FutureImperfect (3 page)

Mother's voice, sweet as honey, came floating down the hall all the way into Jeremy's room.

“Jeremy, is our tea ready yet?”

Jeremy Gronson shook his head, even though he knew she couldn't see him.

“It's steeping. I've got the timer on,” he called.

“Exactly four and a half minutes?” his father chimed in distractedly. He could hear the old man ruffle the pages of the
Wall Street Journal
as he spoke.

“Exactly, Dad,” he answered. “Four and a half minutes.”

He shut the door, even though he knew most of the sound would still carry.

Shirtless, Jeremy felt the cool air in his room, the warm carpet beneath his bare feet. He bent forward, exhaling, pushing his palms to the floor, legs straight, knees not locked, back flat. A few bones in his spine loosened and clicked into place. His taut muscles burned deliciously. He inhaled slowly, exhaled even slower.

After rolling up out of the stretch, one vertebra at a time, he turned toward a hand-carved ivory chess set on the table next to his desk and stared at the pieces. They were set up to reproduce a game he'd played with Harry Keller the other day, a game Keller would have won if the idiot had bothered staying to finish.

Since then, Jeremy had played the moves over and over, dozens of times, on the board, on the computer, in his head, trying to figure out where he went wrong. But he couldn't. Keller's moves were stupid, ridiculous. They seemed to defy logic. But they worked.

Since they worked, all that meant was that they were somehow logical, but that Jeremy didn't see the logic yet. In the end, everything made sense, everything had some kind of order. Everything. It just had to. And Jeremy Gronson just had to understand everything.

Seeing a different tack, he lifted the rook. The small ebon tower caught bits of light from the recessed bulbs in the ceiling. He held it awhile, pondering, then set it down in a new spot. Now the patterns of the pieces looked familiar, ordered. Everything was in its place again. Everything perfect. He knew just what to do next.

He imagined the game playing out, saw his pieces as if they were his football teammates: moving across the field, pushing through the frail defense, passing him the ball, so he could run and run until…

“Argh!”

Jeremy swatted at the pieces, sweeping as many as he could into the air. The black king shattered a water glass. A white pawn made a small indentation in the wall.

He still lost. Through some insane accident, he still lost.

But then again, there were no accidents.

“Jeremy?” Mother said, her voice muffled by the door. “Everything all right in there?”

“Yes. Fine.”

“Are you still thinking about that girl?” Father asked loudly. Even through the door and the wall, Father had heard the tension in his voice. Father was always hearing things in his voice. He just never understood what they were about. Of course he was thinking about the girl, but not for the stupid hormonal reasons Father suspected.

He shook his head. “No, Dad. I'm not thinking about the girl.”

He imagined the board again in his mind, piece by piece, move by move. Then he imagined himself swatting that away as well.

It was a trick, it had to be—just a trick. Maybe it was one of the tricks the Obscure Masters would reveal when he finished his initiation. Just as soon as he won the last game.

Far off, a timer beeped.

“Jeremy! Our tea's ready!”

“I know, Dad. I know.”

“Can't have servants every day, Jay.”

Jeremy winced. He hated when father called him Jay.

 

“You scare the crap out me, Siara,” her dad said as the evening sky, visible through the window behind him, swelled over the city.

Reality bites,
she thought. They sat in the barely-eat-in kitchen at a table that had been too small for the three of them for years, she steadily meeting his totally glaring eyes.

She tried to get through to him one more time. “I had to go into the fire to save Harry. And Jeremy, the boyfriend you were pushing me to stay with, took me to that party in the first place. As for the riot, well…the charges were dropped.”

Forget it. It was useless. She didn't believe any of it herself. She blasted some air through her curled lower lip, up at the plum-red strands on her forehead. They weren't in her eyes; she just did it out of nervousness and because she was kind of hoping it might look cute enough to lower the Dad Anger Quotient.

It didn't.

“The charges were dropped,” he repeated slowly. “How'd we get here, exactly?”

She gave him a sheepish grin. “Take a left at adolescence?”

Even her most humble, self-deprecating humor didn't break through. He didn't laugh.

“You're grounded for a month. Really, not like last time. I'm putting locks on your windows so there'll be no more sneaking out via the fire escape.”

“But—”

“You go to school, you come home. You do your homework, you go to bed, you wake up, you go to school. Repeat for thirty days. On weekends maybe we'll walk you around the block a few times for exercise, but that's it.”

“Can I…can I go see Harry?”

“No.”

Siara's indignation rose with her voice. “He's all alone. He doesn't have much family. He's my…friend. Shouldn't I stick by him? Aren't you the one who told me I should always do what I think is right?”

Her father shook his head. “I misspoke. What I meant to say was that you should always do what
I
think is right.”

He was so pissed.

This is why it's so hard to trust your parents with the secrets of time and space.

Feeling like a rat grasping at straws, she asked, “Does Mom know you're doing this?”

He blinked and sighed. “Don't go complaining to her, Siara. Just don't. She's got enough on her mind. The demo's tomorrow night.”

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.