Don't You Wish (28 page)

“No, thanks.” Is he nuts?

“Is it that homeless boy?”

God. Him, too? “He’s not homeless,” I say without emotion. “I wanted to say goodbye to him before I left, is all. I don’t suppose you’d swing by his house in Hialeah before we go.”

“You don’t suppose right. Hialeah?” He curls his lip. “Well, your mother had a weakness for losers, too.”

“Evidently. She married one.”

That gets me a dark, dark look. “Don’t be a smart-ass. I meant her other boyfriends.”

Does he know Mel Nutter? I don’t want to get into it. I turn toward the window, hoping he’ll just shut up.

“I Googled that boy’s name after I saw him with his tongue down your throat.”

Oh, boy. Here we go. “I’m sure you found lots of interesting information,” I say.

“And I know about his sister.”

I whip around to him, a sudden and fierce defensiveness rising. “What about her?”

“She’s a—”

“Don’t.” I hold my hand out, no idea what he’s going to say, but I know I have to stop it. “Don’t say another word.”

Fortunately, his cell phone buzzes, and someone else is the victim of his sarcasm and condescending attitude. I can just sit here and think about my plan.

Except, I have no plan. I was going to make one with Charlie, but then he disappeared on me. I couldn’t find a street address for Mel Nutter in Pittsburgh, but I know where Process Engineering is, so I might go there as soon as I’m away from Jim, who says he has meetings all day today. Or
go to South Hills High and pretend to be a new student, and check out my old lunch table. Or cruise by my old house on Rolling Rock Road.

I don’t know what I’m going to do, because I wanted Charlie to help me figure that out. I really want Charlie to come with me, but now, considering Jim and his Googling, I decide this is better.

Still, I pull out my phone to check my text messages again—nothing new—and send one more to Charlie.

Am on my way to Tamiami airport. Leaving soon.

My fingers hover over the keyboard. Should I add 143? Make it more personal, more urgent?

I just hit send, and put my earbuds in to drown out the sound of Jim Monroe barking business into his phone. I watch Miami roll by, not so enamored of the palm trees and sparkling water now, bracing myself for the heavy skies and old brick buildings that make up so much of Pittsburgh.

Morning traffic is slow, but Marcel finally pulls us into the small airport out in the suburbs, and I see a row of private planes on a tarmac. I’ll be getting on one of them in a matter of minutes.

Without having said goodbye to Charlie. Without a plan.

I climb out, and Marcel gets our two bags. Jim says he’ll meet us at the plane and strides inside the tiny terminal, presumably to do whatever paperwork has to be done before flying.

“This way, Miss Ayla,” Marcel says, gesturing with Jim’s Louis Vuitton bag.

I start to walk toward the row of planes. The sun is already hot enough to warm the pavement under my feet.
This
is a waste of time
, I think glumly. What am I hoping to accomplish here? The chances of getting to my universe are slim to none without Charlie’s help.

All I’m going to do is—

“Annie!”

I spin around to see Charlie climbing out of his Jeep, waving.

“Charlie!” Flooded with relief, I run toward him, leaving Marcel behind. “Where have you been?” I ask, fighting the urge to throw my arms around him.

I don’t have to fight long. He hesitates only a second, then reaches for me and holds me close, squeezing me so hard he takes my breath away. “I thought I’d missed you,” he admits, his voice husky.

“Why haven’t you answered my texts? Where were you yesterday?”

“Locked at UM, working on something with Dr. Pritchard.” He clutches me tighter, and despite the fact that exhaustion has made his eyes red and a little swollen, I can see the joy and excitement all over his face.

That expression is eerily familiar. Mel Nutter, moments after an invention has been completed.

“What are you working on?”

“This.” He reaches into the back of the Jeep and pulls out a backpack, handling it carefully. “For you to take to Pittsburgh.” Slowly he pulls out a mirror, about the size of a laptop. “It’s Picture-Perfect, and, Annie, it works.”

He holds it in front of me and I see my reflection. Then he reaches behind it and presses a button, and … there’s Annie. The picture I emailed him, but even more accurate.

“How did you do this?”

“Long story, but I haven’t slept for two days.” Even so, he beams, his smile sending a bolt of energy right through me. “It works, Annie. I mean with the light. It breaks particles up and sends them to a million different places.”

My jaw loosens. “How do you know? You traveled to another universe?”

“I didn’t,” he says. “But we sent a few rats somewhere.”

Now my mouth drops and basically hits my chest. “How?”

“Light, angle, and good thoughts. What you need to do, we think, is get as close as possible to the place where you were before. Even in your old house, in your old room. Even better if you can go at night and re-create the moment. Can you try?”

“I guess. I was thinking about going to my house.”

“Here. I made a special padded case.” He slides the mirror into the backpack. “It might work. It really might.”

What if it does? I may never see him again.

He places the bag onto my shoulder, then runs his hand down my arm, giving me a squeeze. Looking up at him, I know I have to say what I’ve been thinking for the past day and a half.

“Come with me.”

He doesn’t react, but looks into my eyes.

“Please, Charlie. I can talk Jim into bringing you. We’ll come up with a reason why you have to go. Please. I need you.”

“Then I’ll come home alone.”

“Not if you travel to the other universe with me.”

“I can’t. I might be doing some traveling of my own.”

“Really? Where are you going?”

His smile is sly. “I made two of those mirrors,” he says.

“Meaning …”

“Figure it out, Annie. If I can get us to the right place at the right time …” His voice trails off, and I can finish the rest. He wants to leave this universe for a better one, too. A universe where Missy can walk.

I swallow hard. “But what if we’re not in the same place together?”

“We might not be,” he says softly. “But if we are, we’ll know.”

“You think so? How?”

“We’ll need a secret code. Next time we see each other, we’ll know who the other one is … or isn’t, if only one of us knows the password.”

For a long, long minute, we look at each other, the connection between us as intense as the blistering sun.

“What’s in the bag?” Jim Monroe’s voice makes us jump; neither one of us heard him approach. (Either because he’s a sneak or because we were lost in each other’s eyes. Or maybe both.) He’s pointing at the backpack.

“It’s nothing, Dad,” I say quickly. “I’m trying to convince Charlie to come along on the trip to Pittsburgh.”

He ignores that, reaching for the pack. “You’re not taking anything on that plane I haven’t examined,” he says.

I step back. “It’s personal. And you haven’t seen what I packed, so that’s just ridiculous. You aren’t the TSA.”

“My plane, my rules. Open the bag.”

“It’s noth—”

He grabs for it, yanking the bag off my shoulder.

“Hey!” Charlie yells, a hand up to stop him. “You can’t do that.”

He shakes off Charlie’s touch. “I can do whatever I want. Open the bag, Ayla, or you can go home right now.”

Ten minutes ago I’d have jumped at that offer, but now—with the mirror, with a plan, with
hope
—I don’t want to give up this chance. What would it hurt to show him? With a quick shake of my head to Charlie to tell him to back off, I slide the pack over my arm.

“It’s a mirror,” I say. “Charlie invented it. He’s a scientist. A physicist. A quantum … mechanic.”

Charlie laughs softly. “Not exactly, but I doubt you’ll be interested in my … discovery, Dr. Monroe.”

“Let me see it,” Jim says coolly.

I unzip. “It’s just a mirror that changes the way you look.” I take it out to let him see it. “He’s giving it to me for … good luck.”

Jim is staring at the mirror, his fingers reaching around the back to press the button. For a second it catches the light, almost blinding me. I gasp as I shut my eyes, half-terrified that I’ll open them and we’ll all be somewhere else.

But that doesn’t happen. Instead, Jim Monroe’s eyes are bugging out.

“Is this what you were talking about the other day in the exercise room?” he asks.

“Not exactly, but … a little bit.” I hate that he has stuck his nose into this business, but there’s nothing I can do right now.

“You made this?” he asks Charlie, unable to take his gaze from the mirror. He must like the version of himself he created.

“I had some help at the physics department of the University of Miami.”

“Whoa.” Jim angles the mirror back and forth. “This is sweet.” He lowers it. “Are you some kind of inventor?”

“It was a class project.”

At Jim’s skeptical reaction, I add, “Charlie takes classes at the community college. He’s a genius.”

“I see that,” Jim says, flashing a surprising smile. “It’s good.” He slides it into the backpack with far more care this time. “I’ll take it to the plane for you, Ayla. Say goodbye to your friend. Sorry you can’t come along, young man. Weight limit on the flight. Hurry up, now.”

He marches away with the backpack in his arms. For a moment, we both look after him, then at each other.

“He’s unpredictable,” Charlie says.

“Yeah, and a whole lot of other things I don’t like.”

“Where were we?” Charlie asks, reaching out to me again.

“Saying goodbye.” Leaning close, I put my head on his shoulder and wrap my arms around him. “I can’t believe this might be the last time I ever see you … as me.”

He nuzzles into my ear. “One-four-three, Annie.”

“One-four-three,” I repeat in a whisper.

“And four isn’t ‘like.’ ”

Oh
. I close my eyes as he puts a gentle kiss on my lips, so softly, I barely feel more than a breath.

And then he’s stepping away, his face blurry through my tears. I stand there for a minute, watching the red Jeep
Wrangler drive off before I jog toward the plane and up the stairs to board.

Then I turn to take one more look at Charlie Zelinsky, the boy with the heart of gold. He sticks his hand out the window of the Jeep, and even from fifty yards away, I can see him hold up one finger, then four, then three.

And four isn’t “like.”

I love you, too, Charlie.

“You’ve never seen anything like this, Frank. It’s a freaking gold mine.”

At the words uttered by my father, I turn to see him in the pilot’s seat, a cell phone in one hand and the mirror in the other.

“We could put this in every clinic in the country and make a fortune. It’s like magic. You just look better, damn near perfect.”

I feel the hair on the back of my neck rise, hating him for seeing Charlie’s effort as something commercial. It’s my passport back to my real life.

“I’ll take that,” I say to him.

He shoots me a look. “Sit down and buckle up, Ayla. This thing is
mine
.”

One thing I learn about Jim Monroe on the flight to Pittsburgh: He gets what he wants. Oh, and he’s a really good pilot, but the flight is bumpy, so we don’t talk much. When we land, he refuses to give up the mirror, and I give up the fight, planning to get it back from him later. At least he’s letting me use the limo while he’s in his meetings, so I know exactly where I’m going to start.

Rolling Rock Road.

Everything looks pretty much the same in this universe. Dreary and gray, as the ’burgh often is, weathered and blue-collar in parts, a chill in the air, some potholes in the roads. The 1950s houses and nearly bare oak trees all seem so lackluster after Miami. There’s no vibrancy in this town,
no sizzling culture, no over-the-top cruise ships, no stately palms, and no heartbreakingly blue skies.

And there’s no Charlie.

I’m clutching the buttery leather seat as the limo turns the corner to Rolling Rock Road, and I peer down the hill, a wave of familiar longing washing over me as the memories do.

I’ve given the driver my old address, but as he pulls up to 4628 Rolling Rock, I have to look hard to be sure it’s my house. It’s painted a soft yellow, and the windows are different. There are flowers everywhere, and two giant oak trees that were never there in my universe.

But the general size and shape is the same, including a little dormer upstairs that I know makes a really awesome fort, and the window on the first floor looking out to the side is in a pretty snazzy girl’s bedroom. Not turquoise, lime green, and chocolate, but
mine
.

As we slow to a stop, I notice that the garage door is open and a woman in a pink suit is walking out to the driveway. She’s looking up the street when her attention lands on the limo.

She looks so familiar, but I can’t quite place her. Then another person runs into the driveway, and I almost scream.

Lizzie! So that’s her mom, who looks totally different—brunette, slender, and fit. Lizzie and her mom live in my old house!

I tap on the privacy screen, not giving myself a moment to think this through. “Stop now,” I tell the driver. “I’m getting out.”

He brings the limo to a halt, and I can see the disbelief on Lizzie’s face. Limos don’t cruise Rolling Rock Road in
any
universe.

I grab the door before the driver can even get around to help me.

“Do you think the girls sent a surprise limo for the shower?” I hear Lizzie ask her mom.

“Or we just won Publishers Clearing House.”

“Neither,” I say as I climb out. “I came to find Lizzie.”

Lizzie takes a step forward, her mouth in a little O shape, her forehead all squished up like she gets when she totally doesn’t understand something.

“Do I know … Holy guacamole! You’re the girl from Florida on Facebook. Ayla?”