by Dunn, Pintip
Logan held his breath. Now that his dad had seen the memory, surely he would say something about the second half of the vision. The part about Callie. That overwhelming sense of belonging. He would acknowledge that Logan’s destiny as a swimmer was golden—but there was more to his future. He might even have some insight about what that part of the memory meant. Logan sure in Limbo didn’t know.
But his father just cleared his throat. “You’ve made me very proud, son,” he said. And then he turned and walked out of the room.
Logan gaped. That was it? Did his dad even see the second part of the memory?
A soft hand landed on his arm, and he looked up into his mom’s gentle eyes. She smoothed the lines in his forehead, and he knew she understood everything. She’d been reading his expressions for the last seventeen years, after all.
“Your father’s not good with words,” she said. “So instead of fumbling with sentences, his recourse is to avoid the situation altogether. Doesn’t mean he doesn’t love you. Doesn’t mean he doesn’t care.”
His forehead relaxed. He wished she could erase the ache from his heart as easily. “What did you think of my memory, Mom?”
“By all accounts, you’ve received a very good one,” she said, her words quiet and measured. “It will get you a loan from any bank. You’ll receive endorsements from countless sponsors. Any parent would be thrilled to welcome you into the family. These are all good things.”
“But the girl, that feeling…what does it mean?”
She shook her head slowly. “I’ve always admired your thoughtfulness, Logan. There’s no reason to believe you wouldn’t continue to possess that trait in the future. Your future self clearly thought this through. He sent you the memory he believed would help you out the most in this life.”
“But what was he trying to say?” Logan raked his fingers through his short hair. “That’s what I don’t get. If he wanted to send me a message, why not come right out and say it? Why this vague scene that could mean a thousand things?”
“Perhaps that was the only memory available to him. As to what it means…you’ll have to decipher that for yourself.” She chewed on her lip, as if not sure whether to continue. “If, however, you feel the memory is too personal… Your father knows some people. We can shorten the vision. Lop off the final few seconds so no one else sees the girl.” She stopped again. “May I ask? Who is she?”
He flushed. “Just a girl I used to know. She’s a few years older in the memory, but it’s clearly her.”
“Used to? Do you still know her?”
“Not really. I mean, we used to be good friends. Best friends, even. But then we stopped talking. We haven’t really spoken in five years.”
His mom nodded. “Maybe that’s the first step, then. Maybe your future self is telling you to talk to her again.”
When she said it like that, the answer seemed so obvious. Of course he had to talk to her. But five years had passed. Five long years filled with hurt feelings and silence. So, the question remained: Even if he approached her, would Callie be willing to forgive him?
Chapter Seven
Logan never thought of himself as a stalker, but that’s precisely what he did the next day. Stalked Callie with his eyes during the Poetry Core. Hid behind a digital kiosk and spied on her as she dispensed her lunch from a Meal Assembler. And, after school let out, he followed her and her sister, Jessa, to a nearby park.
He sat on a wrought-iron bench and watched them. As always, she made him feel like he’d just swum a hundred-meter race. Her hair was long and wavy, dark with bits of gold that beckoned him like the lights at the end of the pool. Her skin was brown and smooth, her cheeks round and flushed. But it was her eyes that got him—that had always gotten him. Not so much their warm color or lovely shape, but their expression. She had this way of looking at him as if she really saw him. As if he really mattered.
She and Jessa stood under a tree, the colorful leaves falling around them. They tilted their faces to the sky, and Callie laughed. He could hardly hear the sound, but he didn’t need to. He’d heard it enough times at school. And no matter how many people were in the room, no matter how loud they were, he could always pick out Callie’s laugh.
A few words drifted by on the breeze. Color names. Red, orange, brown. Jessa must be calling out the color of the leaves before they fell. Interesting. He never knew the younger sister was psychic, but somehow, it didn’t surprise him.
Could this be why Callie mouthed the words, “My red leaf,” in his vision? Could she have been referring to this scene?
Nah. It was probably just wishful thinking.
Callie clasped her hands together. Even from a distance, he could tell she was trying not to fidget. She was probably nervous about getting her memory tomorrow. That’s why they’d always sat near each other in class—because their birthdays were two days apart. It was a blessing when they were friends—and pure torture when they weren’t. The phrase “do something” seemed to march around her like an endlessly repeating scroll of text. Do something. Do something. Do something.
But for the first time in five years, when he looked at her, he didn’t hear the words. He didn’t see Mikey being dragged away, his hands wrenched behind him in a pair of electro-cuffs. Instead, he saw her as she was in his memory. Sitting on the first row of the bleachers, meeting his eyes across the crowd. Mouthing those words, “My red leaf.”
Talk to her, he ordered himself, but his leaden feet refused to move. So much time had passed. She had every right to shoot him down. Any regular girl would.
But Callie wasn’t a regular girl. She was the girl who fell over in her chair because she was trying to see the sun. The girl in his memory who looked at him with acceptance. The girl who saw through the twisted depths of him—and liked him anyway.
Talk to her. He could feel the phantom hands of his future self reaching through time and shaking him. She’s getting her memory tomorrow. If it involves you—the way yours involved her—you cannot let her last image of you be the sullen boy who gave her the silent treatment. Talk to her.
His stomach tingled at the thought that he might appear in her future memory. And yet, he couldn’t make his feet move.
Until she and her sister turned and marched toward the bullet train station, their swinging arms synchronized.
Aw, fike. He lurched to his feet and trotted after them. She glanced over her shoulder and began walking faster. Great. She was trying to get away from him. The station was only a few yards away. He couldn’t let them leave.
“Calla, wait up,” he called, using her full name. It had been years since he’d said it, but the syllables sprung to his lips as naturally as if he’d said them every day. Every hour. And maybe, somewhere deep in his soul, he did. Because in that place, Callie never stopped being his friend.
She halted, her face frozen in a mask, and her little sister clutched her hand, like she was terrified. Did he look like a monster? Surely not. Callie had known him for years. Besides, kids loved him, whether they were jumping up and down when he won a meet or offering him a shy smile as he coaxed them into the water during a swim lesson.
He slowed his steps, rearranging his face so that he looked less intense.
“My friends call me ‘Callie,’” she said, with the emphasis on “friends.” Ouch. “But if you don’t already know that, maybe you should just use my birthday.”
Damn it, that hurt. Not only did he know what her friends called her, but once upon a time, he even had his own special nickname for her, “Calla Lily.”
But that was a long time ago, and he couldn’t let her see how much her words affected him. He had to play it casual. “All right, then.” He came to a stop in front of them and jammed his hands into his pockets. “You must be nervous, October Twenty-eight. About tomorrow, I mean.”
“How would you have the first clue what my feelings are?”
Fike, she was mad. Really mad. He should probably just turn around and walk away. But
talking to Callie was like a drug, and now that he’d started, he couldn’t stop. “We used to be friends.”
“Right. I still remember the time you peed your pants on our way to the Outdoor Core.”
She was trying to embarrass him, but it wasn’t going to work. “Ditto for the part where you splashed us both with water from the fountain so no one else would know.”
That got to her, he could tell. Her shoulders relaxed. Her chest expanded and sank back in with her breath. And maybe he shouldn’t be aware of every subtle movement of her body.
He turned and saw Jessa staring at him. Oh great. Could she read minds, too? The last thing he needed was for her to catch him having lewd thoughts about her sister.
But Jessa just smiled and pulled a couple of leaves from her jumpsuit, twisting them together.
“What do you want, October Twenty-six?” Callie crossed her arms, and they pulled the material of her jumpsuit tighter around her chest. Not that he noticed. Swear to the Fates, he didn’t notice.
You’re what I want. The answer was painfully obvious to two-thirds of the party there. So, instead of answering, he sank down beside Jessa. She was making rose petals out of the leaves, her little fingers fumbling as she tried to tie off the bud. Man, this kid could be a case study on adorable. He took the stem from her and tied it at the bottom.
Pleased, she handed him more leaves. He rolled them into a rosebud and held his hand out for more. He could do this all day. He liked kids. They were easy, and they could give a fike about whether you were famous—or would be in the future. Jessa was more likely to judge him on how well he made rosebuds.
Callie watched them, not speaking but not joining them, either.
He stood back up, considering his words. “I got my memory yesterday.”
Her mouth dropped open. Which, to be honest, kinda made his own mouth drop open. How could she have forgotten his birthday, when they’d sat together all these years? He remembered hers. It might as well have been tattooed across his forehead.
“Congratulations,” she said flatly. “To whom am I speaking? A future ComA official? Professional swimmer? Maybe I should get your autograph now, while I still have the chance.”
Man, that sarcasm. Five years hadn’t done a thing to lessen her spunk. Maybe he was perverse, but he’d rather listen to Callie being snide than a whole room of girls simpering at him.
“I did see myself as a gold-star swimmer. But there was something else, too. Something…” He trailed off.
Something wonderful, he wanted to say. I never thought I could have you back. To know that you’re there, in my future? That’s a gift I never dreamed of.
But if he said that, she’d laugh in his face. “Unexpected,” he said instead.
“What do you mean?”
He took a step closer. He couldn’t help it. She’d pulled him into her orbit when he was twelve, and he hadn’t been able to break free since. “It wasn’t like how we were taught, Callie,” he said, trying to explain without saying too much. What would happen if he came right out and confessed that she was in his memory? Would she run, or would she give in to the inevitable?
His jaw firmed. He didn’t want her to choose him just because some future memory said she should. He wanted her to choose him because she wanted to.
“My memory didn’t answer any questions,” he continued. “I don’t feel at peace or aligned with the world. I just feel confused.”
She licked her lips. “Maybe you didn’t follow the rules. Maybe your future self messed up and sent the wrong memory.”
If only it were that easy. “Maybe.”
“You’re kidding. In the future, you’re the best swimmer the country has ever seen. Right?” Her words stumbled into each other, as though she wanted him to be kidding. As though, on her Memory’s Eve, she didn’t want to hear about any memories out of the norm.
“Right.” He tried to keep his voice bland. Tried to pretend he didn’t care. “I have so many medals, I need to build an addition to my house in order to display them.”
They stared at each other. He wanted to blurt out the truth—but he didn’t. Because a part of him still hoped she would decide to forgive him, of her own volition.
“Sorry,” she said, taking her sister’s elbow. Shattering his hopes. “But we need to get going.”
His heart wilted. As if understanding, Jessa handed him the bouquet of leaves, and then Callie tugged her away. Any moment now, the bullet train would swallow them up, and he needed one more glimpse, one more smile. One more anything.
“Callie?” he called without thinking. When she turned, he blurted out, “Happy Memory’s Eve.” Lame. “May the joy of the future sustain you through the trials of the present.” Even lamer.
He got one last look, all right—a frown. And then she stepped into the bullet train, and she was gone.
Chapter Eight
The mini cupcakes had gold frosting, and each flute of punch had little glowing stars that functioned as ice cubes. Each wall screen showed an underwater scene, so that you felt like you were in the middle of a swimming pool.
Logan had to hand it to his mom. She sure knew how to throw a celebration.
He snagged her arm as she rushed past, carrying a tray of star-shaped spanakopitas. “How long have you been planning this party?” He would guess days or maybe even weeks—not a mere twenty-four hours.
She flushed. “Your father and I wanted to be prepared, just in case.”
This stopped him. “For all you knew, you were throwing a party for a bot supervisor.”
She laid a hand against his cheek. “Then I would’ve trimmed these stars and turned them into the rectangular body of a bot. I love you, Logan. No matter what. I wish you would believe that.”
With one last pat against his face, she moved away and instantly disappeared into the mass of swarming people. He wished he could believe her. Take her love on faith. But how could he? All his life, and especially the last five years, he’d been his parents’ hope for the future. The son who stayed. And now that he was destined to become a champion, he was scared, deep-down-to-his-bones terrified, that he would never know if their love was real.
It shouldn’t matter. It didn’t matter. He squeezed through the crowd, trying to find a quiet corner. All these people were here to celebrate him—his future. He should be celebrating as well. This was all he ever wanted. And yet, he kept thinking about the sense of belonging he felt when he’d looked at Callie in his future memory.
He was so deep in thought that he almost plowed over a girl.
“Roxy!” he said. “Fates, it’s been months. You look good.”
She always looked good. She had creamy sable skin and a jagged bob. Her eyes were big and brown, her body trim and muscular. Together, they were dubbed the King and Queen of the Water, since he won all the boys’ meets and she won all the girls’. More than one person had speculated that they would get married and have babies who were born swimming—and on one moon-drenched night, heady from wine and joint victories, they had shared a kiss. They never repeated the performance, maybe because the kiss had felt like pressing his lips against a fish. They were just too similar, Logan had concluded. But he’d always liked her. Always respected her.
“Haven’t seen you much lately,” he continued. “How have you been?”
Her trademark smile—as big and brilliant as her talent—faltered. “I guess you haven’t heard. I’m not swimming much anymore. Or at all, to be precise. I haven’t been in the water for forty-three days. But who’s counting? Not me. At least, I shouldn’t be.”
“But why? Swimming to you is like breathing.”
She moved her shoulders. “I thought it was. My future self felt differently.”
That’s when it hit him. His lungs squeezed together, the way they did on the final few laps of his workout. “Are you saying you stopped swimming because of your future memory?”
“There’s no point. In the future, I’m a bot tester. I run simulatio
ns all day, and I make a good living for my family. Swimming has no place in my future, so it shouldn’t have a place in my present.”
“But you love it,” he whispered. “You told me it was the only time you felt alive. You said the day you stopped swimming would be the day you died.”
“I may have said that. But people change.” Her lower lip trembled, and for a moment, he thought she was going to cry. But Roxy was made of stronger stuff than that. She didn’t smash all of Eden City’s records by giving in to her emotions. “It’s just not in the stars for me, Logan. Not like you. My life veers in a different direction, and I have to follow it.”
“Why?” He grabbed her hand, wishing for once she wouldn’t be so brave. Wishing, for this one single instance, she could let her feelings override her logic. “Who cares what the future shows? We should keep doing the things we love.”
“You wouldn’t understand. You, with your gold-star memory.” She pulled her hand away, softening the action with a smile. “Was that harsh? I don’t mean to be harsh. I came here to congratulate you, Logan. This future couldn’t have happened to a better person.”
She rose on her tiptoes to give him a hug, and he wrapped his arms around her. Don’t hold on too long, he ordered himself. Don’t make this embrace more sentimental than it has to be. Because he recognized the gesture for what it was: good-bye. Now that she was no longer a swimmer, they would no longer have anything to do with each other’s lives.
“Thanks, Roxy. That means a lot to me.”
“I look forward to toasting your victory at the qualifier next week,” she said.
“It might not be next week. My memory didn’t say. Could be next year. Could be five years from now.”
Her fingers gripped his shoulders, briefly, and then she settled back on her feet. “It has to be next week. Coach Blake didn’t tell you?”
“Tell me what?”
“He’s retiring. The end of this year. His heart’s not what it used to be, and his medic gave him one more season before forcing him into early retirement.” She lifted her hand and let it hover by his cheek before dropping it again. The time for touching was past. “So, no pressure. But if you want to become a gold-star swimmer under Coach Blake’s tutelage, it has to be now.”