The Impossibility of Tomorrow Page 12

  “Right, I didn’t want him to waste his time with me. We should both see other people.”

  Bryan never spoke—I’m sure he didn’t want to get in the middle of his sister and his friend. He’d just ruffled my hair. Somehow, the gesture had choked me up more than talking about Noah did.

  “Is this seat taken?” Reed doesn’t wait for my answer before settling into the seat next to me. I have never considered myself claustrophobic—when I was a little girl, I used to wedge myself into the tightest places I could find to hide from my mother and my nurses. But now, with Reed’s solid presence effectively penning me in, I start to panic.

  Rebecca follows Madison into the open seats in front of us, right next to Noah and Nicole.

  “What happened to you the other night?” Reed asks. I can feel his eyes on the side of my face. I don’t want to look at him, but the only alternative is to stare forward at the back of Noah’s head.

  “What do you mean?” I ask. I haven’t forgotten the things he said on Treasure Island.

  He shrugs. “You never came back to hear the rest of the music. I was worried about you, but Bryan said you’d be fine. You seemed so upset, though.” His deep-set brown eyes radiate concern, but I know better.

  “Well, yes, the news about Eli—”

  “Oh, of course. Who wouldn’t be upset? I hope they find him.” He leans in conspiratorially. “My parents don’t know yet. My mom’s going to lose it when she hears a kid went missing. I just hope she doesn’t yank us out of school.”

  Before he can continue, the speakers crackle as the principal steps onto the stage, and the room falls silent. “Most of you have already heard the news, but I wanted a chance to talk to you myself.” He takes a deep breath, and the microphone picks up the sound. I can see the deep shadows under his eyes, the coffee stain on his pale olive dress shirt, the slight tremor in his hands.

  “So soon—too soon—after the death of Mr. Shaw, another tragedy mars our community. A student, Eli Macgregor, has gone missing.” He takes another shaky breath as a murmur goes through the crowd of students.

  “I can’t believe there’s anyone who doesn’t know yet,” whispers Leyla, to my left.

  I just nod wordlessly.

  “The police have launched a comprehensive investigation,” the principal continues. “And they are doing their absolute best. Let’s have a moment of silence for Eli. I know we are all praying that he is found right away.”

  There’s a low rustle as the group lowers their heads. I do the same, though I know he’s long since turned to dust. I steal a glance at Reed. His head is bowed, eyes closed.

  I am incredibly conscious of Noah’s presence. Only a few feet from me, but the gulf feels much wider. Especially when Nicole leans into him again and murmurs something in his ear, making ice crystallize in my heart. But what can I do? I can only hope that common decency will prevent her from making a move on him anytime soon. I doubt it, though.

  The principal leans into the microphone once more, earning him a high-pitched squeal of feedback that makes us jump. He laughs nervously before continuing. “Officer Spaulding is here from the Oakland Police to fill us in on the search for Eli. Officer?” He nods to a man who stands in the shadows offstage. The familiar policeman strides into the light.

  He steps to the podium, a bounce in his step, his sunglasses pushed up on his bald head, its shiny surface reflecting the theater’s lights the way sun bounces off a windshield late in the afternoon.

  “Thank you, sir,” he says to the principal, snapping a piece of gum as he talks. “I’m sorry to be speaking with you under such terrible circumstances. But know that the Oakland PD won’t rest until Eli is found. And we need your help to accomplish that. If any of you has any information that might help us out, we’d appreciate hearing from you.” Next to him, Principal Gutierrez mops his forehead with his beleaguered tie.

  “And we’re continuing our investigation into the death of your teacher, Mr. Shaw. There have been some developments in the case—I can’t give you the details, since the investigation is ongoing. But we’re lucky to have some very helpful witnesses, a young man and woman from San Francisco, who are working with us to find the person who did this.” His gaze sweeps across the auditorium, and although I know that the theatrical lights must be shining in his eyes, preventing him from actually seeing our faces, I swear he makes eye contact with me.

  I shudder, imagining Amelia and Jared lying to this officer. The more he deals with them, the more danger he’s in. And I’m certain he’s completely unaware.

  Reed rubs my arm in a consoling gesture. I want to yank my hand away, but I don’t.

  “Rest assured that we will do whatever it takes to find Eli,” Officer Spaulding is saying. “That’s—that’s it for now. Remember: Any information might help. Thank you.” He turns his whole body to face me, and a beam of light catches his badge, momentarily blinding me, making me think of bright lamps punishingly aimed in interrogation chambers. I bring my hand up to my face to shield it, and when I lower my arm, he’s gone.

  Whatever it takes, I repeat in my mind, knowing what I need to do. Get that book back from Taryn. By whatever means necessary. All this wondering, this second-guessing and reverse psychology—it won’t mean anything once I have that book in my hands. Taryn’s address is listed in Kailey’s phone contacts, and I’m going to go to there this afternoon, with or without Taryn’s permission.

  The principal is standing again at the mic. “Thank you, Officer Spaulding, for keeping us up to date.” A glistening layer of perspiration covers his face, bringing the crow’s feet at his eyes into sharp relief. “I’d like to invite anyone who would like to say a few words about Eli to come up to the stage. Of course, if you’d rather speak with me privately, my door is always open.”

  The low sound of movement surrounds me, a scuffling of sneakers on the floor and knees turned to the side to allow students to pass by. A line is quickly forming down the aisle as boys and girls approach to speak about Eli. I’m touched that he’s inspiring so many people to speak. Touched—and horrified. He has so many friends who don’t know that he’s gone and never coming back.

  “Excuse me, I need to get out,” I mumble. Reed stands up, and I shove past him, fighting my way through the stream of students who are lining up to speak about the boy that no one knows is dead.

  I’m halfway to the door when I hear Noah’s voice behind me. “Kailey, wait.” My treacherous legs turn of their own accord, move forward slowly toward him.

  “Can we talk?” he asks softly.

  Talk? I want to do more than talk. I want to pull him to me, to feel our puzzle-piece lips locking together. I start to lean toward him—and then I see Reed, watching us, and I snap together.

  He’ll kill Noah if he realizes you are in love with him. He’s made his intentions painfully clear. It will end up just like the jazz musician in Paris. When we went back to the club after that night the trumpet player and I made eye contact, he was nowhere to be seen. Must have left town, Cyrus said with a smug grin. As if I didn’t know. Cyrus had him removed—just as he would do to Noah if given the chance.

  “No.” My throat is so parched that my voice is barely audible. “I already told you everything I had to say.”

  Noah flinches. The lights shiver on his crow-black hair. He stares down at his grubby red sneakers, then pushes past me toward the door.

  Nicole follows a beat later. When she catches up with him, she takes his hand and leads him away. I want to scream. I hate what I’ve created, but there’s no turning back, not now.

  The book, I tell myself. Get the book, draw Cyrus out, and hopefully Noah will take you back.

  But the way Nicole touched Noah, the way he let her touch him, pokes a million holes in my certainty. What if, by the time I beat Cyrus, it’s too late?

  TWENTY-THREE

  Taryn’s apartment is on Hannah Street in West Oakland, a mixture of hundred-year-old houses wedged in next to warehouses and the
occasional brand-new condominium building. The neighborhood is far grittier than where Kailey lives—trash collecting in the gutters, potholes scarring the asphalt, and wrought-iron bars covering most of the houses’ windows.

  The concrete steps leading to Taryn’s building are stained and cracked, with weeds growing in the corners. It’s a three-story building that was probably beautiful at one point, before someone painted the ornate Victorian woodwork a garish combination of bright yellow and grape. A window downstairs is missing its glass, a piece of plywood nailed in its place.

  I set out for Taryn’s place as soon as I got home from school, telling Mrs. Morgan the almost-truth that a friend of mine had a book I needed. She let me borrow the car, assuming the book in question was for school. I didn’t correct her.

  I approach the front door, scanning the hand-written names that appear above each unit’s buzzer. And there it is: Apartment 3A is occupied by a T. Miller. I raise my finger to the buzzer, letting it hover for a long moment. Then I take a deep breath and push.

  I wait, rocking back on my heels, wondering what I will actually say to Taryn if she answers. She doesn’t.

  I ring again, but still nothing.

  I release the breath I didn’t even realize I was holding. Damn it. I can easily pick the lock, but the entryway is completely visible from the street. I don’t want the neighbors seeing me break in.

  I catch a movement out of the corner of my eye from behind the glass door. I press my face between the metal bars, cupping my hand around my eyes and straining to see into the dim interior.

  Inside, an older woman is locking the door to one of the ground-floor apartments, an enormous sack of laundry slumped at her feet. She heaves the bag into her arms and heads straight for me. The front door opens.

  “Let me get that for you,” I say sweetly, moving to her side and holding open the door.

  “Why, thank you,” she says, breathing hard as she wrestles with the lumpy bag of laundry. She doesn’t even look up at me. I slip past her up the staircase and climb to the third floor. The carpet is worn and stained, black splotches blending in with the floral pattern. Despite my soft steps, the stairs erupt in violent creaks with every footfall.

  The door to Taryn’s apartment is locked, so I fish the paperclip out of the pocket of my jeans and pick the lock in less than a minute.

  It’s dark inside. The only light leaks through the threadbare spots in the drawn curtains. I feel for the wall next to the door and flip the light switch, and the room comes into sharp, well-lit focus. It’s a disaster.

  The first thing that hits me is the smell: a combination of stale air, rotting food, and something else. Something that makes me retch.

  I bury my nose in my shirt, lurching forward to the window, and frantically rip open the curtains to crank the old casement handle. Clean, fresh air wafts over me, and I inhale gratefully.

  When my stomach settles, I turn around and survey the filthy room. A brown corduroy couch sags against one wall, covered with junk: candy wrappers and greasy paper plates, dirty socks, unopened mail. The coffee table in front of it is a forest of beer cans, wine bottles, and candles serving as makeshift ashtrays. A puddle of some former, unidentifiable liquid has dried in its center, criss-crossed with trails of ants.

  I move to the kitchenette. The tiny stove is painted in drippings and littered with rusty pans holding uneaten food in various stages of decomposition. The trash can is overfull, an avalanche of garbage spilling to the floor.

  I regard the only other doorway in the small apartment. It must be Taryn’s bedroom. There’s a short hallway with a sharp turn at its end, effectively blocking any light from the living room, or any fresh air. The awful smell gets stronger as I step into the darkness, running my hand over the wall next to the door for a light switch. But I can’t find one. I take another step, once again pulling my shirt up over my nose and nearly tripping over debris as I feel my way deeper in. I climb over soft piles that I assume—that I hope—are clothes. The smell is so strong, I fight not to gag.

  My knee bumps into something solid—I throw out my hand and realize it’s a bed. I run my hand along the side and follow it to what must be a nightstand. Wildly, I grope its surface, hoping I don’t cut myself on the broken glass that my fingers brush against. I make contact with something thin, flexible, plastic, and close my hand around it, triumphant.

  The electrical cord is attached to a lamp that’s fallen to the floor, and I quickly locate its switch, blinking as the room is filled with light.

  A beat-up suitcase yawns out from the open closet door. And next to that is the source of the smell. The carpet is covered with feces and, judging from the ammonia fumes that sting my eyes, urine. Not human, my rational brain tells me through my growing dread. I hurry to the room’s one window and throw it open as well.

  I lean against the bare wall next to the window, closing my eyes. I knew Taryn was a junkie, but somehow the squalor she lives in makes it much more real—and more hopeless. I picture Kailey’s cozy, colorful bedroom. What was she doing with someone like this?

  I feel something wet trail down my cheek, a rogue tear that welled in my closed eyes and escaped. Poor Taryn, I think. Poor Kailey. Two lost girls who found each other. One of them is gone forever. And the other can’t be far behind.

  I’m about to give up the search when I hear a rustling noise from the closet. I freeze.

  “Who’s there?” I demand, as I slip the knife out from my boot.

  There’s no answer, but I see movement—the pile of clothes on the floor undulates. An errant hanger on the top of the heap loses purchase and slides to the floor.

  “I have a knife,” I add, my voice braver than I feel. “And I’ll use it.”

  No response. A shoe in the clothes heap shifts, falls away, and I find myself staring into two bright green eyes. A small, furry thing pokes its way out, holding its tail erect with all the grace of a princess.

  It’s a cat. A damn cat.

  I exhale in a huge gust, collapsing against the side of the bed. The tiny kitty approaches my outstretched feet, sniffing my sneakers. I brace myself for the inevitable hisses, the predictable claws and fangs that animals always show me.

  But they never come.

  Instead, the cat arches its back and lets forth a volley of outraged meows. She comes closer, right up to me, and sniffs my arm, my hip. I slide my knife back into my boot and put out a tentative hand. The cat walks right into it, pushing her head into my palm. A small pink tongue laps my wrist, and I laugh. It tickles. I don’t think a cat has ever touched me before, not in six hundred years.

  “What’s the matter, huh?” I coo, running my hand experimentally down the cat’s furry side. Her coat is light gray, with just the hint of lighter gray stripes. Her body is so thin. I rub down her spine to her hips, tears blurring my vision as I feel each vertebra, the jutting bones to either side of the tail. The cat meows again—not in fear. More like she wants to yell about how hungry and neglected she feels. I pick her up gently. The poor thing can’t weigh more than five pounds.

  “Come here, little baby,” I say, cradling the ball of fur in my arms and stepping carefully out from the bedroom. I set her down on the kitchen counter and scour the empty shelves, the pile of trash on the floor. She watches my every move, her huge, pale green eyes looking like two full moons. I swear they look hopeful, like she knows what I’m searching for.

  Next to the dented microwave that sits on the counter I finally get lucky, unearthing an unopened can of cat food.

  “You’re about to have ‘ocean whitefish and tuna with gravy,’ ” I tell the cat, reading from the label. “Now if only I could find a can opener,” I murmur, regarding the trashed kitchen in despair. The cat meows again. Loudly.

  “Okay, okay, you’re hungry, I get it. I can be inventive.” I pull my knife from my boot, piercing the lid in several places, then peel it back with my fingernails. I dump the unappealing contents onto a plastic Tupperware lid and push i
t in front of the cat.

  She buries her face in the mush and takes huge bites, her tiny body racked with purrs. The food is gone in minutes, and she regards me again with those huge moon-round eyes, meowing. She makes it sound like a question. “More?”

  “Poor thing,” I say, petting her again and looking around Taryn’s apartment. I can’t leave the cat here—that much is obvious. Judging from how emaciated she is, plus the mess on the bedroom floor, Taryn’s been ignoring her for quite some time.

  I remember the suitcase in the bedroom and quickly retrieve it. The cat follows me, staying inches from my heels. “You’re going to come with me, okay?” I ask her.

  She meows agreeably.

  With my knife, I poke air holes in the side of the suitcase, then open its flap. “Hop in,” I tell the kitty.

  And then I see it. A glimpse of blue out of the corner of my eye, a blue I know as well as I know its owner’s original eyes. On the bookshelf, wedged next to a stack of scratched CDs, lies Cyrus’s book.

  “Yes!” I whisper, triumphant, as I slide it off the shelf. I chuckle softly in disbelief—the bookshelf, of all places. The one object in the entire apartment that’s in a logical place. I had assumed it would be hidden.

  I tentatively sit down on the couch and run my fingers over the cover, the blue leather worn and supple, the broken lock that was added far after the original manuscript was bound, once its owner had descended well into paranoia and secrecy. The lock that I myself broke when I smashed it against the sea-damp metal surface of a shipping container crane, moments before I intended to leap into the Oakland Estuary and end my life.

  If Taryn had been able to offload the book, it would have changed her life. A complete alchemy text from the fourteenth century? An auction house or museum would have paid hundreds of thousands for something like this. Taryn could have gone to rehab, moved away, gotten the fresh start she deserved.

  The cat, I realize, is scratching and whining at a door I hadn’t noticed earlier, half-hidden behind a purple velvet armchair. “Come back here,” I tell her. “We need to go.”