The Edge of Forever (7 page)

I let out a sigh. “Fine, I’ll do it. But I’ll meet you there and we keep it to thirty minutes.”

His grin is dazzling. “Deal. So how about three thirty?”

“That’ll work.”

“Great!” He looks to his left, toward the student parking lot. “Do you need a lift anywhere?”

“No, thanks,” I say, glancing over my shoulder to where Sela has parked her red VW Bug in front of the school. “My ride’s already here.”

“Ah, that’s right, you said that already. I swear, my memory sucks sometimes. Well, then, I’ll see you tomorrow.”

As I stare at him walking away, a cold uncertainty curls around me. What was I thinking? There is no way Trevor is doing this to just be nice. Maybe I should cancel on him. The last thing I want or need is to be the butt of somebody’s joke.

Sela beeps her horn. As I cross the lawn to her car, I’m suddenly overwhelmed with a weird feeling—like someone’s watching me. I peer around. Trevor’s already in his truck, pulling out of the parking lot. The girls tennis team is practicing on the courts. Across the road, a tall man wearing glasses is pumping gas in a gray sedan. Shrugging it off, I figure it’s just my nerves from talking with Trevor. And I hope Sela didn’t see me talking to him, or I’ll have to face a million questions from her and some I-told-you-sos.

I should know better.

She rolls down the window before I reach the car and, after turning off a screeching heavy metal song, squeals, “Were you talking to who I think you were talking to?”

I briefly consider lying, but that’s pointless. Sliding into the passenger seat, I say, “Yes.” Before she can ask anything else, I ask, “Did you have to wait long?” I notice her damp tank top. She’s been working out at the local gym after school every afternoon.

“Oh, no. I had a few errands to run for Mama,” she answers, polishing off her bottle of water. After pulling away from the school, she continues my torture. “So, what did he want? A date or something?”

The need for sugar is overwhelming. I deserve some after this afternoon. Sela won’t like it, but I decide to negotiate. “I’ll tell you everything if you take me by The Gingerbread House first.”

She wrinkles her nose. “I thought you couldn’t go anywhere.”

She’s right. Aunt Grace grounded me for a week after my “little stunt” yesterday and told me to go straight to the inn. Which isn’t a big deal to me because it got me out of practicing cheers with Sela and the Brainless Twins. Still, a short detour won’t hurt. “It’ll only take a few minutes.”

“Yuck. Why do you want to keep eating that junk?” She scowls, looking down at my stomach. “You know, it’s so not fair. You eat whatever you want and never gain an ounce. I should hate you.”

“Sorry. I can’t help it.”

“Fine, I’ll assist with your addiction this once. Now gimme the deets.”

As I fill her in on my conversation with Trevor, her mouth keeps opening wider and wider. Pretty soon, I’m sure she could fit her whole fist in there.

“Oh my
gawd
! I knew he was checking you out yesterday.” She flashes one of those I-told-you-so smirks.

“There’s no way. He probably bet his friends that he can hook up with me. I’m just going because he’s a whiz at history and I need all the help I can get to pass the test.”

“Alora! Have you considered that he might actually be into you?”

“Nope.”

“Maybe all that’s about to change. I know you’re a great person, and if you give Trevor a chance, he’ll see that too. Besides, if you two start dating, then you could set me up with one of his friends,” she says with a wink.

“Right,” I say, thinking it will never happen. I can’t shake the feeling that he’s up to no good.

Sela parks in front of The Gingerbread House, and I hurry inside. It’s a small old house painted a chocolate brown and trimmed in white with a variety of candies painted on the exterior. No one appears to be here other than the owner, Mrs. Randolph. I look forward to a few minutes of peace and quiet while I pick out my poison.

After I buy some donuts, I chat with Mrs. Randolph for a few minutes, but on the way to the exit I get that weird feeling again. My skin prickles as I reach for the door handle. I swear someone is watching me. I twist around and scan the small shop, but no one’s here except for Mrs. Randolph. She’s already turned back to her small television, engrossed in a soap opera, so she doesn’t see me looking around like a crazy person. Still, the feeling is there, like I’m standing right next to somebody.

And then I feel something, like a hand touching my arm.

I scream.

“What’s wrong, hun?” Mrs. Randolph asks, hurrying around the counter.

I stumble back from the door. “It’s nothing. I’m okay.”

“No, you’re not. You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

Or felt one.

7

BRIDGER

MARCH 11, 2146

A
fter arriving at the shuttle port, I plow into the crowds sifting through downtown New Denver. It takes another fifteen minutes to get to Dad’s apartment. I stop in front of the retina scanner next to the door. A red light flashes in my eyes, indicating it’s identifying me. I never used to pay attention to the light. Now it reminds me of blood. I wonder if Dad was covered with blood when his body appeared back in our time after he died. I’ll never know. General Anderson wouldn’t let us see his body until the memorial ceremony.

The door slides open, and I step inside. It’s like a punch to the gut, knowing Dad isn’t here. I place my portacase on the nearest chair and examine the room. This is the first time I’ve been back since his memorial ceremony. Mom has put pressure on me and Shan to sell the place. Shan doesn’t care. But I don’t want to let it go. I realize Dad’s never coming back, but having his stuff here is comforting.

The apartment is huge—one of the perks of being a Time Bender—but nothing fancy. It’s the standard white unit you’d find in new apartments. But his presence is stamped everywhere. The overstuffed black couch is accented with three throw pillows that are green—Dad’s favorite color. Antiques from his past trips are scattered on shelves. Large digigraphs showing scenes from his favorite old films line the wall opposite a wide window overlooking the city. Smaller digigraphs of Dad, Shan, and me dot the black table in front of the couch.

I’m drawn to those like a magnet. My favorite shows the three of us when I was ten and Shan was six. We were on vacation, on a tour of the Washington, DC ruins. I run a finger along the side of the glass frame and watch as Dad, holding Shan on his shoulders, drapes his free arm around me. Then Shan and I wave at Mom, who was recording us.

There’s even a digigraph of Vika and me. Dad recorded it at the Christmas party he hosted back in December. Vika opens my present, squeals, and gives me a kiss in front of everybody. I remember how embarrassed I was, hearing the hoots of laughter from Dad’s friends.

I blink and swipe at my eyes, hating myself for being so weak. So not like Dad. He never would’ve been caught standing around crying like a baby. It’s time to man up.

I head to Dad’s bedroom but stop at the doorway. It still smells like him in here. His woodsy scent, though faint, fills the room. I let out a few deep puffs of air and force myself to enter. I keep my eye on my goal—the antique desk.

It’s not one of those cheap replicas you can find anywhere. It’s the real thing, made of maple. When the Department of Temporal Affairs has information about the exact date and time a property is to be destroyed, they’ll send in a retrieval team to confiscate artifacts if they’re worth saving. This desk is one of those. Built in 1850, it was salvaged when the house it was in burned. Dad asked to keep it since it wasn’t the main objective of the mission. General Anderson agreed because Dad was one of his best operatives.

The first time I saw the desk, I was less than impressed. The wood was chipped and had smoke damage. Dad insisted that I help him restore it. That was pretty wild because we discovered some hidden compartments in the desk. Six to be exact. If Dad had anything he wanted to hide, it would be in one of those compartments.

A few minutes pass as I search through the first five. They’re the easiest ones to get to—the false bottoms in all of the drawers. There’s nothing in them. With each empty discovery, my stomach twists a little more. There has to be something in the last one.

Before I can slide the middle drawer open, a chime sounds throughout the apartment.

I groan. Who could that be? I hurry out of Dad’s bedroom as the door opens. Professor March enters the apartment. I stop as if I’ve run into a force field. “What are you doing here, sir?”

“I tracked your DataLink,” he says as he sits on the couch. “You haven’t answered any of my comms, and I wanted to talk to you.”

I ignored them. “Yeah, well, I’m not exactly in the mood to chat right now.”

“I can imagine.”

I take one of the seats across from the couch and stare at Professor March.

“So,” he says, leaning forward, “how are you doing?”

“How do you think, sir?”

“Bridger, I know this is rough on you. That’s why I’m here. I thought you needed someone to talk to.”

I want to tell him that’s the last thing I want, but I keep that to myself. “What’s there to talk about?” I ask, my heart thrumming in my chest. “Everybody thinks I’m crazy, and my girlfriend is in a coma because of me. So things aren’t great right now.”

Professor March nods. “I stopped by your quarters before coming here. Zed and Elijah told me your mother was there earlier. What did she say to you?”

“Oh, the usual. She was more worried about how it would affect her or Shan. Then she blamed everything on Dad.”

“So Morgan was riding her broom again, huh?”

“Always.”

A sad look crosses Professor March’s face. I wonder what he’s thinking, but I can guess. He misses Dad too. They were roommates back in their Academy days and used to do everything together. Even after Dad went military and Professor March went civilian for their careers, they still made time to hang out. That used to irritate Mom endlessly.

“It killed me when I found out Leithan had died,” he says in a hoarse whisper. “He was like my brother. I was closer to him than my own sister. So I know what you’re going through.”

“Yeah,” I say, feeling my throat close. I swallow hard a few times. “I know we have those time traveling rules for a reason, but I don’t get why it would be so bad if you go back right away. Just before the moment someone is supposed to die and save them. How much could that affect the timeline?”

“Nobody knows for sure, Bridger. But would you really want to take that kind of risk?”

He’s right. I just don’t want to admit it. The pain is too much. All I can do is stare at the floor and hope I don’t wuss out in front of him.

After a few moments, he says, “Sometimes I wish cloning tech would’ve worked out. That would be better than nothing.”

I slowly nod. I want to have my dad here more than anything, but I don’t know if I like the idea of him being a clone. Around the year 2103, scientists developed a way to replicate bodies at an accelerated rate. For the right price, someone could have their genetic material stored. Then upon their death, the person’s consciousness would be downloaded, and within days they would be alive again. It seemed like the perfect way to cheat death. But there was just one problem—the clones always went crazy. A few years of dealing with that led to cloning being outlawed by the government.

Neither one of us says anything for a while. Finally Professor March asks, “Where are you staying tonight?”

I shrug. “I don’t know. Maybe here. I can’t handle Mom right now.”

“Do you think that’s a good idea?”

“It’s mine and Shan’s apartment now.” It surprises me how much saying that hurts. Yet another reminder Dad is gone.

Professor March looks down, taking a few deep breaths, then back at me. “I don’t think you’re ready to stay here. Not alone, anyway. Leithan hasn’t been gone long. It might be too overwhelming.”

“Where else can I go?”

“I don’t mind if you stay with me for a while. I’m not due to go back on Warden Duty for another two weeks.”

The professors at the Academy rotate staying in the residential halls with the cadets, to make sure we “behave like proper trainees.” Most of them let us do what we want as long as we don’t do anything stupid. But some of the professors actually enforce all the rules. Like Professor Cayhill.

“Okay,” I reply. “I’d like that.”

Professor March stands and claps his hands together. “Good. I don’t know about you, but I’m starving. Are you ready to go?”

I almost tell Professor March that I want to finish searching Dad’s desk, but I bite back the words. He didn’t believe me when I said I saw Dad at the Foster Assassination. He’d think I really am crazy.

But I can’t leave without checking the last compartment.

“I need to go to bathroom first,” I lie. Not the most original excuse, but it works.

“Sure, I’ll wait.”

Back in Dad’s room, I fly to the desk and ease out the middle drawer. I set Dad’s things on top of the desk and run my fingers along the right side behind the inkwell. It takes a few tries before I find a depression in the wood and press it. The back side of the inkwell pops out with a soft click, revealing two small hidden drawers. My fingers tremble as I check the first drawer. It’s empty.

The second one better have something, or I might wild out. I will my pulse to slow as I slide the second drawer out and reach inside. I can’t find anything at first, but in the back corner I touch something. Feeling relief, I snatch it out. It’s an old-style envelope. I tear it open and nearly fall over when I check the contents. The envelope is stuffed with hundred dollar bills. Those went out of circulation when the North American Federation was formed and credits were designated as the new currency. I’m so shocked to see the money that I almost miss the DataDisk tucked in the envelope. I’d give anything to check it out now. But I can’t keep Professor March waiting.

I slide the envelope into a leg pocket of my uniform and replace everything in the drawer before rejoining Professor March. We’re on the way out of the apartment when my DataLink chimes. I check to see who is calling and let out a groan. “I wish she’d forget I exist.”