Chaos (22 page)

Then a memory tickled the back of his mind. He had brought Jasmine back through the Crossroad at the rotunda, the one at the bottom of the lagoon.

Was it still there?

Up the hill, two people—a boy and a girl, maybe a little older than him, both of them wearing white shorts and white T-shirts and scuffed Chucks—whacked a ball back and forth on a tennis court. Both of them were awful. Both of them were laughing. Luc watched as the girl leaned across the net and kissed the boy when she went to retrieve a ball. Near the pond, a group of kids was playing tag barefoot. A boy knelt by the water and sent a scattering of crumbs toward the feeding ducks.

Luc felt a sudden tightness in his chest. Wrong. This time, this place was wrong. He knew it. How come no one else could feel it? When he went back to the tunnels of time, what would happen to this future world? Would the boy and girl ever get their round of tennis? Would the ducks get fed?

He turned away from them. Not his problem. Still, the guilt weighed on him. He started running again. Down West Pacific, then down Lyon toward the Bay. He didn’t
stop running, even when he reached the Palace of Fine Arts. It was a beautiful day, and the paths were crowded with families and tourists. He dodged past them, pulling off his heavy sweatshirt as he ran. He tied it around his waist as sweat trickled from his back.

He slowed, breathing hard, and followed the curved, column-lined pathway to the lagoon. He hoped there were no cops around. He had no idea whether it was legal to swim here, and here he was, about to dive into the water. Fortunately, there weren’t too many people by the lagoon. Luc ducked behind a group of shrubs that extended partway into the water so no one would see him and shout. The water was freezing and rapidly filled his socks and shoes. Mud squelched under his feet.

When he was knee-deep in the water, he took a deep breath and submerged.

His clothes were heavy and his shoes waterlogged. Every stroke was difficult. He kept his eyes open, even though the water was a murky green and he could barely see a few feet ahead of him. He scanned until fire burned in his lungs. Finally, he surfaced, taking another deep breath of air. Dimly, he heard shouting—someone must have spotted him—but he didn’t care, just went under again, kicking with iron-heavy legs down toward the bottom.

The water grew warmer. That wasn’t right. He kicked deeper, feeling the ache in his shoulders and lungs. And then the water wasn’t water anymore but air, thick and colored. He could breathe. A current rose up from
beneath him and pushed him toward the lights like a giant watery hand. His body reacted instinctively and he inhaled, even as his mind rebelled against the unnatural feeling of sucking in water.

When he emerged, he was in the Crossroad.

He didn’t hesitate. He took the knife from his sweatshirt, letting the towel he had wrapped it in fall away. He began to saw at the membrane separating the Crossroad from the tunnel. Anger fueled his movements until he was thrusting the knife in again and again, opening up long gashes in the wall that would heal over itself almost immediately.

But he wanted to destroy it—to shred it to pieces. Sweat poured off his face and his arm ached, but he didn’t stop. Luc stabbed furiously, dragging the knife down until he had opened up a hole big enough to climb through.

No more mistakes.

He’d fix everything this time, or rip the tunnel apart trying.

She was dead. She was in heaven.

Then she remembered that (1) she didn’t believe in heaven, and (2) dead people didn’t think about being dead. Jasmine sat up, groaning a little. Her body was tingling and her head hurt, but other than that she was okay. Unscathed.

How was that possible? Her fingers instinctively flew to her chest. She fumbled, feeling for a cut, a bruise, some indication that she’d been stabbed. Nothing. But she remembered the Executor descending on her like some giant bird of prey; she remembered the feel of the knife and the darkness.…

The darkness
.

Suddenly, Jasmine understood.
Time
. Time had jumped at just the right moment. For once, it had saved her. Spared her.

She stood up, feeling dizzy. Ford and the Executor were gone.

What if it never ended? What if she kept jumping all over time for the rest of her life?

She pushed to her feet, trying to get her bearings. The beauty of this twilight world was seductive; the sweet smells and vibrant colors were a part of her. She knew now that the nectar of this world flowed through her veins.

But this wasn’t her home. San Francisco was her home.
I swam through this
, she remembered. This was how she would get home. She surveyed the landscape and paused on the river, watching as marbles passed in its swift current. They looked so familiar, like the one she had. She pulled hers from her pocket and held it up in the light. Was that an image swirling inside? Or was it only her imagination?

Why did the marble seem to vibrate, as if it were alive suddenly?

Apprehension crawled along the back of her neck and Jasmine turned. No one was there that she could see.

She shoved the marble back into her pocket, not confident in her ability to hold on to it and swim, and dove into the river. She thought of summer trips to Lake Tahoe. Of splash fights with Luc, and sunbathing on rocks for an entire afternoon.

The river in Pyralis felt crisp; she swam into its depths until she couldn’t tell which direction was up. She was almost out of breath, but she wasn’t scared.
Andromeda, Apus, Aquarius, Aquila
. She listed constellations in her
head, as she’d learned to do from Luc, as she always did when she needed to focus.
Aries, Auriga, Boötes
.

Her dark hair pooled around her and brilliant colors danced at the edge of her vision. She was swirling—caught up in a current and flying across the universe. Her heart squeezed.

She broke through the surface of the water and inhaled a deep, sweet breath.

The rotunda stood before her.

Jasmine jogged around the building, thinking that in the past three days she’d done more running than in the rest of her life combined. When she saw Luc again—she pushed away a tiny voice that corrected,
if
she saw him again—he’d make fun of her for turning into a jock. She tried to swallow back the lump in her throat. She would give anything—
anything
—to rewind, to go back to how things were: sitting on the fire escape counting stars while Luc busted her for smoking clove cigarettes and put her in a headlock, as if she were still five.

But then she would never have met Ford.

She paused, trying to get her bearings. The museum grounds were overgrown; the sign that normally marked the entrance to the park was missing. Even the hiking trails weren’t where they were supposed to be.

What the hell was going on?

She finally made it to the street and started toward the bus stop. Cars rumbled past—first some old, junky VW Beetle, then a dust-blue Cadillac, then a car as big and boxy as a boat. Then another old VW Beetle.

Jasmine stopped. The world seemed to go still for several seconds as fear crawled down her spine.

All
the cars were older. No. Not just older. Old. Classic. Like in that picture of their mom as a young girl, sitting on the hood of
her
mother’s lemon-yellow Mercury sedan.

Her breathing sped up. She’d been skipping around in time—there was no longer any denying it. But only by a few days at a time. Could she have jumped even further—could she have gone back decades instead of days? Hot tears burned her eyes, and she didn’t try to stop them. What the hell would she do now?

Luc didn’t exist. Her father was probably only a small child—wherever he even was—and Ford? She had no idea how to find him again.

A young woman wearing flared jeans and platform shoes as high as wedding cakes strolled down the street holding hands with a guy dressed almost entirely in tie-dye. They shot Jasmine a troubled look. She suddenly realized how out of place she was, in her deep purple band T-shirt, tight jeans, and sneakers. She fought a growing sense of panic. What if time didn’t shift again?

What if she was stuck here, forever? She’d probably get chucked in a mental institution. Or worse, she’d be forced to start wearing tie-dye.

She sat down on the curb and tucked her head between her knees, fighting a surge of nausea.
Andromeda, Apus, Aquarius, Aquila
.

Jasmine didn’t hear the car until a quick horn burst jerked her out of her thoughts. When she looked up, a
long yellow car had stopped next to her. A young girl who looked around Jasmine’s age leaned out the window.

“Are you okay?” the girl asked, reaching for the radio to turn it down. The girl’s stick-straight dark hair hung from under a large white sunhat that seemed way too big for her face.

“I … I’m not really sure,” Jasmine answered honestly.

“Climb in, I’ll give you a ride.” The girl smiled. She had a nice smile. Trustworthy. Jasmine felt a rush of relief. She figured that back in the day, people didn’t have to worry about ax murderers. And something about this girl made her feel safe right away. She knew one thing: she didn’t want to be alone right now. “I’m Ingrid,” the girl said as Jasmine slid into the car. She was grateful that Ingrid didn’t comment on her outfit.

“Ingrid. That was my grandmother’s name,” Jasmine said. “I’m Jasmine.” The vinyl seat felt hard under her legs and there were little cracks in the upholstery. She automatically reached for the seatbelt and was shocked that there wasn’t one.

Fortunately, Ingrid didn’t notice. She was pulling out onto Presidio. They looped around the bus terminal to head back toward the Marina. “Jasmine, like the flower. That’s a pretty name,” she said.

Up close, Jas could see that Ingrid’s skin was blotchy and her eyes pink, as if she’d been crying. There was a handkerchief balled up next to her. An actual handkerchief. “So … where to?” Ingrid asked.

Jasmine hesitated. “I … I’m not sure, actually.”

Ingrid nodded. “You hitching?”

Jasmine assumed she meant hitchhiking. “Kind of.”

“Cool.” Ingrid gave her a faint smile. Even then, the small line between her eyebrows—a worry line—never disappeared. “I always wanted to hitchhike around. Where’d you start out?”

Jasmine turned her face to the window as they wound alongside the bay. “A long, long ways away.”

“Well, Haight-Ashbury’s pretty cool, if you’re looking for a place to crash,” Ingrid said.

Jasmine couldn’t stop herself from grimacing. She knew Haight-Ashbury as a pilgrimage site for old hippies who wore sandals with socks and multicolored fanny packs, or for young, dumb rich kids who wanted to buy pipes and filters from a head shop for their overpriced weed and didn’t know where to look.

“I don’t know,” Jasmine said. “I have to think. I’m a little lost right now.”

The girl half smiled. “Aren’t we all?”

Jasmine glanced at Ingrid. She had on a white embroidered peasant top and a long colorful skirt. It looked like an outfit out of Thrift Town, Jas’s favorite thrift store. It was actually pretty awesome.

They were getting closer to the city and as they passed the Palace of Fine Arts, Jasmine saw workmen all around the area. It looked like they were building the columns that flanked the pathways to the rotunda. Jasmine took a deep breath.

“Look, this is gonna sound weird,” she said, “But … what year is it?”

Ingrid squinted at her. “Are you high or something?”

“What?
No
. I swear. It’s just …” Jasmine fumbled for an excuse. “It’s hard to explain.…”

“I’m not judging you,” Ingrid said. She laughed hollowly. “My mom would say I don’t get to judge anyone. People in glass houses, right? And God, it’s not like I haven’t tripped before. It’s 1975.”

Two men sat on the corner, shirtless, drumming on bongos, bobbing their heads. Several people stood around them, swaying to a beat Jas couldn’t make out from a distance. One woman had on a maxi dress. The man next to her had on striped bell-bottoms and a dark leather jacket. His hair had to be standing out from his head at least a foot.

Behind them, plastered across the brick building, were dozens of posters.

Goose bumps lifted on Jas’s arms. She’d always been fascinated by the 1970s. But it was different to be here, in the middle of it. She didn’t belong here.

“Want to talk about it?” Ingrid asked gently.

Jasmine picked at her jeans, which were fraying at the knee. “I’m … not sure you’d understand,” she said. Her throat was thick.
What now, what now?
She found herself wishing that time would shift again, and she would be thrown back into her own time, her own familiar streets.

“Try me.” Something in Ingrid’s voice made Jas look up. They were stopped at a light. With one hand, Ingrid
smoothed her shirt down over her belly. Jasmine saw her stomach was tight and round. Like an upside-down bowl.

She was pregnant.

“It should be a good thing, right?” Ingrid said. She didn’t wait for Jasmine to respond. “But my parents still don’t know. They’d be so angry. And the father …” Ingrid’s voice broke and her fingers tightened momentarily on the wheel. “The father can’t handle it. Or doesn’t want to. I don’t know.”