Forget Tomorrow

by Pintip Dunn

What on earth? I’ve already gotten my memory from the future. There’s only supposed to be one. Right? So why am I feeling this rush? Why do I feel like I’m about to receive another memory? Another memory. OPEN.

  I am curled in my mother’s lap, hugging a stuffed dog. The dog’s fur is purple, and she has a green ring around one of her wide, sad eyes. She smells like a mixture of peanut butter and stale crackers, but when I dig my chin into her body, she envelops me with a softness that is only slightly matted.

  My body feels strange. Out of sync. Like I’ve put on the wrong skin. “Why did she have to leave?” I ask. “Where did she go?”

  I don’t know who “she” is. I don’t know why I’m sad. All I know is there’s a gulf inside me so large it may never be filled.

  My mother strokes my hair. It curls around my ear and stops under my chin. I must be young, so young, to have hair this short. “I don’t know, baby.”

  Why doesn’t she know? My mother always knows. Even if she has to make them up, she always has the answers.

  “She promised,” I say. “She promised she would stay all night. She promised she would stay forever, but she left me. She’s gone.”

  “Sometimes, people can’t keep their promises.”

  “But I miss her.” I catch the ear of my stuffed dog between my teeth. When I spit it out, the ear flops over, faded and wet. “I need her.”

  “I do too, baby. I do, too.”

  I jerk. The canteen plops into the water, and I lunge after it. What was that? I must’ve been dreaming. But it’s not fading, the way dreams do. I can hear my mother’s voice, feel her arms around me. I can smell Princess’s soft fur, that lingering scent of a mid-afternoon snack.

  Wait a minute—Princess? Princess?

  Princess isn’t my stuffed dog. She’s Jessa’s.

  My mind spins, and I wobble onto the shore. If the dog belongs to my sister, then so must the vision. But how can that be? How did her memory get into my mind?

  I trip over a rock and sprawl across the dirt. The canteen crashes to the ground. Water gushes out, seeping around my fingers. She promised she would stay all night, my sister said. She promised she would stay forever, but she left me. She’s gone.

  “Callie?” Logan materializes in front of me. “How you doing with that water?”

  I look down and realize I’ve got a vice-like grip on handfuls of pebbles. I open my fists, and the rocks fall away, leaving tiny cuts all over my palms. Tears threaten to well over, and not from the little gashes. No matter how hard I try to be strong, I can’t keep the words from spilling out.

  “The last thing I said to my sister was a lie. She asked me to stay the night with her and I said I would, even though I had no intention of doing it.” Can my heart break any further? Really, can it? “Why did I have to lie to her? Why?”

  He reaches out his hands like he might want to help me up and then puts them in his pockets again. “You’re a great sister, Callie. Anyone can see that.”

  I rub my face on the polyester fabric of my sleeve. We’ll see how good it really is at wicking away moisture. “Was our entire relationship fake? Was my love for her nothing but a lie?”

  “Of course not. She means the world to you. Anyone can see that.”

  I lower my sleeve and look right at him. “Logan, I killed her. In my future memory, Jessa was in a hospital bed in TechRA, and I stabbed a needle into her heart. I murdered my baby sister. How can I love her? And if I don’t love her, how can I love anyone?”

  I wait for the horror to cross his face, the automatic recoil when my words register. I’ve pictured his expression a million times. The one that says I’m evil. The one that shows his disgust. The one that tells me more clearly than any words what a horrible person I am.

  But the expression doesn’t come.

  Instead, he grazes his fingertips against my arm. It is the slightest touch and yet it burns all the way through me, searing my feet into the pebbled ground. “That’s a terrible burden to bear.”

  I look at his hand, at the long, artisan fingers that could’ve easily given him a career as a concert pianist. “You don’t think I’m a monster?”

  “The only monster here is your future memory. It robs you of your peace and makes you doubt who you are. I know who you are, Callie, and you are full of love.”

  My knees turn as squishy as the river mud under my feet. “Thank you,” I whisper.

  “For what?”

  “For not judging me.”

  “How can you judge someone’s future actions without understanding the circumstances?” he asks.

  How, indeed. But I don’t say this out loud. I can’t. Because I don’t know if he’s as sincere as he sounds. Maybe he’s gifted at knowing exactly what to say and when. Maybe his words have no more meaning than the laughter that bubbled out of him five years ago.

  Or maybe, just maybe, he’s still the same boy I remember.

  We don’t talk much during dinner. Logan builds a brace to dangle his canteen over the fire—thank the Fates for his Ancient Methods elective—and I cook the rice in the makeshift pot.

  My hands shake as I measure out the grains. Bring the water to boil. Stir the canteen.

  After my mom and my sister, cooking is what feels the most like home to me. And I missed it while I was in detainment. I feel a bit of my old self returning as I drain the water and transfer the rice to broad green leaves. I’m not much use out here in the wilderness, but at least I can prepare a meal.

  We settle underneath a big tree after we eat. The pine needles scratch my face, and the chill in the air bites through my clothes. Logan lets me have the fleece, taking the parka for himself. We spread the lightweight space blanket over us.

  I pull my corner of the Mylar over me and turn my back to him. The stars glitter in the sky like gems against a jeweler’s black cloth. Jessa must be looking at these same stars now. I imagine a line being drawn between me and the brightest star, and then another line connecting the star to my sister. You see, Jessa. I never left you. We’re linked together through these imaginary threads.

  My breath comes faster. Is it possible? I clearly have some sort of special ability, or I wouldn’t have been able to manipulate my memory. That would explain everything. Why we’ve always been so close. How her memory got into my head. Maybe I can even talk to her now.

  Jessa! JESSA! Can you hear me?

  I fling the thoughts out into the universe, send them spiraling down those invisible lines connecting us to the stars. I wait, teeth gnawing lip, for a response. Some sort of sign. I’d settle for that vague rushing sensation again. But there’s nothing. Just the rustle of Logan shifting on the pine needles.

  I roll onto my back. I guess my psychic abilities don’t extend that far. And I’m pretty positive that’s what this is—an enhancement of my ability to manipulate memories, maybe from the fumes Bellows gave me.

  Too bad I’m not back at the labs. TechRA would be interested in this development. But why? Why are the scientists so interested in psychic abilities?

  Sully’s voice echoes in my mind: Where are we housed, hatchie?

  I suck in a breath. Of course. All along, I thought that TechRA and FuMA just happened to share the same building. I didn’t think there was any link between the two agencies. But what if that’s not it at all?

  Maybe the two agencies share the same building because they’re intrinsically related. Maybe the scientists are studying psychics to find out about future memory.

  The more I think about it, the more convinced I’m right. This is why the fumes have the side effect of enhancing psychic ability. This is why my particular abilities seem to revolve around some sort of memory manipulation.

  Whatever reason the scientists want Jessa, it has to do with future memory.

  The Mylar blanket crackles, and Logan’s ankle brushes against my calf. We spring apart.

  “Callie?” he says.

  I swallow. “Yes?”

  I can only make out the outline of
his form in the darkness, but my mind’s eye remembers every detail of his face. The dimples in his cheeks. Eyelashes so long I worry they might tangle. Straight white teeth in a devastating grin.

  The silence balloons between us, taking on the significance that precedes a major declaration. My heart raps against my chest. If only he would trust me. If only he would reveal whatever secrets he’s hiding about Harmony. I would tell him everything in return. My new psychic abilities. The conclusion I just drew.

  But he doesn’t. An agonizing minute passes, and then he says, “Get some rest. We get to Harmony tomorrow.”

  18

  In the morning, my back is pressed against Logan’s chest. His arm is draped over my hip. We’re curled up like mice in a nest.

  I should move away. Now that I’m awake and aware of where our bodies drifted unconsciously, I should put distance between us. But I don’t.

  I can’t.

  His warm breath tickles the sensitive nape of my neck, right next to my ear. Part of me wants to squirm. The other, more in-control part stays exactly, perfectly still so I don’t wake him. So I can enjoy this exquisite torture for as long as possible. His chest rises and falls against my shoulder blades, steady and even, nothing like the heart that’s ricocheting inside me. And his arm—it holds me close, traps me possessively, like I belong to him and him alone.

  This is nothing like my daydreams. My hand’s gone numb beneath me, and pine needles jab my cheek. And yet it is better, more delicious than anything I’ve ever imagined. I could lie here the rest of the day and pretend. Pretend he’s not keeping secrets. Pretend he’s not leaving me in a few days. Pretend he’s zero gravity falling for me the way I am for him.

  “Good morning,” Logan says.

  I jump, and my heart nearly slides out of my throat. Oh Fates. Has he been awake this entire time? Does he know I’m awake?

  I start to pull away, and his hand tightens on my hip, just briefly, before letting go.

  “Hi.” I flip over to face him, scooting to the edge of the Mylar blanket.

  We look at each other. Other than the brief interlude after I got Jessa’s memory, we’ve been talking in nothing words, substituting pregnant pauses for actual communication. I turn before the silence gets too dense and head to the river, to clean up as best as I can. When I return, Logan’s sitting on a boulder, shaving off the knobs from a branch, so he can use it as a walking stick. When he finishes, he offers me the knife. “You want to make one, too?”

  “No, thanks.” I pick up the canteen and gulp the water. I used knives in the eating area all the time, but I haven’t touched one since I got my future memory. Maybe I’m being silly, but after feeling my arm slicing through the air, jabbing the needle into my sister’s heart, I don’t trust myself with sharp objects.

  “Go on.” He wraps my hand around the bone handle.

  The knife feels heavy. Foreign, but at the same time familiar. I hold it up to the sunlight. The blade is thin and flat, ending in a clipped point. The bottom half is serrated. It looks innocuous enough, a general-purpose blade used for ordinary camping chores. But it could be used for something else. The sharp teeth could pierce through human skin as easily as it cuts into an animal’s body.

  Trembling, I slide the knife back into the sheath. “I really don’t think this is a good idea.”

  “Why not?”

  “You said so yourself. My future memory makes me doubt myself.” I walk back and forth in front of the boulder. “Truth is, I have no idea who I am. Chairwoman Dresden said I was aggressive, and I never would’ve called myself that a few weeks ago. I never would’ve kneed Scar Face in the groin, either. Or jumped off a cliff. There’s no telling what I’ll do next.” I take a deep breath. “I’m dangerous.”

  “Oh yeah?” He grins. “You look real dangerous, shaking like a leaf at the sight of a little knife.”

  “This isn’t funny. What if I flip out while I’m holding this knife?”

  His eyes crinkle at the corners. He’s still not taking me seriously. I’ve got to make him understand. I have to make him see he’s not safe with me.

  Lunging, I thrust the sheathed knife toward Logan’s throat. Just to see if I can do it. Just to see if the killer instinct lives inside me.

  In one smooth motion, he deflects the knife. “You may not know who you are. But I do.”

  All of a sudden, his mouth is hovering above mine. A dozen live wires zip along my skin, stealing my breath and electrifying my nerves. My heart beats so loudly it drowns out the drone of the insects, the twitter of the birds. A few more inches and our lips will touch. One tiny sway and we’ll be kissing.

  “Who am I?” I whisper.

  “Calla Ann Stone. A girl who seeks out the sun like a flower soaking up its rays. A girl who loves her family with everything in her heart. A girl who is so brave she’ll do anything to save her sister.” He moves closer. And closer still. “You’re doing everything I should’ve done for Mikey but didn’t. I’ll always respect that.”

  I swallow, but there’s no moisture left in my mouth. I’m not at all sure he’s right. I don’t know this girl he’s describing. I don’t know if I can be her. But I’d like to be.

  My eyes flutter close, and I lift my chin. The warmth of his breath mingles with mine…

  And then something presses into the side of my neck. My eyes fly open, and I realize I’m no longer holding the knife. Logan has it, and he’s holding the sheath right at my throat.

  “I don’t think you need to worry about me.” He taps my collarbone with the point and then moves the knife away.

  Dear Fate, I actually rose onto my tiptoes. Heat floods my face and I back away. “Is that what you were doing? Proving a point?”

  He grins and those dimples beg me to touch them. “Well, that and the fact that I used to stay up nights wondering what you smelled like. Now I know. Apples and honey.”

  “You are such a liar. I haven’t had a shower in days!”

  “Why did you think I put a leaf in your locker every day? You didn’t think I was a budding horticulturalist, did you?”

  I stare at him and then burst out laughing. It’s a chortle that comes from the pit of my belly, one that jerks my entire body. I remember tickling Jessa, but for the first time, the thought of my sister doesn’t make me sad.

  Maybe it’s those wacky endorphins from all the laughing. Maybe it’s because being around Logan makes me giddy. Maybe it’s because he’s confirmed, more clearly than any words, that I’m not a cold-blooded killer.

  Whatever it is, I’ll take it. When your entire world has been destroyed, when you’re on the run from FuMA and your future, when the biggest threat to your sister is yourself, you take whatever you can get.

  “This is it,” Logan says a few hours later, consulting the map in his hands.

  We’re standing in the middle of the forest, after hiking several miles inland. Next to me a network of exposed tree roots rises as high as my knees. Pinecones mingle with dirt and pebbles on the ground, and thick white trunks spear into the sky.

  “This is what?” I ask.

  “Harmony, of course. Listen.”

  I wrinkle my forehead. Now that he mentions it, I can hear indistinct shouts echoing from the woods and the repetitive dull thud of one object striking another.

  But there are no shelters. No smoke. And certainly no people.

  “Where’s the noise coming from?” I ask.

  He points to my right. I squint. There’s something clinging to the bark of a tree, something that almost blends right in with the wood. I move forward a few steps and gasp. It’s a spider-like device, like the one in the airshaft.

  “Are you saying this is one big hologram?” I wave my hands in the air.

  “There are at least a hundred holographic spiders around the circumference of Harmony,” he says. “All projecting holographic images so the community goes undetected by the outside world.” He looks again at the map and gestures at the moss-covered boulder in fron
t of us. “According to this, all we have to do is walk twenty feet forward and we’ll see Harmony as it really is.”

  He holds out his hand. “Are you ready?”

  I hesitate. Not because I don’t want to touch him, but because I do. I want to take his hand and hold it forever. I want to go back to being the Logan-and-Callie team we used to be—except different. Because five years ago, I never noticed the way his upper lip rested on his lower one, soft but assured. My breath didn’t quicken when he was near, and my stomach didn’t flip-flop whenever he touched me.

  Our friendship has entered unfamiliar terrain. Terrain I’ve never crossed with anyone, terrain I shouldn’t cross with him. As much as I like him, I know Logan isn’t mine. Soon enough, he’ll go home. He’ll leave me again.

  And yet, it’s just a hand. A single touch. We held hands when we jumped off the roof. My body was plastered against his when he pulled me across the river, and this morning we snuggled together in our sleep.

  Maybe it’s okay to take his hand, just this once.

  “We’re in this together,” he says. “Whatever happens, I want you to remember that.”

  With shaking nerves and a trembling heart, I put my hand in his. Our fingers weave together, my seashell-colored ones crossing his tanned ones like the braids in a loaf of bread.

  “I’m ready,” I say. And we walk into the woods.

  19

  We walk into a large clearing, and I feel like I’ve stepped into another world. Rows of dome-shaped huts flank three sides of a square. An actual log cabin dominates the center, and in front, I see several long tables constructed from saplings, and a fire pit made from stones.

  And then I spot a man thirty feet away, working on the carcass of a deer. Everything else fades. The deer hangs from its hind legs on the branch of a tree, what’s left of its belly facing us. The torso has been split wide open, and I can count each of the gleaming, bloody ribs.

  I bring a hand to my mouth. I read about this in my Manual Cooking classes. This is where meat comes from. But it’s so red. So raw and slick.