A Split in Time

by Vin Carver

  Cameron got to his feet first and grabbed Warren by the shoulders.

  “What are you doing here?”

  “Wait,” Warren said. “I’m not who you think I am. I’m—”

  Cameron pulled Warren in close. “You’re not my brother. I already saw him in the school. Who are you?”

  “Let go of me.”

  Warren pushed against Cameron’s chest with both hands, and Cameron let go. Warren tripped backwards and fell over a log. One of the log’s branches snapped, leaving a sharp stub that jabbed him in the lower back. He winced in pain and raised his hands to block Cameron’s punches, but Cameron didn’t throw any.

  “Are you okay, buddy?” Cameron ran his eyes up and down Warren. “You look so much like my brother, I can’t believe it. Are you like my long-lost half-brother or something? A cousin on my mother’s side?” Cameron’s lips curled into a smile, and he grasped Warren’s hand. “Here, let me help you up.”

  Everything Warren had ever wanted to say to his brother came at once. Black ants filled his mind and blocked his voice. His chin shook like a playing card in the spokes of a bicycle. He squeezed Cameron’s hand and opened his mouth, but all that came out was a swallowing kluhrk-ehnt-ehnt.

  “Hey, it’s okay, buddy. I just want to know who you are, and why you’re following me.” Cameron said.

  A lump blossomed in Warren’s throat, and he fought it. He swallowed, and pain coursed into his chest. Cameron’s eyes smiled at him, and a wave of breathlessness pushed the pain out. The lump subsided and disappeared. The black ants crawled away, allowing words to escape Warren’s mouth in a burst. “Because I want to stay here.”

  “Here?” Cameron’s smiled broadened. “In the forest?”

  Warren wrinkled his forehead and darted his eyes from Cameron, to the trees, to the track, and to the trees. “Not in the forest…with you. I want to stay here with you.”

  Cameron smiled, “That’s sweet kid, but you don’t even know me.”

  That was true, in a way. Warren thought for a moment and wanted to say he knew Cameron. He wanted to say he knew him from the Tenoco, but he wasn’t sure. Cameron’s singlet hung on his shoulders. It hung on his bare, tattooless shoulders.

  Coach Chaney cupped his hands around his mouth. “Renner, get your butt back out here. They’re lapping you.” A bunch of sweaty kids slowed as they ran by the salal and glanced into the forest.

  Cameron said, “I’ve got to go, buddy. Meet me in the parking lot after fourth bell. I’ll be by my car.” Cameron turned around, spread the leaves apart, and ran onto the track.

  Warren said, “But—wait.”

  Cameron sprinted and caught up with the other kids before the finish. He came in first, again.

  Warren stayed out of sight until everyone had gone inside. He maneuvered through the trees and made his way back to the edge of the parking lot. He ran his fingers across his lower back where the branch had jabbed him and looked at them.

  Hmm, strange. I’m not bleeding, and it barely hurts.

  He pulled his hood over his head and walked between the cars to the other side. A small, grassy hill held up an extra-large ponderosa pine and separated the lot from Ponder’s Lane. Warren sat next to the pine and looked at the school. The bell for third period rang, and kids appeared in the windows, walking between classes. Somewhere inside, Warren’s brother walked through the halls laughing and high-fiving his friends.

  Warren beamed.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  A Gaggle of Girl Heads

  Warren unzipped the main pocket of his backpack. He pushed the kite photo aside and picked up the plastic bag of love letters. Sarah had signed one letter with X’s and O’s. In another, she had thanked him for a date. She was in love with him. He put the bag back in the pocket and glanced at the kite photo. He had a brother, and his parents didn’t fight. Instead of getting drunk, his dad was getting promotions. His mom laughed. Everyone in this life loved or liked him, even Darren Sredo.

  Warren took out the urn. He held it in his right hand, stood up, and turned toward the forest. An image of Cameron teaching him how to play football popped into his head.

  You can throw it further if you line your fingers up with the laces, buddy.

  The clarity of Cameron’s voice startled Warren, and the urn slipped through his fingers. It rolled down the hill, and spikes of sunlight bounced off the gold inlay. Warren flung himself down the hill, and he tumbled toward the bouncing urn.

  Oh God, please. Don’t let the lid come off. I don’t want to leave.

  High-pitched laughter burst from the main door of the school. Warren dropped onto the urn at the edge of the pavement. Four girls carrying bright pink, yellow, and teal binders, and wearing skirts to match, walked across the parking lot. Their hair swung in the morning breeze, and a mixture of flower and fruit perfumes tingled Warren's nose. He crawled up the hill and hid behind the ponderosa, clutching the urn, and swearing to never be so careless again.

  He listened. No one had seen him. He peered around the tree and saw Suzie, Bobbie, Sarah, and a fourth girl. He didn’t recognize her. She was taller than the others and moved like a dancer, gliding across the pavement outside the trio. Sarah leaned against a golden convertible car. Warren wanted to run to her, but he didn’t know what he would say. As she listened to the others talk, Warren watched the wind play with her beautiful, long hair.

  “And like, I said, no. I’m not going out with a guy who has a fake tattoo on his shoulder.” Bobbie put her fingers in the shape of an “L” and raised them up to her forehead.

  “I would. I don’t care if it’s fake,” Suzie said. “As long as his abs are real.”

  The foursome giggled.

  “You guys are mean,” Sarah said. “He’s just trying to fit into a new school. He seems nice.” The wind lifted her silken hair like an eagle taking flight.

  Suzie said, “No, his abs seem nice, but he’s not trying to fit into a new school. He's trying to fit into Bobbie’s pants.”

  They all giggled again.

  Why do girls care about abs?

  Suzie floated a smile across her face, but a sarcastic serpent swam below the surface. “You think everyone’s nice, don’t you Sarah? How many boys are you dating now?”

  “What do you mean?” Sarah’s soft eyebrows came together.

  Suzie said, “Like, you know, you’ve already got Tanner and Warren fighting over you, and now you want the tattoo boy? How many boys do you need?”

  Sarah blushed and turned away. The tall girl shot a look at Sarah and tilted her head. Sarah unlocked the convertible and put her things on the backseat.

  Fighting? Over me?

  A grin formed on Warren’s face, and he fought it. The grin swelled into a full-fledged smile. He put his hand inside his backpack and grasped the bag of love letters.

  The tall girl said, “Shut up Suzie.”

  “Oooooowh.” Suzie and Bobbie moaned in unison. “Someone’s jealous.”

  “Shut up you guys. Leave her alone,” the tall girl said. Unlike Suzie and Bobbie, her hair wasn’t tied up in a bleach-blond ponytail. Instead, it was light brown and drooped innocently over her shoulders.

  Sarah closed the car door and faced the other girls. “What do you mean, ‘jealous?’”

  “Come on, don’t you know?” Suzie pointed at the tall girl. “Sharon went on a date with Warren last night.”

  Sharon? Big Sharon? Pencils-sticking-out-of-her-face Sharon? It can’t—

  The urn squirted out of Warren’s hand and rolled down the hill. He took three steps and lunged after it. His chest landed on his backpack, and he grasped the urn in his right hand. He slid, rolled onto his back, and crashed head first into a concrete berm. The urn tumbled out of his hand and bounced onto the pavement with a clang.

  Warren opened his eyes. The sun glinted off the edges of two billowy clouds. The clouds joined and became one. A gaggle of girl heads joined in a circle and stared down at Warren, blocking out the sun.
>
  Sharon said, “Warren, are you okay?”

  He winced. His left side, his back, his brain—everything hurt.

  Suzie said, “Well, speak of the devil.” Her sarcastic serpent surfaced for air. She leaned down toward Warren. “So, you’re dating Sharon and Sarah at the same time. It takes a big man to have two girls at once. Are you sure you can handle it?”

  Warren blinked his eyes and rolled onto his stomach. The girls to took a step back. He propped himself up on his elbows and searched the pavement for the urn.

  Suzie said, “What’s that called, a ménage à trois?”

  “Yeah, I think so.” Bobbie put her hand over her mouth and laughed. Suzie kept a straight face for two seconds, then lost it. Together, their mythical sea creature voices blended and chirped out hee-hee’s and ha-ha’s in a pitch so high and wobbly that Warren thought his ears might melt.

  Sharon kept her eyes on Warren. “I don’t understand. Didn’t I just see you inside?”

  Sarah said, “Yeah, me too.” She turned toward Sharon, her face going from faint blush to full red. Her spine straightened, and her head jerked like an eagle protecting a nest. “So, let me get this straight. You and him?” Sarah pointed at Warren without taking her eyes off Sharon. She raised her voice. “You went on a date last night, with him?”

  Bobbie and Suzie burst out laughing, holding onto their sides.

  The urn sat next to the front tire of Sarah’s car. Warren crawled onto the pavement, grabbed it, and shoved it into his backpack.

  Sharon thrust her finger down at Warren. “No. I didn’t go on a date with him.” She swung her arm toward the school and pointed. “I went on a date with him.”

  Wearing a giant smile and a thick, blue sweater, a short-haired Warren bounded down the steps of the school. He looked up, and the giant smile ran away from his face. Sharon and Sarah raised their chins and crossed their arms. The short-haired Warren slowed down and changed direction.

  Warren’s throat vibrated, and he put his hand on it. His doppelgänger walked past the bike rack and started talking to some kids. Warren tore his eyes away long enough to zip his backpack shut and loop it over his shoulders. He gazed at the other him. The other him gazed back. Warren felt like he was wearing someone else’s underwear.

  Look away, then, run away.

  Warren turned toward the small hill and—

  POP

  Warren ran. The urn was trying to take him back, but he didn’t want to go back. He wanted to meet Cameron after third bell and—

  POP

  The other him yelled, “Hey, wait. I remember you.”

  Warren’s throat vibrated, “Hey, wait. I remember—”

  POP

  He ran over the hill, past the pine tree, and down to Ponder’s Lane. The girls called after him, but his buzzing throat drowned out their voices.

  POP

  “Come back. Why are you spying on me?”

  Warren’s throat said, “Come back. Why are you spying on me?”

  POP

  Warren ran across the road and jumped over a ditch. He dodged trees, jumped over logs, and ran until his muscles refused. His body seized, and he fell onto a bed of pine needles. He crawled against the will of time and made it to the base of a tree. His throat stopped buzzing, but the earth started spinning. He grabbed onto the tree and tore bits of bark away from it. The bark smelled like vanilla, and the air smelled like banana bread.

  POP—POP, BANG

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  I Wish My Urn Was Black

  Warren rolled over and let his backpack slide off his shoulders. The odor of yeast permeated his nostrils, and he wiped his face. He checked his backpack and made sure he hadn’t lost anything. The urn, the letters, the kite photo—everything was still there. He wished he could turn back time and fly that kite with Cameron. Could the urn turn back time? If so, would he remember this time? He shook his head. The midmorning sunlight shot through the trees and struck Warren in the eyes. He realized it didn’t matter which Tamarack he was in, time moved at the same rate, and in one direction. The yeasty odor disappeared, and a host of horrible thoughts flooded his mind.

  What if the urn doesn’t take me back? I’ll never see Cameron again if I can't go back. I’ll be stuck in this hellhole forever. I’ll never hear my parents laugh again. I—

  He stood up and the stench of burnt char wafted off his clothes. His jeans were covered in mud and grass stains. He could only imagine his face. He didn’t want to shower and change clothes, but he worried what Cameron would think. Cameron was used to that fancy, sweater-wearing Warren. And what would Sarah and Sharon—the new Sharon—think? Sharon had made it clear which Warren she was dating, and it wasn’t the dirty one in the smelly hoodie. He needed to go home, shower, cut his hair, and rub the urn—Ala-kazam. It would work. It would have to work.

  But what if his dad was on the couch, surfing the hangover half-pipe? What if his parents were out searching for him? What if the police were searching for the kids that started the forest fire? What if—

  What if it didn’t matter? He had to get home.

  A solitary cloud floated in the blue sky. Clean, fresh air flowed into Warren’s lungs. He turned toward Homestead Forest, searched the horizon for smoke, and found none. The bell for fourth period rang.

  Where am I? I’m still here…I’m going to miss Cameron.

  Warren ran. He got to the top of the grassy hill and peered around the ponderosa. Three girls with colored binders walked up the steps and disappeared into the school. Other than a couple of kids standing around the bicycle rack, no else was there.

  Warren sighed, pulled his hoodie over his head, and moped down the hill. He stopped where the gaggle of girls had been and stared at the empty parking space.

  “Hey bro, what the hell are you doing here?” Cameron came running down the steps of the school.

  The sight of Cameron rejuvenated Warren. A warmth ran across his chest and disappeared just as fast. Cameron wore a sleeveless black shirt with a picture of the Grim Reaper on it. Above the reaper, the word CISPLATIN appeared in bright lettering. It didn’t make sense. Jocks like Cameron didn’t listen to heavy metal music. When Cameron came close, Warren saw a red and black tattoo scrawled on his left shoulder.

  Is that fake?

  “What the hell, bro?” Cameron said.

  Before Warren could answer, Cameron grabbed his hand and pulled. “Come on, let’s go before someone sees you.”

  They ran across the parking lot, turned onto Ponder’s Lane, and headed toward Lake Forest.

  Warren said, “Why don’t we hide in the trees over there?”

  “I hate the trees.”

  They kept running until the pavement turned to dirt at the edge of Lake Forest. Cameron slowed, and Warren’s feet skidded on the loose rocks. Cameron pulled Warren down a steep embankment to a ditch. A small stream of water dribbled out of a large, corrugated steel pipe. Cameron hunched his back like a buzzard, stepped inside, and sat with his back against the metal curve. He waved for Warren to join him. Warren had his doubts, but he also had nothing to lose.

  The eastern sun hit the outer edge of the culvert pipe and cast a shadow that cut their bodies in half. Warren shifted, aligning his spine with the ripples of corrugated metal. Dirt crunched beneath a set of tires on Melody Lane. Cameron put a finger to his lips, and the culvert shook when the car passed overhead. Cameron’s fingers were thin. His square jaw bordered his razor-sharp nose. His thin arms ran into gaunt sockets, and his tattoo was—

  “You're lost, aren't you?” Cameron said.

  Cameron’s tattoo transfixed Warren.

  “Come on, answer me. Do you know where you are?”

  Warren hesitated. “I’m in the ditch by Lake Forest.”

  “Well, duh.” Cameron’s eyes darted. “Are you aware that you don’t exist here?”

  Warren pointed at Cameron’s shoulder. “Is that real?”

  Cameron put his hand over his shoulder. “Yeah i
t’s real. You think I’d wear a temporary tattoo like some poser?”

  “But, this morning—”

  Cameron uncovered his shoulder and thrust his index finger at Warren. “Tell me how you got here now, or I’m going to beat it out of you.”

  In a daze, Warren reached for Cameron’s shoulder. “That’s how I got here, except mine isn’t red. It’s blue, and it’s real.”

  Cameron leaned back, lowered his arm, and looked at his shoulder. “Really? You have a blue urn?” He turned back to Warren, his eyes blazing with the coldness of a copy-cat killer. “Then tell me, bro, who died?”

  Warren said, “You did.”

  Cameron’s face fell and his eyes widened. “You’re not him, are you?”

  “I’m not who?”

  Warren couldn’t get his eyes off Cameron’s tattoo. It was a red urn, tipped to one side, with a lid lying next to it. Instead of an ivy inlay, this urn had a golden ribbon running around it. Red electricity swirled above the rim in the tattoo, and Warren swore he could hear it pop.

  Cameron said, “You’re not the Warren from Nirvana, are you?”

  “Nirvana? The band?”

  “No,” Cameron said. He gazed at the stream. “Not the band, the place. It’s what I call the other Tamarack…the good one.” Cameron raised his head. He creased his face. “Wait. Do you know where I’m talking about? Have you been there? Did you see me there?” Cameron leaned forward and put his hand on Warren’s shoulder, pressing his finger nails through the cotton hoodie.

  Warren put one hand over the outer pocket of his backpack and pushed Cameron away with the other. “I saw my brother there, so, if you’re my brother, then yeah, I saw you there.” He shifted to his side and slid out of the culvert. A wave of nauseousness hit him, and the sun burned his eyes. He put his hand on his stomach.

  “Wait, come back, bro. I’m sorry.” Cameron held up his hands as if under arrest. “I got excited. You don’t realize what this means.”

  “If I’m not in the good Tamarack, then I don’t care what it means, and I don't want to be here. You, you just…” Hot tears welled in Warren’s eyes. Cameron stayed in the culvert, his back bending to the metal curve, his sleeveless shirt draped over his meth-addict thin shoulders. Warren felt a connection to Cameron, but everything else felt wrong.