Kyle looked away. When he went back to 1998, there was a brief moment when he’d fallen for Allaire and matched her crazy-intense feelings, or at least matched them part of the way. But this was a different Allaire.
“You think I’m old and ugly now,” she said. “I get it.”
“It’s not that at all,” Kyle said. “We don’t even know each other. I’m a juvenile delinquent. You’re a time traveler. That’s a lot to digest.”
She put her hands on his cheeks. “I could never not know you, Kyle Cash. Our connection is still there, same as always. I don’t care if my body says I’m 35 years old and yours says it’s 18—”
“Seventeen” he said. “For another month . . . But, according to you, when we get back to 2016, I’m going to be in prison. Not exactly the best starting point for a relationship.”
“I’ll wait for you,” she said.
Allaire was beautiful—at any age—and maybe he would want something with her. She just made him feel like it was somehow predestined—like he didn’t have a choice. And, after two years in prison, the last thing Kyle wanted was choice being taken away from him.
This woman who was now twice his age held Kyle’s hand as they waited quietly on a bench for the call to board the bus. The wind swirled violently around the old, wooden bus depot.
“You’re shivering,” Kyle said, taking off the Columbia ski jacket they’d bought together sixteen years ago and laid it over her like a blanket. “The bus will be warmer.”
Kyle sprung up when he saw that it was 9:02, eleven minutes before the last version of the bus crash occurred. Bus #17 would be on its way to Clinton Middle School right now.
Allaire had warned him that details might change, but the crash would still go off as it always had. So, even though it was early, Kyle kept his ear out for sirens. He remembered the deafening sound of the emergency vehicles arriving right after the crash as he hung upside down talking to Joe Stropoli’s lifeless head, dangling alongside his.
She kissed him once more, and again he didn’t give much effort on his end. She pulled away quickly this time.
Kyle turned and noticed an older woman a bench away giving them a disapproving look.
“It was simpler in ‘98,” Allaire said.
“Because we were the same age?” Kyle asked.
“Not just that,” she said. “There was no baggage then.”
Kyle could barely concentrate on their conversation. He stood up suddenly. “Be right back.”
Inside the bus depot, he found one of the few remaining pay phones in Flemming. He dropped a quarter into the slot. He had to know what was going on over at the house. He needed some hint of what was waiting for him on the other side of the time tunnel in 2016. Would he be a free man? Would the kids from the bus all be alive? He dialed his own phone number, hoping Sillow would answer.
Ring . . . ring . . . ring . . . Voicemail. Sillow probably didn’t think it was safe to pick up 2014 Kyle’s phone. Kyle hoped the reason was as simple as that, and that nothing had gone wrong.
The bus to New York was just starting to board as Kyle got back to Allaire. They took two seats toward the back. Kyle stared out the window, looking for any hint of the bus’s fate only a few miles away on Banditt Drawbridge.
“Do you think there’s any chance it worked? Stopping the crash?” Kyle asked.
She interlocked her fingers with his. Despite being preoccupied, Kyle liked the way it felt. “I’m sorry, Kyle. No matter what you do, those kids will never see March 14, 2014. Time doesn’t just let itself be defeated. The crash happened. If someone told you it was possible to make that not so, then I’m sorry. They were wrong.”
CHAPTER 4
March 13, 2014
* * *
A few minutes earlier
Sure, Joe thought it was strange that someone had locked them in the bathroom and boarded up Kyle’s entire house during the twenty minutes or so that they were upstairs. It was very weird, but they’d searched the house and there was no one inside, so they were safe. Joe wished Kyle would knock it off with the screaming. He was blissfully high, and a little drunk too. His friend was just bumming him out.
Kyle’s neighbors obviously weren’t home. Yelling, “Help!” over and over wasn’t going to do anything if no one was around to hear him. Joe would’ve preferred to be stuck at his house, with the snacks he liked and his PlayStation 3, but it wasn’t the worst thing in the world to be at Kyle’s. Bottom line, it wasn’t Joe’s problem, he thought to himself. Probably some boyfriend of Kyle’s mom getting a little crazy.
He laid on Kyle’s comfy green couch feeling pretty satisfied with himself. He felt like a total badass when he was able to shimmy his pocket knife into the doorjamb of Kyle’s bathroom and get them out.
“Help!” Kyle screamed through the wooden boards again. “We’re stuck in here!”
“At least whoever did this can’t get in,” Joe said. “Even if they wanted to.”
Kyle looked at Joe and rolled his eyes. “Will you shut up, please?”
Joe pulled the tequila from his jacket pocket and sat up to take another drink. He started to put the bottle down on the coffee table when he saw there wasn’t much left. They’d drank more than Joe realized they had. He emptied the rest of the bottle into his mouth—a huge five-swallow sip that almost made him gag.
“You’re a fuckin’ idiot, Joe,” Kyle said. “Think about what’s going on here. You’re not fucking scared?”
Joe shook his head. “Dude, your mom is gonna be home in a few hours. We’re not gonna rot in here,” he said. A second later Joe thought about what he’d just said and couldn’t remember whether he’d said it loudly, or just quietly to himself. “Is this about your fuckin’ math test, bro?”
Joe took out his favorite Zippo—the one with the pot leaf drawn in the colors of the Jamaican flag. One day, he’d visit Jamaica, he thought. Smoke as much weed as he possibly could. Figure out a way to mail some home to himself. There had to be a way without getting caught.
“Please! Help us!” he heard Kyle scream again, his face pressed up against the boards blocking the front door of the house.
Just chill the fuck out, Joe thought to himself, but he was done trying to convince Kyle. It was a lost cause.
Joe flicked the Zippo open and ran his thumb on the wheel, igniting the flame. Fire looked so cool when he was stoned. One day, he thought, he’d get a place in the woods and build a fire every single night. Maybe one day he’d have a wife and kids to join him. She’d get high with him, of course, except when she was pregnant. And he wouldn’t hide it from the kids. The same way his parents didn’t hide drinking.
“Help!” Kyle shrieked, running upstairs now. This time the scream startled Joe and got his heart racing. Suddenly, looking at the flame from the lighter in his hand, Joe got an idea. I can get us out of here.
Sillow wished he could help 2014 Kyle, even though he knew he was safe inside the boarded-up house. His son sounded scared, screaming through the wooden boards, pleading for help. But, Sillow just stood watching from the woods across the way. He reminded himself that the best way to keep his promise to help Kyle was to make sure he didn’t get anywhere near that school bus this morning. He bounced up and down to keep warm. Florida had spoiled him, and this was the coldest weather he’d felt for a long time.
He pulled Kyle’s iPhone from his pocket. How the hell does my sixteen-year-old kid have a nicer phone than me? he wondered to himself. He’d been working two jobs for the last decade or so—hospital all day, gas station three nights a week—and it killed him that he still couldn’t get his family out of the hand-to-mouth cycle. The huge screen on the phone said there was a missed call from a Flemming area code three minutes ago. Probably one of Kyle’s buddies.
When Sillow looked back at the house, he first thought he noticed some rolling fog, or maybe some dust getting kicked up by the wind. But then there was more smoke, and then more. Clearly, there was a fire in the house. The smoke was
white, and it danced out between two of the boards covering the front door. Sillow’s mind raced. There’d be no way out if the house really was on fire.
Sillow started to run toward the house, but thought about how the blond woman had shattered a heavy plastic snow shovel trying to break through one of the boards. He’d never get them out in time. He slid the arrow on the screen to unlock Kyle’s phone and dialed 911. Whatever happened with the bus, he wasn’t going to let his son die in there.
Kyle bounded down the stairs and saw Joe standing at the open front door. That was when he saw the smoke. “What the hell are you doing?”
“Getting us out of here,” Joe answered, not even turning to Kyle. “You sound like a bitch with all the screaming. You’re givin’ me a headache.”
Kyle walked closer and saw that a few of the boards covering the front door were slowly burning. Joe was using his Zippo to try to ignite another one. “Stop, Joe! You’re gonna burn my house down.”
“Just trust me,” Joe said. “The fire will weaken the boards and we’ll be able to kick our way out of here.”
“Seriously, stop it!” Kyle said.
“You wanted to get out of here so badly,” Joe said, pointing to a board at eye level. “Just let me finish . . . Look, this one’s almost halfway burnt.” There were seven or eight small fires on the boards. None of the fire had spread to the doorway of the old house yet, but Kyle didn’t want to see what would happen when it did.
Kyle ran to the kitchen and grabbed the two largest cups he could find. He filled them with water and walked quickly toward the door.
Joe turned to Kyle as he was coming. “No way,” he said. “Just let me finish. This is totally gonna work.” Before Kyle could toss the water at the door, Joe smacked one cup out of his hand, and grabbed the other, pouring it onto the floor at Kyle’s feet. Then, he went back to trying to light another slat on fire.
Kyle reached out and grabbed Joe’s wrist. He used his other hand now, and tried to pull it away from the doorway so he could get the Zippo out of his hand.
“Get the fuck off of me,” Joe said, pulling his hand away.
“You’re gonna burn the house down with us inside,” Kyle pleaded. He realized he was dealing with “drunk Joe,” who was a lot less chill than “high Joe.” The tequila this morning was an unusual addition to their morning ritual, but Kyle hadn’t thought much of it until now, when his friend was being dumber than he’d ever seen him before.
Joe pushed Kyle away and turned back to the door. Kyle could see the little fires were spreading even more. His heart raced. Joe was bigger than he was, and although they’d never had a physical altercation, Kyle was pretty sure he wouldn’t be able to overpower his best friend.
“Joe—look at me. You are gonna fucking kill us,” Kyle said. “You realize that?”
Joe pulled out the blunt now and lit it. “Stop being dramatic. You’re being a pussy, dude.”
Kyle knew he had to do something. Couldn’t Joe see all of these little fires spreading toward the wood of the doorway? he thought to himself.
Kyle put both arms around Joe and tried to wrestle him away from the slats covering the doorway. The blunt fell from Joe’s hand as both of their feet slid on the wet floor. Joe was laughing, but fighting at the same time. “Kyle, get the fuck off me. I am seriously going to fuck you up in minute.”
Kyle ignored Joe. Using all of his weight, and the slick wood floor, he was able to twist Joe off his feet to the ground. If he could pin him down, maybe he could talk some sense into him.
“Joe!” Kyle screamed, pointing at the door. “No more fucking around. You’re gonna burn the house down. We need to put this out.”
Joe pushed Kyle off of him and stood up. He was no longer laughing. “You always think you’re so smart, Mr. Honor Roll! You wanted to get out of here so bad, but you don’t like this ‘cause it’s not your idea.”
Joe started toward the door again, and from the ground, Kyle grabbed his left foot. “No, Joe!”
As Joe tried pulling his foot away from Kyle, his right foot slid out from under him and he fell toward the wet floor.
Kyle felt an initial sense of relief as Joe went down face first. But, then he cringed at the sound of Joe’s head hitting the floor. It was a louder sound than Kyle would’ve expected.
Assuming Joe would be up and at it again in a second, Kyle ran back to the kitchen to get more water. This time he grabbed a huge metal salad bowl and filled it up. He raced back to the door, spilling water as he went, careful to slow down as he got to the giant puddle in front of the door.
When Kyle got back to the living room, Joe was still lying face down in the puddle, his head turned to the side and his eyes closed. Kyle hurled water from the bowl onto the door and managed to extinguish about half of the small fires.
Kyle figured Joe must’ve knocked himself out. He bent down and poked him in the arm. “Joe . . . Joe . . . Wake up.”
Kyle bent his head down to look at Joe’s face. His eyes were closed and there was no movement at all. He heard sirens outside. Then, Joe’s body convulsed. Then, he convulsed again.
Kyle lifted one of Joe’s eyelids, but there was no movement underneath. “Joe, come on! Get up! They’re here to get us out.” Kyle saw the blunt on the floor and grabbed it. He walked over to the couch and tossed it underneath. “Dude! Wake up!” he yelled.
It barely took thirty seconds for a couple of firemen to break through the door with their axes. The next couple of minutes were a blur to Kyle as more and more rescue workers came into the house. The firefighters quickly doused out the rest of the flames, while the EMTs focused on Joe.
The first time it occurred to Kyle that Joe might be really hurt was when he watched the firefighters turn him onto his back. His limp arm just swung across his body as they flipped him, sending his Zippo to the floor with a clang.
More and more emergency personnel streamed into the house. They tried CPR, then one of those things with the paddles to try to start his heart. By the time Kyle heard someone say it a few minutes later, he had an idea it was going in that direction.
“He’s gone,” a tall EMT said to the woman administering the paddles. Then he looked over at Kyle and quickly looked away. Kyle knew the police wouldn’t be far behind the medics, especially with such a bizarre scene. Kyle wondered about the wooden boards. Who boards up a house with people inside?
“Time of Death, 9:13,” one of the medics finally said. Kyle felt like he was watching a movie. Everything going on had an odd fog over it.
Kyle saw Joe’s Zippo just lying on the ground next to his covered body. He wanted to grab it. It had lit so many of their blunts, joints, bowls and bongs over the years. Kyle had made fun of Joe for the Jamaican flag colors, even though he had two Bob Marley posters in his room himself. Joe treasured that lighter and it didn’t seem right to Kyle that it was just lying there. He walked over and picked it up, giving his friend another look. Everything had happened so quickly. Kyle began to tear up as the reality of the situation hit him all at once.
“Can we tag him, bag him, and get out of here?” the tall EMT asked his colleague, a petite redhead. “Or do we need to let the crime scene unit come through?”
The redhead gestured with her head toward Kyle, and stood up. “Damn straight they do. There’s another kid here, no witnesses . . . Weird as fuck incident. I’ll go check how close they are.”
The tall EMT looked at Kyle, and then shuffled out behind the redhead.
Kyle walked to the doorway. He looked outside at the flashing lights of the two ambulances and the fire truck. Then he turned again to the bizarre scene in the house.
He wondered whether the police might blame him for this somehow. Then, that small thought became bigger.
He saw the redhead on her radio and knew the police would be here soon. Suddenly, Kyle’s heart began racing. His knees felt weak. He imagined a reality in which the police blamed it all on him. What the fuck is happening? he wondered. The tears
flowed harder and harder, fear heaped on top of his sadness.
Kyle was hyperventilating by the time he grabbed his keys from a hook next to the front door. He ran to his white Nissan Sentra. He needed to go somewhere and think about how he was going to explain everything to the police. He needed air. He left the front door open just as it had been.
Neither the redheaded EMT, nor her tall partner, noticed Kyle as he walked past them to his car. He turned over the ignition, threw it into reverse out of the driveway, and raced down the block. He didn’t know where to go, so he drove toward school.
CHAPTER 5
March 13, 2014
* * *
Moments later
Once 2016 Kyle realized that Allaire really wasn’t going to answer any more of his questions about time weaving, he gave in, and they made out for most of the bus ride from Flemming to Manhattan. The middle-aged man sitting across from them changed seats after fifteen minutes, getting up with a “Pssshhhhh.” It was unclear whether he was put off by their very public display, or their age difference—or both.
As they were getting close to the city, Kyle pulled away, but Allaire looked at him and purred. “I don’t want to stop,” she said. On one hand, it felt strange to Kyle to be making out with a grown woman. On the other, it didn’t feel very different from when they’d been together in 1998.
A few minutes later, just as they were about to roll into the Port Authority bus terminal, Kyle’s mind went back to the crash. “Tell me this wasn’t all for nothing.”
“There are desperate people out there who want certain things to be possible so badly,” she answered. “I’m sorry.”
“Myrna,” Kyle said, referring to Etan Rachnowitz’s older sister. She had provided Kyle with the silk blots he’d used both times he’d gone back.
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