15 Minutes: A YA Time Travel Thriller (Rewind Series)

I have fifteen minutes.

“Lara Crane?”

Standing in the sterile waiting room of the time travel agency
known simply as Rewind
,
I turn
towards the voice. A redhead technician with a tight ballerina bun
offers me a handshake.
 
I've met her before. Her name is Delilah.

I should be in second period lab class, but instead I cut. I
have something more important to do than completing junior year chemistry.

“Nice to see you again.” After a glance over my shoulder, I
follow her through a tiny hallway and into a secure room. I crinkle paper
brochures in one hand, and with the other repeatedly tuck my hair behind my
ears.

Her lips perch together in a tight smile. “You too, Ms. Crane.
One of my favorite return visitors.”

I sit down in the overstuffed black recliner,
and when she latches the door, the
metallic boom makes my heart skip a beat.

This is it. Turning back is not an option.

The stark white walls, sparsely covered with posters, make me
feel like a trapped rat. Time travel has rules, the posters warn
,
and I plan on breaking every one. A
daughter will do anything for her mother.

I have one chance at this, and with my heightened blood
pressure, it’s clear my body knows it. Once you travel back to a specific time,
it’s catalogued as off limits. Frequent travel to the same moment, in the same
space, causes a rut in space, like pacing across a worn floor. If I fail, if I
can’t do this, my mother will remain dead forever.

The technician is wearing all white, and her shoes squeak against
the shiny silver tiles.

She straps the belt around my lap, and my knees bounce up from
my bottled-up tension. The clustered nerves in my gut grow larger. I swallow to
settle them, but bile rises in my throat.

Delilah
sits at her
computer a few feet in front of me, probably checking the records for my time
travel history.
This is my tenth
trip, thanks to the frequent visitor discount card Delilah sold me on my second
visit. I’ve been time travelling to plot my route and improve my sprinting time
through the city.

She slides over to me on her desk chair. Her eyes search mine,
and they glint with distrust. “We checked out the date and location,” Delilah
says. “It seems like a happy memory. How old were you?”

She’s scoping me out. I try hard to keep eye contact. I’ve
worked too hard on this to get found out now. It took every penny I had to pay
for this final trip. “I was five. I sang in front of the mayor. My dad was
there. It was a big deal to me then.”

Delilah slips a standard white hospital-issue heart monitor on
my finger and clamps it tightly, catching my skin. With a deft movement of her
foot, the chair reclines like the one in the dentist’s office, and I’m peering
up at the glass ceiling.

She
speaks again, seemingly bored now, as she goes through her pockets looking for
something until she pulls out a pen.

“You’ll
have fifteen minutes and will have to watch from the hall.”

I
nod and try to keep from sweating, but my heart is beating so rapidly it’s
echoing in my ears.

Her
eyes are steady on mine, and her lips pinch together. She recites as if from
memory, “No interactions and don’t try to meet or touch anyone along the way.
You wouldn’t be able to anyway.”

Or
so she thinks. My fingers grip the flyers. Hidden beneath them is a photo of my
mom.

“We’ll
be monitoring you. Any sudden changes in your breathing or heartbeat and we’ll
yank you out.”

Delilah
injects my neck with the sleep serum. It pinches like a snapping beetle, and
the electrodes surge on my temple. My head tingles. Electricity pulses through
my skin, making my foot twitch and my finger clutch involuntarily.

My
eyelids are heavy. They close, but the sound of banging forces them open again.
I see Rick, my boyfriend, through the window in the door. He bangs the glass
with his hand, and I grip the armrest as restraints clamp down on my forearms.

“Arrest
him,” she hisses into a wall intercom, and armed security guards force Rick’s
arms behind his back.
 
Delilah turns to
me and gives me a smile. It doesn’t look friendly.

It’s
chilling.

“She’s
ready to go back.”

“Lara!”
he screams, and the longing, the begging in his voice breaks me. “Don’t do
this, Lara!”

The
chair begins to spin, and the room swirls around me until I’m dizzy with the
urge to vomit. The velocity forces my head back against the cushion, and my
mouth falls open. I whisper a single word.

“Mom.”

****

I
open my eyes. I’m standing in the yellow halls of a cheerful school decorated
with construction paper artwork. The hall waves in front of my vision as though
I’m lost beneath the ocean, and my legs tremble. I slide my feet forward, so I
can lean against a locker for support.

I
have no memory of what I did before this. I rub my temples. I’m missing
something, and my head throbs. I flip through the papers I notice in my hand.
It’s a pamphlet that says I have fifteen minutes to be in the past.

Time
travel?

Flipping
through the pages I see short-term memory loss is to be expected but will fade
soon. I paid money to go back, but why into a school? Something about it is
familiar, and I know the hall I’m standing in leads to a music room.

But
I don’t know how I know any of this. I just do. As if memories were uploaded
into my brain.

A
photo falls from my papers and lands face up.

Her
face. Her eyes. It’s like looking in the mirror.

I
scoop the picture up and head down the hall. A piano chord strikes. The soft
tone echoes toward me, and the digital watch on my wrist beeps. A rush of
memories slam into my mind, knocking me off balance. I wobble on my feet as if
the collision were physical. I retch, the vomit threatening to spill.
Swallowing, it burns like racing lava. I check my watch.
 

I
only have thirteen minutes left.

I
don’t bother to look through the doors to find five-year-old me. Instead, I
race down the hall, feet gliding across the linoleum. My hood flaps behind me
as my body crashes into the elementary school front doors. Blinding sunlight
greets me, and I am flying down the hill. My arms pump, and I suck in deep
breaths of air, like I learned in my time as a sprinter at Cambridge High.

Rounding
the corner onto Mass Avenue, I see Tower Records off in the distance.

Beep
.

I
now have ten minutes to run eight blocks in time to save Mom. If I don’t make
it, if I fail, I won’t get another shot.

My
chest aches, and in my mind, I see Mom. I’ve seen her in pictures, but my
memories of her are pretty much gone. I want to remember her tucking me into
bed and cooking me dinners. Now I am alone and have microwaved bowls of
macaroni and cheese. Maybe it wasn’t Dad’s fault. Maybe he did his best, but I
want more.

I
want a mom.

My
legs burn, and my lungs beg me to stop, but I keep going. I push harder and
edge my body on until I’m desperate to collapse. A woman steps out from a
store. I take a hard right to avoid her, clipping my arm on a brick wall. I
groan and pause to bend over with my hands braced on my legs. I take a gulping
breath of pain that my lungs reject. The woman comes up behind me and puts her
hand on my shoulder.

Shrugging
her off, I sprint away.

Eight minutes
.

I
round the corner toward Tower Records with anxiety tight in my chest.

This
is where it happens. This is where Mom’s body will be found.

My
run slows to a trot as I stop beside the giant music store. I peer up at the
towering skyscraper as I round the back, down an alley. Quiet shadows loom
around the dumpster. A breeze sweeps by and blows a trash bag open. I catch the
stench of decomposing meat, churning my stomach. My head pounds. I groan and
grab my temples. Behind me I hear a woman’s voice.

“Are
you okay?”

Her
voice rings a bell only in my deepest dreams. My movements slow as I turn and
stare into my mother’s face. Her eyes are blue like mine, and her face is
framed with curls. The stillness of the sight shocks me. I knew I would see her
if I was successful, but I wasn’t ready for how my heart would ache or how
badly I’d want to hug her.

She
has a book in one hand and a cell phone in another. The phone is blinking,
suggesting she’s been on a call and maybe whoever is on the other end might
still be listening. But Mom doesn’t seem to care; her eyes are fixed on me.

“I’m
fine.” Despite my dry mouth, my voice sounds normal, but I am anything but.
“Only a headache.”

Mom
smiles, and her warmth spreads to me. “Well it’s no wonder, being back here.
Come out on the street where the air is fresh. We’ll get you a bottle of
water.”

I
follow her on autopilot and watch her retrieve a bottle of water from her brown
leather messenger bag. Around us, pedestrians walk by. Any one of them could be
her killer, but maybe by being here I’ve saved her. Maybe I stopped her from
going too far into the alley.

I
sip the water offered to me, and as she takes it back, Mom asks, “What did you
say your name was?”

“Lara,”
I answer before I can stop. I squeeze my eyes shut. My heart skips a beat with
regret.

“That’s
funny,” she laughs. “That’s my daughter’s name.” Her eyes aren’t suspicious.
Her face is only kind.

My
wrist watch beeps. I’m down to two minutes.

Mom
turns towards the music store, and I follow. I see a man in the alley out of
the corner of my eye.

“Mom!”

Mouth
agape, her head whips toward me. “What did you call me?”

There’s
no time to answer.

A
gun goes off.

I
throttle her back, and she crumbles to the pavement. I take her place and feel
a pinch in my side. My hand covers it instantly, and my legs wobble like jelly.
I crash to the pavement, and my knees crunch under the impact. I grimace with
my hand over the wound.

For
a moment, my eyes lock with the shooter. He has dark hair and brown eyes. His
brow furrows, and his lip snarls. Whoever he is, in that brief moment I tremble
in fear. Then he takes off running. Around me people scream and run for cover.
The ones that don’t are by my side. Someone calls for help.

My
breath echoes in my ear. Mom is there, taking me by the shoulder. Her lips are
moving, but I hear nothing. There are tears in her eyes and mine, too. I fall
forward, my head cushioned by her lap. Unable to blink, I can only stare ahead
at a red fire hydrant on the sidewalk. Everything grows dim, and my breath rumbles.

I
swear I see a shadow leaping over my body, but when I turn my head, no one is
there. I don’t understand. There was no mugging, so why was I shot? Mom was
supposed to be mugged.

Beep
.

Time’s
up. Everything goes dark as when a curtain closes on a stage, but I don’t think
it’s from time travel.

I
think I’m dead.

Darkness
surrounds me.

My
breaths are labored, and the heat in my side radiates up to my head. I try to
open my eyes, but they’re instantly pierced by a blinding light. Even if I’m
not dead, the intense pain makes me kind of wish I were. Overhead, a bell
rings, and the shuffling of feet follows.

Shielding
my eyes with my hands, I take a deep breath. I need to remember everything I’ve
done and seen, but my memories are behind a blinding haze. The throbbing will
not abide, and something inside me is desperate to come out. I hope it’s not
vomit. I really hate to vomit.

My
eyes flutter open, expecting to see hell, but instead I see a high school
classroom. I’m seated at a desk, and the clock overhead reads 2:30. I glance
down at my lap. The clothes I’m wearing are someone else’s, and her taste is
feminine like cotton candy. The hem of the skirt is short, and the shirt is a
vibrant pink. I haven’t owned anything pink since Mom died and Dad started
buying all my things.

How
can I be at school when I was just shot outdoors?
 
I should be dying. My hand flutters to my
side, but I can’t find an injury. Except for the freight train inside my head,
I seem to be okay. I sigh with thankfulness. Now I need to go home and see Mom.

“You
fall asleep again, Lara?”

Jolted,
I turn in my seat. The caring eyes staring at me aren’t my boyfriend’s but
those of Donovan James, one of the richest kids in school. Smart, handsome, and
everything handed to him on a silver platter, his life is the complete opposite
of mine. He’s either ignored me or teased me our entire academic career.

So
why is he talking to me now?

His
blond hair is perfectly coiffed into place, his blue eyes glow with a spark,
and a playful dimple grin greets me.

I
shrug.
 
“Maybe a cat nap,”

His
smile is weird, as if we’re friends. “All those late nights are catching up to
you.”

The
pain in my head makes me squint. “I have a headache. Probably nothing.”

“Well,
come on. I have some Tylenol in my car.” He stands, so I do too, but my stomach
churns and legs wobble, so he reaches out to steady me. “Easy there, rock
star.”

How
does he know my old nickname? No one calls me that anymore, not since I was
ten. I twist my arm from his tight grip. “I’m fine. You can let go of me.”

A
crack appears in Donovan’s smile. “Must be some headache.”

Ending
the pain is the only thing that matters to me, so I go. I’ll take pain-free
even if it means spending time with someone I have no desire to be friends
with.

We
navigate through the crowds in the hall—a mingling of teachers and students. My
headache amplifies every sound, every moment, and I’m not too happy with how
closely Donovan is following me.

When
I think we’re free from the high school, my friend Kristine steps in front of
us. She has a razor bob, and she’s smiling while bouncing on her toes. I fight
the urge to tell her to move. I want the medicine, and right now she's only a
road block.

“Hey
guys.” She’s so cheerful I want to kick her. “You headed over to Harry’s
Pizza?”

“We
sure—” Donovan starts.

“No,”
I say curtly, causing both to stare at me with their eyebrows pressed together.
“I have a bad headache. I need to go home.”

“Home?”
Donovan asks in a haunted tone.

“Yeah,
home. So I can rest. I need this pain to stop. Sorry, Kristine. Another time.”

She
nods as if it’s no big deal, but there's a disappointed glint in her eyes.

Pushing
past her, my vision blurs, and by the time I’m sitting in Donovan’s convertible
I can barely see anything. There is only the smell of pine, from an air
freshener I assume. I feel him put two pills in my hand, and I swallow them dry
before he can hand me a bottle of water. I take a big gulp before handing it
back.

He
plays tennis and always keeps a stash of water bottles in the back. I shouldn’t
know that, because we’ve never had a conversation about tennis or anything
else. My palms sweat and I rub them on my skirt, what I can find of it anyway.
I feel naked, desperate to go home and find some jeans, sweats, anything.

When
he puts his hand on top of mine, my body jumps with electricity. I try to pull
away, but he steadies me. “Just relax.”

Donovan’s
hand rubs my neck, giving me chills. The good kind or bad, I’m not really sure,
but someone other than Rick has no right to touch me. He pulls my hair away,
and his lips kiss the nape of my neck. I swat him away and shift in my seat to
get away from him.

“What
do you think you’re doing?” I practically hiss at him.

His
eyes shine with mischief. “Helping my girlfriend feel better. At least that’s
what I thought I was doing.”

My
insides plummet. I would never date Donovan. What about Rick? My fingernails
dig into my thighs. “This headache is bad. I think I better head home.” My hand
finds the door handle, but Donovan clutches my arm. It’s not enough to hurt but
enough to make me want to get away, no matter the cost.

“I’ll
drive you. I’m going that way anyway.”

I
try not to snarl.

He
lives with all the other rich kids on the opposite side of town as I do. He
takes me here, not my house. He pulls down a street where all the houses are
the same, including the pink rose bushes in front of the entryways. The
properties are crammed in with no yards, but at least there are no
double-locked doors or screaming coming from apartment B3.

The
house he parks beside towers over me. “This
is
my house.” Astonishment rolls off my tongue.

Donovan
rubs my arm. “Has been as long as I’ve known you. Feeling better?”

“I
am. Thank you for the—”

His
lips meet mine. My body goes rigid with surprise. I can’t believe this. I’m
taken, dating Rick. I feel so guilty to even be with this rich kid instead of
the poor one that stole my heart.

I
push Donovan away and duck my head down, so he won’t see how upset I am.

He
sighs. “
Lar
, I know lately things have been tough,
but they’ll get better soon.”

I
can’t ask what he’s talking about. He has to think I’m the Lara he knows or
else I’m in a lot of trouble. “I hope so.” I fold the hem of my skirt over and
study the stitches. I hope he doesn’t see I have no idea what he’s talking
about.

“Be
careful. And I’ll call you tonight.”

Careful?
What could that mean?

“If
you change your mind about hanging out, call me and I’ll pick you up,” he says.

I
shrug. “I have chores.”

He
snickers. “Since when do your parents give you chores to do?”

“Huh
…well … see you,” I mumble and step out of the vehicle, then hurry up the steps
to the front door. A simple wreath of dried flowers and lavender hangs in the
center of the purple door. I touch it, remembering what Dad had said years ago
about Mom being a hobbyist when they were young. “Mom?”

I'm
so desperate to see her, I can taste it. I find keys in my purse and am
astonished to find one that works.

A
vanilla aroma greets me in the foyer. The house is like a museum and not simply
from no one being home, but because everything is so refined. I’ve never been
surrounded by expensive antiques before. The gorgeous furniture has no rips or
stains. The living room is decorated with delicate creams and yellow sofas. On
the coffee table are fresh flowers and on the wall a mantle of mementos.
Everything seems so new, so beautiful, but also homey. Someone must have gone
through a lot of trouble to make it this way.

In
the center of the coffee table is an ornate silver frame. My heart contracts
when I see it. The picture is of me and Mom from a few years earlier. We are
smiling with our matching eyes and hair, our heads tilted together. Laughter
lines our faces. My fingers shake as I touch the frame. It’s real. I can feel
it.

I
need to see her. Now.

An
idea strikes me, and I open my purse to pull out my cellphone. A rhinestone
case? I balk, but at least I have Mom back. I guess I can put up with being a
little girly, but surely no one will suspect if I get rid of some of it.

Scrolling
through my contacts, most of the names are familiar. When I come to hers, I
freeze. My hands are shaking so bad I can barely slide my finger against the
screen.

It
rings.

I
wait what seems like forever.

“You’ve
reached Miranda. I can’t come to the phone right now, but please leave me a
message.” My heart soars at the sound of her sweet voice.

Beep
.

I
need to say something. I take a shaky breath.

“Hi,
Mom.” My voice cracks. “It’s me, Lara. Of course you probably know that
already.” I laugh and wipe my hands on my skirt. “I need to talk to you, so can
you please call me back? Please, it’s real important.”

I’m
halfway up the stairs when the front door opens. I turn, anxiously expecting
Mom, but two little kids walk in instead. They’re wearing matching outfits with
deep navy blazers that appear to be a private school uniform. One is a girl and
the other a boy, both with hair like sand and eyes reflecting my own cool blue.
Warm, familial smiles fill their faces when they see me.

“Can
we watch TV before Mom gets home?” The little girl asks me.

Mom?
My mouth falls open, speechless. My head throbs, and I squeeze my eyes shut. In
my mind I see myself chasing these two through the park, pushing them on the
swings, but how is that possible? I only just met them.

Mike
punches Molly’s arm. Somehow I know their names, as if the memory of them was
beamed into my head. “Lara’s never going to let us. She always makes us do our
homework first.”

“Right,”
I answer with a sigh of relief. “Go do your homework.” I ruffle their hair
because it feels like the right thing to do.

Still
perched on the stairs, I watch them talk as they sit on the floor beside the
coffee table and empty their backpacks of books and papers. Their chatter is
light and so normal. I grip the railing tightly. All I wanted was Mom back, but
so much has changed. I have a family now because I changed one little thing.
Okay, maybe it wasn’t so little.

I
close my eyes and see Rick’s face. He’s warning me not to risk us, our future.
And now I think I have.

Rick.

But
I have Mom back.

Chewing
on the inside of my lip, I find my room upstairs. I fear it might be a cotton
candy palace of princess pink, but the walls are soft white, and the only pink
is the comforter on the bed. The room is bigger than the entire apartment I
used to live in with Dad. It even has a balcony overlooking our small backyard.

Rooting
around inside my closet, I find a pair of jeans and a t-shirt. The shirt is
bedazzled with feminine swirls and lace, but it’s better than nothing. The
label says
Gucci,
and the hoodie I
grab is
Juicy Couture
. Everything I
own is fancy. Can’t I have my stinking Wal-Mart crap back?

I
slip them on and my reflection in the full length mirror catches my eye. I look
the same, but my hair ... my curls are gone; my hair is straight. Why would I
straighten my hair? On the dresser there’s a flat iron and enough hair products
to open my own salon. It makes no sense. I love having the same curls as Mom.
Why go through so much trouble to straighten my hair?

Downstairs,
the front door slams and I jump.
 

“Daddy’s
home!” Molly’s voice rings out.

Dad.
In my mind, I instantly see my good-natured father, with his brown hair and
joyful smile. I wish I could tell him what I’ve done, but I can’t.

I
race out of my room and trot down the stairs. I can’t wait to see him again and
give him a hug. When I reach the bottom of the stairs, he is hugging my
siblings. I freeze.

The
blond man turns to me.

A
stranger.

I
turn to ice. “Princess, you have a good day?”

My
insides wretch. I want to run. Where the hell is my dad?