Without stopping work or looking up she says, “No time today. Come back tomorrow.”
“I don’t want ink,” Bel says, her tone tinged with disgust. “I’m here for info.”
“I give tattoos,” the woman says. “Not information.”
“Even when Dr. Dietrich asks?” Bel says.
The woman is silent a long moment, working on the tattoo. Then she turns off the tool and looks at us for the first time. “You are not Dr. Dietrich.”
Bel says under her breath, “Dammit, I forgot.” She stands up straighter. “Tryda, you don’t remember me, but I’m Bel, Dr. Dietrich’s daughter.”
After a beat, Tryda looks at me. “And who does that make you?”
“I’m—”
“She’s not important,” Bel says. “I have a question from my mother I need to ask privately.”
Tryda stares at Bel. Time stretches, and I’m surprised Bel isn’t berating her. Then I realize Tryda’s making a decision, and Bel is letting her. The way Tryda is looking at Bel makes me think she’s searching for something. Maybe a physical similarity to Dietrich?
Finally, Tryda nods and stands. “Gheil, I’ll be back.”
The guy on the table turns his bushy bearded face toward us. “Affirm,” he says. Then he looks right at me and I gasp.
His eyes are black. Like unnaturally black. So black you can’t see the difference between the iris and the pupil.
He smiles, showing teeth filed to points, and chuckles like he’s pleased he shocked me. Jerk.
We follow Tryda into a narrow corridor that must have been an access tunnel once upon a time.
Several feet in, Tryda stops and turns to Bel. “How can I help Dr. Dietrich?”
“She may need you to remove some tattoos.”
Tryda nods. “Describe them.”
“Green freckles and eye liner.”
She’s got to be talking about Sharrow.
“Pale skin?” Tryda asks.
Bel nods. “My mom needs to know how long it will take for the person to look normal again.”
“Complete removal, four days. Faster if I obfuscate with nat-look pigment.”
“We’ll be in touch if we decide it’s necessary,” Bel says.
“You might want to know before deciding,” Tryda says, “that both options are painful.”
Bel shrugs. “I don’t think that matters.”
Really? It doesn’t matter?
“Anything else?” Tryda asks.
“That’s all,” Bel says. “Unless Allie wants a tattoo. What about a butterfly on your forehead, Allie?”
Tryda and Bel both look at me.
“No, I’m good.”
“You sure? You’d fit in so much better,” Bel says.
“You don’t have any face tattoos. Shall we get matching ones?”
“Touché,” Bel says.
I see Tryda crack the barest hint of a smile, but it vanishes quickly. “I must get back to work.” She gives a nod that’s almost a bow, then heads back the way we came.
“I have one more errand.” Bel says. “But I was serious about the butterfly—we have time if you change your mind.”
I follow her back into the mall, past the tattoo area, more jewelry, and tables of board games I don’t recognize. I smell chemicals as we approach someone getting their hair colored.
Again, Bel marches right up to the person working. “Hey, Rista. I mean, is your name Rista?”
The girl doesn’t look up from what she’s doing. “Yeah?”
“I love the color of your hair,” Bel says. “But I’m not sure how it would look on me.”
Bel sounds sincere, but she can’t be serious. This girl has green hair. Not minty like Sharrow’s, but super green like AstroTurf.
Rista glances at Bel. “It would be fine with your skin tone. I’ll be done in ten if you want to wait.”
“What if I color it then change my mind? How hard would it be to get my current color back?”
Rista looks up, tipping her head to examine Bel. “It’s nat now?”
“Completely.”
“I could strip out the green and dye it something similar to your color in a few hours. It would look close to your nat, but not a hundred.”
“Thanks, I’ll think about it,” Bel says.
“How have I never seen either of you? You new or something?” Rista asks.
“Yeah, I’m Allie. Nice to—”
“We need to go.” Bel gives me a pointed look, then strides off.
I shoot Rista an apologetic look, then catch up to Bel. “What’s the deal? Why so rude?”
“Getting all nicey-nice is a waste of time.”
You’d think it would be worth the effort to be civil to people she deals with on a regular basis. But then a possibility occurs to me. “Do these people exist in your other timeline? When we set things right, are they going to be erased?”
“What does it matter? I’ll never actually change my hair, so who cares if I’m nice to some color-drudge?”
“She might care. She’s a person—isn’t that good enough reason to be nice? Besides, why burn a bridge by being a—” I swallow back the word. “By being mean.”
“I’m not burning bridges. Not ones I use. My mom and I are topsiders. We don’t deal with these people.”
“So you’re not like ‘these people.’ You’re special—a topsider. That’s why you don’t have any visible tattoos, isn’t it?”
“Someone’s observant.”
I knew she was up to something, prodding me to get a tattoo. She wants to make sure I’m one of “these people” rather than one of her people. I wonder if Sharrow knows that Bel and her mom are trying to turn her into a topsider. And how she’d feel about it.
We head down some stairs into another tunnel faintly lit by overhead panels. We’re back to gray and boring, and I miss the graffiti.
The tunnel ends in a regular door—no holo-camo-whatever. No, I take that back—Bel banks her personal to an invisible sensor. There’s a click, then she turns the knob. The door opens into another tunnel that looks identical to the one we’re in.
Once I’m through, Bel makes sure the door latches shut. Then, without looking at me, she starts down the hallway, picking up her pace.
Two more doors and tunnels later, we climb stairs again. At the top, we enter a hall like the one by Middies—white walls, white ceiling, blue-gray indoor-outdoor carpet, florescent lighting—typical office building circa 2018.
This place is either total graffiti or total blah, and never any sunlight. If I lived here, it wouldn’t take long for me to start clawing my way out.
Bel stops in front of a door that looks no different from the others. I’m sure it’s going to open into yet another blah hall. But then she smooths her hair, stands up taller, and banks her personal.
Chapter Eighteen
As the door slides open, I note Bel looks nervous. That’s different. I wonder if I should be nervous.
Sharrow’s on the other side of the door, red-eyed and somber. “Hey,” she says, like she was expecting us. “Come in.”
Bel walks past without a word and disappears from view.
“You okay?” I ask Sharrow, but she won’t look at me.
Given the surrounding hallways, I was expecting an office, but we’re standing in a living room—Dietrich’s living room, I assume. To our immediate right, there’s a leather couch and two armchairs clustered around a coffee table. The couch is flanked by side tables with lamps that emit a homey, yellow light, and the wall above has a wide painting of a lake. The only decorations are a fake plant and a stack of books on the coffee table. To the left is a kitchen with breakfast nook. Beyond that is an open arch to a dim hallway. Straight ahead is a closed door.
“Where’d Bel go?” I ask Sharrow.
“Lav, maybe? Or Mom’s bedroom?” She’s still not meeting my gaze. “Nice, isn’t it?” She gestures to the room.
“Sure.” I glance around and notice the door w
e entered has disappeared, a blank yellow wall in its place.
“Have a seat. I’ll get us something to drink.” Sharrow crosses to the kitchen.
I don’t want to sit, and I don’t want a drink. I’d rather find out what’s going on. I ignore her instructions and follow into the kitchen.
Sharrow loads mugs onto a tray. There’s a chrome toaster in the middle of the tray, but the slot for bread has a handle poking out of it. Seems odd, but I don’t ask. She seems so sad, I skip past the small talk.
“What’s wrong?” I ask.
“Nothing. I’m fine.”
“You don’t seem fine. Nobody would be in your situation. It really sucks.”
She winces. “It’s…whatever.” She grabs the tray and heads toward the living room.
I follow. “If you need to talk…”
“Move those?” She points with her chin to the books on the coffee table.
I grab the stack. The top book is a collection of Edgar Allen Poe. He gives me the creeps. I put the books on a side table.
Sharrow sets the tray down. “You can sit on the davenport. It’s more comfy than the chairs.”
That weird word again—that’s what Bel called the sofa in Kaitlin’s house.
“Tea?” Sharrow offers. “It’s my fave. I made it really strong.”
I remember her fondness for kombucha. “No, thanks.”
She presses down on the handle. It recesses into the gap and a spigot pops out the side, complete with a cartoon-like wisp of steam spiraling up. She puts a mug under the spigot and presses a button, filling the cup. Then she sits in the armchair nearest me, cradling her mug in both hands and blowing across the top.
I want to ask why Dietrich wants to see me, but first, Sharrow deserves to know Bel’s plotting something.
I lean forward, my voice low. “There’s something you should know.”
She peers over the rim of her mug. “Yeah?”
“Bel was at the mall asking questions about removing tattoos and hair color. I think it was about you—trying to make you a…” I struggle to recall the term. “A topsider.”
Sharrow brings the mug away from her face without taking a drink. “Rot. I was hoping with Bel here I wouldn’t have to go through with it.”
“Go through with what?”
“Bel’s already taken my mom, my boyfriend. The least she could do is— They’re coming.”
I lean back on the couch and fold my hands in my lap as Bel and Dietrich enter through the archway.
Sharrow is concentrating on her tea again.
Dietrich smiles. “Tea—how nice. Thank you, Sharrow.”
“Mm hmm,” Sharrow says without looking up.
“Hello, Allie.” Dietrich says, filling a mug. She’s wearing a navy blue pencil skirt and jacket, with a cream blouse. She sits beside me on the couch, sips her tea, then places her mug on the coffee table.
Bel claims the empty armchair. She’s still wearing the sapphire blue jumpsuit, but she’s replaced the flouncy skirt and blue boots with a wide brown belt and knee-high boots. I wiggle my toes in my “slip” socks, wondering when I’ll graduate to boots.
“Thank you for coming,” Dietrich says, crossing her long legs at the ankles. “You’re all sisters, of a sort. I thought it would be good for you to get to know each other.”
I nod, glad she’s decided to group me in with Bel and Sharrow. But I can tell there’s more to this gathering than sister bonding.
“Allie,” Dietrich continues. “Why don’t you tell us a little about yourself?”
My inner debate lasts about half a second. “Why don’t you tell us why we’re really here?” My gut says I’ll get more out of being direct than by playing along.
“Allie,” Bel says.
Dietrich laughs. “I should know better with a Jenny. Well played, Allie.” She sips her tea, and I feel a little proud of myself. “We’re here because I want first-hand reports of your missions.”
“So why is she here?” Bel’s gaze flicks to Sharrow.
“Geez, Bel,” I say.
“I’ll leave.” Sharrow stands.
“Sit down.” Dietrich’s tone leaves no room for question.
Sharrow sinks back in the chair.
“All right.” Dietrich’s tone is pleasant again. “You start, Bel. How did you end up going back in time?”
“Mo-om.” Bel draws out the word into two syllables. “You already know.”
“Only from the hist-reports,” Dietrich says. “I want to hear it from you.”
Bel huffs. “Fine. My father, Steinbeck Raskin—”
“Who’s Allie’s father, too,” Dietrich interjects, nodding at me.
“The first time I remember meeting him was when he showed up here in 2151. He’d been away on extended missions my whole life, but he had to come back because his vision was failing. He had a new plan to stop the ASPs, but he needed my help because of his eye condition.”
Wait, Beck never mentioned ASPs or Nazis or anything like that. He said he was trying to prove Jennys could change the past without affecting the timeline. Was that a cover for his real mission? Or the other way around?
“The plan was complex,” Bel continues. “We prepped for the mission for almost a year. Then we went back in time to collect Jennys. My first travel was to 2086.”
Dietrich nods. I can’t tell if any of this is news to her—she’s got a good poker face. “Who did you collect?” she asks.
“Twenty eighty-six was Vee and Haze. There was a third, Charles, but he wasn’t viable, so Beck neutralized him.”
“You mean killed him?” I blurt.
Everyone turns and looks at me.
“Of course not,” Bel says. “We gave him a drug that wipes recent memories so he wouldn’t remember us. It also contains a blocker so he can’t see wormholes anymore.”
“I don’t believe you,” I say.
“Have your loggie friend Flyx check the records,” Bel says.
“I still don’t belie—”
“Enough.” Dietrich silences me.
Sharrow looks betrayed, and I register that Bel called Flyx my friend. Great. Just great.
“Bel, continue,” Dietrich says.
“We gathered Gracie in 2067. Noah and Mouse in 2109. Cora was 2100, but she had to be neutralized. That brings us to 2018.”
“Allie,” Dietrich says. “Why don’t you pick up the story there?” It’s not really a request.
“Okay.” I glare at Bel. “Bel was following me. When I confronted her, she drugged and kidnapped me.”
“You’re so drama,” Bel says.
“Haze and Beck were with her,” I continue. “Later I met the others—the ones who weren’t ‘neutralized.’ Mouse, Gracie, Noah, and Vee. Plus the one Bel failed to mention, Kaitlin.” The more I talk, the more riled I get. I know I should rein it in, but I don’t. “Kaitlin didn’t want to go through with the plan—which we were told was a heist, nothing about Nazis—so they gave her the drug. But it didn’t wipe her memory. It killed her.”
“It did not!” Bel shouts.
“Yes it did!” I shout back.
“Stop, both of you,” Dietrich says.
“But it’s true,” I say. “Check the records. You’ll see.”
“It’s not! I—”
“Bel.” Dietrich holds up her hand to Bel, and turns her attention to me. “What records?”
Uh oh. I can’t throw Flyx under the bus. “I, uh….I’m not sure, uh…records in general?” Geez, how lame can I be.
“She’s been pally with that loggie, Flyx,” Bel says. “One guess who’s feeding her this info—which is total lies, by the way.”
“Flyx?” Dietrich says. The look in her eye is lethal.
“He wouldn’t do that!” Sharrow says.
“Enough,” Dietrich snaps. “I’ll deal with that later. For now, Allie, tell me about this heist.”
I fill her in on the missions and what we planned to steal in 1906—the rhino horn, the photog
raphs, the money and jewels at the Harris mansion—but it’s hard to concentrate. I’m watching Dietrich, expecting her to key something on her personal to bring hellfire down on Flyx. She hasn’t touched her wrist yet, but I’d bet a dozen Micky D’s shakes she’s going to. I have to warn him.
“Um, could you excuse me for a minute? I need to use the lav.” I know leaving’s a risk—it gives Dietrich an opening to alert her goons. But I can’t shake the feeling I have to warn Flyx now.
I head for the archway that leads to the rest of Dietrich’s apartment, fully expecting her to send someone to keep an eye on me. I glance back, but they’re all still sitting around the coffee table.
The hallway has five doors, all shut, and I don’t know which one is the bathroom. I try the first. Locked.
The urge to contact Flyx is so strong, I half-consider messaging him right here in the hall. But I resist. It would be too easy to get caught.
“I know what you’re up to,” Bel says behind me, as if on cue.
“Is this the lav?” I point to the second door, all casual so she knows she didn’t startle me.
She nods. “You should know, it won’t work.”
“What won’t? The door? The lav?”
“Do you think we’re stupid?” An unladylike fleck of spit flew from her mouth with the word stupid. “Your personal won’t tag Flyx.”
“What are you talking about?” I shake my head like she’s imagining things, while hoping she’s wrong, that Flyx’s private messaging system will still work despite any measures Dietrich’s taken.
“In fact,” Bel says with a snide grin, “you leaving the room sealed his fate faster. My mom is sending guards after him right now. And you can’t do anything about it.”
“It didn’t even occur to me. Now, I really have to pee. Are you going to watch?”
“As if.” She flounces away.
I open the bathroom, lock myself in, and turn on the faucet in case Bel decides to listen. Then I sit on the closed toilet, wishing Flyx had told me how to message him without voice commands. I tap the face, trying to remember exactly what Flyx said. Tag Huckleberry Finn? No, just Huckleberry. “Tag Huckleberry protocol twenty-eighteen.”
Shake Page 10
