The Locket (6 page)

Maybe she knew that the locket had power . . . magic.

“Let’s go,” I said. “See you Monday. Congratulations.” I gave Sarah a quick hug and turned back to Mitch. “You ready?”

“Ready.” While we circled the house and walked down the crowded drive to Mitch’s family van, I did my best to talk myself back from the brink of a crippling anxiety attack.

This
was
crazy, but it could also be that miracle I’d been praying for. I settled into the passenger seat of Mitch’s car and buckled in. As we pulled away into the darkness, I let my fingertips brush against my new scar. It wasn’t that big, or that noticeable, and it would be a small price to pay for a second chance.

Mitch and I didn’t say a word in the ten minutes it took to cross town, but that was fine. The silence between us was comfortable again. Easy. At least until we pulled into my driveway.

“See you Monday.”

“Yep. Monday,” he said. “It was fun hanging out with you tonight.”

“You too.” I smiled at him, but he didn’t smile back. He looked sad again, sadder than I’d seen him in years.

I knew a good friend would ask him what was wrong and ask him if he wanted to talk. Mitch wasn’t like Isaac; he liked to talk through things that were bothering him.

But unfortunately, I had too much of my own angst to deal with.

“Let’s do it again soon?” I asked, promising myself I’d make time for Mitch as soon as I figured out what was going on in my own crazy life.

“Sounds good.” He still looked like someone had killed his pet bunny, but I tried not to worry too much as I climbed out of the car and hurried up the front steps. Mitch would be fine, heck, he’d be
better
than fine. We were all going to be better off if tonight was real. Me, Mitch, and Isaac.

Chapter Four

SUNDAY, SEPTEMBER 27, 11:32 A.M.

I
t was Sunday morning in Nashville but after eleven o’clock at night in Singapore and my grandmother hadn’t come back to her hotel room or checked her messages. I still couldn’t get the locket off—after trying for nearly two hours—and I was no closer to figuring out how I’d come to be two weeks in the past than I was before.

But I
almost
didn’t care.

I hadn’t been able to get Isaac on his cell last night, but he’d called this morning a little after seven. He’d apologized for thirty minutes and sworn he would make it up to me for missing the play. For once, he seemed to get that he’d let me down. He was going to take me somewhere special to celebrate my performance as soon as he and his family got out of church.

Squee! I couldn’t wait to see him! To hug him, and kiss him, and see his smile and know for certain that everything was really going to be all right.

Never in my life had I resented the fact that Baptists don’t have services on Saturday nights as much as I did this morning. Isaac was going to have to convert to Catholicism when we got married. Confession and occasionally creepy priests aside, being Catholic was just so much more convenient to Sunday morning relaxing.

Not that I could relax. At. All.

“You’re pacing again,” Mom shouted over the clatter of mixing dishes landing in the sink.

“Sorry.” I stopped at the edge of the counter, absently flipping through yesterday’s mail. September postmarks, all of it, including the college information I’d requested and already sorted through. Two weeks ago.

I was going to have to redo all the work I’d done, but that was fine. I was happy to do everything over,
anything
to have a second chance with Isaac. Of course, this time two weeks ago, I’d been moping in my room—angsting out about my infidelity and general wretchedness—so I didn’t quite know what to do with myself right now. It was making me nervous, twitchy.

“That’s okay.” Mom laughed as she reached around me, grabbing the pot holders from their hook.

Sunday was her baking day. She made all our bread and muffins for the week from scratch. She was
that
mom and I loved her for it. There was nothing like the smell of fresh bread cooking. I’d always thought I’d like to do the same thing for my family when I was a mom. For the family Isaac and I would have. That we were
still
going to have because of the locket.

The locket.
I tapped the cool metal, once, twice.

Three hours of research on the Internet hadn’t led me to any information on magic necklaces, but I was sure the locket was responsible. It
had
to be. There was no other explanation. I had no idea how it worked, but it hadn’t changed temperature since the do over started, which made me think that it had completed its mission. I was in the past, reliving two weeks of my life, my wish for my mistake “not to last” granted.

Still . . . I couldn’t relax. If only I’d been able to talk to Gran, to see if she knew that the locket had supernatural powers and, if so, how they worked. It would be so nice to be certain that this was real, that I wasn’t going to be hurled back to the present at any moment.

Once I saw Isaac, I would feel better. Once I saw for sure that—

“Pacing. Again.” Mom grabbed the mail from my hands and dropped it back into the mail dish. “Why don’t you go help Dad in the backyard?”

“But Isaac could be here any second.”

“Church let out less than ten minutes ago.” Mom cracked the stove, checking on her muffins, causing a burst of blueberry and sugar to waft through the kitchen. “He won’t be here for at least another ten. Go help your dad.”

“But Mom, I—”

“Go help Dad or you can vacuum the downstairs.”

I hurried to the sliding glass door and out into the cool fall day before Mom could put me to foul, vacuuming-type work. Sunday was also her cleaning day—a tradition I was
not
going to continue when I was grown. Cleaning the entire house, top to bottom, including baseboards and ceiling fans,
every week
, was excessive.
Crazy
, some might say.

Maybe insanity ran in my family and this time-travel-inducing jewelry episode was just a schizophrenic delusion. But then, Gran was Dad’s grandmother, not Mom’s.

Hmm . . . maybe Dad would know something about the locket if I got up the courage to ask. I stepped out to the edge of the patio, scanning the leaf-strewn yard.

“Dad? Are you—ah!” My words ended in a scream as fingers danced up my ribs, finding every ticklish place along the way.

Mitch laughed as I spun around, slapping his hands together. “Got you. Again. That’s three times this month.” He smiled. “Your dad went around front to get an extra rake.”

“You are disturbed,” I said, my heart still racing.

Mitch loved to lurk just outside our sliding door and scare the crap out of me when I came outside. He’d been doing it since we were ten. I should have learned to watch my back by now, but I hadn’t. I hadn’t expected to see him so soon. Especially today. It seemed . . . wrong for him to be in my backyard.

I reminded myself for the zillionth time that we had never kissed, never crossed the line that separated friends from more-than-friends. This was fine, normal even. Everything was good. Great.

“I
am
disturbed,” Mitch said, a shadow creeping across his face.

Okay, maybe everything was
not
so great.

“You serious?” I asked, voice low.

“Kind of.” He shrugged. “That’s actually why I came—”

“Babe? Are you back there?” Isaac’s voice sounded from around the side of the house. My stomach jumped into my throat and sucker-punched my brain stem, making the world tilt on its axis.

He was here. He was really here!

“Back here!” My breath caught as I turned to watch the door to the fence open.

For a moment, my mind flashed on an image of Isaac’s face, seeing again the disgust twisting his features when I’d reached for him on the night of our breakup. I heard him telling me again how I wouldn’t have to worry about him “liking” me anymore, let alone loving me, and everything inside me cringed.

This was it, the true test of the entire do over. Would Isaac be like he had been on the phone—sweet and apologetic? Or would he be the boy who’d kicked me out of his truck onto the side of the road and left me to walk miles in a thunderstorm?

I was terrified, frozen in place, certain this dream of a second chance was going to crumble like the brown sugar topping on the blueberry muffins Mom was baking. But then Isaac pushed through the gate, hair shining gold in the sun, big grin on his face, wearing his favorite orange shirt with the sketches of brown feathers on the front. He stopped to give Mitch a quick, easy high five, then pulled me into his arms. He hugged me tight, his cheek smooth against mine, his smell as perfectly, familiarly Isaac as ever.

I squeezed him until he made a grunting sound and laughed into my hair. It was all I could do not to bawl like a baby. Isaac was here and he still loved me. I was the luckiest girl in the world.

As I pulled away, my fingers flew to press against the locket, lying cool against my skin beneath my short-sleeved, brown sweater. I sent out a silent thank-you to God and the universe and enchanted jewelry makers and Gran’s leave-my-jewelry-lying-ina-big-messy-pile nature for this chance, this miracle.

It really
was
a miracle. Isaac’s eyes held not a single shred of hate or doubt. This was the Isaac of two weeks ago, the Isaac who still loved me. Who called me babe and thought I was beautiful and wanted to marry me and be together forever.

Oh man, I really was going to get sniffly if I didn’t watch out. I was just so thankful.

“I’m sorry, babe,” he said, mistaking the reason for my obvious emotional instability. “I suck.”

“You don’t suck!”

“You do suck, but she’s already forgiven you,” Mitch said. “You are a lucky bastard.”

“I am a lucky bastard.” Isaac turned to punch Mitch on the arm, then the stomach, and then they were doing that weird not-quite-fighting thing boys do to bond. They were halfway across the lawn, falling into a pile of leaves, when my dad showed up with the rake.

“You two are ruining my piles!” Dad yelled, but I could tell he didn’t mind. Now it would take him even longer to clear the yard and he’d be spared that vacuuming I’d so narrowly avoided.

“Love you, Dad. We’re going to go,” I said, leaning in for a hug.

“You all have fun. Don’t get into any trouble.”

“We won’t,” Mitch said. “Later, Mr. M.”

I shot Isaac a look, but he was already heading for the gate behind Mitch, not at all surprised or annoyed that Mitch had invited himself on our date. But then, Mitch had invited himself on our dates lots of times. Especially when he was the only one of us with a vehicle. Mitch was six months older than Isaac and had gotten his license early because his dad was a single parent and a doctor who worked odd hours.

Still, this was supposed to be a special day. For me and Isaac. I couldn’t help but wish Mitch would go home. Just this once.

“I brought bikes to take into Nashville. That sound cool?” Isaac asked when we reached the drive.

“Sounds perfect.” I loved riding bikes in the city, but Isaac usually hated the hassle of loading them up.

“So your car or mine?” he asked. This time, I didn’t bother to answer. I knew he was talking to Mitch. Isaac never let me drive.

It was a man thing. Or a southern thing. Or some kind of thing. It had never bothered me before, but I couldn’t suppress a flash of anger as I watched the boys debate the pros and cons of Mitch’s family van versus Isaac’s souped-up Accord. If Isaac had let me drive on my birthday, I wouldn’t have been stuck walking home in the rain on a very dangerous stretch of country road, worrying that I was about to be struck by lightning.

That. Never. Happened. Get it through your head, Katie. That was then, this is now.

Actually . . .
now
was
then
and
then
was
now
. Or . . . something. I had to quit thinking about it or I was going to lose what was left of my mind.

“Katie? Is my van cool with you?” Mitch asked, waiting for my approval. “Or do you want to drive? We could put the bike rack on your car.”

“No, I’m fine. Let’s go.” I smiled and followed the boys to Mitch’s old family van, helping load my and Isaac’s bike inside.

From here on out, there was no more angst, only awesome. I was going to make sure these two weeks were the best of my and Isaac’s life, starting right now.

“I’m not wearing a wig, man!” Isaac laughed until his cheeks turned red as he watched Mitch struggle into the long blond wig the costume lady at the Broadway end of the Shelby Street Bridge had given him to wear.

“It’s cross-
dress-
ing the bridge,” Mitch insisted. “There’s no other way across.”

“I put on the dress. That’s enough,” Isaac said, gesturing at the bright red prom dress that hung down over his jeans. Somehow, he managed to look even more masculine in sequins. Maybe it was the barrel chest straining the seams at the sides.

Mitch, on the other hand, was weirdly pretty. With his big brown eyes and full lips, he really could have been mistaken for a girl. Except for the size-fourteen shoes, weirdly wide shoulders, and the hint of stubble on his chin, of course.

“Isaac, you need hair, you have to
complete
your look. Besides, it’s for charity,” Mitch said, keeping a straight face when the giggling costume woman handed him two round pillows to use to stuff the front of his blue polka-dotted dress. “Thanks!” He genuinely looked excited to be sporting fake boobs, the nut. “Do these make me look fat?”

I laughed. “No, you can totally pull off a D cup,” I assured him. “You just look a little top heavy.”

“Pamela Anderson top heavy or Bubbe Birnbaum top heavy?”

I snorted, nearly dislodging my newly affixed mustache. Girls had to cross-dress to get across the bridge too. My brown sweater was now covered by a ratty old man’s suit jacket, my hair was shoved under a bowler cap, and my upper lip sported a thick mustache. The lady had even dug through her makeup kit to find a red one to match my hair. I was sure I looked like a little boy with a testosterone problem, but I didn’t care. It was exciting to be part of the charity event. I wanted to work for a nonprofit organization when I got out of college and loved seeing how creative people could get in the name of getting other people involved.