FutureImperfect, Page 3

  Demo?

  As if her home had suddenly appeared out of nowhere, Siara looked around at the dirty dishes in the sink, the scattered papers on the counter, and the dust gathering at the edges of the flower-patterned linoleum floor. The apartment was a mess, and she remembered for the first time why.

  Her mother hadn’t been around much lately.

  “Oh yeah. The demo,” Siara said, wincing. A wet blanket of guilt briefly smothered thoughts of Harry. Peroxisome Inc. was coming to RAW to show off “H to O,” their new fuel cell engine. Mom was a broom-pushing, coffee-getting assistant at the lab, but she’d been put in charge of the demo. It was her big break. She was also excited about showing off her daughter to the company bigwigs, so excited she didn’t even hear Siara wail about the major embarrassment factor when she insisted Siara wear a gross business suit—” Peroxisome code!”—and help with the catering.

  “Yeah. That,” Dad said slowly.

  It was hopeless. No way out. “Fine. Okay. I’ll take the grounding. I’ll help you put locks on the windows, and of course I’ll support Mom. I’ll even go to counseling, whatever…but, Dad, I’ve got to see Harry. I’d go myself, but the bus ride’s three hours and…”

  Her father raised a single eyebrow, exactly the same way Siara herself did when something totally, utterly pointless was going on. If that eyebrow had been a sword it would have cut her in two.

  Defeated, she slid her chair away from the too-small table and walked by the overloaded sink, vaguely thinking she should pitch in and clean up. She lived here, too, after all. Sort of.

  More and more often it felt like she didn’t. It just didn’t feel like her apartment, or her planet anymore. A-Time had changed all that. Harry had. A more exciting world was waiting out there, full of adventures, mistakes, and victories, both pointless and profound. Siara wanted to run into it full-tilt, but her feet kept getting stuck here, where she was still considered a child.

  Her father didn’t know any of that. To him, she only looked troubled. It wasn’t his fault, so just before exiting the kitchen, she turned back and said, “Sorry.”

  He exhaled and finally lowered the damn eyebrow. “I know. Look, let’s both try to pretend we’re sane for your mother’s sake, just until after tomorrow night. Then…maybe I will drive you to see your friend. Past that, RAW…maybe it’s too much pressure for you poets. Maybe we should talk about alternatives.”

  Her mouth dropped open. He’d said time and time again that he wanted her to be a lawyer or a doctor, and RAW, supposedly one of the best high schools in the country, was phase one of that plan. Being offered a chance to switch schools should be a big exhale, a sigh of relief, but right now it didn’t feel like that at all. It felt like a failure.

  She slunk out of the kitchen, feeling her father stare at her back. As her eyes greeted the dark of the hallway, an image of Harry flashed in her mind; he in the back of an ambulance, strapped to a gurney, grunting, straining, mouth open so wide it threatened to tear the corners of his lips. Everything about him screamed that he’d figured out something important, something so horribly important it had driven him completely insane.

  She worried it was just reality he’d figured out, that understanding reality would drive anyone insane. But it seemed more important than that. Would she get to him in time to find out what it was? Time. Ha. Her old poem, the one she was writing when Harry went berserk in the auditorium a few months ago, seemed to cling to her hair.

  Pushing the present from six until twelve,

  Sisyphus times his own prison

  Prison. Like Windfree. What would she do if she got there? Free him? It was terrible to think of him locked up, to imagine him in a straitjacket trying to talk to people who thought he was just delusional. But she couldn’t stop thinking about it. The images stuck to her heart as if they were covered with glue. Maybe the meds would have calmed him down enough so that he’d be able to explain things to her.

  What could it possibly be like to be caged like that, surrounded by people who couldn’t—who wouldn’t—believe you?

  She walked into her room and spotted a plastic Sears bag on her desk. When she upended it, the heavy-duty window locks her father had bought thudded onto her desk.

  A little like this?

  But her window wasn’t locked yet. It was still half-open. A cool late autumn wind wafted in, caressing her face and neck, giving her a chill. Visible above the apartment buildings across the street, the glow of the evening sky beckoned.

  What should she do?

  Siara had her hands on the window. She was ready to push up, open it all the way, and hit the fire escape. She could take the bus, hitch. She could make it.

  I’m coming, Harry!

  But the sound of a key in a lock stopped her.

  Turning to the hallway, she peeked at the front door to the apartment. A world away, a smartly dressed woman in her mid-forties, who looked like Siara but with carefully coiffed hair, appeared. She carried a briefcase and a well-worn smile. Not seeing Siara in the dim hallway, she paused at the kitchen door and looked in. As she spoke to her husband, the smile remained, but her eyes crinkled.

  “Any new crises?” she asked cautiously. “Murder arrest maybe?”

  “No,” Siara heard her dad answer. “Not yet. And, as I was told, the charges were dropped.”

  Siara stepped back into that world and gave her mother a little wave. “Hi, Mommy.”

  Mom’s smile widened. It seemed tired but wise. “Are we working on a new crisis?”

  “Not intentionally,” she lied.

  “Not until after my demo tomorrow night, right?” she asked. She stepped up and pushed the plum hair gently back on Siara’s head.

  “Right,” Siara echoed.

  “Sweetie,” Mom said, “I understand if you want to stay home and rest, but I sure could use you for an hour at the school. It might help you take your mind off things.”

  “You should go,” her father chimed in. “Beats moping around.”

  “Fine,” Siara said. “I’ll go. I’m happy to help, Mom.”

  Her mother kissed her on the forehead. “Let me get some things together. Give me twenty minutes.”

  Siara eyed her father, who offered her his own, weaker smile, then headed back to her room. Just as she closed her door, she heard him say, “I really think it’s time we got a bigger table.”

  With the door creating the illusion of privacy, she looked at her little room: the pine desk in the corner by the window, loose papers covering the spot her footprint left the last time she snuck out; the short bookshelf with thick white paint that held sundry volumes—an ancient Poe, Tennyson’s Idylls of the King, some dog-eared Dickinson, an illustrated Rumi, collected Bishop, TS Eliot. Her mother had bought her some Whitman a while back, but so far, he’d just given her a headache.

  She thought about seeking some solace there, in the poems, but her mind was still locked on Harry. The longer she left him alone, the more she was sure something bad would happen.

  She couldn’t get to Harry tonight, no way. Her parents would freak if she went missing again, but maybe she could cut school tomorrow, get a note from Mr. Tippicks. She could take the bus or the train as far as it could go, then cab it or hitchhike. Yeah, like that wasn’t suicide. Even then, would there be enough time to get to Windfree and back for the demo?

  Maybe.

  If only Dree, Jasmine, or Hutch owned a car. Hutch would probably steal one for her, but grand theft auto didn’t seem like a good idea either.

  The phone rang. Maybe it was one of them calling to get the lowdown. Moving quickly before her parents could answer, and maybe stop the conversation, she grabbed the phone and, without bothering to check the CID, pressed talk.

  “Hello?”

  “Hi, Siara,” a male voice answered. It was slow and uncertain, but she knew who it was.

  “Jeremy?”

  Did he want to yell at her? He didn’t sound angry.

  “I’m…just checking
in. You know, wanted to see if you’re all right, that sort of thing.”

  Wow—he’s not thinking we’re still together, is he? He couldn’t possibly be that dense. How many times do you have to hit a guy with a crowbar before he gets the idea?

  Filled with anxious energy, she found it easy to say what she assumed had been implied. “Jeremy, I really don’t think we should be seeing each other anymore.”

  He just laughed. “Yeah. I sort of got that impression when you whacked me upside the head.”

  Okay, so that’s not it.

  “Right. Sorry. So…how’s your head?”

  “Bruised. No concussion, though.”

  “Jeremy, I had to—”

  “I know. You had to save Harry Keller. And I had to try to stop you, and if I’d succeeded, he would be dead right now, and I’d be wondering if I should’ve stopped you. So I guess you were right.”

  “Wow. Jeremy, that’s so…enlightened. You sure your head’s okay?”

  “Come on, Siara, have I ever been a bad guy to you?”

  “No,” she admitted. “Never.”

  Even Harry had tried to strangle her once. Of course, he was possessed by a Glitch at the time.

  “Glad we got that straight. I just wanted to let you know that there are no hard feelings or anything, and I guess I understand why things didn’t work out, even though I don’t really.”

  “We’re just really different, Jeremy.”

  “Yeah. That was why I liked you. I thought we had this yin-yang thing going. I always really liked your poem about the clock and that Greek guy, Emphasis.”

  “That’s Sisyphus, Jeremy, but come on. You’re the captain of the football team and the chess team. You’ve got your pick of any girl in the school. You’ll get over me.”

  “Sure, but I figure it’ll take a week or so.”

  Just a week? Siara thought, but she laughed a little into the phone.

  “That’s how long I’m grounded, anyway,” Jeremy said with a weird little chuckle. “It’s ridiculous. I’m eighteen, I should be able to do whatever I want, but the folks pay the bills on the Humvee, so I’m only supposed to take it to and from school for the next two weeks. You?”

  “A month. I’ll probably get time off for good behavior after I help out with my mom’s demo, but I just wish—”

  “What?”

  “No. Never mind.”

  “Go ahead, tell me.”

  “No. It’s not fair to you,” Siara said.

  “We’re way past fair, Siara. At least let’s stay honest. Say it.”

  “Okay. I really want go see Harry.”

  There was a brief silence.

  “I should’ve guessed. So why don’t you? That part of the grounding?”

  “My dad doesn’t think I should go see him, especially not before the demo.”

  “He’s right,” Jeremy answered flatly

  “What? You think Harry’s a bad influence, too?”

  There was that chuckle again. It sounded strange, almost nerdy, coming from the big jock. “I just think it’d be upsetting. You saw him in the ambulance. He’s totally freaked. He’ll probably be more stable after he’s been on the meds awhile. Isn’t that how it works for people like him?”

  People like him.

  “I know…I just…Jeremy, I know this is crazy, but would you cut school and drive me tomorrow?”

  “Uh…no.”

  “Why not?”

  “Crowbar. Remember?”

  That stung, despite how much sense it made.

  The silence on the line stretched out, broken up by short bursts of static. Siara was about to apologize one more time and hang up when she heard Jeremy sigh.

  “Fine. I’ll take you,” Jeremy said.

  Her eyes went wide. “Jeremy, thank you so, so much…I don’t know how—”

  “Oh, wait. I can’t. I’ve got to do something with my parents tomorrow morning. The next day. I’ll take you the morning after the demo. It’ll give everyone a chance to calm down anyway.”

  “But—”

  “Come on, Siara, that’s the best you’re going to get out of me. And no crowbars.”

  “Okay. Thanks. Sorry.”

  “Yeah. I’ll talk to you soon.”

  She heard the vague electronic click that told her Jeremy had ended the call. She couldn’t believe how pushy she was being.

  “Siara?” her mother called from the hallway. “Are you ready? I don’t want to be late, honey.”

  After the demo. After tomorrow night. Funny how Jeremy echoed her father, as if he’d somehow listened in. She felt a draft against her back, then turned to see her window, still half-open, still waiting. She put her hands back on the white wooden frame, deciding. Her fingers felt cold from the outdoor air. Winter was coming.

  She pushed the window shut.

  “I’m ready, Mom.”

  There had to be some way to live in two worlds, at least for a little while.

  4.

  As if it were a small football, Jeremy Gronson tossed the cell phone toward his bed. It spun on its axis, followed a straight line, hit the thick quilt, and neatly buried itself in the folds.

  Touchdown.

  It had worked. When he dialed Siara’s number on one cell, his second phone also rang. All he had to do was manipulate the life trail of Albert Mendt, a phone repairman working on the line. Jeremy fixed things so that Albert was so busy thinking about having enough money to send his son to college, he “accidentally” crossed a few of the wires he was working on. Then Jeremy had a wrench tumble out of the phone man’s pocket, distracting poor Albert yet again, so that he sealed up his work without double-checking it.

  Now Jeremy could monitor Siara’s calls in case someone unfortunate like Keller tried to get in touch. And of course Jeremy had graciously agreed to take her to Harry after the demo. By then, she, her parents, and two thirds of RAW High School would be dead.

  Dead, dead, dead.

  As if they ever really existed in the first place.

  Having carefully delivered the tea to his appropriately thankful parents some time ago, a more cheerful Jeremy padded back down the thick-carpeted stairs onto the kitchen’s cold marble floor to retrieve his own. The rainbow cup, made by his mother during her ceramics phase, felt hot in his fingertips as he lifted it from the coriander blue counter.

  He thought about how she was like Siara in a way, always doing that strange art stuff, playing with images, as if that would ever get anyone anywhere. Still, the cup was pretty, like Siara’s poem about Sisyphus as a clock. And even that, strangely enough, had turned out to be useful.

  He brought the cup to his lips. It was quite a special brew. Each cup gave him about a day’s worth of effect. As far as the labs he’d hired were able to determine, some ingredients bore a chemical resemblance to Ketamine, but were much weaker, and in combination with other elements. Jeremy once hoped he’d be able to synthesize the herbs, but Nostradamus and the Obscure Masters were too clever for that. He’d been given just enough to accomplish his initiation task.

  How many doses were left in the bag? Ten? Should be plenty.

  Carried by the steam, a bitter almond smell rose to his nose. Impatient, he took a sip and scalded his tongue. His body shivered, but Jeremy refused to give in to the pain. It was, after all, all about control. Whoever kept it the longest got the most toys.

  Cup in hand, he headed back upstairs. Before returning to his own room, he checked in on his parents. They lay in a beautiful king-size Tempur-Pedic bed that conformed to the exact shape of their bodies. They were right next to each other, covered by satin sheets, heads and hair resting on satin pillowcases. Their teacups lay atop a neatly folded New York Times on Father’s bed table. Jeremy pictured Father placing them there carefully, the way he did everything, arranging things perfectly before taking what he thought would just be a little nap.

  The long fingers of Mother’s artist’s hands were above the sheet, intertwined peacefully above her navel.
Father’s skin was placid. The worry wrinkles in his face had all but disappeared. They seemed much younger, too, both perfectly peaceful, perfectly perfect.

  And dead.

  Dead, dead, dead.

  As if they had ever existed to begin with.

  Jeremy took another sip. A slight dizziness washed his senses, numbing him to the liquid’s heat. As he returned to his room, he gulped the rest and placed the empty cup on the chessboard and sat in front of the huge picture window with its grand city view.

  When he next inhaled, he also felt himself exhale. And though he worked to slow his breathing, he couldn’t be sure if it was the breath he was taking that slowed, the one he’d just taken, or the one he was about to take.

  This also was an effect of the tea. A special tea, centuries old.

  He didn’t think he’d been lucky to find it, only that it was the end of a logical sequence of events, the result of all his hard work, his achievements, his hours of study and exercise.

  Of course to the uninitiated, it all would’ve looked like an accident, especially the way he opened his locker on the first day of junior year and just found the old library book of prophecies by Nostradamus lying there as if left by a careless student. At the time, even he thought it was an accident. He was going to return it to the school library, try to earn some points with the staff, but something about it intrigued him, and he found himself poring over the age-yellowed pages.

  At the time, Jeremy Gronson didn’t believe for a second that those silly little poems predicted the future, but his parents had insisted he do an extra-credit assignment for probabilities and statistics class, and the book had given him an idea. Nostradamus was famous, world-famous. If Jeremy could understand how his poems worked, why they appealed to so many people, he figured he could design a computer program to generate equally appealing predictions.

  That would net him an A-plus for sure. And just in case his program really did wind up predicting the future, he could use it to invest in the stock market and achieve financial freedom from his parents by the time he graduated.