The Impossibility of Tomorrow Page 13

  But she just meows louder, sticking her paws under the door. My arms erupt in goose bumps for no reason. “What’s in there?” I whisper, stepping toward her, foreboding raising the hairs on my neck.

  More scratches.

  I wipe my clammy forehead, take a deep breath, and open the bathroom door. The opaque orange shower curtain mocks me. I don’t want to see what’s behind it. I don’t.

  I don’t have a choice. The cat bolts toward the bathtub and leaps up to its chipped porcelain lip, batting at the shower curtain with her paw.

  When it briefly moves aside, I glimpse lank, dark hair surrounding a complexion as pale as the tile behind it. I run toward the tub, yanking the shower curtain from the wall. The entire rod crashes to the floor with an echoing metallic clang.

  “Taryn!” I yell. She’s fully clothed, a rubber strap tied around one pale, scarred arm sprawled on the soap dish next to a blackened spoon and a needle.

  I drop to her level, banging my knees on the tub and jamming my fingers into her neck. Her flesh is ice cold.

  But dimly, faintly, I feel it. The small, slow, thrum of her pulse. She’s alive.

  “Taryn!” I yell again, pulling my hand back and smacking her across the face, hard. Her head lolls heavily to the side.

  I twist the faucet knob and cover her in a spray of hot water, trying to raise her body temperature as quickly as I can. I shout her name. “Wake up!” I tell her.

  And then, to my surprise, she does.

  Her mouth moves for several long moments before any words come out. Then: “Kailey?”

  “Yes, it’s me.” I turn off the shower and stroke her clammy forehead.

  “No, it’s not.” She opens her eyes, stares at me. “I know who you are. You’re the angel girl.”

  “Stay awake,” I command her.

  “Angels don’t get to boss me around,” she sighs. “I’m tired.” Her eyelids flutter, then close.

  “Taryn, no! Don’t fall asleep. Stay with me.”

  “But you’re not Kailey. I just saw her. . . . You took me away from her. She’s dead.” My stomach drops. My skin breaks out in a sweat. Freight trains screech through my head.

  “We’ve got to get you to the hospital,” I say. “I’ll help you get up.”

  But she doesn’t respond. I put my hand on her shoulder, shake it roughly. Nothing.

  I scramble from the bathroom and dig my phone from my bag. I’m about to dial when I realize I can’t use it—I can’t be traced here, to Taryn’s apartment. I hurry back to the kitchen, where I saw a landline phone next to an old pizza box on the counter.

  With quavering fingers, I dial 911. “Help,” I say, when the man answers, my words tumbling out. “There’s a girl. She’s unconscious. Drug overdose. I think she’s about to die. In the bathroom.”

  “Can you describe—”

  But I’ve already hung up. I scoop up the cat and drop her in the empty suitcase. To my surprise, she doesn’t fight. I zip it closed and run out the door, leaving it unlocked, and stumble down the stairs with the suitcase in hand and the book under my arm. I can already hear sirens wailing in the distance.

  I explode out the building’s front door and down the stairs to the street, breath tearing holes in my chest as I scramble down the block to Mrs. Morgan’s car. Ignoring the cat’s frightened mews, I strap the suitcase into the passenger seat and start the ignition.

  And then, without really knowing why, I pause, sliding down in the seat so I won’t be seen as the first ambulance tears around the corner. EMTs burst out the doors and into the apartment building in a crackle of walkie-talkie feedback and red lights.

  Several police cars pull up as I throw the car into gear. I need to leave. I can’t be questioned. But some instinct tells me to wait. The officers jump out of their cruisers and I recognize one of them: a lean, powerful figure with mirrored sunglasses over his eyes, despite the deepening dusk. I hold my breath as Officer Spaulding takes the stairs two at a time, then disappears inside.

  I drive the whole way home with the book in my lap. Its weight feels solid, like an anchor. Or a weapon.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  “No way. You’re allergic to cats, Kailey.” Mrs. Morgan’s hands are on her hips as she eyes the little ball of gray fur that I’m cuddling in my arms.

  Oh. Kailey’s body may have been allergic when she was alive, but the alchemical process of transferring my soul would have healed any such maladies. “Not this one, apparently,” I say with a smile. “Which means I’m meant to keep her.”

  She doesn’t say anything but tentatively reaches out her hand to scratch the cat’s ears, earning a loud, rumbling purr.

  “Please?” I whisper.

  “Where did you find her, again?” Mrs. Morgan asks, continuing to stroke the cat’s chin.

  “On the street, by my friend’s house. Feel how skinny she is, Mom. She would have died if I hadn’t found her.” I feel tears burning my eyes. I’m not sure why, but I need this cat. I don’t know if it’s because she belonged to Taryn, the girl whose life I’ve tried to save twice, who might already be dead. Or is it because no other animal has ever shown me affection?

  “Aw,” Mrs. Morgan murmurs, as the cat arches her back and closes her eyes. “Poor little baby. She’s definitely a stray.”

  “Please?” I repeat. “Can we keep her?”

  She looks at me for a long moment, but I know I’ve already won this battle. I don’t see how anyone could fail to love this cat. “Okay,” she says. “But you have to take care of her. Feeding, litter box, everything. And if you start getting asthma attacks, we’re taking her to the shelter, straightaway. Deal?”

  I nod vigorously. “Deal.” I hug the cat to my chest, cradling her thin body, then set her down on the checkered linoleum floor. “Go ahead, little kitty,” I say. “Explore your new house.” The cat begins to sniff everything in sight, rubbing her head against the table legs, the cupboards.

  “You’re going to have to give her a name, you know,” says Mrs. Morgan. “ ‘Kitty’ is a bit common, don’t you think?”

  “Right,” I answer, kneeling down next to the cat to stroke her head. “What’s your name, huh? What should we call you?”

  She stares at me, her huge green eyes reminding me, not for the first time, of twin full moons. Suddenly I know exactly what to call her. “Luna,” I say solemnly. “Her name is Luna.”

  “Perfect,” says Mrs. Morgan. “And very Berkeley.” This comment makes me unaccountably happy. Luna, my little Berkeley cat, meows, as though to say she’s pleased with her new name.

  “I think the drugstore might still be open.” Mrs. Morgan pulls on her coat, her purse already dangling from her arm. “We should go get Luna something to eat.”

  Luna meows in agreement, casting me an accusatory glance. I can’t help but chuckle softly at her outraged feline expression.

  “I don’t think I’ve seen you this happy since—well, since last week,” Mrs. Morgan says carefully as she fishes her car keys from her purse.

  “You can say it,” I tell her. “Since Noah and I broke up.”

  Her cheeks relax. “I didn’t want to say anything,” she admits. “I figured you wouldn’t want to discuss boy problems with your mom.”

  “It’s okay,” I say, though I’m not very convincing. “We’re still friends. We just weren’t meant to be together.”

  She regards me for a minute, then reaches out to tuck a lock of hair behind my ear. “Kailey, I’ve known you your whole life. I know when you’re sad. I hope you know that you don’t have to keep up the tough-girl act around your own mother.”

  I can feel my shell cracking, can feel the tears I can’t shed for Noah threatening to break through my fragile composure. Be a hawk, I command myself. Luna rubs against my leg, and I sink back down to her level, grateful to have an excuse to hide my face. Her fur is so soft, like a rabbit’s.

  “We should take her to the vet,” I say, swallowing the lump in my throat and feeling Luna’s ju
tting ribs. “What if she’s sick?”

  Mrs. Morgan kneels next to me and pets Luna. “I don’t think she’s sick, honey. She’s just hungry. But you’re right, we should take her to the vet to be sure. I’ll call first thing tomorrow.” I nod gratefully.

  “You know what else we should do this weekend?” she continues. “Take you shopping for a dress. The dance is next week, right? The stores will be crowded, with all the after-Thanksgiving sales, but we can go early . . .”

  I stare at her. Does she really think I’m still going to the dance?

  Her face falls. “What? Oh, you probably want to go shopping with Leyla. I get it.”

  I stand up. “Mom, I’m not going to the dance. I don’t have anyone to go with.” I try to keep my tone light.

  “So?” She smiles. “Bryan’s taking Leyla, why don’t you just go with them?”

  “It doesn’t work that way. I don’t think they’d appreciate me tagging along on their date.”

  “They’re your best friend and your brother. They love you. Why wouldn’t they want you to come?” She frowns, like she’s honestly puzzled.

  “Look, I know you’re worried about me. But you don’t have to be. Really.” From the floor, Luna meows, as if echoing Mrs. Morgan’s concern.

  “But you’re on the committee,” she protests. “It doesn’t seem right for you to miss the actual event.”

  “I’ll help with the decorations, but that’s it. I’m not going.” My voice sounds sharper than I intended.

  “It’s up to you,” Mrs. Morgan says, putting her hand on my shoulder and pulling me toward her. “But just . . . think about it. All your friends will be there.” She hugs me. “I’m going to play the I’m-your-mother card here, Kailey. You don’t want to miss out on memories like this. When you’re my age, you’ll realize how fast time goes by. How years pass by in an instant, and how happy you are to have these memories of being together with your friends. You’re only sixteen once.”

  I inhale, smelling her rosemary-mint shampoo, and am surprised to feel my eyes pricking with tears.

  You’re only sixteen once, unless you’re me.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  “Interesting technique, Kailey,” Madison says drily the next day, nodding toward the drawing I’m working on. When Mrs. Swan assigned us a still-life sketch of flowers today, my stomach immediately tied up in knots. This was the only solution I could think of on short notice.

  Kailey would have faithfully reproduced the lilies, irises, and silver-hued roses in the angular glass vase, deftly shading their petals and stems. She had a real talent for making a drawing that looked almost like a photograph—except, knowing her, she would have added fairies or angels or other winged creatures, little bits of magic darting through reality.

  I can’t begin to approximate her style, so I refuse to even try. Instead, I’ve covered my sketchpad in an abstract design, just the barest suggestion of leaves rendered geometrically off the harsh, slashing lines that pass for stems. “Yeah, I’m trying something different,” I inform Madison in what I hope is a confident tone. “Realism isn’t everything, you know.”

  “Mm-hmm,” she responds, sounding unconvinced, and returns to the clipboard in front of her, covered with notes and checkboxes. Apparently she’s not interested in this assignment, either. She’s been covertly working on dance committee business for the whole class period, quickly sliding her sketchbook on top of her clipboard whenever Mrs. Swan walks by.

  “I like it,” Reed says, standing to get a better view of my drawing. “Very Russian avant-garde.” I just smile sweetly and wait for him to sit back down. I let my hand drift to my boot and run my finger over the reassuring hardness of the knife tucked inside.

  Mrs. Swan saunters by, and Madison quickly switches her attention to her sketch, sighing dramatically once our teacher moves on. “This class is such a waste of time,” she complains. “I mean, really: flowers? I have more important things to be thinking about.”

  I stifle a smile at how seriously she’s taking her job, but I know how she feels. I can’t wait for this day to be over, either, so I can finally put my plan for Cyrus’s book into motion. I just need to make sure I keep the entire thing anonymous. Luckily, I know just the person who can help with that. Lucia, who helped erase the police records from the night I became Kailey Morgan.

  I think of Taryn again and wonder how she’s doing. This morning, I finally caved and called the hospital from a pay phone. I can’t let myself be connected with her, but I needed to know what happened. The receptionist told me she’s in a coma. She hasn’t woken since they brought her in.

  “That reminds me,” says Madison, sticking her pencil behind one ear, where it pokes through her shaggy hair like an oddly limbless tree. “Can you make a dance committee meeting on Friday? There are so many details we need to work out.”

  I pause. I looked forward to having the long weekend to myself, to concentrate on trapping Cyrus. “I’ll have to check with my parents,” I say. “Since it’s a holiday weekend and all. I’m not sure what they have planned.”

  “Oh, Thanksgiving. Right. Well, Bryan already said he’ll come. So I assume that means you’re off the hook.” She smiles sweetly.

  “In that case, I wouldn’t miss it,” I reply.

  “Kailey, you’re not fooling me. I can tell you don’t want to go. And I know why.” I turn to meet her gaze, noticing for the first time that her eyes aren’t completely brown. The tiniest flecks of blue hover around her iris, catching the light that streams in through the classroom’s tall windows.

  “What do you mean?” I stammer, feeling like she caught me doing something wrong.

  She cocks her head, the tiny piercing below her lip glinting in the sun. “I heard about you and Noah. The breakup. He tried to get out of the meeting too.”

  Through the barrier of flowers, I can feel Reed’s eyes on me. He doesn’t speak. The sound of Noah’s name sends a bolt of pain through me, but I will my face to remain impassive. The more emotion Cyrus sees from me about Noah, the greater danger he’s in.

  “Oh, that.” I wave my hand dismissively. “Don’t worry about me and Noah. We’re friends.” I plaster a big fake smile on my face. “We just weren’t meant to be more than that.”

  “You don’t have to lie to me, Kailey.” Madison’s voice is warm, caring.

  Across the table, I can feel Reed and Echo eavesdropping.

  “I mean it,” I answer. “Noah’s great as a friend. But that’s it. For me, at least.”

  “So you wouldn’t care if he went out with another girl?” she presses. “Hypothetically speaking, of course.”

  “Nope,” I say, perversely proud of how casually I’m able to get the words out. “I want him to be happy.”

  “That’s very mature of you,” Madison says. “I wouldn’t be able to stand it.”

  I open my mouth, about to spill forth another batch of lies, but Echo speaks instead. “If you love somebody, set them free,” she opines in her high-pitched, breathy voice.

  “That’s a famous poem, right?” asks Reed, scrunching up his forehead.

  “It’s a Sting song,” Madison, the resident rock music expert, informs him. “From Dream of the Blue Turtles. Nineteen eighty-five.”

  Echo clasps her hands together, obviously pleased that Madison caught her reference. She’s wearing grubby overalls with a fitted blouse underneath that reveals two smooth reaches of skin at each hip. Her hair appears to have gained a few more colors of yarn since I last studied it, violet and golden threads added to the rest. It’s pulled up in a dramatic bun at her crown, the better to show off her enormous silver earrings. They’re easily three inches in diameter and bearing what I assume to be her astrological sign: Aquarius.

  “I never understood that concept,” Reed replies, dropping his eyes to his drawing. “If you always set the ones you love free, you’re doomed to be alone.”

  “Agreed,” says Madison. “It doesn’t make any sense.”

  E
cho scoffs. “It makes complete sense. If you set the person free, but they come back to you, well, that’s love.” Reed swivels his head to stare at her, but she doesn’t look at him.

  “Excuse me, class.” Mrs. Swan claps her hands at the front of the room, and I’m grateful for the interruption. “I have some inspiration for you. Our next project is a personal favorite of mine. We’re going to partner up for this one.”

  I feel Reed’s eyes on me and know without a doubt that he’ll ask me to be his partner. I refuse to look at him, keeping my eyes trained on Mrs. Swan, who’s reaching into a cardboard box that lies on her desk.

  The class collectively oohs at the object she thrusts into the air. But not me. My breath is caught in my throat.

  It’s an antique Venetian mask; an exquisite one, bone-colored leather molded into the shape of a bird’s beak and intricately painted. When I look at the two dark circles meant for the eyes, I shiver. They remind me of a skull’s eye sockets.

  I’m sure I’m as pale as the mask. To the rest of the class, this is nothing more than a costume, a work of art, a remnant of an elegant past.

  But to me, that mask brings back a torrent of memories. The masquerade ball where Cyrus made me immortal. The plague-ravaged London where I came to terms with my fate. The young girl in the garden whose body I took, my first true victim as an Incarnate.

  Madison’s posture is stiff, her cheeks flushed. “Those things give me the creeps,” she admits. “They’re almost as bad as clowns.”

  “Masks are a very powerful archetype,” Echo agrees.

  “I think they’re fantastic,” says Reed. “Perfect for a masquerade ball.”

  “Have you ever been to one?” Madison asks.

  “Maybe in another life,” he says, and smiles. Inside my boots, my toes curl up. “I suppose we should pick our partners? Kailey, do you—”

  “Kailey’s with me,” Echo interrupts, catching my eye. I nod, sending her a silent thank you.

  “Oh, well then, Madison, I guess that leaves us?”