Out of nowhere, it hits me: this is how it’s going to be for the next year. Every few weeks, this is how it will feel to say good-bye to her. What’s worse, every few weeks for as long as we’re together, this is how it’s going to feel. Will we ever get used to this?
I block out the thoughts as I plant kisses in her hair and on her cheeks, which are now wet and salty. I kiss her forehead and then her lips. It takes everything I have to let go of her and step backward, but I do.
I close my eyes and fade away.
My forehead slams against something hard, and I struggle to open my eyes. When I do, I can make out the Jeep logo on the steering wheel. Everything’s blurry, the interior of the car is spinning, and my arms feel heavy, like I’ve got weights attached to my wrists. It takes all of my energy to bring my hands to the wheel, but when I feel the leather, I grip it hard and push, throwing myself back against the headrest.
I let out a groan.
My eyes fall shut on their own, and I sit there in the dark, smelly garage, breathing in, breathing out, and trying not to think about the fact that this hurts more than usual. That’s when I feel the tickle, something warm sliding down onto my upper lip. I lick it, and my mouth fills with the unmistakable taste of blood, metallic and sticky-feeling. I wipe my nose with the back of my hand and it comes back with a streak of red.
I tilt the rearview mirror toward my face. What the hell?
The box of supplies proves to be worthless for this situation, but it’s not like I could have anticipated a need for Kleenex. I’ve never had a bloody nose in my life. I use the bottom of my shirt to pinch my nose together, and a few minutes later the bleeding has stopped.
There’s a tiny patch of evening sun peeking in through the sides of the garage door. I down my Doubleshot without stopping and chase it with a warm Red Bull and two bottles of water. I sit there for a long time, eyes closed, willing the pain to stop. I look in the rearview mirror. My face is red and patchy, my eyes bloodshot. Then I look at the clock on the dashboard. I’ve been back for almost an hour.
Finally, when my head is no longer throbbing, I push the button on the remote control and the door lifts slowly and rattles into place above me. I twist the key in the ignition and pull out of the garage.
Before I close the door, I twist in my seat. Looking back inside, I can’t help but laugh. If I’d ever allowed myself to think that my ability made me some kind of superhero, this would certainly put things into perspective. My secret hideout isn’t a subterranean cave or a cool arctic ice structure. It’s a garage. A dark, smelly garage that an average-size car and average-size me can barely occupy at the same time. And exactly like I hoped it would be, it’s perfect.
Luckily, the house is quiet and I sneak inside, through the kitchen and into my bedroom, hoping to get there before Mom notices the bloodstains on the bottom of my T-shirt. I undress, hiding my dirty clothes deep in the bottom of the hamper in my closet, and throw on a clean pair of sweats. In the bathroom, I wash my face hard with a washcloth.
Back in my room, I unzip my backpack and remove the photo album Anna made for me. I hold it in my hands, examining the colorful patterns on the cover. I start to open it, but I just can’t bring myself to do it. Not yet.
I open my desk drawer, and down near the bottom I see my red notebook. I stuff the photo album inside with everything else and shut the drawer.
I’m halfway down the stairs when I look over the banister and see Mom and Dad by the front door. He pulls his suit jacket over his shoulders, looks into the hallway mirror, and adjusts his glasses. He grabs my mom’s purse off the table and hands it to her. She thanks him as she throws it over her shoulder.
“Hey,” I say. They both look up at the same time. Mom’s face breaks into a wide grin.
“Oh, good. You’re back. I didn’t even hear you come in.” She meets me at the bottom of the staircase. “How was your climbing trip?” she asks as she kisses me on the cheek. “Did you and your friends have fun?”
I ignore her question and change the subject by stating the obvious. “I take it you guys are going out?”
“We realized that we haven’t been to a nice dinner together in weeks,” Dad says. He stands behind my mom, rubbing her arms lightly.
“Do you want to join us?” Mom asks. “With all your homework, we’ve barely seen you since school started.” Her expression is sincere, but Dad’s standing there, looking at her like he can’t imagine why she’d invite me to join them on their “nice dinner.” From behind her shoulder, he stares at me wide-eyed and gives me a small shake of his head, just in case I didn’t know how to answer.
I look at the two of them, maybe for the first time, through a different lens. I think about Maggie’s comments last night, and how Dad was always more intense than Mom but she loved him. How their worlds revolved around Brooke and me. More than anything, I wish I could talk to Mom about Maggie. Every time I’ve tried to tell her about those three months I spent living there, Mom stopped me short and said she didn’t want to hear it. I’m guessing that it’s not because she doesn’t want to know; it’s because she can’t handle the guilt.
“Want to come?” Mom repeats.
“No, thanks,” I say, and Dad gives me a grateful nod. “You two have a nice date.”
As Dad grabs my mom’s hand and leads her outside onto the front porch, he says something under his breath. She’s laughing as the door closes behind them.
After they’re gone, I stand at the bottom of the stairs for a long time, looking across the room at the huge picture window that overlooks the bay and wondering what to do with myself. I drum my fingers against the banister and think about the week ahead of me. There’s a physics test tomorrow and I have an interview with the tutoring organization Sam works for on Tuesday. I should start studying.
I make it back to my room, but just as I’m about to turn on the music and hit the books, I have a different idea. I open the largest drawer of my desk and dig down to the bottom. When I find the photo album, I return it to my backpack and head downstairs for my board.
The sun is just starting to set when I arrive at the park, and I’m relieved to find it relatively empty. It’s still warm outside, and I look over the horizon at the San Francisco Bay, bright blue and full of sailboats. I sit down on the bench, remove the photo album from my backpack, and flip through the pages. This time, Anna’s here with me.
I scroll through the calendar on my phone, looking at all the days that have passed since my last trip. I picture Anna doing something similar, adding one more X in today’s square on her wall calendar before she heads off to school. We’re getting closer and closer to the one marked with the word “homecoming.” Three more open squares. Three more days to go.
I’m supposed to be writing an essay on the Zhou Dynasty for AP World Civ, but instead I’m staring at the tabs at the top of the browser: ZHOU DYNASTY—WIKIPEDIA, WORLD CIVILIZATION/ONLINE STUDENT RESOURCES, PANDORA.
I click on Pandora and change the station a few times before I settle on “90s Alternative.” Without even thinking about it, I open a new browser window and a news page pops open. I scan the stories about the upcoming presidential election and watch today’s most popular YouTube video.
I click on the Local News button and scroll through, reading the headlines: VICTIMS OF A SMALL PLANE CRASH IDENTIFIED. MAN ARRESTED FOR ARSON. WOMAN SHOT OUTSIDE MARKET. SIXTEEN-YEAR-OLD RUNAWAY FOUND DEAD ON LOCAL BEACH. The list of tragedies and near-tragedies that occurred in the greater Bay Area over the past twenty-four hours goes on and on.
I’m just about to close the window and return to my essay when a story farther down the page catches my attention: FATHER AND DAUGHTER KILLED BY TEEN DRIVER.
I click on the link and it opens to a picture of a light-blue bike, twisted and lying in the gutter. I read the story:
7:34 P.M.—A seventeen-year-old male driver struck a family riding bicycles shortly after 3:30 p.m. today. The teen’s truck lost control and collided with a fi
re hydrant before hitting a man and his two daughters, killing the man and one girl and injuring the other. The driver was released from the hospital with minor injuries and was immediately arrested on suspicion of involuntary manslaughter.
I tell myself to close the window, but instead, I scroll down and continue reading.
Identities have not yet been released, but according to police, the cyclists were a man, his nine-year-old daughter, and her twelve-year-old sister. Both the man and nine-year-old girl were pronounced dead at the scene. The twelve-year-old was taken to the hospital with minor injuries. The father met his two daughters at school every day to ride home with them, to make sure they got home safely.
The words make me sick, but it’s the pictures that do me in. In addition to the one of the light-blue bike, there’s a photo of the building that eventually stopped the car. Its stucco is scattered and stacked in piles on the ground, its framing exposed.
I stare at the screen, thinking about the driver, and how such a small mistake—something that happened in a fraction of a second—just changed his entire life. He’s only seventeen, but his whole future came to a screeching halt today. Even if the jail time is minimal, how could he ever be the same knowing that a girl and her mother are now without a sister and daughter, and a father and husband. I picture him, sitting in an orange jumpsuit down at county, wishing he could do it all over again, wishing for a second chance. And two keystrokes later, the printer whirs to life. I grab the paper while it’s still warm and head downstairs.
Dad’s office door is ajar, but I knock before I push it open anyway. He’s behind his desk, working at his computer, and he looks up and watches me with a curious expression as I cross the room. I don’t say a word as I set the news story on the desk in front of him.
“What is this?”
“Read it.”
He scans it quickly and looks up at me.
“Tell me it’s a really bad idea,” I say.
He’s quiet for a long time, reading the article, then he grins. “It’s a really bad idea.”
“I know, right?”
He stares at me.
“Want to come along?”
I find Dad’s old backpack on the shelf in the garage reserved for our family’s neglected camping gear, and I shake off the thin layer of dust that’s collected over the years. When I was little, I saw this pack nearly every weekend. I remember how big it used to look as I trailed behind Dad on Cub Scout hikes through the wilderness.
Now I work quickly to ready it for a completely different kind of adventure, filling it with two room-temperature bottles of water from a flat lying on the floor next to the refrigerator. I’m about to head back inside when I spot my skateboard leaning up against the far wall, and it gives me an idea. I jam it into my pack, one end sticking out through the gap in the zipper.
Back in my room, I add the rest of the essentials—large wads of cash stuffed into the front pockets of both packs and a clean T-shirt balled up in the main pocket of mine, just in case. As I pass the bathroom, I grab a big handful of Kleenex from the box on the counter.
Dad’s pacing his office and cleaning his glasses with the hem of his shirt. I hand him his backpack and shut the door behind me.
“What’s that?” he asks, pointing to my pack.
I turn around to look at it. “That’s a skateboard, Dad.”
“Thanks, Bennett.” He shakes his head at me. “Why are you bringing a skateboard?”
“I’m sticking to my rules. I still don’t believe I should change things deliberately, but I’ve been sort of…experimenting with altering little things: you know, small, insignificant details that could have a huge effect on the outcome.” I give him a mischievous grin and gesture toward the board. “This is a diversion.”
Dad seems relatively comfortable with the small amount of information I’m giving him, so I hold out my hands. He looks wary as he glances down at them. “It’s been a while. Do you still remember how this works?”
He nods once. When he takes them, his grip is strong and his hands feel rough and large in mine, nothing like Anna’s or Brooke’s. For a moment, I feel like I’m ten again; small, fragile, and not at all like the person with the power.
“You ready?” I ask.
Dad doesn’t say anything as he closes his eyes.
I close mine and lock in the time. I visualize the nondescript alley I found online, a half a block away from the intersection where everything just changed for four people. I muster a silent plea that I’ll be able to fix it for all of them.
“Open your eyes.”
Dad opens them and looks around. I can tell he’s trying not to panic. “Where are we?”
I gesture toward the far end of the alley. Cars are zooming past, and I start off walking in that direction and tell Dad to follow me. When we arrive, I peer around the corner and take in the surroundings. Halfway between the alley and the busy intersection, I see a wide cement stairway that leads to an office building. I didn’t see that on the map, but it makes this spot even more perfect.
I point into the distance, across the intersection, and Dad stands next to me, following my gaze. “See that red fire hydrant on the next block?”
He squints. “Yes.”
I tell him everything I know from the news story online. “The car went out of control and slammed into that hydrant, and a few seconds later, hit the bikers. But all of them passed through this intersection first, at different times, before any of that happened. We have about ten minutes before the bikes arrive at this spot, so here’s our plan.” Dad stares at me with wide eyes as I describe what I have in mind, and when I get to the part where I tell him his role in the whole thing, he lets out a series of “okays” and “got its.” He might be a bit shell-shocked, but as far as I can tell, he’s taking it all in.
“That’s the plan?” he asks.
“Yeah.” I brace myself for criticism or, at the very least, additions. Dad smiles and says, “That’s really good.”
I smile back. “Thanks. I kind of thought so too.” He has a funny look on his face, like he’s about to say something important, but instead, he looks over his shoulder and down the street. A bike courier zooms past us.
“You’d better get going,” he says, pointing toward the intersection. He heads off in the opposite direction.
In one swift string of moves, I pull my skateboard out of the backpack, start into a run as I throw it on the ground, and swing the pack over my shoulders as I skate away. I push with my back foot and glide, weaving back and forth to find my balance. A minute later, I’m at the bottom of the steps. I pop my board into my hand and race up to the top. It’s perfect—the ground is smooth and there’s no one here.
I’m floating around the empty courtyard, feeling the board under my feet and gathering my nerve, when I spot a short cement divider at the far end. I build up speed, heading straight for it. I’m feeling confident as I pop an ollie at the base. I clear it easily and land clean on the other side.
I turn around and skate back toward the steps. I leave my board at the top and race halfway down so I can check the scene. There are other bikers on the road, but I think I spot the three of them on the next block. They’re riding slowly in a single-file line, and when the light turns, they stop. So far, so good.
At the top of the steps I grab my board, jump onto the ledge, do a 50-50 grind to the bottom, and land perfectly. Now I see Dad clearly as he rounds the corner, just in front of the bikers, all of them moving quickly. I run back up to the top of the stairs and skate deep into the courtyard so I can generate enough momentum.
Then I’m off, skating fast toward the steps, the wind pushing my hair off my face. I speed toward them, focused on nothing but the cement ledge that separates the steps from a cluster of trees. I ollie onto it, balance the trucks on the edge, and slide down—fast, but completely in control. And I land, bending my knees to absorb the shock and forcing the board into a quick turn to keep from going into the street. And
that’s when I fake my crash.
I let my board slip out from under my feet, sending me tumbling hard toward the ground. I fall onto my shoulder and roll it out like I’ve done hundreds of times, but I imagine the whole thing looks far more dramatic to a nonskater. In case it doesn’t, I add a little flourish, taking the whole display up a notch or two.
Gripping my leg to my chest I lie on the ground, yelling loudly and writhing in pain. And that’s when Dad arrives at my side, wearing his suit and looking like a concerned pedestrian. “Are you okay?” he keeps asking, while I respond with more yelling. And writhing.
He reaches for his cell phone and I have to turn away to conceal the grin on my face. I never thought I’d turn a do-over into a heroic act, and I sure as hell never thought I’d make Dad my sidekick.
Now the man has stopped and is straddling his bike and balancing his weight on the curb. His two daughters are stopped too, waiting curiously behind him and staring at me. I let out a high-pitched groan and return to thrashing on the ground.
Dad has to yell to be heard above the hum of the passing traffic. “My cell phone is dead and this boy needs some help. Can you call nine-one-one?”
I can’t hear what the man says in reply, but he appears to be digging around in the pocket of his jeans.
This brilliant street performance should probably be my sole focus, but I can’t stand not knowing what’s going on. I look past the girls and into the street, and see the truck. Dad’s watching it too, and I’m sure neither one of us is breathing as it shifts into the lane closest to us.
I sit up to get a better view, no longer caring if I’ve broken my cover. In a fraction of a second, no one will be looking at me anyway.
The truck speeds up to make the light and travels through the intersection, and a few seconds later, it veers off the road and up onto the curb. It sideswipes the fire hydrant, sending water shooting into the air. It doesn’t stop moving until it slams into the side of the building. Stucco goes flying in every direction and smoke starts shooting up from the open hood.
Time After Time Page 13
