“None here,” Vika says.
I continue to scan the area, but I still wonder about the Unknown. I wonder what year he or she is from. We run across them on occasion on our time trips. The DTA rarely overlaps visits to the same time. That doesn’t mean someone from our future couldn’t be here. I almost wish I could talk to the Unknown, but that’s forbidden. It could contaminate whatever point in the timeline they’re from.
“Let’s begin phase two,” Vika says after another minute.
“Be careful,” I reply as a man bumps into me. It’s a little unnerving being here. There are so many people around us.
We spread out and observe the audience while our comm-sets record. The excitement in the air is contagious. The void inside me doesn’t feel as empty now.
The singer finishes and a large man dressed in a black suit hurries across the stage. A hush settles over the crowd as they await the main event.
“Ladies and gentlemen, may I have your attention. I would like to present President Kathleen Foster.”
Frenzied cheers erupt when a slender, red-haired woman in a dark blue dress emerges from the Civic Center and steps up to the stage. She waves both hands and flashes a brilliant smile. It’s easy to see why the country loved her. I wonder for a moment what would’ve happened to the country if she didn’t die today. How different things would be now.
Vika’s voice crystallizes in my ear. “I’m going to move a little closer to the stage.”
“Don’t go too far,” I reply. Exiting our parameters will result in points being deducted from our grade.
“I just want to get some better footage. You know I like to live on the edge,” she says, flashing me a smile.
Professor March cuts in. “I need to check in with the others. Maintain position and watch each other’s backs. You’re doing great so far.”
He threads his way through the crowd, toward Zed’s area.
I return my attention to the stage. President Foster’s voice is almost hypnotic as she speaks. Yeah, I could definitely trust her if I lived in this time. I glance at the info screen on my DataLink.
It’s 9:17.
She’ll be dead in less than five minutes.
My stomach clenches. I don’t know why I’m feeling like this. She’s a ghost. She’s already dead. All these people are dead.
Just like my dad.
The familiar lump swells in my throat. I try to swallow it back down.
“Have you taken any rear crowd shots?” Vika asks.
I haven’t. I’ve been too busy watching the woman who’s about to die. I swivel around and record the sea of eager faces, drinking in the president’s shiny words of encouragement. Then I turn back toward the stage.
I spot another Unknown about thirty feet away. I wonder if it’s the same one from before. But then the cloak wavers, revealing a male of medium height and build—like me. His brown hair is lighter than mine. He’s dressed in a gray jumpsuit.
My heart feels like it’s stopped.
“Dad,” I whisper. No, it can’t be him. I blink a few times, expecting to see nothing but a bunch of dead people. But he’s still there, staring at me. Then he turns and slips through an opening in the crowd.
“No!” I yell, taking off after him. “Dad, wait!”
“What are you doing?” Vika asks. “You’re not supposed to leave!”
I ignore her. I have to get to Dad. I have to find him before I lose him again.
A small part of me knows I’m sabotaging my grade, but I don’t care. I shove my way through the crowd and concentrate on the back of Dad’s head. He suddenly stops and whirls around.
I’m maybe five feet away when he says something.
“What?” I call out.
“Save Alora, son.”
Then he vanishes.
My eyes dart around. Where did he go? Did he shift back to whatever point in time he came from? Why was he even here? And who is Alora?
My breath comes out in ragged gasps. I spin around, searching for him. He has to be here somewhere.
He has to be.
A popping noise sounds, followed by another. President Foster’s speech stops. I twist around as she sinks to the floor. Screams shatter the stunned silence.
Chaos erupts as people try to get away, which is pretty much impossible.
I remember Vika is alone.
A chill crawls over my skin as I search through the crowd for her. I don’t see her. “Vika, where are you?” I yell.
She doesn’t answer.
It seems like an eternity of me shoving against people trying to flee the stage area. I glance up at the stage. Ghosts surround President Foster. A few of Cayhill’s cadets squeeze around them, getting close-up shots of the president.
But there’s something going on near the stage. I make my way over there, nausea rolling inside me. A few people are pointing at the ground. A woman moves to the side, and I finally see what’s happened.
Vika is lying on the ground, unmoving.
“No. No.” I push my way through, my mind racing. Why did I let her go closer to the stage? I should have stopped her. Everyone closest to the president would have been even more frantic to get away after the shots were fired.
Then I realize something else. Ghosts were looking at her. Her cloak has been deactivated.
I keep moving, but before I get to her, I notice a shimmer floating over her.
An Unknown.
Icy fear rips through my body.
By the time I get to Vika, the cloaked Time Bender is gone. I kneel and pull her crumpled body close. I don’t even care that a few ghosts are still gawking at her. “Vika! Can you hear me? Wake up!”
Professor March arrives. “What happened, Bridger?”
I think of Dad’s appearance. The message he gave me. Did it really happen? Or did I imagine the whole thing?
“I don’t know,” I say, looking back at Vika. Her broken comm-set lies next to her head. Blood trickles out of her nose. Her face is scratched. And she’s so still.
Professor March gives me a hard stare as he searches for her pulse.
My heart is about to burst from my chest. Please let her be okay.
Please.
Professor March’s eyes widen. He presses the all-call button on his comm-set and shouts, “Emergency shift! I repeat, emergency shift!”
2
ALORA
APRIL 8, 2013
The steady noise filling the cafeteria fades away as a picture forms in my mind—an image of a man with bloodstained hands and two women. One with blonde hair several shades lighter than mine, and one with hair as dark as the midnight sky. My chest tightens. I dreamed about them last night, just like I have for years. The man is my father, and the only reason I know that is because of the pictures Aunt Grace has of him. I wonder if one of the women is my mother. I don’t have a clue. Aunt Grace doesn’t have any pictures of her.
Yeah, I know that’s weird, but I’ve been living with Aunt Grace since I was little. I have a few hazy memories from before then, but not much. Flashes of me running in a wooded area. The smell of lavender as my mom would tuck me into bed at night. Little things that don’t tell me anything.
And I’m pretty sure I used to live in a big city. Sometimes I get these images of tall buildings that seem to touch the sky, as if I’m in the midst of them looking up. Now this backwoods town is home, including all the small-minded people who inhabit it. Anyone who deviates from their idea of normal is considered too weird to associate with.
Lucky me.
“Earth to Alora. Are you even listening to me?”
A hand waves in front of my face, and I blink several times before turning to my best friend, Sela. “Sorry. What did you say?”
The two girls sitting across from us, Sela’s new friends, laugh in a high-pitched twittering that makes me want to stab my ears. Or them.
“Are you okay? You’re acting weird,” she says.
For an instant, I consider telling her about the
dream, but I change my mind. There’s no point because I can’t remember any details. “I’m okay. I didn’t get much sleep last night.”
That’s close enough to the truth. On the nights I dream about my dad and the mystery ladies, I always wake up with a feeling of dread. Of course, sleep is impossible afterward.
“Right,” Sela drawls. She takes a bite of her salad before continuing. “Anyway, I asked if you wanted to practice with us this afternoon. Jess and Miranda decided to try out for the squad too, so I thought we could all work on some cheers together.”
“Yeah, Laura, it’ll be fun,” says the one on the left, Miranda.
“It’s Alora,” I reply through gritted teeth.
“Oh, right. Sorry.” From her tone, I can tell she’s not.
I don’t understand what Sela sees in Jess and Miranda. They’re as deep as a mud puddle. All they do is talk trash about everybody, what guys they like, and clothes. Plus they try to dress matchy all the time. Like now, they’re both in tight capris and off-the-shoulder shirts, and last week they each dyed a blue strip into their hair. Seriously. But Sela’s mom wormed her way in a local women’s club a few months ago, and next thing I knew Sela had two new besties.
I take a deep breath and lean closer to Sela. “I don’t know. I really need to study. Aunt Grace will kill me if I fail another test. And I might have to help out at the inn after school.” I look at the ignored history book on my lap, feeling guilty. Aunt Grace told me she didn’t need any help this afternoon. We aren’t expecting any guests.
When I peek at Sela’s face, she’s wearing an expression that reminds me of an impatient parent dealing with an irritating kid. “You said you would.”
“I know, but I’m not good at that kind of thing.”
“How do you know that? You’ve never tried.”
Jess rolls her eyes and sighs dramatically. “Oh, come on, Sela, you’re acting like her mom.”
I bite my lip. That hurts because I have no clue how my mom would react in this situation.
“She knows what I mean. And didn’t you say your aunt was okay with you trying out?”
“Yeah, but she wants me to keep my grades up too.” That’s the truth. Aunt Grace wasn’t sure about me going out for the squad, but Sela kept asking her and she finally said it might be good for me. Maybe I can get Aunt Grace to tell Sela that she changed her mind. Or something else. Like the fact I’m barely passing history.
I failed my last two history tests, and Aunt Grace threatened to ground me if I didn’t make at least a C on this one. She says I never did that badly when she homeschooled me, which isn’t exactly true. I don’t know what’s wrong. I’m making good grades in all of my other classes, but when it comes to history, no matter how much I study, very little sticks.
Sela runs a hand through her auburn hair, tucking it behind her ear. “Well, I think you should come with us. You know you want to.”
I want to tell her I don’t want to, but I stay quiet. Sela has been bugging me nonstop for weeks to go out for the squad with her. Her mom’s been preaching how she’ll have lots of new friends if she makes the team—like Mrs. Perkins had when she was in high school. Never mind that I was the only person who would have anything to do with Sela when her family first moved here back in November.
“Well, this has been fun, but we’ve gotta run,” Jess says. She exchanges a glance with Miranda and they both stand.
“Yeah, I’m gonna puke if I have to stay in here another minute. This place reeks,” Miranda says, patting her perfectly straight hair. “You coming, Sela?”
Sela seems torn. Finally she says, “Y’all go ahead. We’ll catch up to you in a few minutes.”
After they’re gone, I say, “You didn’t have to wait for me.”
“I know, but I want to. You really look out of it.”
“Wow, thanks, but if you wanted to go with your friends, you could have.” I poke around at my salad, not wanting to eat any more of it. I’d kill for a cheeseburger and fries right now, but Sela’s been on this super health food kick for a few months now, trying to lose an extra twenty pounds. She talked me into trying her way of eating since I’ve felt so crappy lately.
“They could be your friends, too, if you gave them a chance.”
“I’ve tried. They don’t like me.”
“That’s not true.”
“Really? Do they ever ask to hang out with me? Do they ever text me? No.” I hate how whiny I sound, but it’s the truth. I just don’t understand why Sela doesn’t see it.
She starts to say something else, but instead cocks her head to the side and looks behind me. Grinning, she props her elbows on the table, laces her fingers together, and rests her chin on her hands. Then she proceeds to stare at me.
“So,” she drawls out after a few seconds. “What’s the deal with Trevor?”
“What’re you talking about?”
“He was totally checking you out just now.”
I shake my head. That’s impossible. Trevor Monroe would never check me out. He and his evil sister Kate hate me because their mother hates Aunt Grace. I remember how he and Kate spread lies about me when I first started school this year. Things like I was some poor white trash who Aunt Grace took in years ago, and that she wasn’t even my real aunt. “Nope. Hell would freeze over first.”
Sela leans back in her seat, grinning. “No, my dear, he was definitely looking at you.”
“No way,” I reply, looking at my faded jeans and plain pink shirt. “And even if he was, there’s nothing sexy here.”
“Are you kidding? I don’t understand why every guy here isn’t fighting over you.”
Something Aunt Grace would call an unladylike snort pops out of me. “Fight over me? That’s a good one.”
She huffs and crosses her arms over her chest. “Well they should. Of course, they’d never pay any attention to me.”
I shift uncomfortably in my seat. It bugs me when Sela puts herself down. She’s worked to lose weight since moving here, but she has a hard time seeing the change because she’s not a stick like Jess and Miranda.
“Well, if Trevor was looking at me, it’s probably because he’s trying to figure out another way to start some crap.”
“Aw, come on.” She pauses to think, biting on her lip like she does when she doesn’t know what to say. “You’re an awesome person. I think you should talk to him.”
“Oh, no. I’m not even going there. Besides, Naomi would flip if she thought I had a thing for him.”
“I heard they’re splitsville again.” She raises her eyebrows at me, expecting a positive response.
“Please drop it, okay?”
“You need to live a little. Quit worrying all the time.”
I wish I could, but Sela doesn’t know everything. Sure, she knows how much I hate this stupid town. Other things, no. She doesn’t know how much I need a scholarship to go to college. How Aunt Grace worries all the time about how to pay the bills. How I can’t even remember what my parents look like. Those are things nobody knows, and I’m so sick of having to keep them to myself. Suddenly it seems like the cafeteria is shrinking, and I can’t get enough air.
“Um, I forgot something at my locker,” I manage to say. I grab my backpack and tray and stand so quickly my chair almost flips backward.
“You okay? You look sick.” Sela’s face contorts in worry.
“I’m fine. I’ll see you in class.”
When I pass Trevor’s table, I hear laughter. I risk a peek and lock onto a few guys staring in my direction, including Trevor. Warmth blooms over my face, and I duck my head. I always turn an obnoxious shade of pink when I’m embarrassed.
That’s when I promptly run into Naomi Burton—Trevor’s girlfriend. Her tray flies to the floor with a crash, drawing everyone’s attention in the cafeteria.
Kill me now.
Naomi whirls around and hisses, “You stupid idiot!”
“Hey, Alora, do you need to go back to kindergarten to learn h
ow to put your tray up right?” someone asks. I glance up, and of course it’s Kate, sitting a few feet away with her friends.
If I thought I was red before, I must be scarlet by now. Laughter thunders in my ears. I mumble an apology and try to help Naomi clean up. The remains of her salad are strewn all over the place, and one piece is stuck to the front of my shirt. I peel it off, horrified to see I’m stained with dressing.
“Just go,” Naomi says, slinging the last bits of lettuce back on her tray.
Before I can apologize again, I glance at her face and stop. It’s splotchy and her eyes are glassy, like she’s been crying. Realizing it would probably be a good idea to leave, I quickly throw away my trash and rush out of the cafeteria.
I don’t stop until I get outside. The air is as thick as a hot soup, but I don’t care. I breathe deeply. The smell of freshly cut grass tickles my nose, and I sneeze several times. Still, it’s better than being inside. I can’t believe I crashed into Naomi. I can just imagine what everyone will say once I get to my next class. They’ll call me Clumsy Alora or something equally stupid. It’ll be the beginning of the school year all over. All that work at trying to blend in destroyed in seconds.
I check my phone. Class starts in ten minutes. Jeez, I wish I had more time out here. Or better yet, I wish I could just leave.
I pass a few students while heading to my favorite tree on the front lawn and sit on the side facing the street. I like it that way—it makes me feel invisible. The bark is scratchy through my shirt, so I lean forward and prop my elbows on my legs.
I try to forget everything, but that test still looms in my mind. I should study some more, but I just don’t want to. Instead, I pull my purple sketchbook out of my backpack and flip to the last drawing. It’s an unfinished one of my dad. I’m proud of how it’s turning out, but it needs more work.
The Edge of Forever Page 2
