Extra Life
Page 24
Not to mention the Young Auteurs award at Silver Screen Studios. Paige Davis’s was the only entry submitted from Port City Academy, and an obvious shoe-in for the win. I mean, if the doc was destined for HBO or Netfilms, it could certainly beat out a bunch of jumpy, blurry, horror flicks from the Cape Fear local public school kids.
Paige never told me she was submitting an entry. Never even let on she was making a movie, not seriously. But in the end, watching for the first time in the UNC-Cape Fear auditorium, I realized her doc would’ve kicked my movie’s ass if I actually managed to submit it.
I won’t lie—a little pride swelled in my chest, for my friend’s sake. After the post-screening ovation and the Q&A, Paige needed some air, so together we slipped out through a back exit and strolled the campus. For once we didn’t talk about “that day.”
Just off the university quad there’s a pond with a spewing fountain, bobbing lily pads on the perimeter, arched pedestrian bridges running across the narrow points. We leaned on a wooden bridge rail and watched the sun glint on the water, and then our eyes met and obviously I tried to kiss her.
I’d been waiting and wondering for six months, while Virgin Russ went hounding stupidly after Savannah. She and Virgin even went out a few times before those flowers went limp, Savannah jetted off the California, and Virgin remained a virgin. It made sense: she was sizzling and they’d been through the wringer together, but not the way I had with Paige.
So what did Paige do about my kiss attempt? Our lips never even touched. She turned and laughed quietly, politely, against her shoulder, and I just about melted into a pool of shame.
“I take it back?” I said.
“I’m sorry if I gave you the wrong idea,” she said.
“No—I mean, you kissed me once, in another life. Shocked the hell out of me, to be honest, but after a while it didn’t seem so strange. It seemed, I don’t know, natural, for us. But you were right.”
“About what?”
“Just before you kissed me you said I didn’t get it.”
“Get what?”
“I don’t know. I still don’t get it, but I know I don’t.”
“I have a girlfriend,” she blurted. “You don’t know her. She’s not from our school.”
“Oh, wow,” I said.
“Is that so strange?”
“No—I mean—yes—I mean—”
“Whatever I did or said, I don’t know what I meant,” she said. “That was another me, and I wasn’t there, even if I, well, was. I’m complicated, just like you. That’s the way people are, Scorsese. You can’t pin them down, you know?”
I nodded. Considering I’d run into a dozen possible takes on Horace Vale while I voyaged through time-space, I knew Paige was right, as always. Nobody was predictable. Maybe there was a Paige somewhere who would’ve kissed me back, there on the bridge with the croaking frogs—but that’s my fantasy, and I can’t rewrite the world.
In this life, I’m content to be her friend, and to potentially kick her butt someday when we both go up for the same film award, preferably an Oscar, or at least a Golden Globe.
THE OFFICIAL story goes, I killed Bobby Keene-Parker. Took the rap, at least. Nobody could claim Bobby shot himself, though it would’ve been a cleaner story, and the truth.
A lengthy investigation determined that I acted out of self-defense, because he was threatening to burn the whole theater down, my friends and family inside it. My story was corroborated by the others on the scene—Paige and Conrad and Russ and Dad. Not to mention the clear evidence that Bobby (or someone) doused the theater with gasoline some hours before our arrival, proving premeditation.
More likely Wrong Russ poured the gas, but he was never part of our story. Several dozen good folks down at Silver Screen Studios also attested to Bobby Parker’s berserker turn: how he threatened his father and crew members with his gun, vowed to hunt down the Vale brothers and kill them, stole the prop cop car. Case closed, even if the door wouldn’t exactly latch tight.
Granted, we took some heat for leaving the theater before the police showed up. But I caught the blame for that one, too. Claimed I was so freaked after I shot Bobby that I ran, and my people had to go find me, talk me down from the radio tower, bring me back to the scene of the crime.
Our various interpretations of what went down got rather convoluted. We didn’t always give the sanest answers. Savannah claimed she saw two Bobby Parkers, but let’s face it, the girl was under tons of stress—witnessing a shooting, getting kidnapped. Eventually, the district attorney had to shake his head and admit our story was destined for the Greatest Unsolved Celebrity Freakouts of All Time.
It didn’t hurt that Marv Parker and his team of lawyers was there to help with the smoke-and-mirror special effects. Movie Marv didn’t have a clear memory of what happened, distracted as he was by a near-fatal heart attack, but the one fact he was sure about was who pulled the gun on him. In the interest of sullying his son’s memory as much as possible, Marv gave us all the legal help we needed.
Still, unanswered questions kept the news outlets buzzing for way too long: What made Bobby snap? Why’d he target these local nobodies? Why’d he bring them to the theater? Imagine a world where I made the real story public. Vale Brothers Concoct Sci-Fi Fantasy for Publicity! Seth Vale, Star-Killer, Exploits Tragedy!
Right, nobody would believe me, which is why I’m telling this story to myself, mainly. To understand why I didn’t make that last critical leap back to my own quiet, anonymous life. Sometimes I forget what I was thinking. Sometimes I want to go back and decide differently, and then I remember that final decision on the radio tower was all about removing the temptation. I couldn’t trust myself not to turn out like Wrong Russ. He was living proof of how easy it would be to slip into that kind of character, just by tapping an icon too many times.
Whenever I second-guess myself, I consider that there is a Russ Vale somewhere who actually did take the final leap, who woke up that Friday morning again with a foreknowledge of almost everything that would happen for the next twelve hours. I’m sure he couldn’t help himself, playing the puppeteer. And I’m sure he’s miserable now.
Somewhere there are other Wrong Russes whose horrible schemes worked out, Wrong Russes who twisted up a bundle of realities so bad they’re just thick knots in the fabric of the multiverse.
I just have to hope he never finds his way back to this reality again. The chances are in my favor. I don’t like to dwell on the almost-was or the could-possibly-be, although those worlds do prod the back of my mind every now and then. A sense of some elsewhere nudging at me, disguised as a memory, though it never actually happened.
It’s what other people call déjà vu.
Conrad felt it, that original Friday morning on the sidewalk, when he looked back at his bedroom window, even though I wasn’t there. A feeling slips through the thin space between worlds, just for a second. I’ve done this before.
My friend Conrad Bower never made the leap like me, but he got a glimpse of another life—his father, alive and well, greeting him at the airport after a long flight from Afghanistan. We’ve talked about that moment on the theater screen so many times since then. The welcome on his father’s face, it lives inside him now. Connie can access the memory of that video whenever he needs it most. He might’ve lost a better life, but he got his strength back.
Wrong Russ did one thing right after all.
That video of spliced-together alternate realities was never recovered from the Pastime Playhouse projector, by the way. My best guess was that Wrong Russ uploaded it from a source in another reality, just like he’d done with the videos he sent. The bastard learned some clever tricks in all that extra time he spent surfing through the universe’s endless channels.
There was another video, though. Eighty million YouView hits, so I guess you’ve viewed it, too. It went viral, as they say, though I’m not as fond of that word as everybody else seems to be.
The final footage o
f Bobby Keene-Parker, a dialog with a young actress named Savannah Lark, recorded by an amateur filmmaker. I just love when they say amateur and forget to mention my name. Well, Russ’s name.
Police recovered the busted camera from the Aston Martin. They found the memory stick intact and pored through it a hundred times for evidence. Finally, they gave the video back to us, but not before somebody leaked it online.
People assume it was me, desperate for publicity, but if attention was my game I would’ve sold it to the highest bidder. Really, after a while Virgin Russ and I were sick of the scrutiny. Celebrity Scoop, VH-1, even the CW was eager to recoup their Cape Twilight losses with a made-for-TV biopic: Bobby Keene-Parker, Unhinged.
We wanted show business, but not as sidekicks in an exploitation flick. Okay, I did have to talk Russ out of offering to write and shoot the TV movie.
Savannah, on the other hand, she flew with it. Jumped that plane first-class to Hollywood, riding on the attention she got from the video of her and Bobby. You probably saw her in Think Tank 2 with Mark Wahlberg, where she plays his daughter in one scene. She’s also been in a couple Polar Ice Caps music videos, and I guess she’s dating the drummer. I would’ve warned Russ, but some things you have to learn for yourself.
Let’s face it, nobody watches our short video because of our virtuoso film making. It’s not even edited or finished. The allure is the same as rubbernecking at the car crash, fixing to catch the crazy in Bobby’s eyes, just about to burst loose. Sometimes I imagine a world where Bobby quietly ate his burger, flirted with Savannah, and went back to his life. Maybe in that life, he kept his rage locked away. Maybe he channeled it into his art instead.
In a way, I took that away from him. But there’s nothing you can do about regrets except look ahead.
EVERY NOW and then there’s a blip. A quirk. My laptop freezes more than it should. My new cell phone makes random calls to strangers. A shadow in the corner of my vision isn’t really there. I know what my “brother” will say even before he steps in the room.
Maybe your life’s not so different, but you’ve always been a grounded part of this reality, while I’m still getting used to it. The small adjustments. Popcorn doesn’t taste quite as good here, but Silver Bullet burgers are even better.
I’m still wrapping my head around the fact that Wall-E, one of my favorite movies, now only exists in my imagination. You’ll have to take my word for how great it was. Then again, there’s the brilliance of Heath Ledger’s encore performance in the third Christopher Nolan Batman movie, which was way better than the one from my world. Most people here still pay for their music. And poor Miley Cyrus… man, oh, man.
I’m stranded, and somewhere I’m missed, but I like to hope I’ve found a new life that’s just as real and unpredictable. Don’t get me wrong. In the basement of my mind, I know if something happens to Russ first, then I’m a goner. Just a poof and a pile of clothes, like I never existed. Freaks me out to think about it sometimes.
But, you know, that’s life for everyone. You don’t know when your fade out is coming. Russ will leave behind a shell when he’s gone, but otherwise we’re the same. We’ll both be memories some day. How we live before the end is how you’ll tell us apart.
Read other works by Derek Nikitas
My wife and children always deserve the biggest thanks for giving me time and encouragement while I hide in the office to write. I love you, Nikitases.
Invaluable feedback on this book came from my son Gavin (I know, I know, a divided worm does not actually become two worms, no matter what Russ thinks). Also Craig Renfroe, David Hale Smith, Lizz Blaise, and Ryan Doody, who helped to shape the book. And especially Andrea Coleman for her YA expertise. Her extensive comments were a huge help.
Many thanks to educator Liz Prather and her team of beta readers in the SCAPA writing class at Lafayette High School in Lexington, Kentucky. They read an early draft of Extra Life and gave some great tips from the teen perspective, including which of my pop cultural references were the most egregiously out-of-date. Those students were Mattie Graff, Kirk Hardy, Jackie Knight, Shelby Lawhorn, Maura Reilly-Ulmanek, Anna Smith-Sargent, Gram Welch, and Aidan Ziliak. I wish them all the best of luck as they enter the wacky maze of adulthood.
For their inspiration and advocacy throughout the writing of this book, I want to thank Christopher Rowe, Russell Helms, Michael Mau, Josh Russell, Roger Jones, Travis Roman, Bill Mullen, Doug Brewer, Ashley Mullins, Tyger Williams, Gwenda Bond, Jeff Parker, Julie Hensley, Robert Dean Johnson, Young Smith, Maureen McHugh, Jim Keller, Peter Covino, and Mary Cappello.
For help in delivering Extra Life to readers, I thank my agent Yishai Seidman at Dunow, Carlson & Lerner, and the mastermind behind Polis Books, Jason Pinter. I’m deeply grateful to everyone on Jason’s team at Polis, including Lauren at The Cover Collection; Sara Rosenberg, David Ouimet, Kim Wylie, Tara Marsden and David Dahl with PGW; Emily Tippetts; and Carol Thomas for some sharp copyediting.
I won’t pretend to understand all the science I glossed over in this book, but if I’ve sparked your interest in the possibilities or impossibilities of time travel, I highly recommend the pop physics books of Brian Greene and Michio Kaku, which were important resources for me.
Derek Nikitas is the author of two thriller novels, Pyres and The Long Division. His debut novel Pyres (St. Martin’s Minotaur) was nominated for an Edgar Award for Best First Novel, and The Long Division was a Washington Post Best Book of the Year.
His short stories have appeared in Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine, Thuglit, The Ontario Review, Chelsea, Plots with Guns, New South, and more. He has written stories for the Killer Year: Stories to Die For anthology (St. Martin’s Minotaur, 2008) and for the zombie anthology, The New Dead (Griffin Books, Feb 2010).
Derek was raised in New Hampshire and Western New York. He earned an MFA in Creative Writing from the University of North Carolina at Wilmington and PhD in English from Georgia State University. He teaches creative writing at the University of Rhode Island.
Extra Life is his first novel for Young Adults. Follow him at @DerekNikitas. Visit his website at www.dereknikitas.com.
The following is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or used in an entirely fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2015 by Derek Nikitas
Cover design by The Cover Collection
Interior designed and formatted by:
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ISBN 978-1-940610-79-5
Library of Congress Control Number: 2015946259
First hardcover publication: October 2015
Polis Books, LLC
1201 Hudson Street
Hoboken, NJ 07030
Table of Contents
Title Page
Also by Derek Nikitas
About EXTRA LIFE
Dedication
DAY ONE
8:10 a.m.
8:30 a.m.
1:00 p.m.
1:50 p.m.
2:40 p.m.
3:20 p.m.
6:55 p.m.
DAY ONE (take two)
7:00 a.m.
7:35 a.m.
7:40 a.m.
9:00 a.m.
12:35 p.m.
12:50 p.m.
2:15 p.m.
4:45 p.m.
5:30 p.m.
6:10 p.m.
6:50 p.m.
DAY ONE (take three)
2:00 p.m.
2:50 p.m.
3:00 p.m.
3:30 p.m.
3:50 p.m.
4:00 p.m.
4:15 p.m.
5:00 p.m.
6:45 p.m.
DAY ONE (take four)
5:30 p.m.
5:40 p.m.
5:55 p.m.
6:10 p.m.
6:20 p.m.
6:30 p.m.
6:35 p.m.
<
br /> 6:42 p.m.
6:58 p.m.
DAY ONE (take five)
6:37 p.m.
6:53 p.m.
6:55 p.m.
7:00 p.m.
INTO THE FUTURE
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Copyright Notice