What Tomorrow May Bring

by Tony Bertauski

  “Where were they?” I jumped up and realizing that I couldn’t leave Tristan and Bri behind without making sure they were okay. Ethan hesitated and then stood, stuck his hands in his pockets, and rocked back and forth for a while. Staring at his feet, he mumbled his response.

  “Last I saw, they were in the game room down the hall and to the left…back of the basement,” he said, biting the side of his lip and giving me a look of sheer pity.

  “Thanks. I should go deal with them…mop up their puke or whatever.” I hesitated. I wasn’t ready for our conversation to end but felt guilty about talking to him, especially after I’d been thinking of having his babies after just meeting him.

  “Yeah, of course. I shouldn’t have kept you so long. It was selfish of me, but I can’t help it. It was really, really nice to meet you. Would you mind if I took your picture to remember you by?” he asked. “You look…out of this world.” Me, otherworldly? Hardly. Him? Definitely.

  “Sure.” I blushed at his compliment. He came close to brush my hair out of my eyes and my knees buckled at his touch. He paused as he stared into my eyes and then trailed his gaze to my lips. In that moment, I lost my senses and wanted him to kiss me. Or perhaps I wanted that later—given what came after—but instead, he was a perfect gentleman; perfectly loyal to his girlfriend as he should be. My cheeks burned when he took a quick picture with his phone. After, I wished I’d taken a shot of him, but at the time I didn’t want to have to explain to Tristan why I had a picture of a hot college guy on my phone.

  “Kira, I hope to see you again soon. Good luck with your friends.” He waved goodbye and slowly walked away, turning back a couple times to look at me. I watched him leave, taking note that he looked as good from the back as he did from the front. I should have gotten a last name to make it easier to stalk him online and scout out the lucky girl that scored big time. All that conversation, and I realized I knew almost nothing about him.

  Oh well. Time to locate and detox my friends. I followed the directions Ethan had given me and opened the door to the game room. The sight sickened me.

  Tristan and Bri were making out smack dab center of a large circle of kids, and the two seemed to be enjoying it because my mental clock clanged thirty notches of no-holds-barred tongue action, groping, and body grinding before they stopped. Lucas had rolled to his side he was laughing so hard over the spectacle.

  Tristan caught my eye and panicked. “It’s not what you think. It’s just a stupid game of truth or dare. Lucas dared us. Go ahead and kiss Lucas if you want to get even.” He signed another “forgive me.” Reflexively, I shook my head to the side. Not cool, not cool at all, I thought. Tristan and I supposedly loved each other, despite the recent awkwardness. Bri was my best friend. I couldn’t handle it, so I bolted. I figured I would deal with them when they were sober, and I hurt less. Neither followed me. Were they too drunk to walk or understand what they’d done? Too ashamed? Or were they waiting for me to cool off? Anyway, who was I to talk, given I just flirted with a guy who embodied everything I wanted in one single gorgeous package? But I didn’t act. That’s the difference. Loyal me. And, apparently, stupid me.

  One thirty-three a.m. With the front door behind me, I ran down the long driveway into complete blackness. My cell phone had zero bars in the house, so I kept moving in an effort to get a signal to call and beg my brother or parents to rescue me. The only sober soul I encountered—and thus only candidate to drive me home—was college boy, and I couldn’t find him after he pointed me to Tristan and Bri’s location.

  No bars on my cell. I started pleading with my phone to behave and make the call. Then I thought I heard someone call my name. I looked around to see the source, hoping my brain properly registered what I heard as Ethan’s voice—the perfect knight in shining armor to rescue me.

  Suddenly lights blinded me. A pickup truck turned into the driveway, coming inches from hitting me, swerving just in time.

  I stood shaking from the near miss. A boy jumped out of the truck to make sure I was okay. I was shocked to see Blake Sundry. I hadn’t seen him at the dance, nor was he dressed for it. He wore the same flannel and jeans as earlier. Why was he here? Right, his drunken sister was inside and she’d probably asked him to bring her home. At least she’d had the sense to call him. Maybe they could drop me off on their way back?

  “Trying to get yourself killed? You about gave me a heart attack!” He didn’t apologize for almost running me over.

  “Not at all. I’m so sorry. I couldn’t get a signal on my cell phone to call my parents for a ride and wasn’t paying attention to where I was standing,” I said, although he made that turn at a pretty high speed.

  “Well, I didn’t see you until the last second. You were right in the middle of the…” He didn’t finish. His eyes went wide.

  A gush of hot air blasted me into Blake.

  BOOM.

  The sound was so loud that my ears rang in pain.

  Subsequent explosions sent us flying. Glass and shrapnel rained down around us.

  Covering our heads, we both turned towards the house to see the source of the explosion.

  The house is gone. Where the house once stood, sat what looked like an apocalyptic graveyard.

  Walls of fire descended the hills in every direction. Panic paralyzed me. I’m going to die.

  I could see their faces. Tristan. Bri. Lucas. Ethan.

  What happened? Are they still alive?

  I wanted to help, but my muscles failed me. Moments passed before my brain registered physical pain radiating throughout my body. Glass fragments embedded in my arms and legs, burns from flying debris, my dress shredded, blood everywhere. How could we help our friends escape as the fires of hell bore down upon us with no visible path through?

  Blake scooped me up and shoved me into the truck, ratcheting it into reverse and accelerating to beat the fire. I choked on smoke that smelled of burning oranges while trying to stop the worst of my bleeds without driving the glass farther beneath my skin.

  One forty-three a.m. Firefighters had surrounded the scene in an attempt to battle the blaze. They evacuated Blake and me by force to a “safe” zone—a neighborhood grocery store parking lot a couple miles from the Goodington estate. Paramedics patched our cuts and burns while police officers tried to take a statement. I nearly passed out when they removed a chunk of shrapnel from Blake’s wrist. I stared at the swirling lights on the police cars, and growing fire in the background with periodic bouts of fireworks-like displays. “How many kids were in that house?” I heard the police officer ask. “A lot,” I eked out before my sobbing prevented me from further communication. In an attempt to calm me, the paramedic drew a needle, the second I’d seen in twenty-four hours. I became hysterical, and it took three people to hold me down.

  The bottom line—Tristan never showed. Nor did Bri or Lucas or Blake’s sister. And the other fifty? Seventy-five? One hundred? More? I struggled to get a handle on the magnitude of the tragedy. The firefighters confirmed our worst fears. No one survived other than Blake and me. Every one of my friends died in an instant. And I couldn’t bear the thought of life without them.

  The only mystery that remained was the fate of Ethan. He wasn’t on the list of “confirmed deceased,” but, then again, there were dozens at the party who never showed up back home and whose remains were never found. In my fantasies, I imagined he was still alive and that we’d meet again. I remembered him stuffing his hands in his pockets and rocking on his feet, running his fingers across his thumbs, taking deep breaths before answering my questions, and nervously laughing…and his smile that spread from right to left. Sometimes, I would think I saw him and my stomach fluttered as it did the first time I met him, but then the image disappeared. The glimmer of hope was too minuscule to compete against the mass of loss and despair. And guilt. Tristan and Bri, my two best friends in the world died, and I still couldn’t get Ethan out of my mind. Even two months of therapy was no help. No wonder the universe hated m
e.

  Present

  My eyes and limbs feel like concrete as I feel myself being gently set onto a soft surface. “Where am I?” I mumble. I vaguely remember trying to leave SCI’s Unit 27 and being knocked to the floor.

  “Shhh, Kira,” I hear. The voice sounds eerily familiar, and I swear I smell a hint of cinnamon. “You were given a sedative to allow you to adjust to the schedule here. But you’re in your room.”

  I try to open my eyes. My vision is hazy, the room is dark, and the shadow leaning over me fits the voice. But I’ve been prone the last two months to attributing every shadow, every voice, and every face to him. “Ethan? Is that you?”

  “I’m sorry. So sorry. I wish things were different. Sleep well.” My benefactor leans over and gives me a kiss on my forehead. I feel the drugs pull me under, and I succumb to an imagined deep sleep in Ethan’s arms.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Ethan

  Two months prior

  I receive the call I never expected.

  “Ted found a pure-bred Light…not too far from you. Carmel Valley High,” the familiar voice purrs. “Her blood work was a work of art. I suggest you high tail it over there and check her out.”

  “A female pure Light? Impossible. Even if that’s true, what’s the hurry? Why not wait until she’s there? I assume she’s headed your way at least,” I say, hardly jumping for joy. There is nothing less romantic than a blood panel preceding every date. Thus, I have resisted my father’s archaic Cleaving process my entire life and don’t see any reason to succumb just because he has finally dredged up a suitable candidate two years post-deadline.

  “Two reasons. One, she’s reluctant to go—has a boyfriend tying her down or something. She’s going to need some motivation which I’ve already got in motion. And two, you have competition. Ted also found a pure-bred Dark male with a cleaner medical history than yours. A classmate of hers.” I hear worry in his voice. Despite my father’s immense power in my hometown’s political climate, the rules are pretty clear. It is unlikely I have a shot with her, even if I want one.

  “I don’t see any reason to bother if there’s another heir apparent,” I state. “If I wasn’t suitable for anyone there, why would I be trusted with a pure-bred Light, the likes of which haven’t been seen in centuries?”

  “I have yet to be convinced that either is suitable for our needs. You are the only eyes and ears there I fully trust. Watch them.” He follows with very specific instructions as to my assignment. His tone belies his mistruth. He doesn’t trust anyone, much less me.

  Disappointment looms. Either she’ll be dreadful and forced my way or spectacular and forced the other guy’s way. There has yet to be a situation that weighs in my favor.

  The moment I see her, my faulty heart swells with misplaced hope. She’s stunning. Why can’t the other Dark have been born with a defective heart? My childhood was nothing less than pathetic. I spent my first dozen years locked in a one hundred-fifty square foot, sterile room to “protect my health,” or realistically to hide the extent of my abnormality from the rest of my parents’ colleagues. As a result, I am horribly claustrophobic.

  Most of the human contact I had during my youth was with my parents and the medical staff. I spent a hundred times more time with Doctor Christo, my heart specialist, than I did with my father. A wise, white-haired man, Dr. Christo augmented my standard-fare “home studies” schooling with curriculum designed “for the very elite.” My parents wanted me well versed in the family business, and Dr. Christo wanted me well versed in “the great universal truths.” This filled eight to ten hours a day.

  My early years conspicuously lacked affection, playtime, supervision, or fun. From the age of twelve to fifteen, my interactions with other kids were sparse, leaving me shy and awkward. My one consistent “friend” aka forced playmate and classmate had been Jax, Dr. Christo’s son, a know-it-all boy with a superiority complex. As a kid, he forced me to call him King Jax and bossed me around incessantly. Still does. He is infuriating, but he is all I have.

  Eventually, after a dozen-odd surgeries, my health improved, and my parents chose to foist me on my Uncle Henry, to “further my education and prepare me for my destiny.” Forget free will. Forget personal choice. My parents assume their agenda trumps my agenda. This is the first and only day I’ve seen our agendas so much as overlap, much less align. Every memory serves as a reminder of this important truth.

  Eleven years prior

  I woke up post surgery number nine at the age of eight to the rare sight of my parents and an all too familiar heavily sanitized hospital smell. My dad flanked my left and appeared to be frazzled with worry. My mother sat on the edge to my right looking weary with dark smudges detracting from her typically bright green eyes.

  “Ethan, it’s about time.” My father tapped on his watch. “You took 37 minutes longer than anticipated to come out of the anesthesia.” I felt guilty for causing them such consternation. They’d surely been stressed that I wouldn’t wake up at all.

  “I…I…I’m sorry, Father,” I whispered. “It hurts,” I said, referring to the incision in my chest. Dozens of tubes protruded from my frail body, and machines whirred in the background.

  “That’s what pain killers are for, Ethan.” He arose and rounded the end of my bed to grab my mother’s hand. “You’ve made us late for a Council meeting. We expect you to follow every order from the doctors and nurses and recover in a more timely fashion than your waking,” as if I had control over either.

  “Dr. Christo’s the very best.” My mother patted me on my arm before standing. “We are investing in you. You are important. If we can just get past these little medical hiccups, you’ll be a major player in the future of our civilization. The doctors will keep us posted on your progress, and, time permitting, we’ll check in on you later this week.”

  They never checked on me. Time rarely permitted where my parents were concerned. My doctors assured me that my parents were intimately involved in my medical decisions. I’m sure they considered it a medical necessity to keep me alive lest their political aspirations suffer.

  Two months prior

  My father gives me crystal clear instructions about the girl, none of which involve speaking to her, but I choose to selectively ignore the mandate to keep my distance. A pretty girl does not necessarily a suitable match make, and if she is at all deficient on the personality front, I will happily let the medically sanctioned boy pursue her. I am determined to undermine my father and manipulate the situation to my benefit if only in some small way. Plus, the beauty has the whole damsel in distress thing going on, and, as a frequent victim myself, I can’t keep from offering her the compassion I was never afforded in my youth.

  “Hey, I’m Ethan. You look kind of bummed. Can I help?”

  CHAPTER THREE

  Blake

  Two months prior

  “She’s the one.” The words and the image of her face ripple through my head. My life, and the life of my family, depend on some shallow cheerleader who isn’t even interested in the program. She refuses to ditch her senior year because she is in love with a boneheaded jock whose future is sure to be closely tied to AA meeting schedules. Why am I worrying? They will never persuade her to go. Thank goodness for that because the chick hates me just like everyone else. After all, I almost ran her over with my skateboard this morning in my hurry to get to the SCI Test, and I didn’t apologize, not out loud anyway.

  Why am I so nervous anyway? I’ve been preparing for this forever and with my dad’s connections, I am a shoo-in. It isn’t the test but the pressure of what’s coming, and the thought that I have to go back. My dad’s words haunt me, “We’re counting on you, son. All of us are counting on you.” Getting in won’t be the hard part. Getting what they need and getting back out alive, that is another story.

  Kira Donovan. As much as I can’t stand Kira on paper, I have to admit that I loved watching Miss Goodie Two-Shoes go off on Ted Rosenberg today. I mean wow—she
told him she didn’t give a crap about his Test in front of everyone. Classic. Maybe she does have it in her. Man, though, I wish I didn’t have to depend on her, wish I could do it alone.

  Kira is probably right where I am headed, partying it up with the rest of the losers from Carmel Valley High. Or worse, hooking up with her jerk boyfriend somewhere in Bailey Goodington’s freakishly big house. I vowed to never enter Bailey’s hallowed grounds again. When I first started at Carmel Valley High, Bailey lured me over to her house for a “study date,” and I temporarily fell prey to her ice blue eyes, stick straight platinum blonde hair, and model-esque figure. She particularly liked to “study” by her pool in a very tiny bikini that probably cost enough to feed a small country, and, to my benefit, her suit often “accidentally” dislodged when she entered the pool. She gave me my first kiss (or two or hundred—I lost count) and a real education in baseball. I was head over heels. In a young love bout of insanity, I even gave her a promise ring. There weren’t just sparks with Bailey, it was a full-blown atomic detonation when we were together.

  When my dear daddy caught wind that I had a girlfriend, however, he forced me to end things. I tried to fight him on it, but he used his fists to persuade me. The relationship-ending “why” I gave to Bailey was lame, so I came across as a real dick. No one broke up with Bailey Goodington. To gain vengeance, she spread every possible rumor to turn me into a social pariah. It worked for me, allowing me to drop off the radar and avoid my dad’s ire. Through the Baileyvine, I found out I am currently a meth addict who prostitutes myself to kinky old men to support my habit. Ironic, given Bailey regularly partakes of mind-altering substances and has a reputation for being easier than a first grade math test. I hear Karma’s real vindictive and is coming for you, Bailey. I just hope that I am there to witness your downfall.