The Locket (8 page)

“We had a lot of great ideas this year,” the principal’s voice continued, “but . . . Undead Disney was the clear front-runner.”

What?
Undead Disney?
That hadn’t even been an option the first time around. What did that even mean?

The mint I’d just popped in my mouth soured, and my throat got so tight I could barely swallow my own saliva. Another little difference in the world as I’d known it. It was just a homecoming theme, no big deal, but still . . . it made my hands tremble as I wadded up my empty lunch bag. Why was this happening? Why was now different than then?

“Awesome!” Ally squealed as Principal McAdams droned on about the dress code being strictly enforced during spirit week and reminded us that all costumes must adhere to decency standards. “I call zombie Little Mermaid!”

“No way, Ally,” Rachel said. “Katie has to be zombie Little Mermaid.”

“I do?” I asked, too thrown to think of something better to say.

“Yes. You’re the only one with red hair, duh.” Rachel wrinkled her nose in disapproval of my stupidity, but I was saved from further commentary. The bell rang a second later, signaling the end of lunch.

Without further social ado, we shoved our chairs back and grabbed bags and purses. BHH teachers were notoriously evil about handing out tardy slips after lunch. Mitch thought it was their way of getting revenge on juniors and seniors who were allowed to go off campus while the teachers were forced to eat in the depressing, lime green faculty lounge every day.

That was still the same; I’d seen the green post-nuclear glow of the walls when I’d walked by the office this morning. Almost everything was still the same. There was no reason to freak out about a change in the homecoming theme. I mean, Undead Disney did sound like a lot more fun than Welcome to the Jungle, and I already had my character picked out and approved by the platinum set. There was nothing to worry about. I did my best to throw off time-travel-related angst as Isaac and I dumped our trash and headed toward our locker.

My
locker, really, but Isaac kept all of his stuff in there. My locker was more centrally located and conducive to meeting up for kisses between classes. Public displays of affection were strongly discouraged at Brantley Hills High, but we were rebels with a need for lip locking between second and third period. If making out was wrong, we didn’t want to be right.

The thought helped my grin recover. “So, I’ll see you after school? At Ramon’s?”

“Yeah. That’s cool.” Isaac sighed as he grabbed his calculus book. When I turned to glance at his profile, I was surprised to see a scowl on his face.

“I mean, it’s Monday, right? You’ll have time?” Basketball practice didn’t start until later on Mondays. Coach Nader had parking lot duty and couldn’t get to the gym until four. Isaac and I always took advantage of the extra thirty minutes together and shared a slice at the pizza place down the street before he had to head to the gym.

“Sure, I’ll have time.”

“Okay.” He still didn’t seem too happy about our mini-date, however. After our wonderful afternoon the day before, his moodiness was more troubling than usual. “Is something wrong?”

“No.” He slammed the locker door shut with a little too much force.

“Isaac, you can tell me if something’s wrong.”

Isaac sighed again and scanned the area behind me before leaning down to whisper his next words close to my face. “I just wish you wouldn’t be like that with Rachel.”

“Like what?”

“So nervous. Or whatever.”

“I wasn’t nervous,” I said, just thinking about talking to Rachel enough to make me nervous all over again. I was nervous every single lunch period, so much so that sometimes I faked the need to head to the library to do homework just to avoid the stress of not fitting in at the platinum lunch table.

Oh,
crap
, homework!

I reached out to spin the combination on the lock again. The first time around, I’d forgotten my math homework, left it in my locker because I was too busy angsting out about Mitch and Isaac and being dubbed too lumpy and redheaded for modeling. Mr. Thames, my trig teacher, had yelled at me in front of the entire class and docked me three points on my next test for having to leave his classroom to fetch my assignment after the hour had started.

This time, I was bringing that homework with me. Thank you very much, locket, once again.

Tight shoulders relaxed as I honed in on the feel of the locket’s cool metal against my chest. It made a little lump beneath my tight green sweater, but I preferred to wear it close to my skin where no one else could see it. I wasn’t ready to answer questions about where it had come from or why I
always
wore it, not until I talked to Gran.

“Then why did you say that?” Isaac asked, shaking his head before turning to amble down the hall. “About working the lights?”

“Because I wanted to help.” I grabbed the homework and hurried after him.

“You could have been
in the show
with them,” he said, still not looking at me. He could never look someone in the eye when he was annoyed. It was a tic he’d had as long as I’d known him, but for some reason it bugged me more than usual. Why couldn’t he just let me enjoy my Rachel victory? “You’re just as pretty as Ally and Rachel and their friends. Prettier than some of them.”

Aw. Now I felt like a jerk for being annoyed. “I don’t really think I’m as pretty as Rachel, but thanks.”

“Babe, if you don’t think you’re hot, no one else is going to think you’re hot,” he said, turning to face me. The crowd in the hall parted around us. Everyone got out of Isaac’s way. He had no idea what it was like to be the ordinary person I was when I wasn’t with him, a person who had to dart and weave not to get crushed. “It’s all a head game. It’s like basketball. If you think you’re going to win, you have a chance at winning. But if you think you’re going to lose, you’ll always lose.”

“All the thinking in the world is not going to make my freckles go away.” I laughed, but my joke fell flat.

“Well . . . you could wear makeup or something.”

“I was running late this morning.” My tone was sharp. “Someone wanted to stay in Nashville until ten o’clock on a Sunday night and I didn’t get in bed until almost midnight.”

“So now you’re mad at me?”

“No, I’m not mad at you.” But I was, a little. Where did he get off telling me to wear makeup? This from the boy who thought nothing of coming to school in the shirt he’d slept in if he was running late? At least I always took a shower and put on clean clothes in the morning.

“You sound mad.”

“Well, I’m not.” I forced a small smile. It wasn’t worth arguing about. Not today, not after the wonderful day we’d had and the miracle of the entire do over. “I’m just . . . tired.”

“Okay.” Isaac looked confused that I’d given up so easily. But he didn’t get the double standard. He never would. Explanations and arguments would be futile. “Well . . . I love you.”

“I love you too.” The hall was emptying fast.

“We’re going to be late. See you after school?”

“See you at Ramon’s,” I said, ducking into my class just as the tardy bell rang. Isaac wasn’t going to get to calculus in time, but it probably wouldn’t matter.

Star basketball players didn’t seem to get tardy slips the same way as the rest of us did. In fact, I’d bet if I turned back to look, Isaac wouldn’t even be running down the hall. He’d still be working the Isaac shuffle, refusing to let anything but basketball motivate him into full-fledged activity.

For a second I hesitated, tempted to sneak a peek down the hall, but then hurried to my seat. I didn’t really want to have my suspicions confirmed. Knowing the truth was one thing, having it slap you in the face was another.

“You sure you’re okay?” Isaac asked, three hours later. He sat close on the bench outside Jukebox Java, clearly concerned, if a little grossed out.

He’d never seen me puke before. I wasn’t the kind of person who did that sort of thing in front of her boyfriend. Isaac wasn’t invited over when I had the flu, and I never drank enough to make myself sick. I hated vomiting,
really
hated it, but I hadn’t been able to help myself. I’d seen the sign on the door of Jukebox Java as we were leaving Ramon’s and my stomach had simply rejected my pepperoni slice and medium Coke.

The sign was
completely
different. JUKEBOX JAVA, COFFEE AND JIVE was spelled out in red letters instead of dark blue and yellow, and the logo was an espresso bean microphone instead of a coffee cup with a guitar on the side. Like the homecoming announcement, it wasn’t a big deal . . . but at the same time, it was. It
really
was.

“I’m okay.” But I wasn’t. I was shaking and clammy beneath my sweater, hot, but with a cold sweat breaking out on my upper lip. And I was afraid,
so
afraid. The reality of
traveling through time
was starting to hit. Hard.

I was probably going into shock—over my favorite coffee shop having a different sign out in front. It seemed ridiculous, but what if it wasn’t? What if these small differences meant something? What if this wasn’t my life after all? What if I’d been sucked through a wormhole or found a wrinkle in time or . . . something? There was so much I didn’t know about what had happened to me, about the locket.

“I can be a few minutes late if you need me to sit with you a little longer.”

A few minutes late. He couldn’t skip practice to tend to his sickly girlfriend. He could only be a “few minutes late.” But what did I expect? This was Isaac; basketball came first.

Strangely, the thought helped calm me down. Some things might be different, but Isaac was still exactly the same. Safe. Predictable. Sweet and frustrating, perfect and flawed, all at the same time.

“No, I don’t want you to be late. But could you do something for me really quick?” I turned and pulled up my hair, heart beating faster as I tugged the clasp of the locket out of my sweater. “Could you help me with my necklace? The clasp is stuck. I think maybe I’m not strong enough to pull it open.”

“Sure.” His warm hands brushed against the nape of my neck. Maybe this would work. Maybe Isaac would force the clasp open and I could take the locket off and put it somewhere safe until Gran arrived in a few days. I knew I’d feel better if I could just get it off.

“Is it working?”

Isaac grunted. “Nope. It’s stuck, I think. It’s hard to get a grip. It’s so small.”

“That’s okay.” I let my hair swish down, covering the clasp, feeling relieved and a little . . . trapped at the same time. “I’ll figure it out later. Have a good practice.”

“You sure you don’t need me to stay for a little while? Make sure you’re not going to be sick again?” he asked, but he was already standing up and swinging his backpack over his shoulder.

“No, I’m fine.” I waved at him, trying to look better than I felt. “Call me.”

“Right after practice.” He leaned down as if to kiss my lips, but thought better of it and pecked my forehead instead before turning to dig through the front of his backpack. “Here, you want to use my practice toothbrush and toothpaste?” He pulled out the mini-kit and handed it to me. “I mean, I’ve used it, but—”

“That’s okay, I think I have your germs.” I took the kit with a smile. Isaac smiled back, looking pleased by the reminder that we’d been in lip lock less than an hour ago.

“I think you do too.” He zipped up his bag and kissed me on the cheek again. “Later.”

“Later.” I watched him jog down the street toward school, suddenly hyper-aware of the bitter taste in my mouth. Yuck.

I pulled out the kit, squeezed toothpaste on the brush, and went to work, not even thinking about how weird it was to brush my teeth on the sidewalk until a couple of sophomore girls who were walking by shot me sideways looks as I spit into the trash can.

God
, why did I have to be so normal impaired? Thank goodness Rachel or one of the other platinums hadn’t seen me or I would have lost all the cool ground I’d gained during lunch.

I tossed the kit into the trash and swiped at my mouth, vowing to buy Isaac another kit later. Right now, my stomach was still too churny to think about walking the eight blocks home to get my car or make a trip to the drugstore. Despite my quick brush, I still felt icky inside, hollowed out and shaky.

There was only one solution—a peppermint mocha from Jukebox Java. I didn’t want to go home and lurk inside a lonely house by myself until Mom and Dad got home. I needed to be around people, noise. Jukebox Java had both in abundance. It was a combination recording studio and coffee shop and was always filled with musicians as well as the usual caffeine-addicted crowd.

Taking a deep breath of cool, head-clearing fall air, I scooped up my purse and backpack and headed toward the newly red—not blue and yellow—door of the shop.

I could bang out my reading for AP English while sipping my mocha and maybe, if I was lucky, listening to a band lay down some country music. Monday wasn’t usually a big recording day, but there was always a chance. I loved listening to live country. It was so much better than anything on the radio.

“Hey, Katie.” Sarah was coming out as I was going in, her hair wrapped in a bright, multi-colored scarf that brought out the golden undertone in her skin. She glanced over my shoulder, searching for my better half, I assumed. “You alone?”

“Isaac had practice. I was going to have a mocha, want to sit with me?” I asked, excited by the possibility of girl talk.

“I’d love to, but I have to get to rehearsal by four thirty.”

“Maybe tomorrow, then?”

“I’ve got rehearsal every day,” she said, looking genuinely disappointed. “But we get out at noon on Friday for the teacher-conference things. Want to have lunch or something?”

“I can’t. I have to set up the lights for the charity fashion show Rachel Pruitt is organizing.”

“She asked me to work on that too!” Sarah curled her upper lip in distaste. She’d never bothered hiding her contempt for Rachel. “She wanted me to stage manage and do sound. I was going to say no, but maybe I should do it.”