Time After Time (6 page)

Downstairs on the narrow desk in the hallway, I spot the Post-its right away. I write a note telling Maggie I’ll be here in three weeks, and stick it on the shelf next to the basket where she always drops her keys.

Then I stare at it. I picture Anna, sitting in my room after I’ve left, alone and wishing she weren’t. I picture myself doing the same thing in a different room two thousand miles and seventeen years away. I don’t want to leave. But at least I’m here now.

I race back up the stairs and open the door.

And she’s right where I left her.

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.

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.”