Curled up on his side was the only position he could manage.
Lex just stood there stunned and breathing hard from the effort. Her Brittney Spears make-up was smudged, in streaks across her face, from wiping away the tears.
I sat on the floor leaning back against the tree trunk with Ipod’s head in my lap. I needed my tree to get a grip on what had happened. That big, old oak pulsed with energy that only I could feel. I couldn’t explain it. It had always been that way. Where buildings made me weak, my tree made me strong.
Even then I knew that.
I pulled energy from my tree into myself, until I felt calm. I’d done that a thousand times. Then I kind of pushed it into Ipod. I’d never done that with anyone else before; but it seemed right somehow. We needed to do something. The entire time we sat there, no one spoke. The only sound was me humming which was how I focused the energy. I sat there, humming the energy into him, feeling it flow through my body and out my fingertips.
Soon he seemed to relax a little. His jaw unclenched. His hands softened. He stopped shivering and began breathing evenly. His face regained color like a sponge soaking up a spill. Minute by minute, he improved as though we’d given him a shot of some wonder drug.
After about five minutes, he pulled up his tee shirt, and the bruises were already turning yellow. Scars from cigar burns faded right before our eyes. We just sat there, watching his chest in amazement. He looked at me as if I was a rock star. Lex laughed out loud and danced around the room. I just kept humming.
In another ten minutes, he was able to sit up. In twenty, he was completely healed. We were so jazzed from what happened that we rigged him a ghost costume from an old sheet and went trick-or-treating. It was the first time he’d ever gone. It was the best Halloween ever. We hid him for three days. No one reported him missing.
His monster of a dad runs some big hedge fund in Denver. Yeah, the kind that screws people out of their investments and makes billions for a handful of rich guys. We call him the Hammer, for obvious reasons. The day we found Ipod, the Hammer had a bad day at the office and came home early to work it out on his kid.
Ipod’s strategy in the early years was to stay out of sight as much as possible. He spent most of his time hiding in closets, reading library books. He got himself to school, ate who knows what, and wore clothes he scrounged from the homeless-shelter free box. He was nothing if not resourceful.
Still, at least once a month, he’d get caught in the kitchen or coming home from school and have to pay the price for breathing. He’d give us a call, gasping through clenched teeth, sometimes not even able to talk. We didn’t need words, we’d hear him moan and know it was a 911 emergency.
He’d crawl out his window and be waiting in the bushes when we’d arrive with the wagon. Then we’d haul him back and I’d repair the damage. He’d hide out in the tree house for a few days to recoup. Then he’d sneak back home and the cycle would begin again.
By the time we were nine, we finally realized there was no point in his going home at all. No one woke him up for school. No one checked to see if he was there at night. No one made him dinner. Maybe the Hammer thought he’d crawled off somewhere to die, and he was rid of him. I don’t know. Probably, he didn’t think about him at all.
So Ipod was the first of us to stay in the tree house full time—easy deal. His father didn’t care and my parents were too stressed to notice.
I followed soon after, when my mom checked out. The only place I could fall asleep was near the soothing energy of my tree. After the funeral, Sam asked the Chihuahua if Lex could stay a couple of weeks, so I wouldn’t be alone. The Chihuahua jumped on the chance to have an empty house and “overnight guests.” Lex cramped her style. She didn’t like people to think she was old enough to have a daughter Lex’s age. Plus, did I menti
on the “overnight guests?”
Sam was so trashed; he let us call the shots. Besides, he was used to us sleeping in the tree house. He thought of it as just another room down the hall. He was relieved I had someone to hold onto. Two weeks became two months and two months became two years. Basically, Lex just never went home. Shortly after the funeral, the three of us were living there full time as though it was totally normal. Of course, normal is a relative word. But for us, it was home.
As we walked into the back yard, Lex pulled out her earbuds and spoke for the first time since the locker bay, “I’m dying for a Popsicle.”
“Me too,” I said, climbing the tree house ladder.
I walked into the tree house thinking—as I did every day—that except for an occasional, uneventful trip to the past, my days were all the same.
That was the last time I had that thought.
The screen door slammed behind me as I walked out on the back deck of the new house. I was trying to escape the moving madness inside the house and wishing I could escape the madness inside my head.
Six months ago, my life had been mint. I love Seattle. I had friends that I’d had since grade school and a sweet room on the third floor, far from parental interference. I was the local track star and played bass in a kick-ass band. I did okay with chicks. I had everything a guy my age might want and more. I just needed to follow a few rules, and I had access to a future you only see in comic books and sci-fi movies. And what did I do with all that?
I blew it, that’s what.
Sure, I had alien technology zooming around in my body and brain, and sometimes that sorta creeped me out. But hey, it let me do all kinds of cool stuff. So all in all, it was a good thing. I was part of the Editor Program, a program carried out in cooperation with another planet that not even the frickin Pentagon knew about. How sci-fi was I?
I was an idiot!
I just had to see that M83 concert. I’d had tickets for months, eighth row, center, and I was taking Meg Davidson, a cute, little hottie from English. I even had the car lined up. And then I spaced studying for the big chem test. I decided to skip since it counted for twenty-five percent of my grade. I forged a note from my mom, saying I had a dentist appointment.
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