The Locket (10 page)

Could it?

My fingers reached for the locket, gripping it through my sweater. For the first time since Saturday night I wondered. . .how powerful was this little piece of jewelry? I’d
traveled back in time
two weeks. Could I go back further? Back to when Mitch was a kid and make sure his mom never got into that accident, that her car never slid into oncoming traffic and left a little boy to mourn the woman who had been his world?

If I could, would I be a nearly seventeen-year-old trapped in a five-year-old’s body? Would I have to relive my entire life? No matter how stereotypically perfect my childhood had been, the thought summoned a wave of panic. I didn’t want to be a little kid again. I was ready to finish high school and start my own life. With Isaac.

Going that far back seemed dangerous. Even if I
could
do it. Which . . . I wasn’t sure I could. The locket was still cool in my hand. If what I was thinking about were possible, and the death of Mitch’s mom was a mistake that wasn’t “meant to last,” wouldn’t the locket start to burn the way it had before? Was that how it worked?

I didn’t know. I didn’t know anything.

I dropped the locket and twined my fingers together, focusing on Mitch.

“I remember the way she smelled when she’d come in to tell me a story before bed.” He rubbed at his temples, like the memories were giving him a headache. “I always asked for a story about when she was little. I’ve forgotten most of them, but I remember she talked about this amazing tree house her dad built her when she was five. She promised we were going to build one out back in that big tree . . .”

“The one between our yards?”

“Yeah, but she died before we could start it. The wood was in the garage for like six years before Dad finally took it to the dump.”

Right then and there, I vowed to build Mitch a tree house before he graduated. It didn’t matter if my construction experience was limited to the bird feeder my dad and I had made at the Home Depot kids day. I was going to find a way to build him a tree house—a memorial to his mom—and we were going to sit in it every day this summer and make the most of his last few months before he left Brantley Hills. And me.

For some reason, the thought of Mitch leaving for college hurt even more than the thought of Isaac heading off to whatever school gave him the best athletic scholarship. Isaac and I had a future together, a commitment to stay the way we were. But there was nothing to keep Mitch from changing, from going off and meeting fabulous new people and forgetting everything and everyone he’d known before.

“You’ll still come home, won’t you?” I asked, finally giving in to the urge to take Mitch’s hand. “Even if your dad and Lauren are married?”

“Of course I will. He’s my dad.”

“Good.” I squeezed him tighter, hoping he could feel how much he meant to me. “I’d miss you if you didn’t come back to visit. I’d miss you a lot.”

“I’d miss you too, Minnesota.” He held on to my fingers when I tried to pull away. “You know you’re my best friend, right? I don’t talk to other people about . . . stuff.”

“You’re my best friend too.” And we were never going to lose that. Not now, not ever. I gently, but firmly, removed my hand. “I had so much fun with you and Isaac yesterday. We’ve both missed hanging out.”

“Me too. We’ll have to do it again. You know, when we can find some time in our busy schedules.” But he didn’t look like he believed we would ever find that time.

“How about Friday?” I asked, determined to show him I was serious about our friendship. “We get out at noon for the conferences. Isaac has early practice, and I’ll be done with the fashion-show thing before too late. We could all go downtown again.”

“Or apple picking,” he said, eyes lighting up.

“Or apple picking. Yes! That’s perfect!” We’d loved apple picking when we were kids and begged our parents to take us every year. But between Mitch’s Hebrew school on the weekend and Isaac’s junior basketball league, we’d only made it there together twice. Now we were old enough to drive ourselves. I couldn’t believe we’d let so many years go by without taking advantage of that fact. “You’re a genius.”

“I am, actually. I am a bona fide genius.” He laughed. “My dad made me take the Mensa test this summer.”

“You’re kidding.” Dr. Birnbaum had threatened Mitch with the Mensa test before, but Mitch had always managed to be too busy to fit it in.

“He tricked me into taking it one Saturday before lunch with Bubbe.” He grabbed his notebook and shoved it into his backpack, but didn’t seem in any hurry to leave. “He and Lauren took the test too. We’re
all
frackin’ geniuses.” Mitch’s eyes rolled. “I’ve never seen Dad so happy. He said he’s going to make Ricky take the test as soon as he’s old enough to hold a pencil.”

“I love your dad, but he has problems.”

“He totally does. I think it’s because he didn’t learn to read until he was ten. Everyone thought he was stupid when he was a kid and he’s never lived it down.”

“Isn’t that strange? The things that mess with us for the rest of our lives? I mean, he’s a big, successful—” My cell rang, interrupting my deep thoughts. It was Isaac. I flipped the phone open. “Hey, I was just talking about you. Are you on break?”

“No, we’re done. It’s five thirty.”

I glanced at the clock on the wall above the barista station. He was right, it was already half past. Where had the time gone? It seemed like I’d just sat down.

“I was calling to see if you felt better,” he said.

“I’m feeling much better.” Aw, my boyfriend was sweeter than I gave him credit for sometimes. “I came and had a coffee at Jukebox. Mitch is here and we were talking about how much fun we had yesterday. We were thinking the three of us should go apple picking Friday afternoon. After you get off practice.”

“At the old place outside of town? The one we used to go to when we were little?”

“Yeah, that one.”

“That would be awesome.” I could tell Isaac was already plotting what to pack in Mom’s picnic basket. We were all totally on the same becoming-best-friends-again page. Yay! “We should definitely go. That place was cool.”

“I know. I’d forgotten about it. So what time do you think you’ll be out on Friday?” I tried to catch Mitch’s eye as Isaac told me he could do three o’clock and suggested we meet up at the west parking lot, but Mitch was suddenly busy organizing the sugar packets by color. “Perfect. Love you.”

“Love you too,” Isaac said. “See you in ten.”

I snapped my phone shut and shoved it back into my purse. “So we’re on for three o’clock on Friday at the west parking lot. Isaac was really excited about it too.”

“Great,” Mitch said, but he didn’t seem as happy as I’d thought he’d be. “That will be fun.”

“It will be. We’ll have a great time. Just like when we were little.”

“Just like.” He abandoned his work with the sugar, grabbed his bag, and pushed to his feet. “You need a ride home?”

“No, Isaac’s coming to get me.”

“Of course he is.” It wasn’t a mean thing to say, but for a second it seemed like Mitch meant the words as an insult. But then he smiled and ruffled my hair. “Hey, thanks for the talk. I feel better.”

“No problem.” I smoothed my hair and dodged his hand when he tried to get me again. “Anytime.”

“See you later.”

“Later.” I watched him walk out of the new red door, strangely discontent. On the surface, everything seemed to be going perfectly. Isaac and I were together, Mitch, Isaac, and I were bonding, Sarah and I were reconnecting, and I had avoided making a fool out of myself in front of Rachel Pruitt for once in my life. I should be feeling good.

And I was. Mostly. If only I knew for sure the little differences I’d been noticing were no big deal.

Mitch’s dad getting married
and
adopting a kid is a very big deal, no matter what.

That marriage would change Mitch’s life, his dad’s life, Lauren’s life, and now her son, Ricky’s, life—four people were going to be powerfully affected by my second chance. Maybe all of this was going to happen eventually anyway, and I just somehow sped things up. I could only pray that speediness would be a good thing.

I hugged my purse, wishing Isaac would hurry.

Chapter Seven

FRIDAY, OCTOBER 2, 2:24 P.M.

T
he week had been strange and, at times, awful—little changes everywhere and the continued stuck-around-my-neck state of the locket adding up to big anxiety and plenty of sleepless nights—but all my worries seemed trivial as soon as I reached the top of the stairs and eased out onto the catwalk leading to the grid high above the stage.

The fashion show run-through was finished and the light board programmed. I was done serving Rachel Pruitt for the day . . . except for one pesky spotlight that wasn’t working the way it was supposed to be. One little light that I was going to have to
crawl out above the stage
and replace.

God. Help. Me.

There’s nothing that will take your mind off your troubles like being seconds away from falling to your death.

“I can’t do this. I have to come down,” I whispered into my headset, my hands fisting around the iron railing of the catwalk.

“Did you forget the safety harness for the light?” Sarah asked, her voice echoing through my pounding head. “I can have the stagehand run one up before he leaves.”

“No, I’ve got the harness. I just . . .”

I looked down again. Big mistake. I suddenly couldn’t move. All I could do was stare out onto the iron grid where the theater lights hung—black and dusty—from their C-clamps and imagine falling fifty feet to splatter all over the stage. It didn’t matter that the spaces in the grid were way too small for a grown person to fit through or that I knew members of the drama club wouldn’t be allowed to hang the lights if it weren’t completely safe.

All rational thoughts vanished in the face of the pure terror pumping through my veins. The air was too hot to breathe. My vision swam. “I’m coming down.”

“No, you’re not,” Sarah said firmly, in stage manager mode. “It’s fine. You’re going to be fine. Just replace the spot and be done with it.”

“I can’t. I’m afraid of heights.”

There was a moment of static on the other end of the headset and for a second I could have sworn I heard Sarah laugh. “Then why did you volunteer to work lights?”

“I forgot how scary it was up here.” I sounded about three years old. What a baby. The dorkiness of it all helped me draw a slightly deeper breath.

“It’s totally safe, Katie, I promise. You’re going to be fine.” Sarah’s calm voice soothed me even further. I managed to pull one hand away from the railing to wipe my sweating palm on my jeans. “Do you want me to come up there? I’ve still got a few things to do at the soundboard, but—”

“No, it’s okay. You’ll be late for your rehearsal if you help me.” Not to mention I’d be late to meet Isaac and Mitch if I kept stalling. “Just . . . keep talking, okay? It helps.”

“No problem. I can talk and program sound at the same time.” The beep of the computer saving settings confirmed her words as truth. “I am a multi-tasker. So how’s the secret project going?”

“What secret project?” I asked, easing out onto the grid on my hands and knees. My heart jumped into my throat and did a back handspring that would have made many on the BHH cheerleading team extremely jealous.

“You know, the tree house? The one you grilled my dad about for an hour on Tuesday?”

Sarah’s dad was an architect and had been cool enough to draw me a simple set of plans for a tree house platform. I’d spent all afternoon Wednesday and Thursday building it in my garage, enduring the stuffy air in the name of keeping my construction secret from Mitch—who had been known to wander into my backyard without announcing his presence.

“Right. The tree house. I’m sorry.” I grabbed the spotlight from the catwalk and inched a little closer to my final destination. I could do this, as long as I didn’t think about it too much. “It’s going great. I already finished the platform and cut the wood for the steps.”

“Awesome. You did it all yourself?”

“I did.” I didn’t mind her surprised tone. I’d been equally shocked that I could build something so big all on my own. It was a simple plan, but still . . . I was pretty proud of myself. “I used my dad’s nail gun and power saw and sander.”

“Ooh! That is so sexy.” She laughed. “Don’t let Isaac see you with power tools. He’d probably quit basketball to sit around and watch you whip things out of your tool belt.”

Ugh, Isaac.

Thinking about him made me happy and sad all at the same time. Happy, because things were the same as they’d ever been. Sad, because . . . things were the same as they’d ever been. He was so cute and sweet and fun, but he was also
so
obsessed with basketball and
himself
. More and more, I noticed that Isaac never asked me how my day was or what my plans were. Our conversations always revolved around him, as if he took for granted the fact that he was the more interesting half of our couple.

Which he
was
. . . but still . . . it would be nice if he’d at least pretend I was interesting. Mitch seemed to find me interesting. But Mitch wasn’t my boyfriend.

Mitch
wasn’t
the person I should be thinking about last thing before I went to bed, Mitch
wasn’t
the person I should hope to see sitting alone at a table in Jukebox Java when I walked by after school, and Mitch
certainly wasn’t
the person I should be thinking about while I was making out with my boyfriend on my back porch. I shouldn’t be thinking about Mitch at all, let alone comparing Isaac’s kisses to a kiss that had never happened.

I was as horrible a girlfriend in my do over as I had been the first time around, and I needed to get a grip in a major way.

The only reason I was thinking about Mitch’s kiss was because Isaac and I had been together forever. I’d never kissed anyone but Isaac and I’d kissed him for
three years
. Mitch was intriguing because I’d only kissed him once, but I knew better than to be sucked in by the lure of the new and ruin the good things I had.