The Alchemy of Forever (12 page)

“We’d have to approve the job, of course,” adds Mrs. Morgan.

I tell them about the antiques store. “Who knows if they would actually hire me, though,” I demur.

“I think it’s a great idea, Kailes. Just as long as you have time for your schoolwork,” says Mrs. Morgan.

“Of course,” I assure her. “School comes first.” Bryan rolls his eyes and mimes gagging, but I ignore him, happy with my little victory.

Just as we’re starting in on apple pie, the house phone rings, and Bryan jumps up to answer it, his chair scraping across the black-and-white checkered linoleum floor. I hear him talking softly in the hallway, but I can’t make out what he’s saying. “Must be a solicitor,” Mr. Morgan observes.

“Kailey, it’s Leyla. She wants to know if you’ll study with her tonight,” announces Bryan, returning to the kitchen. He has a funny half smile on his face.

“You should,” says Mrs. Morgan. I look up, surprised. “You’re still grounded,” she adds, trying to look stern. “But studying is allowed.”

“We haven’t seen Leyla around much lately,” Mr. Morgan says.

“Kailey? Phone?” Bryan reminds me, sitting back in his chair and taking an enormous swig of milk, emptying half the glass.

“Oh, right.” I go to the phone in the hallway and pick it up. “Hello?”

“Why have you been ignoring my texts?” Leyla demands, but continues before I can respond. “I’ll come get you and we can get coffee, okay? I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

“Oh, okay,” I answer hesitantly.

“Good. Ciao.”

“Leyla’s coming to pick me up,” I inform the family. I’m not imagining the disappointed look that flickers across Bryan’s face.

“Oh, I thought she was coming here,” he says.

“That’s fine, honey.” Mrs. Morgan takes a sip of wine. “Have fun.”

I run outside when Leyla pulls up in her Honda. I expected her to drive a car that matches her personality a little bit more—a pink Cadillac, a vintage Volvo, or a painted school bus. She’s wearing glasses and concentrates on the road as we drive, whipping them off as soon as we find a parking spot near Telegraph Avenue.

“I’m so glad they let you out tonight,” she says, tossing the glasses onto the dashboard.

“I have to admit I’m surprised. But I asked them if I could get a job, so maybe they’re rewarding me for showing initiative or something.”

Leyla stares at me. “You’re getting a job? Will you still have time to paint?”

I think of the unfinished portrait on Kailey’s easel. It will have to remain undone because art is something I never managed to master. “Yeah, I’ll still have time to paint,” I lie. “And I’ll have more money for art supplies.”

“Fair enough.” She smiles. We climb out of the car, and I follow her lead as we walk down Telegraph, inhaling the Nag Champa incense that wafts out from nearby head shops. I try not to stare at the punk kids that sit on the sidewalk, begging for change. I know their type all too well: runaways, probably from wealthy families, but angry at the world. The type that no one would miss. A girl with oily white-blond hair wearing patch-covered camouflage pants pets a mangy-looking dog, looking at me hopefully. I turn away. These are the kinds of kids I’ve preyed on in the past.

Leyla takes me to a café across the street from UC Berkeley. It’s packed with students, laptops open and books piled on tables, but a low chatter tells me that they’re not all here to study. I grab a table inside while Leyla gets us drinks.

“So, what’s going on with you?” asks Leyla as soon as we’re seated, steaming mugs of chai in front of us. She squints slightly.

“Not one to beat around the bush, are you?” I ask, with a wry smile.

“No, sorry, I just mean that you seem . . . different. Distracted. And I can usually tell what you’re thinking, but right now I can’t.” She leans back in her chair, looking at me expectantly.

I take a sip of the chai, but it’s too hot. “I’ve just been . . . tired,” I finish lamely, because what else can I say? As much as I wish I could take her hand and tell her that her best friend is gone, I simply can’t.

“Oh, okay.” Leyla looks disappointed, but just like Charlotte, she doesn’t pry. “So can you believe Nicole?” she says, changing the topic at lightning speed.

I think of Nicole’s pointed glares and conspicuous absence from Kailey’s friend list and shrug. “She hates me. Not much I can do about that.”

“She doesn’t hate you. You guys will make up eventually. You always do. I don’t think she was
that
serious about Bryan, anyway. She’ll get over it.” I hear a trace of wistfulness in her voice.

“Maybe. But she’s been really mean this week,” I point out.

Leyla shakes her head, her hair swinging back to reveal earrings made of feathers and miniature skeleton keys. I’m reminded of the wind chimes on the Morgan porch, and I wonder if they are another one of Kailey’s creations. “Look, if you feel that badly, you can always refriend her on Facebook. I’ve always respected your wishes. I understand why you don’t want your friends dating your brother. I wouldn’t either. Too complicated.” I don’t miss the undercurrent of anxiety when she talks about Bryan.

Once more, Charlotte pops into my head—how she was always sneaking looks at Sébastien, how they would smile at each other when they thought no one was looking. “You know, maybe I was wrong about that.”

“No, no. It’s okay, Kailey. Don’t back down now.” She smiles, but won’t look me in the eye.

“I don’t—I don’t want to control anyone. And I’m sorry if you feel that way.” I’ll never be like Cyrus, trying to control people, telling them how to feel and act and punishing them when they disobey.

Leyla cocks her head. “Seriously, are you okay? Something seems . . . off.”

I force a laugh. “Everything’s great. Same old me!”

She drains her drink, looking unconvinced. She has a foamy mustache from the chai, and I tell her so. She pulls a mirror from her purse to inspect the damage and lets out a long laugh. “Can’t take me anywhere! I’ll be right back,” she says, leaving for the bathroom.

I’m staring out the window, lost in thought, when a boy approaches our table. He’s older, probably late twenties, and has jet-black hair and a nose ring. “Hey, Kailey,” he says. I narrow my eyes. He’s clearly too old to be in high school and smells like leather, cigarettes, and beer. I wonder how she knows him.

“Hey,” I say hesitantly.

“Haven’t seen you around much lately. Thought you were coming out on Saturday.” He’s looking at me intently, and not in an entirely friendly way. There’s something about him that I don’t like.

“I’ve been really busy,” I say stiffly. I want him to leave.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Leyla coming out of the bathroom. “So I should really get back to my studying,” I say.

He follows my gaze and nods. “I get it. Well, hopefully you make it back down to the club one of these days. I miss dancing with you.” He winks at me and walks away. My skin crawls.

“Who was that?” Leyla asks curiously, settling back into her seat.

“I have no idea,” I answer honestly. “Hey, let’s get out of here.”

As we make our way back down Telegraph, she links her arm with mine. “I’m so glad we got to hang out tonight.” I’m surprised by the sudden physical closeness, but relax into it. I know this isn’t my life, but I’ve been so lonely and I genuinely like Leyla. She’s kind, and she loved her friend.

“Me too,” I say.

The next day Bryan has an early morning football practice, so it’s just Noah and me in the car. I sit in the front seat and feel suddenly shy, staring straight ahead, not knowing what to do with my hands. Noah is quiet, and there are dark circles under his eyes. He doesn’t play any music, and I don’t know if he’s angry or if he just forgot, and when we get to school he doesn’t move to leave the car. I lean down to get my backpack and put one hand on the door handle when he speaks. “My dad lost his job and started drinking again. I think my mom’s going to leave.” His hands are still resting on the steering wheel like he wants to be in motion.

“Noah,” I whisper. Through the open windows I hear the bell summoning us to class, but I don’t move. “I’m sorry.”

“I hate being there.” I feel him looking at me and I turn to face him, struck again by the intensity of his blue eyes. He looks like he’s been crying. I’m not sure what to say. It hadn’t even occurred to me that things weren’t okay at home for Noah—he always seems so easygoing. But now that I think about it, there were clues. He puts on a good act, but he’s pretending to be someone he’s not, just like me.

On impulse I reach over and take his hand. He doesn’t pull it away. “I won’t tell you not to be sad,” I say. “And if you don’t want to go home, come to my house. I’m sure my parents won’t mind.”

He squeezes my hand. We just sit there quietly for a few more minutes and then go to biology. We’re late. I don’t think the teacher even notices—he doesn’t turn around from the board when we walk in. Someone else notices, though, and I feel Nicole’s glare on the back of my head for the entire class. She clearly likes him and I wonder: Does he like her, too? She is beautiful. But then I shake my head. Why should I care who Noah likes?

At lunch I head straight for the secret upstairs room. Nicole is conspicuously absent. I’m not certain that this is related to seeing me walk into class with Noah, but I suspect it is.

Halloween is a few days away, and costuming is a constant topic of conversation. Chantal wants to be an angel, which everyone deems boring. “C’mon,” pleads Leyla. “At least be a
zombie
angel.”

Chantal looks horrified. “No way. Zombies are disgusting.” She picks imaginary lint off her pale pink sweater. The rest of the girls crack up.

Madison and Piper are going to be Girl Scouts. “Dead Girl Scouts? Ax-murdering Girl Scouts?” Leyla asks, hopefully, but they shake their heads. “You guys suck! Halloween is supposed to be
scary
. What about you, Kailey?”

“Grounded, remember?” I remind her.

“Oh, right. Sad.” Leyla pouts. “I really wish you could come to Dawson’s party tonight.”

“Yeah, it won’t be the same without you,” Piper says.

Kailey’s friends are all going to Haight-Ashbury in the city to shop for costumes, but Leyla promises to look for something terrifying for me to wear. “Maybe Little Red Riding Hood? Only . . . she’s actually been half eaten by the wolf?” I laugh, but I feel oddly worried for them. They have no idea that
real
monsters live in San Francisco. I picture Cyrus’s platinum hair and angelic face. The scariest thing about Incarnates is that we look just like everyone else.

That afternoon I stop by the antiques store. The owner doesn’t want to hire a sixteen-year-old, I can tell. But after I correctly identify a Victorian Eastlake sofa, a turn-of-the-century Stickley chair, and an original Edison phonograph, he gives me the job and asks if I can stay for a shift immediately. At ten dollars an hour it will take a long time to have enough money to escape, but this doesn’t bother me much. It’s a start.

After work I eat dinner with the Morgans and we chat about the day. I’m still most definitely grounded, but I know they’re proud that I’ve got a job. I tell them about the customers who came in—the rich lady who bought a painting of a dog, the zealous young homeowners searching for period-appropriate doorknobs for their old house, the man who collected antique lamps and didn’t care if they were broken.

“At least someone appreciates old things.” Mr. Morgan sighs dramatically. “As an antique myself, I can say that.”

“You guys aren’t old,” I protest. I should know.

“I beg to differ,” says Bryan. “They’re certifiable experts on the one-hit wonders of the eighties.”

“Hey!” says Mrs. Morgan. “We were very cool back then. I was in a band, I’ll have you know.”

Bryan groans. “Yeah, you sang Duran Duran covers.”

“What’s wrong with Duran Duran?” Mr. Morgan frowns.

Bryan and I crack up. “This calls for photographic evidence,” he declares, heading to the bookshelf. He returns with a large, leather-bound photo album, and flips it open to a shot of Mrs. Morgan and her band. She’s got a leather jacket with the sleeves pushed up to her elbows, immense shoulder pads, and poufy, feathered hair. My heart catches in my chest. She looks so much like Kailey.

“The epitome of cool,” I assure her.

Bryan pokes me in the arm. “Listen to this one! You’re just trying to get out of being grounded.”

Mrs. Morgan sighs. “Bryan, you’re so mean. I bet we can find some funny pictures of you in there. I seem to remember a certain phase when you wore a Power Rangers costume every single day.”

“And
that’s
my cue to leave,” says Bryan, picking up his plate and carrying it to the sink.

I scoot closer to Kailey’s mom as she leafs through the album. Photos of Kailey as a squalling, red-faced infant in Mrs. Morgan’s exhausted arms. Kailey, at age two or three, with Bryan, shirtless and tan at the beach, their white-blond hair coated with saltwater. Kailey eating strawberries, red juice all over her face. Kailey, age seven, missing her front teeth, with her dad in front of a brand-new backyard tree house.

And more recent: sullen twelve-year-old Kailey, pouting on a camping trip. Kailey wearing a black dress with purple hair. “Hmm . . . your Goth phase,” Mrs. Morgan says. “We always let you do what you wanted, but I have to say that color didn’t do much for you.”

I laugh. I have to agree.

I’ve never had any photos of myself—Cyrus thought it was too dangerous to carry around any trace of who we’ve been—and I don’t even remember what I looked like as a human. I remember my parents, though. My mom with her honey-brown eyes and dark tresses and my dad’s square chin and easy smile.

Mrs. Morgan flips to a page filled with pictures of the whole family. Not one of them is technically perfect—Mr. Morgan has his eyes closed or Kailey is sticking out her tongue at Bryan and Bryan’s giving Kailey bunny ears while Mrs. Morgan smoothes down his hair—but they perfectly capture how much this family loves one another.