by L. E. DeLano
“It’s okay,” he says, and I wonder if he’s saying it to me or for himself. “It’s all going to be okay.”
We stay that way for a long time, and somehow, eventually, I drift off.
I am sitting at my desk in the classroom when Mario steps in through the red door. Even in here, I feel the weight of Finn’s death. It’s all I can do to lift my head and look at him. He sits down at the desk in front of me, turning in the chair. He reaches out and takes my hands in his.
“Jessa … I’m so very, very sorry.”
I nod. There’s nothing to say.
“Rudy is on the run,” Mario says.
“How does that work? It’s not like he can come into our world.”
“No. But the dreamscape is virtually endless,” he says. “We’re looking where we can, following every trail, but…”
“But I’m still in danger,” I sigh. “I don’t care.”
“Eversor is still out there. We need to get you to safety.”
“Where?” I snap. “Where is there that could possibly be safe for me? Or for anyone who knows me?” I shake my head. “I’m staying where I am. I want to be home. If I get killed here and end up trapped in some other body in another reality, that’s worse than dead.”
“Very well,” Mario relents. “For now, you stay home. We’ll find him, Jessa,” he promises me. “He’s going to need to regroup to work around us, and that’s going to take time. We can use that time to get some work done.”
“I’m not up to traveling,” I say. “Not now. Maybe not ever.” I know I’m dreaming, but my voice breaks as my throat tightens.
“Jessa.” Mario’s voice softens. “You haven’t lost Finn, not really. You’ll see him again.”
All Finns are Finn. He told me so himself. He’s Finn no matter where he is. I feel my eyes filling with tears, and I begin to shake all over now. I am torn. I feel the grief ripping through me, the sheer impossibility of all this. I can barely speak around the lump in my throat.
“You can’t do that to me. I can’t see him again.”
“You will eventually, Jessa. I’m sorry if that’s difficult, but it is what it is.”
His eyes are apologetic, but I want to hit him. I want to claw at his face and scream until he’s sorry enough. Because he’s not sorry enough. I sink back down into my chair, and my hand is tight against my chest. I feel like I can’t breathe.
“You’re going to see him again and again,” Mario offers sympathetically. “It can’t be avoided. You have to learn to let it go.”
“Let it go?” I turn disbelieving eyes to Mario. “I lost him.” My voice cracks on the words.
“And you can find him again. You will find him again, the next time you travel. You need to make peace with that.” He shoots me another apologetic look that doesn’t do anything for my sore heart.
I tear my eyes away from him and look down at my hand. I watch a tear splash on the back of it.
“You’re not giving me a choice?”
Mario gives me a look that says No, not really. He reaches out and tries to take my other hand, but I pull it away.
“I’ll try to limit your exposure to him for a while,” he promises.
A while isn’t long enough, but I know better than to argue. I just nod mutely.
“Eventually, Jessa, you’ll have to get through this. You do understand that?”
No, I don’t. It’s too raw. I can’t do this. How do you walk and breathe and function in worlds full of ghosts?
“Here,” he says, getting out of the desk in front of me and moving back behind his teacher’s desk. He opens a drawer and reaches inside.
“I brought you something. Maybe it’ll make you feel better.”
He gestures to me and I walk over as he sets down a dish, filled with sparkling glitter mousse, right in the center of the desk. I look at it in disbelief.
A hundred memories fill my head, sharp and poignant and overwhelming, and I wonder if my Finn was replaceable to him—another death among the thousands he’s seen or possibly even influenced across thousands of realities and thousands of years. Finn was a speck. A number in a sequence. A momentary bump on a long road that a bowl of glitter mousse will easily smooth over.
My hand sweeps out, flinging the mousse off the desk, and I watch it shatter against the wall.
“He was more,” I say to him through gritted teeth. “His name was Finn, and he was somebody. We’re all somebody.”
In two steps, I wrench the red door open. It slams behind me and I wake with a start as my mom calls my name from the laundry room.
Ben looks down at me and I take a moment to get my bearings.
“You ready to talk?” he asks in a low voice.
“No,” I sigh. “But I guess I have to do it anyway.”
46
Explanations and Allies
“Are you two hungry?” My Mom calls out as Ben helps me off the couch.
I know I won’t be able to eat, and Ben comes to my rescue.
“We’ll eat later,” he lies. “We’ve got a lot of history homework to finish up.”
“Another project?”
“Something like that,” I call back. “We’ll be upstairs if you need us.”
I drag myself up the stairs, with Ben behind me, and I hear him shut the door. A long silence stretches between us and I sink down onto the bed, not sure what I should tell him. I don’t want him knowing too much, but he has to know why a person was murdered in front of him, by a teacher who wants to deconstruct the universe.
The grief washes over me again, and I bury my face in my hands. I feel Ben sit down next to me, and his hand rubs my back.
“C’mere,” he says, pulling me into his arms. I put my head on his chest, and the tears pour out silently. I cannot allow myself to make a sound because if I do, I won’t stop until I’m screaming. He rocks me gently, letting me get it out.
Eventually, I calm down, empty again and feeling like my limbs are filled with lead. He picks up the hem of his T-shirt and wipes my eyes.
“Tell me about all this when you’re ready,” he says. “It doesn’t have to be right now.”
I sigh heavily. “No, let’s get it over with.”
I step out to the bathroom, splash some water on my face, blow my nose, and pull myself together. Ben is still sitting on the bed, waiting patiently.
“First of all,” I say, closing the door gently behind me, “this is going to sound completely crazy.”
“I just watched a teacher try to murder us right before she vanished into thin air,” Ben says, working hard to keep his voice down. “And I seem to be the only one who’s questioning any of that.”
“I know, I know.” How do I explain this? He’s right. I ease down next to him on the bed.
“What did you mean when you said Finn isn’t from here? Was … was he an alien?” Ben asks cautiously.
I nearly laugh at the absurdity of it, but then I realize what I’m about to tell him is equally absurd.
“No. He was a Traveler. And so am I. We can move between realities.” I stop to clear my throat. “I know that sounds crazy, Ben, but it’s true.”
“And Eversor…?”
“She’s a Traveler, too. If we can see our reflection—in a mirror or a piece of glass—we can use it like a portal. It takes us to another reality.”
“You just … disappear? Like she did? Poof?”
“Something like that. And we don’t always disappear. Most of the time we trade with someone on the other side.”
He digests that for a moment, but his face makes it clear that he’s not any less confused. “Are you from here? This reality?”
“Yes. I only just found out I could travel.” My eyes meet his. “But the Jessa you were dating last week wasn’t me.”
He opens his mouth, then closes it. Then he opens it again. “How?”
“We switched. I was in her reality, hiding from Eversor. She came here. We were trying to throw her off.”
&nbs
p; “And that Jessa just up and decided I was boyfriend material?”
I sit back down next to him. “No. In her reality, you two have been dating for almost a year. She’s in love with you, Ben.”
Something flares in his eyes, but he bites his lip hard and tamps it down. “And you came back without knowing what the hell was going on.”
“I knew,” I say. “I get all of her memories. She gets all of mine. We’re the same person, just in two different places.”
“So did you feel any of that? What she felt?”
I make myself look him in the eyes. I owe him that much. “I felt every bit of it.”
He lets out a long stream of air through his lips and shakes his head, still trying to wrap his brain around it.
“I hated hurting you,” I say. “I’m sorry.” The tears start again, and he shushes me, bringing his fingers up to gently wipe my face.
“It’s okay, St. Clair. At least I know what’s going on now.” He wraps an arm around me and pulls me in again. “You’re one of the freaking X-Men and didn’t tell me. Some friend.”
I laugh explosively, my shoulders shaking, and then I sit back up and look at him.
“It’s not over yet,” I say. “Someone was giving Eversor orders, and they’re both still after me. We’re not going to be able to hang out for a while—until I get this sorted out. I don’t want you put in danger.”
“Tough luck,” Ben says, grasping my hand. “I’m signing on as a junior X-Man, and you’re not keeping me out of the club.”
“Ben—”
“I mean it, St. Clair. I’m in.”
“I can’t make you a Traveler,” I tell him. “It doesn’t work that way. And you could get hurt. Or worse.” I swallow again, not wanting to think about worse.
“You’re stuck with me,” he says. “I’ve saved your butt too many times. And I’m fixing to save it again, if I have to.”
47
The Comforts of Home
“Take it back!” Danny calls out. “Take it back!”
“All right, all right … gimme a second.” I grab the DVD remote off the table and reverse the movie a half-dozen frames.
“Right there!” He points. “Watch!”
I hit play and lean in to see what he’s talking about.
“You’re right!” I turn to look at him. “When Iron Man head-butts Thor, it dents his helmet. Holy cow!”
“I don’t know how either of you can see anything in that movie,” my mom calls out from the laundry room. “It all goes so fast in those fight sequences.”
“That’s why it’s called action-adventure,” I say.
“They shouldn’t fight,” Danny says. “They are friends.”
I walk over and lean in the doorway of the laundry room. After the events of yesterday, it’s almost bizarre to have this slice of normalcy. I’d say it’s comforting, but the knowledge that someone’s trying to murder most of the universe—including me—is never far from my mind. Normalcy is a temporary balm, and always will be until I find a way to get this target off my back—and the backs of all the people I care for.
Mom looks up from the pile of laundry she’s sorting.
“What’s up?’ she asks.
“Are you going to watch with us?”
“Huh? Oh, you guys go ahead.” She gestures with a dirty hand towel. “I need to get a load put in and then I need to fold all that.” She points at the basket full of clothes she just pulled out of the dryer.
I pick up the basket. “Why don’t I bring it out to the couch and we can fold while we watch?”
“Okay.” She smiles. “I can make us some popcorn, too.”
“I’m already on it,” I tell her. “Danny!”
“What?” he calls from the living room.
“Popcorn!”
“Okay!”
I can hear him stomping over to the kitchen and pulling open the pantry doors.
“I’ll make two!” he calls out gleefully.
Mom closes the washer door and starts it up, and then follows me out. I set the laundry basket down by the couch, and Danny pauses the movie while Mom waits in the kitchen for the popcorn to finish in the microwave.
“I’m gonna go back,” he says. “For Mom.”
“So she can see the helmet?”
“Yeah. ’Cause she missed it.”
“What did we do before microwave popcorn?” Mom muses as she pours the popcorn into a bowl. “You know, we used to make it on the stove top. Back in olden times, I mean.”
“Yeah, you’re so ancient,” I say, rolling my eyes.
Danny turns to look at me as he cues up the DVD. “When you miss something, you should go back,” he says matter-of-factly.
My mind turns his words over, then runs them through again.
When you miss something, you should go back.
I look over at my mother—my far-from-ancient mother—and a thought takes root.
We need to go back.
I have an ancestor who, by all accounts, was the one and only Traveler who began it all. And a group of Dreamers—at some point in time—decided I’m the one to stop the ending of it all.
How? It’s not enough that they know it’s me. Somewhere, someone must have predicted how. Maybe no one could agree on the forecast, but the answer had to have been considered. Maybe even discarded. Or maybe Mario knows and just didn’t think I could handle it yet.
My sleep was dreamless last night. Whether that was out of respect for my pain, or anger at my outburst, I don’t know. Today, I am still hollow, but the empty places are slowly being filled with questions.
Tonight, we’re going back to the beginning, and I don’t care if I fill up ten journals full of notes in dreamland. We’re missing something, and we need to go back.
“Jess?” Mom interrupts my train of thought. “Popcorn?” She holds out the bowl.
“Are you staying here tonight, Jessa?” Danny asks.
Mom thinks he’s asking if I’m going out, but I know he’s asking more. He’s asking if I’m going to stay his Jessa, just like he’s my Danny.
“I’m staying here, Danny—with you and Mom.”
I’m their Jessa, but I’m more now.
I’m everybody’s Jessa. And I’m going to find an answer.
Epilogue
He watched them lower her into the grave.
Her mother stood, weeping softly, holding her son’s hand as she tossed the first rose onto the lid of the coffin. It took some time for the well-wishers to file past, tossing their flowers, one at a time, yellow roses, signifying loss.
He looked across at her parents, moved by the grief in their faces. For all their occasional differences, it was clear they’d loved her.
They’d loved her as he’d loved her. Still loved her.
Slowly, the townspeople and friends took their leave, climbing into their vehicles to join her family at their home, eating delicate finger sandwiches and talking in hushed tones.
He made his way to the grave, holding his rose—a vivid red for the vibrant young woman, lying cold in a grave that she didn’t deserve.
He would find the one who did this, and he would make them pay. He offered it as a vow, murmured over a corpse that had no business being sheltered in a coffin so soon.
He tossed his rose and bid his final good-bye.
And as he stepped aboard his ship, he saw his reflection in the portal glass, and he realized it didn’t really have to be good-bye.
Not if he didn’t want it to be.
Acknowledgments
I have an enormous list of people without whom this book would never be. First and foremost, to Holly West and Lauren Scobell, for noticing a book with a handful of great reviews but not a lot of buzz around it, and then for having the foresight and patience to help me shape it into so much more. Thank you for taking a chance on me, for holding my hand, for brainstorming and poking and prodding and cheering me on from the margins with a well-placed remark. You made me a better writer.
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br /> To my many blog and fan-fiction readers—you’ve been so incredibly loyal and supportive, giving me the confidence and the courage to push myself as I never had before, and oh, has it paid off in so many ways. Thank you for reading, thank you for retweeting, for reblogging, for Facebook sharing, for shouting me out in fan forums, and for beta reading in the early stages. You’re the best, all of you!
To Gary, the creator of LiveJournal Idol, and all of my former competitors there: I was just a girl who liked to tell stories until all of you came along. That contest was grueling and challenging and exhilarating. It gave me my start, and with a few of my best entries in hand, it gave me my first paying writing job. You made me think it was possible, and I cannot thank you enough for it.
To my friends and neighbors, who listened to me gush when I thought up a plot twist or gripe when writer’s block hit, who mowed my lawn or invited my kids over to your house so I could write, who preordered my book the second it went up on Amazon, who introduce me to their friends as “My friend the writer” (thank you for that): I owe you a mountain of debt for it all. These past years haven’t always been easy, and you stuck by me through the downs and cheered from the sidelines when it started racing up. I am so very lucky to have all of you.
To my family all over the country that I talk to more on Facebook than in person: Please know how much your support means to me. You never once told me this was a waste of my time. You never once told me that the obstacles were too high, or too frequent for me to be anything less than utterly successful. You never doubted that I would be, and I put my faith in that so many days. You got me through.
To my children, who have seen my face over the screen of a laptop for several months, who heard “hold that thought” so many times while Mom finished writing her thoughts down, who put up with the perpetual stack of laundry at the foot of my bed and the occasionally cranky demeanor of a woman under a deadline: Please know how very much of this I owe entirely to you. You are my inspiration, my joy, my brightest and best gift to humanity. I love you.
And finally, a big thank-you to the good folks at Antonio’s pizza, for letting me sit in that booth and just write. And write. And write. Nobody makes a cheesesteak like you do.
