Time's Edge

by Rysa Walker

  “Yeah. But at least they aren’t switching our classes up. I mean, the schedule I have is the one I signed up for last year.”

  We spend a few minutes comparing our schedules and are happy to discover we have two classes and lunch at the same time. It might actually be three classes, because Trey can’t remember whether he has calculus second period or fourth.

  He turns onto Falls Road, and after a mile or so, the houses begin to drift farther apart, separated by wooded areas. Oversized homes are pretty standard in the DC area, but the ones in this neighborhood flaunt the true indicator of wealth—actual land surrounding the house. These aren’t your typical McMansions, squeezed onto a lot the size of a postage stamp, but sprawling residences with multilevel decks, at least one pool, and a tennis court.

  We turn onto a smaller side road and drive past an iron-fenced estate, with an enormous brick house in the distance and a pond closer to the road, where two horses have stopped for a drink. The scene is very picturesque but also a bit intimidating.

  Trey follows my gaze and, apparently, my thoughts as well. “Unless you have objections,” he says, “I’ll locate Dr. Tilson, tell him Dad’s sorry he couldn’t attend, and then we’ll find an excuse to clear out.”

  “Yes, please.” I’m not a fan of parties in the first place, and if Trey is worried about feeling out of his element, I’m going to be a fish totally out of water. “Maybe you could just say we have to attend this soiree to christen your dad’s new yacht and they’ll let us take our burger to go?”

  He laughs. “Hey, this might actually be fun, if we make a game out of it. Now we need to come up with a pretentious hobby for you—maybe dressage?”

  “You’ve apparently forgotten that you’re arriving with the math teacher’s daughter. At least a few people will remember I lived in one of those tiny little cottages on campus, and believe me, there’s no place to hide a dancing horse.”

  “Okay, no dressage. We’ll use your real hobby. I doubt any of them have a time machine.”

  “Probably not. Unfortunately, I can’t bring that shiny toy out for show-and-tell.”

  He’s about to suggest something else when we see the marker ahead for 10804 Lochmere. The drive is gated, of course, but the gate is open, and a bouquet of helium balloons is tied to each post. The lane winds through the buffer of overhanging trees and ivy hiding the house from the road and then opens to a carefully manicured lawn surrounding a massive white colonial that looks as though it could easily house half the student body of Briar Hill. A dozen or so cars line the sides of the drive. I’m beginning to wish I’d worn my ballet flats rather than these heeled sandals, since it looks like we’re going to have a bit of a hike and the ground is still squishy from the morning rain.

  But Trey doesn’t pull in behind the last car as I’d expected. Instead, he continues toward the drive that curves around the ornate fountain in front of the entranceway. Two men stand at attention beside the middle columns, their dark blue uniforms a vivid contrast against the pristine white of the house. Trey brings the car to a halt, and the attendant on the right steps forward to open my door as the other moves around the front of the vehicle to take the keys.

  As we walk to the door, I lean in and whisper, “Valet parking for a high school barbecue? Oh. My. God.”

  Trey laughs and puts his hand around my waist, pulling me toward him. “And the judges award ten snoot points to Carrington Day.”

  The valet who assisted me darts up the steps ahead of us to open the front door. A woman with a guest book stands at a little podium in the foyer. Trey steps forward, pulling the invitation from his pocket. She glances at it and then at me, an uncomfortable look on her face.

  “I’m Trey Coleman,” he says. “This is my guest, Kate Pierce-Keller.”

  “Oh, yes. Hello, Trey. Welcome to Briar Hill! I was just a bit surprised, because all of the other guests have been parents . . .”

  “Mine are out of town, unfortunately, and Kate was kind enough to accompany me.”

  “I’m sure it’s not a problem.”

  She fumbles around on the podium shelf and locates Trey’s printed name badge, along with a blue Sharpie and a blank Hello My Name Is______ sticker for me. I’m sorely tempted to write Inigo Montoya in the blank, just to see if anyone here will get the lame joke, but I resist temptation and print Kate Pierce-Keller.

  Then I realize there’s no place to put the stupid thing. I try to stick it to the bodice of my dress, but between the lack of sleeves and the lower neckline, the only swatch of fabric big enough for the sticker is right on top of my breast, which makes it stick out funny and means that everyone will have to stare at my boobs to find my name. The gathers at the waist keep it from sticking there, and it would look silly anyway. I finally just slap it on my little black bag.

  Trey is leaning against the doorway when I look up, clearly amused at my dilemma. “Clever solution.”

  “Well, it was either that or paste it to my forehead.”

  I return the marker, and the woman nods toward the center entrance. “The hosts are greeting everyone out on the patio. Just walk through there, and you’ll see the doors off to the left.”

  There are tall windows on two sides of the room, one facing the front lawn and the other, on the left, opening to the patio. A large crowd is milling about, most of them on the flagstone patio. Fewer than half seem to be around our age, so clearly the woman was correct that most of the guests were parents. Beyond the patio, out on the lawn, are two white party tents, covering the buffet tables. Another tent, off to the side, has smaller tables laden with silver serving trays and about a dozen uniformed attendants behind them.

  I glance around the living room for Trey, a task complicated by the room’s immensity. It reminds me more of a hotel lobby than any living room I’ve been inside. There is a grand piano in the right-hand corner, near the entryway. A few chairs are scattered along the walls, and on the far side of the room, opposite the piano, is a cavernous stone fireplace, along with a collection of sofas and chairs, all of which look more decorative than functional.

  Small art niches are positioned around the walls, about three yards apart, each as carefully lit as Trey had predicted. What catches my eye, however, is the larger niche centered above the windows overlooking the front lawn, which displays an enormous Cyrist symbol. It resembles a cross in some ways but has a loop at the top, like an Egyptian ankh. The arms of the cross are looped as well, sort of like an infinity symbol, and there is a large lotus flower in the center, where everything overlaps. The Cyrist symbols on top of the temples are usually white, but this one is chrome and crystal, about fifteen feet high.

  I turn back toward the patio windows and see Trey, who is also staring up at the thing with a stunned expression. I walk toward him, but he turns and crosses quickly to the center of the room to intercept me. “Maybe we should go,” he says. “Dad will just have to . . .”

  It’s not like I thought I’d be able to avoid Cyrists entirely. That’s kind of hard to do, now that they’re about a quarter of the population. On the other hand, I had most definitely planned to avoid strolling into one of their lairs, since that didn’t really work out so well the last time I tried it. My eyes dart around for Dobermans, but the house and yard seem to be hound-free. And even though part of me is screaming that we should really get out of here, I also don’t want Trey to have to disappoint his dad because of me.

  “Hello?” We both turn around as one of the large doors leading to the patio slides open. A friendly-looking woman, about Katherine’s age, but with a good deal more padding, waves in our direction. “The party is out here,” she says. “I’m Angela Meyer, Eve’s grandmother. Please, come and join us.”

  Eve. It’s not that uncommon of a name. There have to be dozens of Cyrist girls in the DC area named Eve, right?

  I pull Trey close so that I can speak without the woman overhearing. “It’s okay, Trey. Really. We won’t stay long. It may not even be the same Eve, and ev
en if it is, I doubt she’ll remember anything.”

  “Eve?”

  He looks puzzled, and I realize he probably didn’t understand all of our video chats. For that matter, I’m not even sure how much we said about that disastrous trip to the Sixteenth Street Temple. Between Trey feeling bad about me getting bitten and me feeling bad about dragging him there in the first place, we were both pretty eager to forget it.

  I start to explain, but Mrs. Meyer is looking at us expectantly, so I just pull him toward the door. “Find Tilson and say hello for your dad. Then I’ll pretend I’ve gotten an emergency call.”

  He still looks doubtful but follows me to the patio. Mrs. Meyer steps forward and takes my hand in both of hers. She reminds me of the woman on the Grandma’s Oatmeal Raisin cookie box—curly silver hair, glasses, a sweet smile, and a twinkle in her eye—except she’s wearing a stylish dress in a pale coral instead of a flour-dusted apron and she smells like Estée Lauder rather than cinnamon and sugar.

  “I’m so delighted you could make it . . .” She glances downward, searching for the name tag.

  “Kate Pierce-Keller,” I say, holding up my bag. “The name tag wouldn’t fit.”

  “They really don’t make those badges for us girls, do they?” She stops midlaugh and tilts her head to the side, her eyes squinting as she looks at me. “But I know you, don’t I? Are you a friend of Evie’s from the temple?”

  Her eyes slide down to my hand, clearly looking for a lotus tattoo. “Oh, I guess not,” she says.

  Trey steps forward. “I suspect she gets that all the time, Mrs. Meyer. She looks a lot like one of the girls on a Disney Channel show. I’m Trey Coleman, a new student at Briar Hill this year.”

  I have no idea what show he’s talking about, but I’m thankful for the save.

  She lets go of my hand in order to take Trey’s. “So nice to meet you. Please, both of you, come in—or, I guess I should say, come out!”

  Mrs. Meyer leads us across the light gray stones toward a table with rows of tall, stemmed glasses. She glances around, head shaking in dismay. “Everyone is all jammed together on the patio. I’d so hoped we could spread out a bit, but the rain left the lawn all mushy. Those of us in heels are going to have to tiptoe to avoid sinking in.” She hands a glass to each of us, then grabs a third for herself.

  “It’s just sparkling cider for you young folks. And for the hostess as well. I’ll have my champagne when all of this craziness is over.” She winks at me and then stands on tiptoe in order to look around the crowd. “I was going to find Evie and her friends so that I could introduce you, but I don’t see her. Oh dear, there are more guests at the door now. I’m going to have to leave you on your own, sweetie . . .”

  She hurries back to her station at the edge of the patio, and I turn to Trey, who is scanning the crowd.

  “Well, she seems nice,” I say. “Too bad it didn’t filter down to her granddaughter.”

  “How do you know her granddaughter?”

  “I’m pretty sure she’s Eve Conwell—both of us met her in the other timeline. That’s what I was trying to tell you inside. I don’t know if she’ll remember it. Probably not, unless she was at the temple when the time shift occurred. But she might still recognize me—”

  “Great,” he says, his voice a bit harsh. I can’t quite read his expression, which strikes me as odd, because Trey’s face is usually easy to decipher. Then he says, in a softer tone, “After we leave here, we need to go somewhere and talk this whole thing through, okay? I have some questions. My dad does, too.”

  “Your dad? How much did you tell him?”

  He shakes his head. “Later, okay? Let’s just find Tilson.” He grabs my hand, and we move away from the drink station. I accidentally bump my shoulder into a tall, auburn-haired woman who is trying to eat from one of those little appetizer plates and balance her drink at the same time. A chunk of something orange, cantaloupe or maybe mango, slides from her plate, splattering her shoe. She tosses an angry look my way, but the expression quickly morphs into something else as she stares at my face. She looks almost shocked when I apologize.

  “No, no. Entirely my fault.”

  I open my mouth to say it really wasn’t her fault, but Trey is pulling me forward, so I just give her a little smile.

  Trey stops a few yards later, his neck craning up to look over the crowd. “I don’t see him.”

  “Do you have a description?”

  “Nothing beyond really, really old.”

  We make our way around the pool, which is covered with dozens of floating lotus flowers. They seem real at first glance, but then I realize the centers change color very slowly, so they must be some sort of pool lights. I see a few faces I remember from school; otherwise, it’s all people I don’t know. And aside from Eve’s grandmother, still at her post by the glass door, everyone seems to be under sixty, so I don’t think any of them could have taught Trey’s grandfather.

  It’s mostly parents and teens, and the parents seem to be having a better time, possibly because their glasses contain something other than sparkling cider. A tall black man, who’s facing the guesthouse, claps another man who just arrived on the shoulder. The laugh sounds familiar, and when he turns in my direction, I recognize Mr. Singleton, Charlayne’s dad. I scan the people nearby and finally catch a glimpse of her when one of the guys in the teen cluster shifts a bit to one side.

  She’s looking out across the lawn, wearing an expression I remember well from our days at Roosevelt High—Charlayne is bored, bored, bored. One of the other girls leans forward to tell her something, and she smiles politely and nods, brushing at the skirt of her dress, navy and white, with cap sleeves and an angled hem that falls just a bit above the knee. It’s still too prim and proper for the Charlayne I knew, but the white edging is nice against her dark skin, and the dress is definitely an improvement over the drab getup she wore when I last saw her at the temple—a meeting that she, fortunately, won’t remember.

  Charlayne must feel my gaze, because she turns toward me. Her eyes travel down to my hand, still linked with Trey’s. She frowns, but I can’t tell if it’s disapproval or just annoyance that I was staring.

  “Hey, I think I see him,” Trey says.

  “What? Where?”

  Trey starts across the lawn to the tent closest to us, where the Briar Hill principal and a few others are gathered. I follow, but as soon as I’m off the flagstones, I realize Mrs. Meyer was right about the soggy turf.

  Trey stops and glances down at my sandals. “Why don’t you wait here? I’ll only be a minute.”

  I nod and step back onto the patio. Someone touches my elbow, and I jump, sloshing a bit of cider onto the flagstones.

  “Oh, I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to startle you. I’m Charlayne. Charlayne Singleton. I was just telling Leann—that’s her over there in the pink—anyway, I was telling her I’m pretty sure we’re supposed to be mingling with new students from Briar Hill. But it looks like we’ve separated into enemy camps or something, you know? And since your friend seems to have wandered off, I thought I’d just say hi . . . and introduce myself?”

  The question at the end reminds me that I haven’t introduced myself yet. “Oh, hi—I’m Kate Pierce-Keller. I’m not exactly new to Briar Hill, since I started last year. I’m just here with Trey.”

  “So, you’ve known Trey for a while?” Her eyes shift almost imperceptibly down to my hand, then back to my face. It hadn’t even occurred to me that Trey holding my hand was a flagrant example of PDA to any Cyrists in attendance. Charlayne’s brother dated his girlfriend for six months before they were allowed to hold hands. Cyrist rules about dating and sex are strict: no sexual activity until age twenty or marriage, all dates are chaperoned, and all marriages must be approved by the Council of Elders.

  “Oh, yes. We’ve been together for the better part of a year.” It’s not exactly a lie. The time I spent with Trey was definitely the better part of my year.

  I look over at
the tent, where Trey is standing near someone who must be Tilson and the rest of the Briar Hill contingent. The old guy is waving his hands, apparently distraught, and Trey looks like he’s trying to find a good time to interrupt the conversation.

  “He’s really cute,” Charlayne says, shooting me a little smile. It’s a timid shadow of the wicked grin that used to accompany her assessment of anything male and remotely hot, but I’ll take it.

  I return her smile, remembering us having pretty much this same conversation about the various boys who caught her eye in the cafeteria at Roosevelt last year, before I transferred to Briar Hill. “He is cute, isn’t he?”

  “Well,” she says, “I’ll be sure to let the Evelettes over there know that he’s taken.”

  “Evelettes?”

  She nods her head toward three girls sitting on a bench near the guesthouse. “Those three are like Eve’s backup singers. Everything she says, they echo it twice and toss in a few oohs and aahs for emphasis.”

  I laugh. “So . . . Eve’s not your friend?”

  Charlayne wrinkles her nose and then gushes loudly, “You mean you haven’t met Eve? She is an absolute angel. You couldn’t ask for a better friend.”

  Then she continues in a much lower voice. “But off the record, let’s just say no one crosses her. Anyone with half a brain keeps her distance—which tells you a little something about the three twits over there on the bench. Eve has been the Queen Bee of Carrington Day from the beginning, and she’s not exactly happy about switching to a new school her senior year. This little shindig is supposed to ensure that everyone at Briar Hill understands that she’s the new boss.” Her eyes slide over to the patio door. “I’m guessing she’ll make her dramatic entrance in about five minutes.”

  “Thanks for the warning.” I look around for Trey. Hopefully he’ll finish up with Dr. Tilson and we can get out of here before Eve arrives.

  Charlayne asks what classes I’m in, and we’ve just finished comparing schedules when I feel Trey’s hand on my shoulder.