Twist (15 page)

“Huh?” He looked up. It was like he'd forgotten I was even there.

“Go home,” I said. “They can't detain you until you're accused of actually committing the crime. If you just stay there, you'll be safe.”

Or at least that's what I kept telling myself. He didn't love me, but I still loved him. Laying low in Chincoteague while I figured this all out was the best plan right now.

“I would need to feel a pull to synch in order to do that.” He pinched his temple and took a step forward. And another. He was close enough, he could reach out and touch me.

“And you don't feel … anything?” I asked.

The heat of his breath, in and out, teased my cheek. Every air particle between us expanded and contracted, pulling me forward. But when I opened my eyes, I saw that he'd stopped inches from me. His hand was held at his side, clenched into a tight fist as if it had hit a force field.

“Nothing,” he said and backed away. “Jaf's probably wondering where Georgie and I are.”

“Yeah.” My eyes filled with tears as I remembered it wasn't my tendrils that held him here anymore. It was hers. “Finn, you know that I—”

“Bree, stop. You don't need to—” He let out a heavy sigh as he looked over his shoulder, back to Jafney-of-the-long-legs' house. “I have a girlfriend. An amazing one. Remember that, okay?”

Another slap. I tried to force my neck into a nod, but it wouldn't budge. How could I forget?

“Finny Finn!” Jafney's voice broke the silence like shards of glass. “Where'd you go?”

Before she spotted us, I shot Finn one final pleading look.

“Go home,” I whispered. “Protect yourself. Please.”

“If you need me, you know where to find me.” He pointed at Jafney's house. “Right here.”

“There you are,” said Jafney, rounding the corner. “And you're … with … Bree.”

“I happened to be passing by when Finn was out here doing that, umm, thing that he came out here to do,” I said.

“Buying me cotton candy,” blurted Georgie, trotting after Jafney with a helpless
sorry
look on her face.

Cotton candy. Really, Georgie? Really?

“It's shocking, the way that your history books brush over our raging twenty-first-century cotton candy obsession,” said Georgie. “Like an addiction, it is.”

“Yes. They can't get enough of the pink stuff,” I said, but when Jafney turned her head, I mouthed,
“What the blark?”

“I panicked,” Georgie hissed.

“And, of course,” said Finn, “I realized once I was out here that I have no idea where to buy cotton candy, so readily available on every street corner in our time.” Finn shot Georgie a look that mirrored mine. “So Bree here pointed me toward…”

“The Pentagon.” The only place I could think of that might possibly sell the stuff.

“The Pentagon.” Finn's gaze locked onto mine, and for one bittersweet moment, it was like we were standing on the roof of the amusement park, just a boy from the past who liked a girl from the future. Well, a future version of a girl from the … never mind.

The moment passed.

“The craving's gone,” said Georgie.

“Good,” said Finn. “It really is a bad habit.”

“A dangerous one. Which should never have left the twenty-first century,” I added, giving Finn a significant look which he promptly pretended not to see.

“We should go in.” Jafney wrapped her arm around him. “It's a little chilly out here.”

“Feels like it's heating up to me,” said Georgie, but Jafney had already steered Finn back toward her house.

What was Jafney's deal? She acted like I was the one who had stolen the love of her life, not the other way around.

I waited until they were out of earshot and grabbed Georgie by the cuff of her arm before she could follow.

“So you're really not going to go home?” I asked.

“Oh, heck no. This is better than anything on basic cable.”

“Then can you at least do me a favor? Keep an eye on Finn for me. Make sure he doesn't get into any trouble.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. That's kind of why I'm here. Now enough about me. You have to tell me about that kiss.”

“What kiss?”

“With Wyck.” She fanned herself despite the gust of wind that rushed between us. I swore the temperature dropped another fifteen degrees.

“What are you talking about? Did you see us at the caf
é
earlier?”

“No. Oh, come on. It was only a couple days ago.” She shook her head. “There's no way you could have forgotten that. I mean, look at the guy.”

“What are you talking about? How do you even know what he looks like?”

“The pictures. Jafney had pictures of the two of you making out in front of your school. Your lips … locked and loaded with a very fine specimen of Y chromosomes. Ringing any bells?”

I opened my mouth to say something … anything. But all that came out was a croak. That photoflash that I had written off as imagined while I was kissing Wyck right after we left the theater. I hadn't imagined it.

Why would Jafney do such a thing? No wonder Finn had run straight into her arms. No wonder mine repelled him.
I
was the cheater.
I
was the eel-faced lamprey. And Jafney had taken photographic proof.

I had to explain. I had to tell him …

“Hey, George, come on!” Finn poked out of Jafney's doorway and motioned to his sister.

“I'd better go,” she said.

“No, wait,” I said. “You have to tell Finn something for me.”

“Georgie!” he yelled. “Now!”

One of Jafney's neighbors poked his head out and frowned at Finn. Blark. He was drawing too much attention to himself.

“Sorry,” said Georgie. “We'll catch up later, okay?”

“Okay.”

As Georgie jogged away to join Finn, gentle prickles built under my skin, tugging me to some other place, some other time, and as I Shifted away all I could think was, “Anywhere but here.”

 

chapter 13

OKAY, NOT HERE
EITHER
.

I landed across the street from my house. My mom sat on our front stoop, swaying on the porch swing. At first, I almost shouted “hello,” but paused when I noticed the fresh coat of paint on the steps. A corn broom was propped against the brick, and our pot of geraniums was gone. The welcome mat on that porch wasn't for me. The front door creaked open, and a tall, bespectacled man emerged with two steaming mugs. One for Mom. One for him.

My father.

When I was little, I'd had this fantasy of what life would be like if my parents hadn't been kept apart by government restrictions. What our life would be like if I didn't have a microchip in my head, controlling my every Shift.

The fantasy always started with breakfast. I don't know why that was the thing I focused on. Probably because Mom makes a mean cinnamon toast, and it's one of those meals that's pretty much the same no matter what century you're in.

My father handed my mom's mug to her and raised his own to his lips. I'd landed in the weak splotch of light put out by a gas lamppost. I slunk backward, aiming for the shadow of the massive oak across the street from my house. Well, not my house. I mean, yes, technically my house, but it wasn't my house yet. I felt around for the tree before remembering it was nothing but a sapling in my father's lifetime.

The first Shift Mom took after being freed from the confines of her coma was to visit him. I knew what she was expecting, or at least hoping. I'd bitten my nails to the nub expecting and hoping the same thing.
I have a daughter? When can I meet her? What is she like?

Let's just say it didn't go as hoped.

Turns out discovering that the woman you married is a twenty-third-century time traveler who's aged seventeen years seemingly overnight from your perspective can be a bit discombobulating. Then add to that a long-lost teenage daughter when you yourself are turning the ripe old age of twenty-seven. Apparently, it's a bit too much for the average born-in-the-Victorian-era chap to take.

Mom continued to cling to the belief that he'd come around.

Soon.

Someday.

When he's ready.

We both knew the truth, though. I was no nearer breakfast with dear old Dad than before he knew of my existence. The fantasy was still just that. A fantasy.

Trip by trip, he'd learned to tolerate Mom's ability. She'd pointed to this fact over and over to prove that he'd warm to me, too. But there was a basic fallacy in her argument. He'd loved her before he found out about her “abnormalcy,” as he phrased it.

I was nothing but an abnormalcy from the start.

The tips of Mom's fingers steepled against each other as she held the mug in a prayer-like caress. She hadn't taken a sip yet, which was weird. Mom hated her hot beverages anything other than scalding. She stretched the cup out to him, as if she was waiting for something. I could hear the tone of their conversation change into something harsh, something reproachful. My father shook his head. No.

Prayerful hands turned to pleading.

He reached into his pocket and pulled something out—a bottle. She wrestled it out of his clenched fist and poured a bit of whatever it was into her cup. Then she tucked the bottle into her own pocket. She took a sip. An angry sip.

My father's back stiffened, and they sat there like that, in starched silence, for several minutes. He finally leaned over to say something, but she stood up. I knew my mom well enough to know when she was horked, and over the last six months, I'd learned that when she was mad, she tended to … yep. She disappeared. Faded, just like that. Unless I was much mistaken, that was the Shifting equivalent of a furious door slam.

I took a tentative step forward, into the lamplight. My father glanced up. Even from across the road, I could see the lines of worry that engraved his face. He adjusted his spectacles. I wrapped my arm around the lamppost, and I could tell that he'd seen me. He stood there, just staring at me. For a moment I thought he was going to say something. But then he turned and disappeared into the house. His departure may have been less dramatic than Mom's, but it was no less cutting.

My tendrils began to prickle. The pull was strong—probably a synch. I crouched down, ready to leave this place, and my fingertips brushed against something smooth yet sticky.

Compufilm.

There was handwriting on it.

Mine again.

And the same message as before.

To save his, destroy yours
.

I looked around to see if my future self had stuck around to explain. But like my father, she was long gone.

*   *   *

“What were you doing back there?” I stomped up the stairs the second I synched home. Tufty roosted on the landing, his rump wiggling in a predatory stance like he was Mom's sole protector from my wrath. And maybe that was a good thing. I was feeling pretty wrathy right now. My father was never going to accept me if Mom went all bonks on him like that.

She didn't answer me.

“Mom?” I walked into her room. She was flopped over on the bed, snoring. My tone softened as I tried to rouse her. “Mom?”

A groggy “Mmm?” was all I received in return.

“Mom.” I shook her shoulder. “Poppy!”

She lifted her head off the pillow for half a beat.

“So shleeepy,” she slurred then resumed the snores.

That was weird. It wasn't that late. I wondered if she'd somehow gotten off synch in her return, but I checked her Com and the clock. Nope. She'd arrived here just a few minutes before I had. The cup she'd been drinking from at my father's house lay abandoned on the night table, knocked over, its contents oozing into the cracks. I let out a sigh as I sopped it up. Mom wasn't usually so careless as to bring something back with her. In the grand scheme of things, breaking this rule wasn't too terrible as long as she didn't get caught. But it made me wonder what else she'd let slide.

I gave the cup a sniff. Hot cocoa. Nothing unusual there.

“Mom!” She snored on. What on earth? I pinched her arm. Nothing. My hand was on my speakeazy, at the ready to call medics for help.

My mother had curled into a little ball at the head of the bed. Her front pocket was exposed, bulging with whatever it was she'd taken from my father. I fished the contents out. It was a small, glass bottle with a peeling label. Dr. Feelwell's Sleeping Tincture. I scanned the list of complaints it claimed to heal: maladies of the head, nervous constitution, winds or obstructions of the digestive organs. All with stuff like sassafras root and anise. Then my heart plunged at the last ingredient: laudanum.

Opium.

A narcotic.

I released my speakeazy slowly and laid it down on the edge of the bed. Detox centers could clear this junk out of her system instantly. But she'd brought an illicit substance from the past back with her, it was a serious chronochrime. They'd check her chip and reinstate it against her will when they realized it wasn't functioning. What would ever have possessed her to do such a thing? And my father had given it to her!

“Oh, Mom.” I settled into a rocker in the corner. It was going to be a long night.

*   *   *

The wood grain of our kitchen table embedded whorls and ridges in my cheek as the sun's morning rays slipped through the window and forced my eyes open. I barely remembered coming down here last night.

Water. I'd wanted a glass of water.

I lifted my head. A teakettle whistled on the stove. Beside it sat two mugs, not unlike the ones that belonged to my father. My mother leaned on the counter next to it, grasping her old French press that she swore made the best coffee this side of the twentieth century.

She looked like she could use some best coffee right about now.