TIme After Time

9

San Francisco, California

I shut my eyes tight and lift my forehead off the steering wheel. My neck goes slack and I fall back into the seat, gripping the sides of my head and trying to piece together where I am. There’s a faint bit of light streaming in through the cracks on each side of the garage door, and I strain to read the clock on the dashboard: 6:03 P.M.

I rip into the box of supplies on the passenger seat, blindly groping for one of the water bottles. I down the first one without stopping and reach for another. My eyelids are still half closed when I pop the top on the Starbucks Doubleshot, and I let them fall shut completely as I tip my head back, letting the coffee slide down my throat. My whole body is shaking, and there’s sweat dripping down my face even though I’m freezing.

It takes a good twenty minutes for the pounding to turn into more of a dull throbbing, and when it does, I reach into the glove compartment for the car keys and my phone. The screen shows two missed calls from Mom back on Wednesday night, and four texts from Brooke over the last two days. I open the texts first and read them in order:

Ugh. Too quiet without you here. Having fun?

Seeing a show @ the Bottom of the Hill tonight. In real time. Like normal person I am. Borrring…

Worried about you. Reply when you’re back, okay?

No “mom” jokes in reply to last text, pls. Miss ya.

I squint at the screen, hit reply, and type out my message:

No jokes. Back home now. C U soon.

My mouth is still dry and my limbs feel weak, so I reach for another bottle of water and recline back in the seat, looking around the garage. In his e-mail, the owner had mentioned that it was “on the small side,” but that turned out to be a major understatement. When I first opened the door, I stood in the alley for the longest time trying to figure out if the Jeep would even fit.

It proved to be as challenging as it looked, but I folded the side mirrors flat against the frame, backed in slowly, and pressed the button on the electronic garage door opener, hoping for the best. I was a little surprised when it actually closed. I press that button again and the garage door jolts to life, squeaking and rattling and eventually settling into place over my head.

In the alley, I leave the Jeep running and hop out. There’s not much back here other than trash cans and rusting garden equipment. I grab a water bottle and throw my backpack over my shoulder, heading toward an abandoned pile of old flowerpots, and then I take a handful of dirt, dump some water over the top, and work the mud into the grooves of the shiny carabiners that hang from the external straps of my backpack.

But my cover-up efforts turn out to be unnecessary. When I get home, there’s a note from Mom on the counter saying that Brooke’s out on a date, Dad’s at a dinner meeting, and she’s going to the movies with friends. So much for family night.

I make myself something to eat and flop down on the couch. For the rest of the evening, I flip through channels, stare at the empty space next to me, and wonder how Anna and I are going to pull this off. She should be here right now. Or I should be there. But we shouldn’t be this.

I must eventually drift off because when I open my eyes again, the room is pitch-black, the television is off, and I’m covered with a blanket. I haul myself up to my room and fall into bed, still wearing the same clothes I had on when I left Evanston.

The voices coming from the TV in the kitchen are low but audible, and when I turn the corner, I find Dad with his hip against the counter, spooning yogurt into his mouth and watching the news. He looks up when I walk in.

“Hey. Welcome home. How was your trip?”

I’m grateful that he asked the question the way he did so that I don’t need to lie when I answer. “The trip was great. A lot of fun.”

Dad takes his glasses off and cleans them with the edge of his shirt. He puts them back in place and looks at me over the top of the frames. “The nights must have been cold.”

It takes me a second or two to think about how to phrase this one. None of the nights in Maggie’s house were even remotely chilly. “No, the nights were actually really warm,” I say. Too warm, in fact.

Dad finishes his yogurt and pours himself a glass of orange juice. Once I start in on my cereal there’s a lot of crunching, but the only voices in the room are coming from the television. He glances up at me a few times, as if he’s trying to think of something to fill the uncomfortable silence. But then something on the screen gets his attention, and he’s off the hook.

He reaches for the remote, turning up the volume, and pivoting to face the screen. “Breaking news this morning,” the anchorwoman says. A red and blue graphic that reads TRAGEDY IN THE TENDERLOIN flies in from the side of the screen and stops in the center—large and ominous, for effect—before it shrinks and settles at the bottom where it can’t interfere with the video footage of a building ablaze against the backdrop of the early-morning sky.

An apartment fire in the Tenderloin district claimed the lives of two young children in the early hours this morning. Five-year-old Rebecca Walker and her three-year-old brother, Robert, were asleep when a fire broke out in the bedroom they share on the third floor of an apartment complex on Ellis Street. The parents were rushed to the hospital for smoke inhalation. Firefighters were unable to rescue the two children.

I take a big bite of cereal and walk over to the counter to pour myself a cup of coffee, listening as the anchorwoman passes the story to the on-the-scene reporter. I’m only half paying attention, but I catch the gist. The parents were unable to get to the children, there was no smoke detector, and an investigation is underway to determine the cause. I peek at the screen when the downstairs neighbor describes hearing screams through the ceiling and calling 911. After one more shot of the high-drama burning-building footage, they move back to the studio and the anchorwoman wraps up the story and moves along to a new one about a fender bender that’s currently being cleared from the Bay Bridge.

“That’s horrible,” Dad says, staring at the screen. I’m pretty sure he’s referring to the previous news item about the fire and not the minor car accident. “Those poor parents. They must feel so guilty.” He’s tips his head back, downing his juice, and brings his glass to the sink. He won’t look at me, but he doesn’t have to. I can feel it. The space around us is already filling up with all the things he wants so badly to say right now.

Until recently, I bolted from any room that contained both Dad and news. I’d learned my lesson. If some horrible tragedy took place and I stayed silent, he’d shoot me this contemptuous look and say something like, “Doesn’t this even bother you?” On the flip side, if I made a comment that expressed even the slightest bit of remorse for the situation, he’d whip out a pen and paper and start plotting out all the ways I could go back and stop the plane crash/bus crash/shooting/stabbing/explosion/carjacking/terrorist attack/etc. Either way, my response to him would be the same. I don’t change things. It’s not my place to change things, just because I can. And yes, of course it bothers me. All the time. I’m not heartless.

Losing my sister in a previous decade came with its share of complications, but as it turns out, there were also a few silver linings. Meeting Anna was one. No longer having these excruciating conversations with my dad was another.

Brooke nearly spills my coffee when she throws her arms around my neck. “You’re home!” After a quick hug, she bounces over to Dad and gives him a peck on the cheek. She stops suddenly, and her gaze darts back and forth between the two of us. “Uh-oh,” she says, wiggling her fingers in the air. “There’s tension…” Brooke slips into her usual role, using humor to restore peace to our somewhat dysfunctional family. She slaps Dad’s arm with the back of her hand. “So, what’d he do this time?” She looks over at me and gives me a wink.

“Nothing,” Dad says. “Nothing at all.”

The double meaning isn’t lost on me.

He cleans his glasses again, this time with a dishcloth, looking out the window the entire time. “It’s going to be a gorgeous day.” His voice is higher that usual and that enthusiastic tone sounds forced. “Let’s get that boat on the bay, shall we?” He checks his watch. “I want to leave in a half hour. Can you two be ready?”

Brooke and I nod.

“Good. I’d better go see if your mom needs help.”

As soon as he’s out of earshot, I turn to Brooke. “Family day,” I say flatly. “Super.”

She raises an eyebrow at me. “Come on. They’re not that bad, you know?”

“Easy for you to say. You’re not a huge source of disappointment to one and a constant worry to the other.”

“And neither are you, but whatever…” She lifts herself onto the kitchen counter and points to the half-empty coffee mug I’m holding. “Hurry up, we only have a few minutes. Top off your coffee, pour me a cup, and tell me everything.”

So I do. In hushed tones I speed through the details, telling her all about Maggie and the reason there’s a photo of the three of us at the zoo. Brooke’s eyes grow wide, and she asks for more details about the stuff I try to breeze past, like Emma and Justin’s breakup and how the Greenes let me crash on their couch the first night. She sips her coffee, hanging on every word, and after I’ve given her a play-by-play of practically the entire trip, I shake my head and tell her how Anna decided—once again, and for reasons I honestly can’t fathom—that she’d rather put up with the oddities of this bizarre relationship than tell me to stay where I belong. I tell Brooke how hard it was to leave, and with every word, I’m more relieved to have one person here who understands. The thought makes me remember Anna’s request for a confidante of her own. I wish I hadn’t left town without giving her one.

Mom and Dad walk back into the kitchen carrying bags over their shoulders and jackets in their arms. Dad heads straight for the garage, but Mom takes a detour to give me a peck on the cheek and tell me she’s happy I’m home. Then she asks me to carry the cooler out to the car.

As I’m picking it up, Brooke leans in close and nudges me with her elbow. “I’m glad you’re home too,” she says.

It feels so strange to lie to Brooke, but I do it anyway. “So am I,” I say.

10

People keep walking by, but so far no one seems to have noticed that I’m sitting here alone in the Jeep, staring at the door that leads to my locker. The warning bell sounded thirty seconds ago, but I can’t bring myself to leave this spot.

It would be so easy to close my eyes right now, disappear from this car, and open them in a secluded corner of Westlake Academy. I’d go straight to the office and tell Ms. Dawson at the front desk that my family’s plans have changed, I am back in town for my senior year after all, and, if possible, I’d like a class schedule. Then I’d walk the hallway until I found Anna. We’d eat lunch with Emma and Danielle like we always did. That night, while we were sprawled out on her bedroom floor studying together, I’d surprise her by grabbing her hands and transporting her to a quiet spot far away, like a beach in Bora-Bora.

The final bell rings. I reach down for my backpack, throw it over my shoulder, and slam the Jeep door. As I cross the student parking lot, I look down at my jeans and T-shirt. I never thought I’d actually miss the Westlake uniform.

I don’t pass a single person as I climb the staircase that leads to my locker on the third floor, and when I pull up on the latch, the click echoes in the empty hall. Inside, there’s nothing but empty water bottles, a few granola-bar wrappers, and a bunch of loose papers that someone fed through the slats while I was gone. Collectively, they represent everything I missed last spring. There’s a prom court voting ballot, a sign-up sheet for the annual senior class Olympics, and a flyer for the spring musical. I push them back in my locker and shut the door.

I printed out my class schedule this morning, but I barely even glanced at it before I shoved it into the front pocket of my jeans. I haven’t the slightest clue where I’m supposed to be right now, so I dig it out and open it. First period: AP World Civilizations with Mrs. McGibney. Building C, the one farthest from my locker, clear on the other side of the quad. I check the time on my phone. I’m already five minutes late.

It takes me another five minutes to reach the classroom door, and when I open it, a roomful of faces I haven’t thought about in months turns to look at me. I take a few tentative steps inside, and the next time I look around I see Cameron in the back row. He lifts his hand and gives me a nod.

“You must be my missing student.” McGibney doesn’t look up or stop writing on the whiteboard as she addresses me. “Are you Mr. Cooper?” she asks, but she keeps talking and doesn’t wait for me to answer. “I was just going over the rules of this class. The first one is that I expect my students to be sitting in their seats when the bell rings.”

“Sorry,” I mumble under my breath.

“I give one freebie, and you just used it.” She still hasn’t looked away from the board. I have no idea how she can talk to me and write at the same time, but I’m a little bit impressed. She’s already written the words “First Civilizations” and started a bulleted list below: “agriculture,” “significant cities,” “writing systems.” “Are you going to sit down and join us, Mr. Cooper, or would you prefer to stand by the door for the rest of my class?” She adds a bullet and the words “formal states” as she speaks.

The only empty seat is in the first row, directly in front of her desk, and I can feel every eye watching me as I shuffle across the room and settle in. Trying not to move too quickly, too slowly, or too loudly, I unzip my backpack and remove my notebook and a pencil.

A pencil. I run it back and forth between my fingers as I picture Anna piling her curls on top of her head and using my pencil to hold them in place.

“Hi.” The voice jolts me from my thoughts, and I look to my left. Megan Jenks is leaning over her desk, writing in her notebook, and looking at me from behind a veil of blond hair.

“Hi,” I say under my breath.

She smiles before she turns back to her notes. I return to mine, madly copying the words on the whiteboard into my composition book, as if the exercise alone will give them some kind of meaning. McGibney asks a question but I only half hear it. Not that it matters since I have no idea how to answer.

Megan’s hand shoots up next to me. “Miss Jenks,” McGibney says, pointing at her.

“The Neolithic Revolution.”

“Yes. Good.” McGibney returns to the whiteboard and writes something under the word “agriculture” as Megan looks over and sends another quick smile my way. I give her a nod, turn to my notebook, and write “Neolithic Revolution.” It’s the first day of school, and I’m already wondering if I missed some required reading or something, because I have absolutely no idea what they’re talking about.

The day moves at a painfully slow pace, and I muddle through Statistics, Spanish, and Physics until it’s finally time for lunch. I make small talk with the people in line. When they ask me how I am, I tell them I’m fine. When they ask me where I’ve been, I give them one of several answers: Traveling around. Seeing the world. And, I’d prefer not to talk about it.

Everything happened so quickly last spring. When I lost Brooke in 1994, Mom insisted I get as close to her as I could, and it was my idea to stay with my grandmother in 1995 Evanston. It wasn’t 1994 Chicago, but it was close enough. Against my better judgment, I left it to Mom to come up with an excuse to explain why I was missing school here.

She panicked. At first she told them I was “Away, sorting out a few things.” But when a week turned into two, she had no other choice but to expand upon her story, and suddenly I was “sorting things out” at a treatment center for troubled teens on the east coast. They had no idea when I’d be home. That was up to the doctors.

At least word didn’t get out to my friends, who seem to believe my version of events: I tapped into some latent rebellious streak and took off to backpack around Europe.

I grab a sandwich and a huge bottle of water, head into the cafeteria, and immediately spot the guys on the other side of the double glass doors. They’re sitting outside on the deck at the long table that overlooks the quad.

When I arrive, Adam scoots over and I slide my tray next to his. He has a mouthful of food, but after he finishes chewing and washes it down with his water, he looks at me like I’m the new kid or something. “Hey. I almost forgot you were back here.”

I glare at him like I’m offended. “Thanks…missed you too.”

Cameron has been talking nonstop all summer about his new girlfriend, but since I’ve barely seen him outside the park, I haven’t met her yet. Now she’s watching me with a curious expression, but he’s too fixated on his pasta to notice.

I reach across the table. “Hi,” I say. “I don’t think we’ve met. I’m Bennett.”

She brings her hand to her chest and says, “Sophie,” before she extends it in my direction. Cameron looks up and attempts a smile even though his mouth is full of noodles and sauce. He gestures back and forth between the two of us and then sticks his thumb up.

Another tray slides across the table, and Sam slaps me on the shoulder as he sits down. “Hey. How’s the first day going?”

He looks different. It’s only been a few days since I saw him last, but his hair is cropped closer to his head than I’ve ever seen it, and it doesn’t look like he has shaved in the last day or two. He looks older or something.

I shrug and say, “Good, I guess,” as I look around campus. “Just…different.” I’ve always found the glass walls and metal railings interesting, but today they serve as a reminder that everything about this place and its modern architecture is in such stark contrast with the refined look of Westlake Academy. I can’t imagine what Anna would think of these buildings. I’m pretty sure she’d have no idea what to make of the solar panels next to the living roof above the art studio.

“What do you have after lunch?” Sam asks as he bites into his burger.

I lean back, digging into the front pocket of my jeans for my schedule. I unfold it and look for the fifth-period box. “English. With Wilson.”

Sam wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and says, “Hey, me too. Good.” Just as he says the last word, someone lets out a gasp from behind us and we both turn our heads. “Hey, Linds,” Sam says, sliding down the bench to make room for her between us.

“What did you do to your hair?” Lindsey puts her food on the table and stares at his nearly bald head in wonder. She reaches out like she’s going to touch it, but then pulls her hand back again.

“I cut it.”

“With what?”

Sam laughs as he rubs his hand back and forth over the top of his head. “I love it. It feels cool. Here,” he says, leaning over in her direction. “Touch it.”

“No.” She smacks his shoulder with the back of her hand but laughs along with him. Then she plants her palms on the sides of his face and kisses him on the forehead. “I just saw you yesterday. You couldn’t have warned me?” Lindsey’s shaking her head as she sits down.

He shrugs. “It was spontaneous.”

She stares at me pointedly. I resist the urge to laugh. And to touch my own hair. “See, Coop, this is the kind of stuff that happened last year when you weren’t around to keep him in line. Where were you during yesterday’s head-shaving debacle?”

I hold my hands up in front of me, palms out. “Not my night to watch him.” Lindsey rolls her eyes and takes a long draw of soda from her straw. She’s still shaking her head as she digs into her pasta.

Sam runs his hand over his head wearing a wide grin. “I like it.”

Lindsey and Sam have been together since the beginning of our junior year. She’s a full inch taller than any of us, including Sam, and dominates on the volleyball court. We’d always been friends with her, but at some point during our sophomore year, she started eating lunch at our table. I don’t even remember it being weird. She just sat down.

I think she had a falling out with her friends. I once asked her about it, and she admitted that, aside from her teammates, she didn’t have a lot of close girlfriends. I like to know where I stand with people, I remember her saying. None of this today we’re friends, tomorrow…poof. She had pinched her fingers together and made them explode apart. Guys are so much easier. A long pause. That’s a compliment, by the way.

Maybe we’re more complicated than you think, I’d said, keeping a straight face. What if we don’t like you at all and we just don’t know how to tell you?

She’d looked at me right in the eyes. Do you guys like me, Coop?

I couldn’t help but smile. Yeah. We do.

She had shrugged. See.

Months later, a bunch of us were hanging out at the beach. Sam was on one side of the bonfire telling one of his remember that time stories, complete with animated facial expressions and exaggerated gestures, when Lindsey wrapped her hand around my arm and rested her chin on my shoulder. “I think I like him,” she admitted, and I stared at her in disbelief. “Sam?” I asked, and she shrugged and said, “Look at him. He’s kind of adorable.”

I looked at him. I didn’t find him adorable. But then I looked back at her and saw that she meant every word. Sam caught her looking his way and shot her a smile that made her turn red and bury her face in my shoulder, and just so he wouldn’t get the wrong idea, I subtly motioned back and forth between the two of them. Two weeks later, they were Sam and Lindsey. I gave her endless amounts of grief for blushing so hard that night.

She twists her pasta around her fork and looks at me out of the corner of her eye. “So tell me everything. I barely got to see you this summer. How was it? What did you do?”

“It was fine.” I can’t think of anything interesting to tell her outside of the concerts I went to with Brooke or my trips to visit Anna in La Paz, so I leave it at that and ask her what she did. She tells me she spent most of the summer driving back and forth to beach volleyball tournaments in Southern California.

It reminds me that it’s been a long time since I saw her play. “When’s your first game?” I ask.

“A week from Saturday,” she says. “You should come. Sam will be there.” She elbows him and gives him a half smile. “He’ll be the one wearing a hat.”

Sam ignores her comment and leans forward on the table, resting his chin in his hand. “What are you doing after school today?” he asks me.

“Homework.” I think about the mountain of assignments that have been doled out over the last four classes, and the sad fact that I still have three more to go.

“That’s it?” Lindsey asks.

“I don’t know. I guess I was thinking about heading over to the climbing gym.” I look at Sam. “Want to come?”

“Sure. But it’ll have to be on the late side. I’m tutoring tonight.”

Since when does Sam tutor? “You’re tutoring?”

He shrugs. “I must’ve told you. I started at the end of last year, but this year I’m running the sixth grade math program, so it’s a lot more intense.” He takes a big sip of his drink. “It’s fun. You should do it. It’ll look good on your college apps.”

I haven’t even thought about college applications. “Are the kids cool?”

Sam shakes his head. “Hell, no. They’re a bunch of spoiled brats with some serious entitlement issues.”

I laugh. “Way to sell it.”

“I’m kidding. There are, like, two cool ones. But seriously, you’d be good at it,” he says to me. “You’re good with kids and stuff.”

“Yeah,” I say sarcastically, “I’m super patient. Especially with the spoiled ones with entitlement issues.” I give him a wide smile and two overly enthusiastic thumbs-up.

I reach for my water, suddenly realizing what Lindsey meant by her That’s it? question. Everyone’s afternoons are filled with sports, clubs, and community service projects that look good to a college admissions staff. I haven’t even thought about what I’m doing next year, let alone boosting my application.

The bell rings and everyone dumps their trash in the bins before taking off in their separate directions. Lindsey gives Sam one more eye roll before she pushes his head in my direction. “Watch him,” she says with a wink. I laugh, thinking how much Lindsey and Anna would like each other. The four of us would have fun together.

I’m glad Sam and I are going the same way, because I didn’t even look at the room number before I stuffed my schedule back into my pocket. As we walk through the halls toward our lockers, my mind drifts back to Anna again, and I start piecing together her schedule, wondering what she’d be doing back in 1995 Evanston. Would she still be in class, or out on the track? Would it be her day to work at the bookstore? Did she, Emma, and Danielle talk about me over lunch? Did Anna tell them that I’m coming back? Did Emma lose it when she found out?

Sam comes to a stop.

“What?”

He points at a row of lockers. “Don’t you need your stuff?”

“Huh? Oh, yeah.…” It suddenly dawns on me that we’re standing in front of my locker.

Sam shakes his head and gives me a pitying look. “I swear, man, it’s like you’re back but you’re not.”

I avoid his eyes as I spin the combination dial.

I couldn’t have said it better myself.

11

After an hour at the climbing gym with Sam and a rushed dinner with my parents, I head upstairs to start on my homework. I navigate to the school website and check this week’s assignments. I have a couple of hours of reading for Chemistry, a paper due in two weeks on the rise of the Tigris-Euphrates civilization, and an essay I’m supposed to begin writing for English.

I lean back with my arms folded behind my head, staring up at the ceiling. Until recently, I’d never really thought much about my bedroom. Mom had it professionally decorated when we moved in four years ago, and I don’t recall picking out a single thing.

Unlike Anna’s room, there are no posters on my walls, no maps of the world, no bookshelves filled with trophies and CD cases. It’s just really white. White walls. White ceiling. White rug. White comforter. The desk is glass and metal, but that does very little to break up the monotony. The only color in the room comes from the huge canvas painting my mom bought at an art auction a couple of years ago, and the red glass bowl—overflowing with ticket stubs from every live concert I’ve ever seen—that’s perched on the nightstand next to my bed. Aside from that bowl, this room could belong to anyone.

Anna was only in my bedroom for a matter of minutes, but in that short amount of time, she must have seen it for what it is: a room that looks like it’s staged for an upcoming sale.

I should start on homework, but instead I reach for my phone. It’s a little after nine o’clock here and an hour later in Boulder. I type out a message to Brooke:

U there?

I wait for her to reply, and finally the phone chirps.

Yup. Studying.

How was your first day back?

I type in one word:

Sucked.

Brooke’s reply appears quickly.

Sorry. :(

I stare at the screen, thinking about what to say. Finally I type:

I miss her.

I look at the words before I hit send. A few minutes pass before Brooke replies.

I know. Go do something to take your mind off it.

That’s what the climbing was for, but it just made me wish I were outside on real rocks and reminded me of my first date with Anna.

Like what?

I picture Brooke letting out an exasperated huff when she reads my message. She comes back with three rapid-fire responses:

IDK.

Something fun.

Something good.

I go back to my computer, where I find myself drifting off into thoughts about college admissions and catching up with everyone else on extracurricular activities. I search for volunteer opportunities and find hundreds in San Francisco alone, ranging from part-time jobs that support senior citizens to working with kids in the city’s poorer neighborhoods.

This one site catches my eye, and the reason isn’t entirely lost on me. I click on it, check out the programs, and watch the video. Then I navigate back to the map. The building is in the heart of the Tenderloin, only a block away from where last Saturday’s fire took place.

It’s not as if I’ve forgotten about it. It’s been hanging out in the back of my mind for the last three days. But now that this map is filling the screen, I can’t block it out of my mind anymore. Without even thinking about what I’m about to do, I move the cursor to the search field and type the words “Tenderloin fire.”

There’s a long list of links and I click on the most recent one. It basically says the same thing the TV news story reported last Saturday morning: an apartment fire on the third floor killed two children, a five-year-old girl and a three-year-old boy. Neighbors called 911. Source of fire remains unknown. Investigation underway.

I scroll down to the bottom of the screen and find an update to the story: investigators are still trying to determine the cause. The parents aren’t speaking to the media.

When I click the corner of the window, the browser closes and the story disappears. I push my chair away from my desk and reach for the enormous English book I was given today during class. I flop down on my bed and start reading. I’m only a couple of paragraphs into the homework assignment when my mind starts wandering again.

I stand up and return to my desk. I open the bottom drawer and dig deep, shuffling through a collection of postcards I’ve bought to give to Anna, little scraps of paper I’ve saved for no particular reason, and climbing maps folded haphazardly and stuffed inside. At the bottom, I feel the red notebook I hid when I got back from Evanston last weekend. I open it to a dog-eared page near the back.

The calculations are especially messy, stretching across the binding and continuing down the sides. Even the pencil marks themselves have a bit of a manic look to them, but with complete clarity, I remember writing them and know precisely what they mean.

I barely knew Emma at the time, but I stayed up all night calculating and weighing the risks of altering an entire day to prevent an accident and possibly save her life. Sure, I’d gone back before—five minutes here, ten minutes there, each time changing totally minor, completely insignificant events. But I’d never gone back that far or deliberately changed that many minor things. I didn’t even know if it would be possible. And even though it was, I decided I would never do it again.

But looking at the dates and calculations reminds me how I felt when it was all over and I saw the look of pure relief on Anna’s face. She practically skipped down the driveway after seeing Emma that Saturday morning—all of her various internal organs intact and the skin on her face scratch-free and perfect—and as I stared at her through the windshield, this feeling of intense pride washed over me. I had done that. I made that happen. It was the first time I’d ever felt that maybe I had been wrong about this gift of mine. It was the first time I’d wondered if maybe Dad was right.

Now I run my finger along the pages, thinking about the look on his face as we stood in the kitchen last week, watching the news on the screen. He wanted to say something, but he knew I wasn’t supposed to travel anymore. Besides, I’d told him so many times that he probably knew it was senseless to bring it up again: I don’t change things.

I wonder what he’d say if he knew that I once did.

For Emma, I’d gone back fifty-two hours. Could I go back even further?

I turn to a clean page and start scribbling some new calculations. I know I’ll never be able to answer the big ethical questions with any certainty, but a few minutes later, I’ve figured out the math. I’ll need to go back about sixty-four hours. Two and a half…almost three days. I’d have to stay back there, just like I did with Emma, and repeat those three days again to be sure that the do-over stuck, that nothing unintentional got altered along the way. I slam the notebook shut, bury it deep in my drawer again, and go back to my homework.

This is officially insane.

I’m standing in my room, zipping up my backpack. It’s heavy, filled to bursting with water bottles, Doubleshots, Red Bulls, a wad of cash, a flashlight, a smoke detector, and a fire extinguisher. I look around the room and shake my head. What am I doing?

Before I can give it another thought, I close my eyes and visualize my destination. When I open them, I’m in the alley I found on Google Maps, just one block south of the apartment complex. I’ve never been here before and already I hope I won’t have to come back again.

To describe this neighborhood as sketchy would be a massive understatement. It’s only a little after five A.M., but there are pockets of activity everywhere. A group of guys are hanging in front of a liquor store on the corner, and the doorways are filled with homeless people curled up in sleeping bags. There’s an eerie buzz around me, and I feel my guard go up as I walk down the street toward the address. I keep my eyes up, my feet moving.

I’m relieved to find the apartment and somehow feel a little bit safer as I slip into the entryway. I scan the directory on the wall, reading the last names next to each of the little black buttons until I find Walker. I check to be sure no one’s watching me.

I close my eyes and when I open them again, I’m on the other side of the main entrance. There are no lights on the lower floor and the staircase is barely visible. I reach into my backpack for my flashlight, and I shine it on the stairs as I climb the three flights that lead to 3C. Closing my eyes, I visualize the other side of the door.

In the apartment, I sneak down the hallway with my flashlight. School pictures line the walls, and for the first time tonight, I don’t question whether or not this will work, I just hope it does.

I creep around the corner, past the living room and toward the bedrooms. After I pass the bathroom, I stand frozen, facing two closed doors. I have no idea which one belongs to the kids, so I think back to the video footage of the building on fire and make the educated guess that it’s the door on the right; the one closest to the street. I twist the handle and the door creaks open.

On the far side of the room, two twin beds bookend a large window that looks out over the street below. A thin stream of light is coming in from between the curtains, casting a soft glow on the dingy carpet.

The kids are breathing, low and soft, and neither one of them moves as I remove my backpack and cross the room. I crouch down, remove the brand-new smoke detector I found buried in a box out in our garage marked HOME IMPROVEMENT, and position it as high on the wall as I can reach. Back in the hall, I grab the small fire extinguisher I snagged from under our kitchen sink and prop it against the short wall between the two bedrooms.

I close my eyes and visualize the exact same spot I was in before the fire broke out last Saturday in the early-morning hours. My bedroom.

By the time I open my eyes, the other me has already disappeared, sent back to who knows where and when, and I’m free to take his place.

The last time I was here, I had just hauled myself up from the couch downstairs. My head was still aching and my mouth was uncomfortably dry. But right now my heart is racing in a good way, and I’m so full of adrenaline I’m about to burst out of my own skin. I don’t know if I was successful or not, and I won’t know until the news comes on in a few hours, but somehow, I have a feeling it worked. This wasn’t what Brooke meant when she said I should do “something good,” but I’m pretty sure I just did.

12

The first time around, I had climbed into bed with my clothes on and fallen back into a deep sleep. But there’s no way I could have fallen asleep tonight. I’ve been sitting here for the last hour waiting to see the first signs of daylight, and thinking about what I just did.

Suddenly it dawns on me. In fact, it’s odd that I didn’t think of it until now, or factor it into my decision process as I sat in my bedroom on the Monday night I just wiped away. I’d been three days closer to returning to Anna. Now I have to do those days all over again, like I just rolled the dice and landed on the square that reads, Go back three spaces. I don’t know if this do-over will work, but one thing’s certain: it may actually be the most unselfish thing I’ve ever done in my life.

The TV is the first thing I hear, and when I turn the corner I find Dad in the exact same place he was the first time: leaning against the counter, spooning yogurt into his mouth, watching the news.

The expression on my face must look different this time, because he takes one look at me and breaks into a grin. “Well, someone’s in a good mood,” he says. “Nice trip?” My heart starts beating fast and I force myself to keep a straight face.

It’s a completely unfounded superstition, but I still feel the intense need to keep things exactly the same—at least until I know if the do-over was a success. So even though I’m not at all hungry, I head for the pantry and emerge with the same box of cereal. “The trip was great.”

“The nights must have been cold.”

It takes me a second to remember what I said last time. “No, the nights were actually really warm.”

Dad finishes his yogurt and pours his juice while I force down a spoonful of cereal. There’s the same uncomfortable silence. The only voices in the room are coming from the television. Three. Two. One.

“Breaking news,” the anchorwoman says. I set my bowl on the counter and my head flips around. There’s no fancy TRAGEDY IN THE TENDERLOIN graphic today. Instead, the first thing I see is similar-looking video footage of the apartment building ablaze against the backdrop of a dark night sky.

An apartment fire broke out in the Tenderloin district in the early hours this morning. Neighbors say they were awoken by a smoke alarm and helped all four residents of the apartment escape before the flames engulfed the building. Two children, their parents, and a neighbor are currently being treated at San Francisco General for smoke inhalation. All five are expected to be released later today.

I look over at Dad. He’s glanced up at the newscast here and there, but this time, he doesn’t set his yogurt container down or reach for the remote to turn up the volume. On screen, the anchorwoman never breaks to an on-the-scene reporter, because there is no on-the-scene reporter. Instead, the camera goes to a wide shot of the studio, and she turns to her coanchor, who flashes her most concerned expression. “A good reminder to check those batteries in your smoke detectors.”

The newscast moves to the fender bender that’s currently being cleared from the Bay Bridge. Dad doesn’t notice me staring at him, unable to speak or move or take in a good deep breath.

I did that.

“Do you remember that apartment we lived in when you were born?” Dad asks. “It was way out on the edge of the city. We moved to a different building when you were four, but when you were really little, your mom and I lived on the third floor of an apartment complex.”

I actually did that.

Now that I know the do-over was a success, I no longer feel the urge to keep every element of our conversation exactly the same as it was the first time around. Which is good, since I’m frozen in place, staring at him while I try to force my jaw back where it belongs.

“Your mom hated living on such a high floor. We had this rickety old fire escape, and I thought it was kind of cool, but she was always afraid of a fire breaking out and all of us having to use it. She’s still terribly paranoid about fires. Have you seen all the smoke detectors we have in this house?” He laughs. “She even makes me keep spare ones in the garage. Are you okay, Bennett?”

I have to speak. Now.

“I did that.” My voice shakes.

“Did what?”

“That,” I say, pointing lamely at the TV.

He turns and looks at it. “Oh? Really? I didn’t know that. I always thought that looked a bit dangerous.”

The newscast has moved on to a story about this Friday’s Critical Mass bike ride through downtown. “No. Not that,” I say, and Dad looks back at me quizzically.

I’d better talk quickly. If everything goes roughly the same way it did last time, I have about three more minutes before Brooke arrives. I want Dad to be the first to know what happened. I want to tell him while we’re alone.

I keep my voice low and strong. “Dad, listen to me. I did that over. The fire in the Tenderloin.” I gesture to the TV again, but he doesn’t look away from me this time. His eyes are locked on mine, hanging on every word. “We’ve been here before, and that story was different then. Those kids didn’t make it out of the fire. They died.”

My heart was already racing, but now that I’ve said the word “died,” it kicks into a whole new gear. My legs are shaking, so I rest a hand on the counter to steady myself. Dad looks at the TV, then back at me, then back at the TV. “What?” he asks.

“Those kids died. But I went back and changed what happened.”

Dad’s staring at me like I told a joke and he doesn’t get the punch line.

I give the kitchen a paranoid glance to be sure we’re still alone before I blurt it all out. “I came downstairs—just like I did ten minutes ago—and when I walked into the kitchen there was a news story about a fire in the Tenderloin that killed two kids. You didn’t say anything, but I knew you wanted to. And you probably thought I didn’t care, but I did.”

Dad pulls his glasses low on his nose and watches me over the top of them. “Later, we went sailing, and the next day we drove Brooke to the airport, and then I started school on Monday and, frankly, it was kind of a shitty day and I couldn’t stop thinking about those kids anyway so I thought…why not try it? I wanted to see if I could fix it. I wanted to know if I could stop it from happening the way it did.”

Dad opens his mouth to speak, but he stops. He looks at me for a full minute, his face contorting into new expressions the whole time. I’m waiting, watching him, holding my breath and trying to figure out what he’s thinking. Finally, his whole face relaxes. His eyes shine. I can tell he’s proud of me.

“Hey! You’re home!” I startle as Brooke wraps her arms around my neck and whispers, “God, it sucks here without you.” She takes two steps back and looks from me to Dad. “What’s up? You okay?” She rises to her tiptoes and pecks him on the cheek.

“Yeah, I’m okay.” Dad gives her a small smile, but he doesn’t look at me at all.

Brooke bounces over to the refrigerator and opens the door. She stands in the chill while she tries to decide what to eat.

Dad looks a little unstable. “We should get going soon. I’m just…” He trails off as he looks around the kitchen. “I’ll go see if your mom needs help.”

Brooke pours herself a bowl of cereal and lifts herself up to sit on the kitchen counter. “Okay, we only have a few minutes. Tell me everything.”

Exactly like last time, I speak in hushed tones, telling her all about Maggie and the reason there’s a photo of the three of us at the zoo, Emma and Justin’s breakup, and how the Greenes let me crash on their couch the first night. She sips her coffee, hanging on every word, and after I’ve given her a play-by-play of practically the entire trip, I lower my head and say, “There’s more.”

I tell her about two kids who were killed in a fire in the Tenderloin.

And then I tell her how they weren’t.

13

My second first day of school starts off differently. I don’t sit in the car, listening as the bell rings in the distance and wishing I could close my eyes and open them at Westlake. Instead, my car is one of the first ones in the student lot, and I’m one the first people in the building.

I head straight to my locker, drag the recycling can over and park it underneath the door, and scoop all the papers and granola bar wrappers into the bin. I give my locker one more sweep with my hand and I look inside. With the exception of the VANS sticker I put on the inside of the door freshman year, it’s as empty at my locker at Westlake was.

When the first bell rings, I’m already more than halfway across the quad. I open the door to my World Civilizations classroom and discover that it’s still empty, so I take a seat in the row closest to the window about halfway down the aisle, nowhere near McGibney’s desk.

I grab my notebook and a pencil from my backpack, and as I’m doodling, she walks through the door. She crosses the room and sets her briefcase down next to her chair. “Punctual,” McGibney says, and I look up at her.

“Excuse me?”

“You’re punctual,” she says plainly. “What’s your name?”

“Bennett Cooper.” I hold my hand up and she nods.

“Ah,” she says, and I can practically see the wheels turning, my mom’s ridiculous story clicking into place in her mind. “Welcome back, Mr. Cooper. I hear you have some catching up to do.” She says the words plainly and without a trace of the sympathetic stare I know I’ll be getting from the rest of the teachers today.

“Yeah,” I say. “I do.”

“Well let me know how I can help, okay?”

People come into the room, look around for a desk, and settle in. Cameron spots me, and as he walks down the aisle, we give each other a fist bump. He takes the seat behind me, just as Megan steps in and looks around. I turn to talk with Cameron and I can’t say I’m surprised when I see her take the seat on my left.

“Hey, Bennett,” she says.

“Hi,” I say. I’m feeling good. Chatty. Full of adrenaline, like I could run a marathon and still have energy left to burn. “How was your summer?”

“It was good. Thanks. How was yours?”

“Good,” I say, and Megan nods, like she’s encouraging me to continue. And I would, but the bell rings and McGibney immediately launches into detail about the year’s syllabus.

She goes over the rules of class, putting extensive emphasis on the importance of being on time and in one’s seat at least a full minute before the bell rings. After she looks around the room and declares that everyone’s present, she gestures toward the whiteboard in one big, dramatic movement.

“Now. Let’s get right into it. We’ll be talking about early civilizations for the next two weeks.” She writes the words “First civilizations” and draws a line underneath, then begins adding bullet points. I remember this part, and now I start to predict what she’s going to write next. “Significant cities,” I guess accurately. Next, “writing systems”… She ends with the words “formal states.”

She turns around and addresses the class. “Does anyone know the term we use to describe the transition from hunting and gathering to more formal agricultural systems?”

My hand shoots up and so does Megan’s. McGibney calls on her, but I’m a little puffed up because this time, I knew the answer. Even though I cheated.

It takes more effort than I anticipated, but for the next three weeks, I “live in the present” as the bumper sticker wisdom says. I try not to think about my past with Anna, or even speculate about what my next visit with her will bring. I go to school during the day, make small talk with my parents at night, and do my best to fill my time on the weekends. I stay fixed in place on the timeline, avoiding concerts and news, and extinguishing any thoughts that creep in about do-overs.

I try to live like I’m normal. I force myself not to think about Anna every time I meet my friends for coffee, or skate at the park overlooking the bay, or pass a gift shop that sells San Francisco souvenirs and postcards. As hard as it is, I try not to think about the fact that she can’t come here and meet my family and friends. I ignore the reality that I can take her anywhere in the world, but I can’t show her the city I love more than any place I’ve ever been. And for the most part, I’m successful. But every few days, I find myself autopiloting over to the garage, where I pull the Jeep inside its rank-smelling walls and listen to music for a while.