by Stacey Jay
Chapter Eleven
SATURDAY, OCTOBER 3, 3:20 P.M.
We don’t have to watch the game, we can watch something else,” Isaac said, but he made no move to reach for the remote control. Usually, I would jump at the chance to watch something other than football. Today, I just pulled him closer, snuggling my face into the soft fabric of his sweatshirt.
We were lying on the couch in his basement under the Bearcats fleece blanket I’d given him for Christmas last year, just like we’d done a hundred Saturdays before. He’d been happy to see me and sincerely concerned when I’d told him about the broken light grid. He’d hugged me so tight my spine had popped in a couple of places and made me promise never to climb up there and put myself in danger ever again. All very loving, good-boyfriend-type behavior.
Still, I couldn’t get Natalie’s words out of my mind.
“Isaac . . . you’ve never said anything about the way I look to anyone, have you?” I asked, keeping my eyes on the television and my tone light.
“Um . . . something like what?” He grabbed his Gatorade from the table and took a drink.
“I don’t know, like, you’ve never said you don’t like my hair or . . . whatever?”
Isaac laughed, a completely innocent sound. “Babe, guys don’t talk about stuff like that.”
“So you’ve never said anything?”
“No. I don’t talk about you to other guys. You’re none of their business.”
“Even Mitch?” I lifted my head from his chest, staring into his face.
Isaac shrugged. “Maybe. When we were first dating, I’d ask Mitch things. Like, what I should say to you and stuff. But not for a long time.”
“Okay.” I stared into his eyes, seeing nothing that made me doubt him. The tightness in my chest eased the slightest bit. “I just wanted to make sure we were good. Me and you.”
“Of course we are. We’re great.” He ran his hand through my hair, a serious look on his gorgeous face. His blue eyes focused in on mine, making me feel more solid than I had a second ago. “Is this because I didn’t make it to the apple-picking thing yesterday? You know I couldn’t help it. Practice ran late and—”
“I know. It’s not that. Mitch and I had fun,” I said, then hurried to add, “It would have been better with you there, but—”
“So why don’t we all do something together Wednesday night? After you get fabulous?” he asked, obviously trying to make nice. “They’re setting up for career night in the gym so we don’t have practice. We could go ride bikes again, or whatever.”
“That would be great. I want us all to stay good friends.”
Isaac turned back to the TV as the referee announced a flag on the field. “Sure, we’ll always be friends. I always thought Mitch’d be the best man when we get married.”
“Yeah. That would be perfect.” But for some reason Isaac’s casual mention of our future married life didn’t make me feel warm and safe the way it usually did. It made me . . . anxious. After a few minutes, it was impossible to stay snuggled under the blanket. It was hot, smothering. “I’m going to head home, okay? I’ve got some homework I want to finish before tomorrow.”
“Okay.” He didn’t take his eyes from the game as I untangled myself and crawled off the couch. “You want to go get dinner later or something? Maybe pizza?”
“Sure, call me.”
“I will. Love you.”
“Love you too.” I hurried out the back door that led into Isaac’s mother’s garden and circled around the house to get to my car. I didn’t want to go upstairs and out the front door. I wasn’t up to another visit with Isaac’s mom and dad. I just wanted to get home and talk to Gran.
But when I pulled into my driveway a few minutes later, I knew grilling my grandmother about the locket was going to have to wait a little longer.
Mitch had found his surprise.
Music drifted through the yard, something sweet and aching that Mitch played so soulfully I knew it had to be one of his own songs. How he’d gotten both himself and his guitar up into the tree house, however, was something I couldn’t imagine.
The music stopped, and Mitch turned, almost as if he could feel me looking his way. “Hey! There you are. You are the best friend in the world, Minnesota,” he called, waving his arms from on top of the platform.
The platform that was way higher in the tree than it had been when I left for fashion-show rehearsal this morning. The limb where my dad had nailed my creation had vanished completely. Now the lowest limb was thirty feet in the air and the entire tree was bigger, scarier. Using the locket had added at least fifty years of growth to a tree in my backyard.
How was that even possible?
I’d altered one thing, one tiny moment, and the ripple of change had affected everything in my life, even things not in any way related to me or Rachel or that stupid light. It didn’t make sense . . . but then, what did I really know about time travel? Or fate? Or magic?
Nothing. I knew nothing. And it was scaring me more and more.
My hand drifted to my chest, where a second, ridged scar was nestled next to the first. At this rate, I’d never be able to wear a V-neck shirt, let alone a bathing suit. If the locket pulled me back too many more times, I’d look like a burn victim.
How was I going to explain to Isaac what had caused the marks on my skin? We hadn’t been together since my do over, but we were bound to get the chance sooner or later. What would he say when he saw the locket-shaped burn marks? What would he do when I told him I couldn’t get the locket off, no matter how hard I tried?
“Hey, Katie, you okay?” Mitch yelled.
Forcing my hand away from the locket, I took a deep breath and tried to focus on the bright side. Rachel was alive, Isaac still loved me, and Mitch had a new tree house. It was selfish to worry about a few scars when the locket had done nothing but great things for the people in my life.
And in a crazy way, the scars were almost comforting. They were the sacrifice I made for a miracle. Nothing came without a price. I’d be even more anxious if the locket seemed to cost me nothing.
“Katie, are you—”
“Hey! I’m fine.” I waved and started across our sloping backyard to the giant tree. I had a clear path since our fence had vanished along with the low tree limb. But that was fine, more than fine. Who needed a fence in a safe, suburban neighborhood like ours?
That’s right. Thinking positively. Looking on the bright side.
“I thought you were afraid of heights?” I asked, tilting my head to look up at Mitch. “How did you get up there? With your guitar?”
“I strapped it on my back and climbed. Fear could not keep me from my tree house.” He smiled down at me, his dark eyes sparkling, so happy I couldn’t help but smile back. “Your dad said you made this all by yourself.”
“I did. I’m handy with power tools, turns out.”
Mitch shook his head. “Just when I thought you couldn’t get any hotter.”
“Right.” I rolled my eyes, ignoring the heat rushing to my cheeks. This was Mitch joking around, nothing more. I could see in his face that we’d never kissed in this version of reality either. “I should be even ‘hotter’ come Wednesday.” I filled Mitch in on the theater drama and my impending makeover.
“Don’t let them ruin you,” Mitch said, suddenly serious. “I like you the way you are.”
“Thanks.” I looked down at the leaves beneath my feet, flustered. Isaac had seemed excited that I was going to get renovated by the popular girls. Shouldn’t he have been the one telling me I didn’t need new hair or clothes?
“So are you coming up or not?”
“Um . . . not.” I lifted my face, wincing at the thought of starting up the ladder nailed to the side of the tree. “After the light-grid thing I’m feeling my height fear in new and powerful ways.”
“Understandable. Later, then?”
“Much later. Like, maybe this summer? Maybe . . . or not?”
He laughed. “Okay, but still .
. . thanks. This made my day, my month. I can’t believe you did this.”
I shrugged, uncomfortable with Mitch’s gratitude. I knew I didn’t deserve it, not really. I hadn’t been a very good friend to him before the do over. “It’s no big deal.”
“It is a big deal. Just say ‘you’re welcome,’ okay?” Mitch’s voice was tight, like a guitar string about to break.
“You’re welcome.” I paused, searching his face, finding that same sadness I’d seen in the coffee shop lurking beneath his smile. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” he said. “Just getting a few minutes to myself. Lauren and Dad are working on their guest list for the wedding reception. I was in charge of watching Ricky, but he had a meltdown because I couldn’t get the PlayStation to play his Elmo game. Then Dad freaked out because he thought I’d yelled at Ricky, but I didn’t yell at Ricky, I yelled to be heard over Ricky’s yelling and . . . yeah.”
“Not the best babysitting gig ever, huh?”
Mitch shrugged. “It wasn’t that bad. Just a charming reminder of how unskilled we are at being a family of more than two.”
Guess his dad and Lauren were still getting married and Ricky still existed. I didn’t know whether to be pleased or nervous. “So, is the adoption stuff still bothering you?”
He shook his head. “No, not as much. Dad really loves Ricky, as much as he does Lauren, and I’m leaving anyway, so . . . I guess it makes sense.” He smiled and his tone lightened. “Besides, there’s always family therapy, right?”
“That’s what I always say,” I said, trying to play along.
“Right, Minnesota. Like you and your perfect family need therapy. You’re probably the only functional people on the street.”
I laughed, but it was strained, thin. Mitch had no idea how much I’d appreciate a little therapy right now.
“Anyway, the wedding seems like it should be fun,” he continued, not seeming to notice my angst. “I get to have an entire table at the reception for my friends. You and Isaac are invited, of course.”
“That should be fun.”
“Yeah,” he said, eyes drifting across the yard. “And I was thinking of inviting Sarah too if you don’t mind.”
“Why would I mind? I love Sarah.”
Mitch’s eyes flicked back to mine. “So you two are still good?”
“Yeah, why shouldn’t we be?” I asked.
He paused a second too long before shrugging. “Cool. Then I’ll invite her and the rest of the band and we’ll have a full table.”
“Great.” But it wasn’t great. There was something Mitch wasn’t telling me.
Just like Natalie. Could I afford to keep letting people lie to me?
“I’ve got to go. My gran’s here and I’m supposed to be visiting and catching up and stuff.” I backed away from the tree house, eyes on the ground.
Maybe people were lying to me, but right now I couldn’t handle the truth if it meant Sarah—or Isaac—had betrayed me. And besides, I knew Isaac well enough to know he hadn’t . . . cheated on me. He’s like an open book. I would know. In any event, I had to keep thinking the locket had made mostly positive changes in my life or I was going to lose my mind before this do over was finished.
“See you,” Mitch said. “And thanks again. For real.”
I forced a little smile and hurried back to the house and in through the sliding back door, grateful for the warm air and the someone’s-been-cooking-good-things smell that always lingered in our kitchen. At least my house had stayed the same, no matter what. The giant oak table still glowed faintly gold in the dining room, the wallpaper still sported way too many red flowers, and the grandfather clock near the stairs ticked comfortingly in the silence.
Grandfather. I was suddenly possessed by the need to look at the picture of Gran and Grandpa again. It was obvious no one was home—Gran must have decided to go to work with Dad this morning, and Mom had to go to a baby shower this afternoon—but I could at least look at the picture and see if something was back to normal.
I pulled the locket from beneath my shirt and flipped it open, rushing through the anxious moment like a kid ripping off a Band-Aid. It hurts less when you rip them off.
But seeing the picture didn’t hurt any less than it would have if I’d taken an hour to open the locket. There was no way to lessen the impact of seeing Grandpa’s picture flicker, shifting from my clean-shaven, brown-haired Grandpa to the blond man with the mustache and back again, right before my eyes. It was like one of those hologram stickers I’d had when I was little, the ones you tilt back and forth to change the image, but I wasn’t touching the picture.
It was changing all on its own, as if reality couldn’t make up its mind which version of events it should go with this time around. As if time itself were short circuiting, skipping like a scratched CD.
The impact of such a thing was almost too big to comprehend, but it wasn’t too big to fear. I slammed the locket closed, pulse thudding erratically in my throat.
Trembling, I fumbled at the clasp of the locket, but I should have known better by now. It wasn’t going to come off the normal way. I was going to have to try more extreme measures.
I grabbed a pair of scissors from the junk drawer in the kitchen and hurried to the downstairs bathroom. In the mirror, my eyes were wider than I’d ever seen them, like an anime sketch brought to life. It looked like they’d bulge straight out of my head as I slipped the locket’s chain between the blades of the scissors and squeezed.
Again and again, I sawed away at the delicate links. Ten minutes later, I had nothing to show for it but sore fingers. The locket wasn’t the slightest bit damaged, despite the fact that my scissors looked like they’d lost a battle with a garbage disposal.
I might never get the locket off. Never. Even though the necklace had saved someone today, the thought was terrifying. What if I had to wear it for the rest of my life? What if it kept pulling me back into the past with no warning? What if the world never returned to normal, but was always changing, flickering back and forth like a candle I couldn’t trust not to blow out at any second? What if waiting for that flame to die really made me crazy?
The scissors fell into the sink with an ominous clatter. I buried my face in my hands, praying the world as I knew it wasn’t about to come crashing down around me.
Chapter Twelve
WEDNESDAY, OCTOBER 7, 1:15 P.M.
Popularity, I was discovering, was a lot like the plague. It triggered fever, chills, unexplained sweating, was highly contagious, and might be the death of me within seventy-two hours.
I’d been a “heroine” for less than four full days and I already felt like hurling myself off the Shelby Street Bridge. I wasn’t meant to sit in the spotlight for so long. It made me a mass of symptoms. Plague symptoms.
I’d alerted my mother to the fragile state of her daughter’s health this morning, but not even my slight fever of 99.2 could convince her to let me stay home. The Catholic school where she taught first grade was on fall break and she and Gran—who was still suffering from amnesia regarding the locket—had plans to cook ten zillion cran-apple pies for the fall festival.
Mom didn’t want me lurking in the kitchen stealing piecrust— which is totally what I’d be doing if life were normal. Of course, life wasn’t normal, but Mom didn’t know that and there was no way I could tell her. So I’d been forced to drag my anxiety-ridden self to school after thanking her for spending one of her days off ensuring I did my part for the Junior League.
I was working the Junior League bake sale at the Belle Meade fall festival on Saturday instead of the cakewalk table, compliments of my newfound platinum status and Rachel Pruitt’s continuing favor. Mom had stepped up to contribute twenty of her famous pies to the charity of the moment . . . whatever that was. I’d been told, but I’d forgotten. It was the kind of thing I’d usually be really interested in, but I couldn’t seem to remember anything lately. I wasn’t sleeping and when I did, I had horrible dreams, ni
ghtmares of looking into the mirror and finding my face covered in locket-shaped burns, my mouth sealed shut with scar tissue.
A part of me was certain life as I knew it was over forever.
My new friends, however, had bigger things to worry about.
“Seriously, Khaki is really letting herself go.” Ally brushed on another coat of I Don’t Do Dishes polish and blew on her nails. “Her roots are at least two inches long.”
“I don’t think she’s been waxing either,” Melissa said, flicking the leftover sprinkles from our cupcake project off the table onto the floor. Antara and Anika, my old tablemates seated the next row over, glared at the orange and white specks. They were both clean freaks. I avoided catching their eyes, knowing I’d feel obligated to pick up Melissa’s mess if I did. “Her eyebrows are about to meet in the middle.”
“Maybe you guys should give her the makeover this afternoon,” I said, as nervous as I always was whenever I dared speak in my present company. Years of platinum-inspired terror didn’t vanish in a few days. I still braced myself for eye rolling every time I opened my mouth. “The hair on my face is so blonde, I don’t even look like I have eyebrows, so—”
Melissa laughed and flicked a sprinkle my way. “You are hysterical. I love you.”
“Me too,” Natalie agreed. She was actually eating a cupcake, the only one of the senior girls willing to risk sugar intake so close to the fashion show tomorrow night.
“Me three. I’m so glad you sit with us now!” Ally grinned at me, artificially whitened teeth so bright I had to squint a bit to look her full in the face. “But of course we’re making you over today. You look fine now, but come six o’clock tonight, you are going to be drop-dead fabulous.”
“Made of awesome with wicked hot on the side,” Melissa concurred, then turned the conversation back to Khaki, the cheerleader in need of bleach and wax. “So we have to stage an intervention with Kak Attack. She’s becoming an embarrassment to the squad.”
I nodded along with the rest of girls and tried to think of some way to contribute to the conversation. Like it or not, I was now seated at the popular girls’ table in family and consumer sciences—aka home economics. Our teacher, Mrs. Van Tassel, refused to acknowledge her class’s more politically correct title. And why should she? We baked cakes, poached eggs, and sewed aprons, just like my mom did when she was in Van Tassel’s class however many years ago.