“Can you watch these for me, Allie Bean? I ran out of butter. There’s a few minutes left on the timer, so when it goes off, check if they’re done. If not, set it for another five minutes. Don’t you let my sugar babies burn.” She grabs her coat and flies out the door, her purse swinging behind her.
I drop my backpack by the back door, toss the oven mitt on the counter, and make my way to the front porch, leaving the front door open so I can hear the timer. I watch Gran book it down the street to the corner store. A breeze kicks up and scatters the last few fall leaves across the yard. I sit on the porch swing, suddenly feeling very, very tired.
And very alone.
As if right on cue, a familiar face comes walking up our driveway, hands shoved in the pockets of his jeans. “Wayfare,” Jensen says with a smile. “Glad you brought back the specs. Lookin’ good.”
When he climbs the porch steps, I notice a fresh bruise on his cheekbone under his left eye. “Whoa. What happened to you?” I scoot over so he can sit beside me. My hands are cold and fisted in the pockets of my parka.
“Heh. Well. I kinda got in a fight with Robbie after school.”
“You didn’t.”
He nods with a guilty grin. “Totally did. I asked him what he said to you on the track.” He shakes his head. “It was low. Even for him. I don’t know what happened. I’ve never been in a real fight before. I just got really mad and the next thing I knew, I took a swing.”
“You hit him?”
He lets out a laugh. “I wish. He rolled out of the way. But he got me pretty good.” He rubs the side of his face, wincing a bit.
I give him a disapproving look. “I thought you said we just had to ‘ignore them.’”
“Yeah, well.” He kicks his long legs out and crosses his ankles. “Maybe next time I’ll take my own advice.”
We sit there, staring at our shoes, rocking the porch swing with our feet. Heel, toe, heel, toe.
“So,” he says after a while. “Did you talk to your boyfriend?”
I smile to myself. “Yeah, actually. I did.” It feels weird referring to Blue as my boyfriend. Shouldn’t that title be reserved for someone you meet in the present time period? Someone you go on dates with?
“And?” Jensen says.
“And you were right. It was a big misunderstanding.”
“Told ya.”
“Yeah, well. Maybe next time I’ll take your advice.” He bumps his shoulder into mine and we laugh. “So, can you tell all the jerks at school that I have a boyfriend? And that you and I are just friends? Maybe that’ll get the guys off my back and the girls won’t hate me so much.”
“What? They don’t hate you.”
“Yes they do.”
“Why would they hate you?”
“Um, maybe because you and I are friends now?” I swear, he can be so oblivious sometimes.
“We’ve always been friends.”
“OK, well, they hate me now that you’ve made our friendship public.”
“That’s a ridiculous reason to hate someone.”
“Jensen, if you haven’t figured out by now that most girls are shallow, shallow creatures, then there’s no hope for you. They hate other girls for far less than that. Trust me.”
“That’s messed up.”
“Tell me about it.”
We rock the swing. Stare at our shoes. I push my fake glasses up the bridge of my nose.
“So when do I get to meet this guy?” he says.
“Someday. Maybe.”
“You bringing him to prom?”
I snort a laugh. I try to picture Blue and I doing something as mundane as prom. Two time traveling teens renting a limo and wearing corsages. “No. We’re sort of… bigger than prom.”
“Ah. College guy, eh?”
“Something like that.”
The timer goes off. I leap to my feet and head for the door. “I gotta run inside. You want to come in?”
He shrugs. “Sure.”
I pull the two baking sheets full of molasses cookies from the oven. They’re rich, golden brown and smell amazing. I set them on the kitchen island and hand Jensen a spatula. We both start easing the cookies off the baking sheets and onto a cooling rack.
Audrey comes in carrying Afton in her arms, wearing a pair of baggy, plaid pajama pants. “I thought I smelled cookies.” Her eyes are heavy, and she has that just-woken-up look. Her stocking cap is askew. One pro of being totally bald? No more bed head.
She freezes when she sees Jensen, and her heavy, tired eyes become big and bright. I can’t help but stifle a laugh. I’ve never invited a friend over to the house, let alone a boy. Let alone Jensen Peters.
“Jensen?” I say. “This is my sister.”
“Oh, yeah,” he says with a kind smile. “Audrey, right?” He sticks out his hand. She shifts Afton over to one arm and shakes his hand, looking even more meek than usual. I like it that he remembers her name.
She slides onto one of the barstools at the side of the island and cuddles Afton to her chest. She’s not usually shy, but Jensen’s presence makes her clam up.
“What’s your cat’s name?” Jensen asks her.
“Afton.”
“Cool name. That’s a river in Scotland, right?”
Audrey and I both look up, eyebrows raised. “How did you know that?” she asks.
“Well,” he says with a shrug, easing a few more cookies onto the cooling rack, “this is going to sound stupid and totally lame, but there’s this Scottish guy who wrote a poem about it. It’s one of my favorites.”
“It’s one of mine, too,” Audrey says, perking up.
“It is?” When she nods, he says, “Well, maybe it’s not so lame then.”
“Did Alex tell you I’m going to Scotland in the spring?”
“What? No. That’s awesome.” He gives me a look like he can’t believe I didn’t tell him.
Audrey beams. “I’ve been wanting to go for so long. And someone made a donation to my foundation so I can go on the trip. Isn’t that cool? The whole family’s going.”
“Alex too?” he asks.
“Yep,” she says. “There’s no way I’d go without her. When we make that final descent, I want her right by my side.”
Her words hit home deeper than she could have known. I walk over to her, squeeze her shoulders, and kiss the top of her stocking cap. “You know I’ll be there. Every step of the way.”
I may have ruined history, the entire world, and who knows how many lives with the Variant timeline I created, but at least I can be proud of what I did for Audrey.
At least I did one thing right.
When Gran gets back, she’s just as startled as Audrey to see Jensen helping us with the cookies. And he’s just as kind and talkative to her as he is with Audrey. By the time the whole family gets home, he’s been invited to stay for dinner four times. He calls his parents and gets permission to stay.
Over dinner, he makes everyone laugh. He talks to Dad about the Mustang, to Mom about her job at AIDA, to Pops about the Orioles, to Gran about her delicious cookies, to Claire about school, and to Audrey about Scotland. He even sneaks Afton a bit of his fish stick under the table. No one asks about the shiny bruise under his eye, not even Claire, and for that I’m thankful. I’m sure they’ll quiz me about it after he leaves, which I’m already dreading. They keep shooting me knowing looks across the macaroni and cheese. Pops keeps waggling his bushy gray eyebrows at me. I just try to ignore them and enjoy the show while it lasts.
Throughout it all, I can’t help but think, So this is what it’s like to have a friend in Base Life.
After dinner, I walk Jensen out onto the porch. He swings the baggie of molasses cookies Gran gave him at his side.
“Guess I better go home and explain this thing to the parents.” He points at his black eye. “And I guess you better go inside and explain it to yours, too.” He tosses me a grin, then jogs down the steps. “See ya tomorrow, Wayfare.”
I guess he’s not super oblivious al
l the time.
As I watch him melt into the night, past pools of light from street lamps, Mom leans against the doorframe behind me. The great shadow of disappointment is nowhere to be found tonight.
“Do you know how proud I am of you?” she says.
“For what?” I squeeze into the doorframe beside her, and she wraps an arm around my waist.
“You’re making friends. Doing better in school.” She smooths my hair back and gives me a peck on the forehead. “I like seeing you happy.”
I rest my head under her chin. If she doesn’t feel like she has to worry about me anymore, then that’s one more thing I’ve done halfway right. I just hope I can keep it up.
And somehow talk her into a trip to Chicago over Christmas break.
CHAPTER 35
APOLOGY
Destiny is a funny thing. It’s ironically fickle, not set in stone like some might believe. Destiny isn’t immune to the bends and cracks in time. One choice, one action, can change everything. Destiny is fluid. Evolving. It carves a path through life like a river carves its way through rock. When an obstacle arises, the river changes its course. There are no straight lines. Alternate timelines are created every day. Every hour. A country decides to go to war. A pregnant mother loses her child. A man is late for work and causes a pileup on the freeway. What might have been is lost forever. The new timeline begins.
That is the only rigid thing about Destiny.
It changes.
Sometimes I feel trapped by this knowledge. I lie in bed at night, wondering what life would be like if I hadn’t set this new timeline in motion. Who would be alive? Who would be dead? Have I changed your life? Is it different now because of me? Are you happy with your path? Or did I screw things up for you?
It’s enough to give me nightmares and send me to the edge of hysterics.
All I can say is I’m sorry. If your lot in life sucks right now, blame me.
I did it.
It would all be different if I hadn’t gone back to AIDA. All I can do now is try to make our future better, to give you the chance to have it good, from here on out.
I promise I’ll try. Even if it kills me.
Dying’s what I do, remember? It’s the least I can do.
And I’m trying. I’m learning. Getting better. It’s not easy being a Descender. It’s like being in a cage – the bars arc around me and I’m not strong enough to bend them or break free. Sometimes I still resent Porter. For lying to me. For creating me. For forgiving me. But then I remember I’m no longer adrift. I’m just new to the game. The visions, the traveling – Porter is teaching me to think of it as a gift. A secret power given only to me. All I have to do is learn how to harness it, and use it to repair all the damage I’ve done. Use it to defeat Gesh before he can defeat me.
I try to think of all the good that can come of such a gift.
I try to remember Porter’s words of comfort.
And when those dark times come, when I resent this burden on my back I’m told I can never shift, I cling to the fact that there’s someone out there who shares the same load. Another burdened soul, carrying the same weight.
DEEP BREATHS
“You ready?” Porter asks, squeezing my hand.
The taxi pulls to the curb along South Columbus Drive in Grant Park, Chicago. The sun is just rising, glinting off Lake Michigan. Buckingham Fountain sits covered in twinkling holiday lights, like it’s draped with strands of diamonds, just out the window in the distance, past a row of neatly trimmed hedges. A light layer of snow dusts the ground. The city looks totally different. All built up and shiny and new.
There are so many cars. So many people. So much noise. But the fountain looks exactly the same. Our fountain.
Porter squeezes my hand again. “Alex?”
I close my eyes. I take one good deep breath. Two. Three. I picture Blue’s teasing grin as he pulls me close by the fountain. I can’t wait to see him again. To have him hold my hand in Base Life. My hand. Alex Wayfare’s hand.
I open my eyes. I take one more deep breath, then finally, “I’m ready.”
I am so ready.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
So much thanks to:
Holly Root, Amanda Rutter, and all the folks at Strange Chemistry and Angry Robot, for loving this book. Thanks for taking a chance on Alex.
The YABooksCentral.com family, for cheering me on. The bloggers and authors and publicists who told me they were excited for this book. (You know who you are). That means the world to a debut author. The OneFours, Thirteeners, Lucky 13s, and Apocalypsies, for not only supporting YABooksCentral.com, but me as well. The YA community is truly the best community. I’m proud to be a part of it. The Strange Chemists, who welcomed me with open arms. The Snowflake Posse, for those hot Savannah nights. All the friends I’ve made on Twitter: Who said social media isn’t valuable? You all mean the world to me.
Sara McClung, Bria Quinlan, Francesca Amendolia, Jen Fisher (The “Pusher” of Books), and Christina Franke, for reading and helping shape this book. I owe you dinner. Kimberly Pauley, for being there and passing the torch. Shannon Messenger, for late night chats and Shannonigans. Kim Baccellia, for keeping me in coffee gift cards and cheering me on. Hayley Farris, for the gift of much-needed sleep during the final edit stretch. (You know what I’m talking about). Jodi Meadows, for winter writing mitts. Andrea Summer and Tye VonAllmen, for introducing me to goetta. Heather Palmquist-Lindahl, for making me your honorary sister. Matt Murrie, for the advice and support. Jon Beebe, for breakfasts and brainstorming and WoW. Leigh Kolb, for your words. All of them.
Myra McEntire and C.J. Redwine, for your unwavering encouragement and belief in this book (and your belief in me). Thank you for bossing me and making me HIT SEND. I shall continue to pat heads and make my own kite string daily.
Chris Howard, for being my BFF, my BFG, my beffie. You are one of my favorite authors, bud. April G. Tucholke, for keeping my neuroses in check. Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there, wondering, fearing, doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before. We will have France. (And Scotland. And Quebec City. And the entire world, apparently.)
Nancy Nilsson and Stefanie Lassitter, for being the best, most inspiring professors, and for giving me many an A+ all those years ago. My teachers at UHS: you all shaped this story in some form or another. Every single one of you. Who knew a small school in mid-Missouri could have some of the best teachers in the States? Joe Zickafoose, for changing my life. You said you wanted to read my book. I’m sorry I didn’t finish in time.
Claire Johnson, for introducing me to Charade and therefore my love of classic film. Popcorn and green grapes! The bottle and the hill!
Cara Minks Rogers, for all the sleepovers fraught with storytelling and drama. You always kept me captivated. I hope this book captivates you. (As much as The Beast’s Wild Ride.)
Abby Templer, for The Salem Witch Trials, Wayne’s World, and our dress-up “improv nights” at your house (with NSFW video evidence). We were fearless. We put ourselves out there. We went for it. We still are. We still do.
Jill Van Leer, for reading on the playground, in the girl’s bathroom, and on the bus. You were my first reader, and my first true friend. You liked my quirky brain, for reasons unknown, and for that I’ll always love you (and your sandals).
Nicholette Tilghman, for pushing me to finish my very first novel. You helped prove I could do it. Without you, this book wouldn’t exist. This career wouldn’t exist.
Royace Buehrlen, for passing down the storytelling gene, and for believing I could be, and do, anything. Donna Massmann, for sharing all your favorite movies with me, for creating an artist’s heart within me, and for being my Number One Fan. Don Massmann and Marty Buehrlen, for putting up with me. There is nothing so difficult to live with as a budding novelist. You have my sympathies. Scott, Sara, Nancy, and all the loved ones we’ve lost. You’re in our hearts. You keep us going. The rest of my huge, amazing family, who lov
es so fiercely. Y’all believed in me. I hope I’ve done you proud.
Hiccup, for putting it all in perspective. (You’re crying now, and refusing to nap, so if I’ve forgotten anyone on this list, I’m blaming you, little one. You are the best distraction.)
And Joel, for opening this farm girl’s eyes to the wide world beyond. Thank you for The Lake. For Chicago. We owned the city. We owned the stars. It was all ours. It still is. Let’s go explore.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
When she’s not writing about teens who save the world, MG moonlights as a web designer and social media marketing buff, and she’s the current mastermind lurking behind the hugely popular website YABooksCentral.com
, a social network for YA (and kids!) book lovers.
Places you might find MG hiding: in her creaky old house nestled in Michigan pines, sipping coffee on her porch, playing in leaf piles, cooking over campfires, and dipping her toes in creek beds.
www.mgbuehrlen.com
twitter.com/mgbuehrlen
ARC: The 57 Lives of Alex Wayfare Page 32