by Meg Cabot
Suddenly, I focused on what CeeCee was saying.
And laughed.
"CeeCee," I said. "Are you nuts? Hang up the phone, go inside, and say yes."
"I should, shouldn't I? I just . . . I mean, I've been wanting this to happen for so long, and now it is, and I . . . well, I just can't believe it. . . ."
"CeeCee."
"Hanging up now," CeeCee said. And the line clicked.
He and Kelly had looked pretty . . . friendly on that couch. Maybe he'd given up. Maybe he was over the whole "us" thing.
Maybe now my life would go back to normal.
Maybe . . .
Chapter twelve
"This is by the same director who made Jaws?" Jesse wanted to know. "I don't believe it."
Saturday night. Date night.
And, okay, though technically Jesse and I can't exactly go out (how could we, really?), Jesse does come over most Saturday nights. True, it isn't as romantic as dinner and a movie. And true, we have to be really quiet, so my family won't suspect I'm not alone in my room.
But at least we get to be together.
And yeah, on this particular Saturday night, I had a lot on my mind, none of which I had any intention of mentioning to Jesse.
But that didn't mean we couldn't spend a couple of hours watching videos. Jesse has a lot of catching up to do, movie-wise, considering the fact that they hadn't even been invented back when he'd been alive.
His favorite so far is The Godfather. I was hoping to cure him of this weakness by showing him E.T. How could anyone prefer Don Corleone over a six-year-old Drew Barrymore?
But Drew barely managed to hold Jesse's attention.
"Jaws is much better than this," Jesse said.
Jaws is another one of Jesse's favorites. He doesn't even like the right parts, either. He likes the part where all the men are showing one another their scars. Don't ask me why. I guess it's a guy thing.
Finally, I turned E.T. off and went, "Let's just talk."
By which, of course, I meant "Let's make out."
Which was working out very nicely until Jesse quit kissing me at one point and said, "I almost forgot. What was Paul doing at the Mission tonight? Has he found religion?"
This was so outlandish that I pulled my arms from around his neck and went, "What?"
"Your friend Paul," Jesse said. I may have let go of him, but he wasn't letting go of me. While this was nice, it was also just a little distracting. Especially the way his lips were still moving along mine. "I saw him a little while ago in the basilica . . . which was closed, you know. Why would he be there after hours, do you think? He hardly seems the type to be considering a career in the priesthood. Unless he suddenly received his calling. . . ."
I wrenched myself away from him.
Well, if you'd suddenly been seized by stark white terror, you'd have done the same thing.
"Susannah?" Jesse stared at me, concern filling his dark brown eyes where just a few seconds earlier there'd been . . . well, not concern. "Are you all right?"
"Oh, God." How could I have been so stupid? How, how, how? Here I was, watching movies - movies - with my boyfriend, never suspecting a thing. Thinking Paul would have to come here to the house if he wanted to travel back to Jesse's time. Thinking he wouldn't be able to go back if he didn't. Thinking he wouldn't dream of going back tonight, with his grandfather in the hospital. Thinking he and Kelly were together now, so why would he bother?
Paul didn't care about his grandfather. He didn't care about anyone in his family and never had.
And he certainly didn't care about Kelly. Why should he? Kelly didn't understand him, Kelly didn't know what he really was. . . .
And, of course, there was another landmark in this century that had existed in Jesse's as well. A place Felix Diego had probably gone often, during his day.
The Mission. The Junipero Serra Mission, which had been built back in the 1700s.
"I have to go," I said, stumbling to my feet and diving for my jacket. I felt sick to my stomach. "I'm sorry, Jesse, but I have to - "
"Susannah." Jesse was on his feet as well, taking hold of my arm in a grip that was as strong as it was gentle. Jesse would never hurt me. On purpose. "What is it? What is this about? Why do you care if Paul is in the basilica?"
"You don't understand," I said. I really did think I was going to be sick. I really did. It must have shown on my face because Jesse's grip on my arm suddenly got a good deal tighter . . .
. . . just as the expression his face got a lot grimmer.
"Try me, querida," he said in a voice that was as hard as his grasp.
And then - don't ask me how or what I was thinking because, truthfully, I don't think I was - it all came spilling out.
I hadn't wanted to tell him. Not because I didn't want to upset him. God, nothing like that. No, I didn't want him to find out for the most selfish of all reasons: I hadn't wanted to tell him for fear he'd agree with Father Dominic and my dad - that he'd prefer another chance at life than eternity as a ghost.
But out it poured, everything, from what Dr. Slaski had told me to what Father Dom had said on the phone just a few hours ago. It was a raging flood that couldn't be stopped, the torrent of words coming from my mouth. I wanted to stuff them back as quickly as they spilled out.
But it was too late. It was way too late.
Jesse listened unflinchingly, not interrupting me, even when I told him the part about my deal with Paul: our secret arrangement in which I endured Wednesday afternoon 'mediator lessons' with him in exchange for his not sending my boyfriend to the netherworld.
"Only now he doesn't want to kill you, Jesse," I told him bitterly. "He wants to save you, save your life. He's going back through time to stop Felix Diego from killing you. And if he does that . . . if he does that . . ."
"You and I will never meet." Jesse's expression was calm, his voice its normal deepness.
Never had any statement sounded as chilling to me. It felt like a stab wound to the heart.
"Yes," I said frantically. "Can't you see, I've got to go down there - now. Right now - and stop him."
"No, querida," Jesse said, still in that unhurried voice. "You can't do that."
For a second, the terror that was gripping my heart seemed to squeeze it until it stopped. I thought I would die, right there on the spot.
Jesse wanted to live. My dad, Father Dominic, Dr. Slaski, Paul . . . they had been right. They had all been right, and I was the wrong one, me. Jesse would prefer to live than to have met me, to have known me . . .
. . . to have loved me. . . .
I should have known, of course. And I think deep down, I did know. What kind of person - especially one who'd died the age Jesse had been, just twenty - wouldn't want a chance to go back and live again, if he could? What kind of person wouldn't be willing to give up everything he had for that chance?
And what did Jesse have? Nothing. Nothing at all. Just me.
My dad had accused me long ago of being the thing that was holding Jesse back, keeping him from moving on. Father Dominic had said it, as well . . . that if I really loved him, I'd set him free.
And now I knew. Jesse himself would rather be free than be with me.
God. I'd been such a fool. Such a total fool.
Then Jesse let go of my arm.
But instead of saying what I'd expected him to - You can't go after him, because I want the chance. I want the chance to live again, if I can - he said in a voice gone suddenly as cold as the wind outside, "You can't go after him. He's too dangerous. I'll go. I'll stop him."
I wasn't sure I'd heard him right. Had he said - could he possibly have said - what I thought he'd said?
"Jesse," I said. "I don't think you understand. He wants to save you. To keep you from . . . from dying that night."
"I understand," Jesse said. "I understand that Paul is a fool who thinks he's God. I don't know what makes him think it's his right to play with my destiny. But I do know he's not going to su
cceed. Not if I can stop him."
My circulation seemed to spring to life. Suddenly, I could breathe again. Relief washed over me in waves.
He wanted to stay. Jesse wanted to stay. He would rather stay than live. He would rather stay - with me - than live.
"You can't," I said, my voice sounding freakishly high-pitched even to my own ears. That was the relief I felt, making me giddy. "You can't stop him, Jesse. Paul will - "
"And just what do you intend to do, Susannah?" he demanded sharply. And if I hadn't been convinced before of the sincerity of his wish to remain in this place and time, his gruff tone then would have been enough. "Talk him out of what he plans? No. It's too dangerous."
But love had given me courage I'd never even known I had. I shrugged into my leather motorcycle jacket and said, "Paul won't hurt me, Jesse. I'm the reason he's doing this, remember?"
"I don't mean Paul," Jesse said. "I mean time traveling. Slaski says it's dangerous?"
"Yes, but - "
"Then you're not doing it."
"Jesse, I'm not afraid - "
"No," Jesse said. There was a look in his eye I had never seen before. "I'm going. You're staying here. Leave everything to me."
"Jesse, don't be - "
But a second later, I saw that I was talking to thin air.
Because Jesse was gone.
I knew where he'd disappeared to, of course. He'd gone to the basilica, to have a word with Paul.
And I was betting that that word would be accompanied by a fist.
I was also betting Jesse was going to be too late. Paul wouldn't be at the Mission anymore by the time Jesse got to him.
Or rather, he would be. But not the basilica as we knew it.
There was only one thing, really, that I could do then. And that wasn't, as Jesse had urged, to leave everything to him. How could I, when I could quite possibly wake up in the morning with no memory of Jesse whatsoever?
I knew what I had to do.
And this time, I wasn't going to make the mistake of consulting with anybody beforehand.
I strode across the room, lifted my pillow, and pulled out the miniature portrait of Jesse - the one he'd given to his one-time fiancée, Maria. The one that I'd been sleeping on since the day I'd stolen - er - been given it.
Looking down into Jesse's dark, confident gaze, I closed my eyes and pictured him . . . pictured Jesse in this very room, only not looking as it did now, with a frilly canopy bed and princess phone (thanks, Mom).
No, instead I pictured it as it must have looked 150 years earlier. No ruffled white curtains over the bay window. No window seat scattered with fluffy pillows. No carpet over the wood floor. No - ack! - bathroom, but maybe one of those, what were they called? Oh yeah, chamber pots.
No cars. No cell phones. No computers. No microwaves. No refrigerators. No televisions. No stereos. No airplanes. No penicillin.
Just grass. Grass and trees and sky and wooden wagons and horses and dirt and . . .
And I opened my eyes.
And I was there.
Chapter thirteen
It was my room, but it wasn't.
Where the canopy had stood sat a bed with a brass stand. The bed was covered with a brightly colored quilt, the kind of quilt that my mom would have gone nuts over if she'd seen it in some craft shop. Instead of my vanity table with its big light-up mirror, was a chest of drawers with a pitcher and bowl on it.
There was no mirror anywhere, but on the floor was a rug woven from . . . well, lots of different stuff. It was kind of hard to see really well, because the only light was what little moonlight spilled in from the bay windows. There was no electric switch. I felt for it instinctively the minute I opened my eyes to so much darkness. Where the light switch had been was just wood.
Which could only have meant one thing.
I'd done it.
Whoa.
But where was Jesse? This room was empty. The bed didn't look as if it had been slept in anytime recently.
Had I come too late? Was Jesse already dead? Or had I come too early and Jesse hadn't yet arrived?
There was only one way to find out. I laid my hand on the doorknob - only, of course, there was no knob now, but a latch instead - and went out into the hallway.
It was nearly pitch-black in the hallway. There was no electric switch here, either. Instead, when I groped for it, my hand touched a framed picture, or something . . .
. . . that promptly fell off the wall with a banging sound, although no glass broke. I didn't know what to do. I couldn't find the thing I'd knocked over, it was too dark. So I continued down the stairs, navigating the various twists and turns by memory alone, since I had no light to guide me.
I saw the glow before I heard the quick footsteps approaching the bottom of the stairs. Someone was coming . . . someone holding a candle.
Jesse? Could it possibly be?
But when I reached the bottom of the stairs, I saw that it was a woman who was coming toward me, a woman holding not a candle but some kind of lantern. At first, I thought she must be enormously fat, and I was like, God, what could she have been eating? It's not like they had Twinkles back in Jesse's day . . . er, now, I mean.
But then I saw that she was wearing some sort of a hoopskirt, and that what I'd taken for girth was really just her clothes.
"Mary, Mother of God," the woman cried when she saw me. "Where did you come from?"
I thought it better to ignore that question. Instead, I asked her as politely as I could, "Is Jesse de Silva here?"
"What?" The woman held the lantern higher and really peered at me. "Faith," she cried. "But you're a girl!"
"Um," I said. I would have thought this was obvious. My hair, after all, is pretty long, and I always wear it down. Plus, as always, I had on mascara. "Yes, ma'am. Is Jesse here? Because I really have to speak to him."
But the woman, instead of appreciating my politeness, pressed her lips together very firmly. Next thing I knew, she was reaching for the door, holding it open, and trying to shoo me through it.
"Out," she said. "Out with you, then. You should know we don't allow the likes of you in here. This is a respectable house, this is."
I just stood there gaping at her. A respectable house? Of course it was. It was MY house.
"I don't mean to cause trouble, ma'am," I said, since I could see how it would be a little weird to find a strange girl wandering around your house . . . even if it was a board-inghouse. That happened to belong to me. Or at least to my mother and her new husband. "But I really need to speak to Jesse de Silva. Can you tell me if he - "
"What kind of fool do you take me for?" the woman demanded not very nicely. "Mr. de Silva wouldn't give the time of day to a . . . creature like you. Need to speak to Jesse de Silva, indeed! Out! Out of my house!"
And then, with a strength surprising for a woman in a hoopskirt, she grabbed me by the collar of my leather motorcycle jacket, and propelled me out the door.
"Good riddance to bad rubbish," the woman said and slammed the door in my face.
Not just any door, either. My own door. My own front door, to my house.
I couldn't believe it. From what I'd been led to believe, from Jesse and those Little House on the Prairie books, things back in the 1800s had been all butter churns and reading out loud around the fire. Nothing about mean ladies throwing girls out of their own houses.
Chagrined, I turned around and started down the steps from the front porch . . .
. . . and nearly fell on my face. Because the steps weren't where they used to be. Or would be one day, I mean. And except for the moonlight, which was sadly lacking just then, due to a passing cloud, there was no light whatsoever to see by. I mean it, it was spookily dark. There was no reassuring glow of streetlights - I wasn't even sure there was a street where Pine Crest Road ought to have been.
And, turning my head, I could see no lights on in any nearby windows . . . for all I could tell, there were no nearby windows. The house I was stand
ing in front of might have been the only house for miles and miles . . .
And I'd just been thrown out of it. I was stranded in the year 1850 with no place to go and no way to get there. Except, I guess, the old-fashioned way.
I could, I supposed, have walked to the Mission. That's where Paul had supposedly gone. I craned my neck, looking for the familiar red dome of the basilica, just visible from my front porch, perched as it was in the Carmel Hills.
But instead of seeing Carmel Valley stretched out below me, all winking lights stretching to the vast darkness of the sea, all I saw was dark. No lights. No red dome, lit up for the tourists. Nothing.
Because, I realized, there were no lights. They hadn't been invented yet. At least, not lightbulbs.
God. How could anybody find their way anywhere? What did they use to guide them, freaking stars?
I looked up to check out the star situation, wondering if it would help me, and nearly fell off the porch again. Because there were more stars in the sky than I had ever seen before in my life. The Milky Way was like a white streak in the sky, so bright it almost put the moon, finally flitting out from behind some clouds, to shame.
Whoa. No wonder Jesse was unimpressed whenever I successfully located the Big Dipper.
I sighed. Well, there was nothing else I could do, I supposed, but start hoofing it in the general direction of the Mission, and hope I ran into Paul - or Jesse . . . Past Jesse, I mean - on the way.
I had just found my way off the porch - down a set of rickety wooden steps, unlike the cement ones in place there now . . . I mean, in the present . . . my present - when it hit me. The first heavy, cold drops of rain.
Rain. I'm not kidding. No sooner had I looked up to see if it was really rain, or someone dumping their chamber pot out on me (ew) from the second floor than I saw the bank of big black clouds rolling in from the sea. I had been so distracted by all the stars, I hadn't noticed them before.
Great. I travel more than a century and a half through time, and what do I get for my efforts? Getting thrown out of my own house, and rain. A lot of it.
Lightning flashed, high up in the sky. A few seconds later, thunder rumbled, long and low.
