ARC: The 57 Lives of Alex Wayfare

by M. G. Buehrlen

  God. I thought I was falling for him.

  Alex. Don’t do this.

  I wanted to see him. I wanted to look him in the eye one last time. His soul was here in 1876 now. If Porter was right, then I brought him along with me when I descended. I tore him from his Base Life, wherever that was, and brought him back to the past. All I needed was one good look in his eyes to let him know that I knew. To see his reaction. To ask him why.

  Don’t you dare.

  I wouldn’t stay long. I wouldn’t even throw my bowl of soup in his face. Just one look. That’s all I needed.

  What if they soul block you again? Then what?

  My eyelids peeled open. They were sore and puffy. I hadn’t thought of the soul blocking. Of course they’d block me again. God, what if they already had?

  They have to be near you to block you. Come back now. While it’s still safe.

  More tears slipped down my cheeks. I sat up and looked around the train car, taking in all the hats and bonnets and dresses and crazy mustaches, trying to commit it all to memory. The coil of smoke lifting from pipes. The murmur of conversation. The sound of the steam. The smell of the coal.

  I sniffed and wiped my nose with the back of my gloved hand. If it was all over like Porter said, then I would never get to experience anything like this ever again. I would never see Martin Luther King’s speech or walk the Underground Railroad. I’d never find out what my life was like in the Roanoke Colony. Or in 1927.

  This was my last descent.

  “Are you all right, dear?” Perfume Lady asked, waking me from my thoughts. She smiled at me with kind concern.

  She was sweet. Daft, but sweet. I hoped Shooter wore her pearls at least once after the robbery. It would’ve given Perfume Lady one heck of a story to tell.

  I returned her smile, sad and true, then ascended back to Limbo. Still numb. Still cold. Still clutching my shock and fury and disbelief in my fists.

  GAME OVER

  Porter tells me it’s not my fault. That I couldn’t have known. He tells me he’s sorry over and over. But I can’t deal with him right now. I can’t deal with more explanations, more talk. So he lets me go home to rest. He says to call him whenever I’m ready to talk again.

  Right now, that seems like the very distant future.

  When I land back in my room, I don’t even open my eyes. I can still hear Gran whisking eggs in the kitchen below. I hear Audrey call out for Afton, then the tinkle of the tiny bell on his new collar. Pops sneezes.

  I can’t deal with any of that either. Not yet.

  I fumble for my glasses on the floor next to me, then toss them on the nightstand as I crawl into bed, so very exhausted. I pull my quilt over my head, trying to shut everything out. I rub my thumb over my right palm and my left knee, making sure they’re intact. No blood. I can still remember the pain, but it feels far away. Like a dream of a dream.

  Why didn’t I bring those wounds back with me? Maybe because of the touchdown. I’d erased the gunfight. It never happened.

  I nestle into my pillow and feel its cool softness against my cheek. It smells like my apricot shampoo. Like comfort and home. So far removed from my other life. My secret life, tainted with bullets and blood, lies and more lies, and wayfaring souls. I squeeze my eyes tighter and see flashes of the timeline I erased – the timeline that exists only in my memory. Perfume Lady’s excitement when she finds out she’s sitting next to Shooter Delaney. Cask’s shadowed eyes and barking laugh. Judd’s sweet smile when he talks about the house on the hill. He didn’t deserve to die like he did – cold and alone in prison. It isn’t fair.

  None of it is.

  My thoughts eventually drift to Blue, as they always do. If Porter’s right, his soul is back in Base Life now, somewhere. My Base Life. It should make me happy to know he’s alive. Tangible. Real. That he didn’t really die in 1927. But it doesn’t. I’d feel better if he didn’t exist. If I’d never met him. I guess Porter knew that all along. I guess Porter was trying to protect me. But protecting me by omitting the truth only made me weak. I wasn’t prepared to defend myself against Blue, and that’s Porter’s fault, through and through.

  One question keeps plaguing me. I keep going over it again and again, like a sore in my mouth. How can someone as good as Blue work for someone as evil as Gesh? How can he be OK with leading Gesh straight to me? Has he even considered that I might have a family I need to protect? Like he protected Frank and Helena?

  The only thing I can think of is that he must believe he’s doing the right thing. That he’s on the right side.

  He must believe I’m the enemy.

  Does he know I figured it out? That I know the truth about him now? Does he even care that he took everything from me? That it’s all over? If I can’t descend anymore, how am I supposed to stop Gesh from hunting me down? Finding me and hurting my family? How am I supposed to go on living, acting like I don’t know one man possesses all the wealth and power in the entire world and has the government folded neatly in his breast pocket? How am I supposed to trust anything, anyone, ever again?

  Somewhere between cursing Blue and praying for God to erase the past month from my memory, I fall asleep. If Mom calls me down for dinner, I don’t notice. I sleep straight through until morning, dreaming of a poisoned kiss, moonlit breath, dark muddy eyes, and a bloodstained bluff.

  CHAPTER 26

  RESIDUALS

  The next morning, Mom wakes me with a gentle nudge. She’s sitting on my bed, a steaming mug of coffee in her hands. Her satin chestnut hair is down, every strand straight and perfect, blanketing her shoulders.

  “Still not feeling well?” she asks.

  I rub my eyes. They’re raw and swollen. My body feels broken, crushed from the inside out. Pain radiates from the center of my chest – from my heart. I know if I tell Mom I’m sick, she’ll let me stay home from school again, but staying home with nothing to do but think about Blue won’t solve anything. What I need is a distraction, and the endless drama at school is a major one.

  “I’m fine. Just tired.” I manage a weak smile. She kisses me on the forehead, tells me breakfast is almost ready, and heads back downstairs. It isn’t until I reach for my glasses that I realize something’s very wrong.

  I can see perfectly and clearly.

  And my glasses are still on the nightstand.

  I bolt upright and look around my room. Everything – every poster, every tool, every spare part, every spool of wire – I can see it all crisp and clear. I saw every strand of Mom’s hair in perfect precision. Her tired eyes. The steam rising from her mug. It should’ve all been a blurred mess of colored blobs. I should’ve had to drag my glasses on before any of my surroundings made sense.

  I grab my glasses and slide them on. Everything shifts out of focus. I take them off and my world sharpens. I scowl down at my frames like they’ve betrayed me somehow. Then I fumble for my cell phone and dial Porter’s number.

  “Alex?”

  “You have to do something,” I say, panicked. “I woke up and now I’m Peter freaking Parker.”

  “Peter who?”

  “I can see. Like 20/20. I don’t need my glasses anymore.”

  “Oh. Well, that must be a residual from Shooter Delaney. She was a sharp shooter, you know.”

  “Is that all you have to say?”

  “What do you want me to say?”

  “I want you to tell me how to reverse it.”

  There’s a pause on the other end of the phone. “You want… your bad vision back?”

  “Yes.”

  “…Why?”

  “Because my other option is explaining to my parents how I have perfect vision all of a sudden. I’m pretty sure they won’t buy the whole ‘bitten by a radioactive spider’ thing.”

  Another pause. This one longer. Then he says, “You’re right. Can you stall for a day or two while I figure out a solution?”

  “How do I do that?”

  “Pretend. Act like nothing’s changed.
I’ll get back to you as soon as I can.”

  There’s silence on the other end, then a beep in my ear signaling the end of the call. I toss my phone aside and glare down at my glasses.

  Traitors.

  I’m surrounded by traitors.

  THE FIRST STRAW

  I throw on a pair of faded jeans, my black sneakers, and my favorite striped sweater. I wear my shaggy hair down for once so I can hide behind it during class. I force myself to keep my glasses on all through breakfast, which results in a stubbed toe on my way down the stairs, a swear word I almost say out loud in front of Gran, and half a carton of milk poured on the table instead of in my cereal bowl.

  “Wayspaz,” Claire says, disguised as a cough.

  I shoot a glare in the general direction of her tiny, blurry figure while I sop up the mess. At this rate, she’ll make a great replacement for Tabitha at South View High one day.

  On the way out the door, I snag a finger on Claire’s backpack so she can guide me down the porch steps to the Mustang. She gives me a look, like I’ve suddenly sprouted elf ears, but lets me tag along behind her anyway.

  The moment Dad pulls up to the curb at the high school, I jump out, toss a wave behind me, and hurry inside, stuffing my glasses in my backpack once the double doors clang shut. It’s instant visual relief, but the makings of a wicked migraine are already in place.

  At least now I have that distraction I wanted.

  As I make my way down the unnaturally bright hallways to my locker to drop off my parka, it doesn’t take long to notice all the staring. Freshmen, sophomores, even seniors are craning their necks to watch me walk by. I check my shoes for toilet paper and swipe at my nose with my sleeve in case something’s hanging out, but there’s nothing.

  They can’t all be staring because I’m not wearing my glasses, can they? Kids get contacts all the time. It’s not that big of a deal. I barely notice what the other kids at school wear, let alone whether or not they wear glasses. Why should they care what I’m doing?

  I skip my locker and go straight to the drafting lab for first period so I can hide behind a computer for an hour. Maybe after that, everything will go back to normal and I can be invisible again.

  A few kids glance up and whisper when I make my way to my computer. I drop my backpack and parka at my feet and sink into my chair. I hide behind my monitor. The fluorescent lights buzz overhead.

  Thankfully, when Mr Pence, our Advanced CADD teacher, starts class, everyone snaps their attention to his glistening bald head. Mr Pence is one of the few teachers I actually like at SVH. He’s huge, like a professional football player, built like a tank with biceps bigger than my head, and yet he’s total Computer Geek to the core. We understand each other. We speak the same language. I try to show him some respect and pay attention while he marks the steps for this week’s AutoCAD project on the whiteboard at the front of the room, but when his dry erase marker squeaks out a number four in Roman numerals, my mind wanders.

  IV.

  The letters on my Polygon stone. My name from my most recent past life. When I worked with Blue. When we were partners.

  I pull the stone from my pocket and run my fingers over the letters again. The little boy in the wire-rimmed glasses is Blue. He must be. No one else could make me feel such strong déjà vu, the kind that pulls me into Limbo so easily. Porter said something about Blue looking very different at AIDA. Maybe that’s why I remember him having blond hair and dark eyes. Not dark hair and blue-green eyes.

  What did he look like now in Base Life? Like the Blue from Chicago? Or like the Blue from AIDA? Either way, that little boy who played Polygon with me at AIDA, who watched as Gesh hit me, was no longer my friend.

  I had to remember that.

  I trace the L, V, and I on the other side of the Polygon stone. Fifty-six in Roman numerals. The exact number of soulmarks I had hidden in my garden in Limbo. Fifty-six lives lived. Is that why that number was carved into my stone? Or did it represent a name, like IV did?

  That train of thought leads me back to 1876. The Descender asked me a question as I lay covered in my own blood.

  Who handed you that load of bull? Was it Levi? Are you still working with him?

  LVI. Levi. That must’ve been Porter’s name before he changed it and went into hiding.

  I push the stone back in my pocket. I dig my cell phone from my backpack and hide it in my lap while Mr Pence explains the steps of our project one-by-one. He wants us to draw a 2D model of a bicycle wheel using the Array command we learned last week, which sounds simple enough. I pull up Porter’s number and shoot him a text: Who’s Levi?

  A few minutes later, my phone lights up. Where did you hear that name?

  So I was right. The letters did represent a name.

  I wait for Mr Pence to turn back to the whiteboard before I type out my response. The Descender asked if I was working with “Levi.” He meant you, didn’t he? That was your name at AIDA.

  It makes sense. Porter was the one who taught me how to play Polygon. He probably taught Blue too. Maybe Blue has his own stone, a black one, with III carved on one side and LVI on the other. Fifty-six. Porter’s number at AIDA.

  It takes a while for Porter to respond this time, like he’s hesitating. The class is almost ready to start working with the dimensions Mr Pence wrote on the board. If Porter doesn’t write back soon, I won’t be able to check my messages until the end of class.

  Mr Pence makes his way around the room to check on our progress. I keep my phone on my lap, glancing down every two seconds while I fire up AutoCAD and start my project. My knee bounces. I chew on my thumbnail. Mr Pence nears my station.

  My phone lights up.

  We’ll talk about this later.

  My knee stops bouncing. I drop my hand in my lap. Of course we’ll talk later. That’s what people say when they’re avoiding something. It took over six months for Mom and Dad to finally tell me what was going on with Audrey. And those were some of the worst months of my life. All that waiting. All that heavy unknown.

  I fist the phone in my hand, so tired of Porter always choosing what I should and shouldn’t know. He wasn’t protecting me by leaving me in the dark. When would he understand that? Besides, what was so dangerous about knowing his real name? It’s not like I would tell anyone.

  “Cell phones away, Miss Wayfare,” Mr Pence says, patting me on the shoulder as he walks by. “Let’s get to work.”

  I drop my phone in my bag, my cheeks tinged red.

  The first straw lands softly on the camel’s back.

  STRAW NUMBER TWO

  When I head to second period French, everyone still stares at me. Some swap whispers behind cupped hands. I duck into a restroom just to make sure I don’t have something stuck to my forehead.

  I run a hand through my hair, wondering what the heck everyone’s problem is. I guess I do look a little strange without glasses – I’ve worn them since first grade – but I don’t look hideous. I actually think I look pretty good. My hair’s doing this layered thing that frames my face and makes my eyes pop. They look more blue than gray today.

  I actually look normal for once. More like them.

  So what’s the problem?

  It isn’t until I grab my seat in French class that I figure it out. Two freshmen behind me whisper a little too loudly behind their textbooks.

  “I heard she was with him all Friday night.”

  “Stacy said Tabitha caught them together.”

  All at once, everything clicks together. Friday night. When I gave Jensen a ride home from the library.

  Oh.

  My.

  God.

  Are they talking about me and Jensen, and the social atrocity he committed last Friday? It completely slipped my mind after traveling back in time, robbing a train, and, you know, getting shot.

  Twice.

  I glance at the door. I can make a run for it before Madame Cavanaugh comes in if I bolt now, but I’m not fast enough. Madame Cavanaugh
swoops in wearing one of her usual flowered dresses, her arms outstretched, and gives the class a jubilant, “Bonjour!” Her dark hair is permed in a perfect helmet shape around her head. Her pink sneakers squeak on the floor.

  I sink lower in my chair and ride out the rest of class as quietly as I can. I should’ve stayed home sick.

  STRAW NUMBER THREE

  My next period is gym with Tabitha and her friends. I’m fairly sure life can’t get much crueler than that.

  I contemplate ditching school all together, but something inside me refuses. Call it Shooter Delaney’s stubbornness. If I can hold my own against five gun-wielding outlaws like the Carters, I should be able to stand up against five of the most popular girls in school.

  Theoretically speaking.

  When I enter the locker room, there’s already a crowd of girls gathered around Tabitha like a support group. They all turn to look at me, eyes wide. I make my way to my locker, ignoring them, hoping they’ll leave me be, but they follow me like a gaggle of ducklings. They stand behind me, a united front of school colors, blue and gold gym shorts and white shirts. Arms crossed over sports bras.

  “Tell them all you did was give him a ride home,” Tabitha says, standing at the front of the group. I can feel her glare on my back. Like the point of a blade right between the shoulder blades.

  I don’t turn around. I stuff my backpack and parka into my tiny gym locker and parrot what she says. “All I did was give him a ride home.”

  “But she doesn’t drive,” one of the other girls blurts out. I think her name is Sally. She’s standing off to the side, trembling like she might burst from all the gossip she has stored inside.

  “Yeah,” someone else says. “I thought people who had seizures weren’t allowed to drive.”