I, too, had drawn an ocean—three wavy parallel lines and a single, perfectly symmetrical starfish. Only I hadn’t been thinking about the ocean in an epic way. I was born in a town beside the ocean. And there was no city sunk into my ocean, which made it look boring.
Jazz said, “I love that we drew the same thing.”
He was so close to me I could feel him buzzing, although we weren’t touching. Jazz was smiling. I realized I’d never seen him smile—or I’d never looked closely.
He had a broken tooth. A jagged fraction of an upper tooth was on display where most people’s broken teeth would be fixed. Like there had been an accident and nobody patched him up.
I said, “Don’t they have dentists in Las Vegas?”
What was wrong with me?
“Wait! I’m sorry. That’s not what I meant to say.”
“Lousy ones,” said Jazz. “Beware of drunk dentists. That should be a bumper sticker.”
I inhaled, feeling buzzy and sour—my stomach, and my fingernails—sour all over, like I’d been dipped in lemon juice. To distract myself from this sickening yet appetizing sensation, I pointed at another amoeba-shaped blob on his paper. “What’s this?”
“South America,” said Jazz.
I couldn’t tell whether I wanted to ask him more about drunk dentists or South America or just reach out and touch his curly hair when he pointed at my other drawing. “Who’s this?”
In answer to questions two, three and four, I’d drawn one picture: Wylie Buford wearing his alien T-shirt. The furthest I had traveled was to the past. The furthest I wanted to travel was to the past. As to whether or not aliens existed? When I made it there, I’d ask Wylie.
When Mr. Zuluti asked for a volunteer, Jazz raised his hand. I was glad, because I wanted him to keep talking. I wanted to learn everything about the international man of mystery without him knowing I wanted to know.
But when Mr. Zuluti called on him, Jazz threw his arm around my shoulders, which startled me. “Nephele is a very interesting person, Mr. Z. Fi, the people want to learn more.”
The class was quiet, looking at me. Judging me. Getting ready to laugh.
My jaw quivered. The back of my neck ached. I was sure Jazz could feel me sweating….
“Wonderful!” said Mr. Zuluti, from somewhere far away. I was sinking to the bottom of the ocean, like Las Vegas. My body was as dense as an asteroid. I was plummeting. “Nephele, why don’t you step up here in front of the class.”
The silence was fat. I was a zeppelin in flames. It was impossible to breathe. I was going to fall out of my chair.
Jazz’s arm tightened around me like a clamp. He pulled me upright.
My nostrils sucked in cool air; the room shifted into crisp focus.
Mr. Zuluti’s voice was clear again. “Or you can stay seated.”
Did anyone notice what had just happened?
Jazz jumped to his feet. “Fi, can I steal the spotlight? I’m like—an idiot. I always interrupt people inappropriately. My mother’s boyfriend says it’s unforgivable. But he’s out of the picture now, and I’m the Lone Ranger, and listen, I can’t recommend total and complete independence highly enough. We’ll start in Santiago, Chile, where my mother grew up and where I spent the last couple of years wandering around. That’s when I discovered poetry. And, you know, sorry, Fi—maybe you can go tomorrow?”
The bell rang. People scooted out chairs. It was all happening very far away from me. To other people.
“Leave your worksheets on my desk,” said Mr. Zuluti. “Can’t wait to read them. And continue these conversations!”
Jazz whispered, “Nephele, mamma mia! Are you okay?”
Mrs. Saint Johnabelle’s classroom was my second home. Everything in it had been so predictable. What would happen if Dirk Angus 10.0 failed? Science would turn into a soupy mess like the rest of my life? Leave me behind like Serrafin, and everything and everybody else? A poison pain pulsed through my veins. On my way out the door, I scowled at Mr. Zuluti. And I might have mumbled, “You are such a mashed potato.”
Mr. Zuluti’s smile switched into a surprised look. “Pardon me, Nephele, are you saying something I need to hear? Could you speak a bit—”
“Louder?” I said. “POTATO.”
I stomped down the hallway to the bathroom without looking back. If my life was a television series, I would call it How to Embarrass Yourself in Front of One Cute Boy, Repeatedly. Today would be episode ten: “Return of the Toilet Burrito.”
* * *
—
That night at the bookshop, white haze rose around Chicago’s two pairs of feet. Mom and Dad were downstairs, closing early. In a few minutes, we’d be leaving for the visitation.
I said, “This is not happening, Chicago.”
“It isn’t?” she asked.
“Mrs. Saint Johnabelle cannot die without knowing me. And I will not capitulate to the idiocy of our new science teacher.”
Chicago was silent. Fine. I didn’t want to talk about him either. I leaned against the red wall. I didn’t even want to think about the new teacher. But it was more than that. I almost couldn’t think about him. I mean, I couldn’t think about how I was acting toward Mr. Zuluti. I didn’t understand it, but also, I didn’t want to understand it. Everything about Mr. Replacement, his whole existence, made me enraged. I felt enraged, and feeling enraged felt right.
At the same time, I regretted yet again exposing what a freak I am to Airika and Rex—and especially Jeremiah.
“He’s cute, without being cutesy,” said Chicago. “Funny, without being jokey—”
I said, “I hadn’t noticed.”
Chicago said, “Psh.”
I ran my hand over the glittery black beads on my new sweater. “I’m a monster, Chicago. If he gets too close, I’ll infect him with the virus.”
“What virus? I thought you were Peter Pan. Or is it Medusa now?”
“I’m basically Rumpelstiltskin with a smartphone. And something about a virus.”
“You’ve made a humongous, multiple-universe-sized mess,” said Chicago.
“Which is why as soon as this funeral is over, I’m devoting every second of my life to my final attempt to fix Dirk Angus.”
“You’re going to spend one more year running the experiment that hurts people in ways you don’t fully understand. The evil mathematician steamrolls everything in her path.”
“That’s one way of looking at it,” I said. “But I know you, Chicago. You always have two.”
The photograph was silent. I watched the haze that swirled around Chicago’s feet as she walked and didn’t walk in two directions at once, the picture of a contradiction.
On the drive down the coast to the visitation, our car developed the hiccups. It stalled, grunted and belched more than one unexpected blast of hot air from its heater, which wasn’t even turned on. I swore to myself that as soon as I won my battle with Death, I’d learn how to fix a Subaru.
The funeral home was surrounded by bushes trimmed in spheres that made them look like evergreen cake pops. We parked and followed a trickle of people through the front doors.
Inside, the hallway carpet was red, which felt wrong to me. Red was a color for roses and Popsicles, not Death. Organ music seeping from hidden speakers made me think about merry-go-rounds, which was creepy. There was a clean scent like fresh-cut flowers, and the people in the hallways were murmuring so quietly I couldn’t make out a single word. I felt like I was walking through a too-real dream. I’d just decided to go back and wait in the car when I saw Serrafin.
A large framed photograph of Mrs. Saint Johnabelle was propped on an easel beside an open door.
I walked toward the picture. Her coral-brown skin, her clear plastic eyeglasses. The smile that was hidden like a gem in her eyes. The closer I got to the picture, the mor
e I felt like my limbs were made of rubber. Like I was maybe going to stop having bones and just collapse.
Oh, Serrafin, I asked silently. Are you in there, somehow? Couldn’t you be? Could your photograph maybe, possibly contain a little piece of your soul?
Mom scratched my back. “Ready to go inside?”
“I want to stay out here a minute,” I said.
Dad kissed my head, and he and Mom went into the room.
I wish you’d told me you were dying, Serrafin. It doesn’t matter; I’m going back. I know I can get it right this time if I think clearly, like you taught me to. And next time when you die, we’ll have been friends for ten years. Not two dumb days.
I was thinking all that and more—remembering stuff, like the day I caught Mrs. Saint Johnabelle playing a dragon-killing video game on her phone—when someone nearly plowed me over. A skinny lady with high-heeled boots and a snakeskin bag. And she didn’t say excuse me or anything. Who shoves someone without apologizing at a visitation? As I watched her go into the room, something about the woman struck me as familiar. The way she walked, maybe?
The woman looked like she wasn’t sure where to go. Dad was standing nearby and introduced himself. “Horace Weather. My daughter was Mrs. Saint Johnabelle’s student.”
The woman said, “Vera Knight. I was her student years ago.”
A gong banged inside my skull. My shoulder knocked the corner of the photograph of Mrs. Saint Johnabelle, and I almost toppled the whole easel. I caught it and ran into the room and grabbed the sleeve of Dad’s suit jacket.
It was her. It was Vera.
“Hey, Fi,” said Dad. “This is Ms. Knight. You’re both former students.”
Vera’s eyes were still a lighter shade of blue than I thought eyes could be. She had the same sharp, seashell-shaped ears, the same isosceles triangle nose, the same glossy black hair. Her skin was still see-through white, like skim milk, but her edges were crisp. Like a memory that refused to fade.
Mom said, “Our Fi only knew your teacher for a day or two, but she made quite an impact.”
Vera was nodding.
Vera had always nodded while people talked.
The girl who had destroyed my life was standing there nodding, like I was just some stranger and she was just some random lady with a scary purse.
Vera pinched my hand with two fingers and shook it like a sardine. “Fifi, is it? You missed out on a strict lady who you would’ve looked back on with admiration. Truly, she was my inspiration.”
I yanked my hand away and snorted. “What did Mrs. Saint Johnabelle inspire you to do, Vera? Skin snakes?”
“What?” said Dad, leaning away from me.
Mom tried to catch my eye, but I was locked on Vera. Mom said, “Fi is—grieving.”
Vera laughed her broken-blender laugh and held up a hand. “Absolutely no worries,” she said, nodding.
“Do you nod because you’re listening, Vera?” I asked. “Or to cover up the fact that you’re not listening? Does it go back and forth?”
“Nephele Ann!” said Mom. “I’m sorry, Ms. Knight.”
“Please! No worries,” said Vera, nodding faster. “Mood swings are a perfectly normal way for a teenager to express grief. You know, Mrs. Saint Johnabelle inspired me to work with children.”
“In what capacity, Vera?” Dad asked, while his eyes bored into me. I sensed that he was attempting to mind-control my mouth shut.
Vera said, “I’m a psychotherapist in Los Angeles. I specialize in the most challenging cases. Kids who struggle with anxiety, depression, multiple losses…”
I snorted again. Mom put her hand on the back of my neck and squeezed.
I felt another question coming from the past—a place that had vanished but somehow still existed. “So what happened to Ramsey?” I asked.
Mom said, “Who?”
“Ramsey Schultz?”
This time, Vera was the one who snorted. “Are you kidding me? Who cares what happened to that liar?”
Oddly, Vera didn’t seem the least bit surprised that I asked her this. It was like the question had taken her back to the long-ago place, too.
“Wait a sec. Who’s Ramsey?” asked Dad.
Vera pointed at him with a black fingernail. “First she steals my fiancé, then they hack into my bank account. When I find out about the pharmaceutical ring, it’s like, Get out of my life, psycho.”
Vera tucked her hair behind her ears and straightened her purse. I think she’d just realized she wasn’t in the past anymore. She started to say something to me, and stopped. Then she squeezed Dad’s shoulder and nodded as she walked away.
I felt a smile coming on.
Mom let go of me. “Horace, I’m going to take a program and speak to the family. And then let’s cut this short.”
“What?” I said. “I’m having fun chatting.”
Dad scratched his neckbeard and squinted at me. “Tell me how you know people who are involved in a pharmaceutical ring.”
I said, “Long story.” But as I watched Vera standing beside the casket, wiping her eyes with a tissue, I realized I was once again out of control. What was I smiling about? This wasn’t a game. I hadn’t just won something. I hadn’t known Vera in forever. Known what she cared about or how she felt.
I’d been furious at Vera for so long, but I’d never admitted it. Furious about getting dumped and not knowing why. I mean, I’d decided why—Vera had ghosted me because I was what Ramsey and everybody said I was. Aggressively weird. The whole reason I’d built my time machine was to become someone Vera wouldn’t abandon. And when I realized I wouldn’t be able to change, I’d tried to forget her.
But I hadn’t forgotten her. Of course I hadn’t. I remembered everything.
Now I had to wonder. What if it wasn’t my fault our friendship had ended? What if it was Vera’s fault for falling for Ramsey, the future criminal? Or Ramsey’s fault for being a future criminal? Or Ramsey’s parents’ fault for raising a future criminal? The Schultz family’s criminal tendencies might’ve gone back generations.
Maybe when I finally went back in time for real, Wylie Buford and I could save Vera. We could prevent her from getting burned by a future pharmaceutical ring kingpin. Queenpin?
Vera was talking to the Saint Johnabelle family now—I recognized them from pictures. Her true love, Alvin; her daughter, Celeste; her granddaughters, who were students at Berkeley. I overheard someone telling a story about Serrafin. “But was she a terrible cook, or what? Remember when she brought over that salad with the raw potatoes?” Everybody laughed. Dad was listening, too, scratching his curly white neckbeard, laughing. I picked at the black beads on my cardigan and watched Alvin, smiling and wiping his eyes while Vera told him something.
Would saving Vera be…? Was that…?
Saving Vera sounded—well, it sounded bat-crap bananas, of course, but a little thing like that had never stopped me from pursuing an idea before. The real problem was my theory about why our friendship ended.
It was too complicated. The best scientific explanations were simple. Clear and elegant.
Maybe my friendship with Vera ended because that’s what time does to things.
Ends them.
I looked around the room full of people dressed in black, clasping programs and drying tears. That was it, wasn’t it? Writing the mathematical equations that would reveal the secret to time travel may have been my rightful fate, but I’d picked the wrong experiment to test them. Doing freshman year over was an experiment that was destined to fail.
The morning after the visitation, a misty rain fell from every direction. The trees were full of tiny birds chirping urgently, like they were having a conference. I walked down the hill toward Highway 1 feeling a strange sort of peace. Like I’d opened a window in my heart and a pile of ashes had blown away.
/> What it was, was that I’d forgiven Vera. For leaving me without saying goodbye. It’s not like I thought about it actively—I didn’t think I forgive you or anything. It just felt, when I’d woken up that morning, like an old, bad thing was gone.
I wondered if science always worked like this. You started an investigation for one reason, but you kept going for different reasons. Now I didn’t need to invent time travel to get Vera back. I only needed to restore the functionality of my parents’ brains and, you know, save life on earth.
I mean, yes. Time ends things. It felt right to let Vera go. But did it feel right to give up on making a major scientific discovery? No.
Because the experiment wasn’t about me anymore. It was about science. Using the power of science to make the world a better place. Serrafin understood; that’s why she’d made me promise I wouldn’t quit. And over the years, the idea of using time travel to undo global warming and protect the ocean had become more and more important to me. I didn’t want to do nothing while Hades sucked the earth’s ecosystem and all of its inhabitants into the underworld. I didn’t want to ignore the fates of the otters and the ospreys and the starfish and the salmon and the snails. Not when I had the power to do something about it.
Besides that, from a purely mathematical standpoint, my experiment had become more and more intoxicating. Oona Gold was right about failure. You could use it to your advantage. Every time I’d failed, once I’d gotten over feeling miserable, I’d made another breakthrough. Breakthroughs made me feel like I wasn’t a fumbling semi-immortal; I was a goddess. I’d never been closer to succeeding than I was now. I mean, I was ridiculously close to revealing a mathematical beauty so extraordinary I could almost taste it. I walked through the mist to school feeling determined about the work ahead.
In third period, I ignored Mr. Replacement’s group activity and opened a logic textbook. I figured Serrafin would understand my need to work independently, given the circumstances. I thumbed through chapters until I stumbled upon the Liar’s Paradox. The paradox is, “This statement is false.” If the statement is true, it means the statement is false. But if the statement is false, it means the statement is true. The looping went on forever. Which seemed to be where Dirk Angus was sending me—in an endless loop. I bookmarked the page and kept reading.
Time Travel for Love and Profit Page 13