The Impossibility of Tomorrow Read online

Cyrus shakes his head. “It’s so odd. Everyone is mourning Mr. Shaw, but no one even knows who he really was or that he came to Berkeley to find his true love,” he murmurs, smoothly changing lanes to avoid a bicyclist. “They met when they were just kids—she was fourteen, and he was a couple of years older. It was at a masquerade party.”

  I close my eyes, remembering that night, almost able to smell the pomegranate wine, the smoky torches, the roses’ heady perfume. I can recall every detail—the way my mask made it difficult to see, the cool air pouring over my face when Cyrus asked me to remove it.

  “He knew that night that he had to be with her, always. That it was meant to be. They ended up running away together. They left their homes, their families, everything. But it didn’t matter. They had each other.”

  Oh, it mattered. I remember sobbing like the child I was when I realized I could never return to my parents. They thought I was dead, and I couldn’t even comfort them while they quietly wept at my funeral. I feel my throat grow thick, and I wonder why he is telling me this, why he’s making our life into some sort of dark fairy tale.

  “They traveled the world together until one night, she left him. He didn’t understand why.”

  It’s a parable, I realize. A lesson. He’s treating our life like a story because he doesn’t know how to speak to me directly. He’s telling me how badly I hurt him, how much he loves me.

  He brings the car to a stop at a red light. “He was sure she came to Berkeley. He came here to find her.”

  I wrap my fingers around the knife in my pocket, pulling it out with a jerk. Fury makes my fingers tremble. I drop my hand down between the passenger seat and the door so he won’t see.

  The light turns green, and to my surprise, he doesn’t turn right, toward the freeway. As I watch him, trying to figure out his plan, I slide the blade open in my right hand. I run one finger along its edge, never looking away from him.

  “How does the story end?” I whisper.

  He guns the engine. “How do you think?”

  I am shaking. I am shaking so hard that I drop the knife. My heart sinks—I’ve lost my chance.

  But then he makes a sharp left, and I realize where he’s taking us.

  Berkeley High.

  He jerks the car into an open spot, yanks the keys out of the ignition, and sits quietly. He won’t look at me. The sun has finally won its battle with the fog, and I stare at the motes of dust that twist in the air and settle on the faded dash. All around us, kids stream into school. I can see them laughing, but it’s like watching TV with the sound turned off.

  I fight the urge to throw open the car door and run. I wouldn’t make it ten feet.

  “Why are we here? At school?” I ask, my pulse wild, my breath rapid. Anything is better than this suspense, this not knowing what comes next.

  He leans back in his seat and drapes his wrists over the steering wheel, tucking his chin to his chest. “It does feel a bit ridiculous, doesn’t it?”

  “To say the least.”

  “Today is a day to be with friends.” His voice is rough. It drags over my heart like wheels on gravel. He meets my gaze. “You never know—it could be the last time you’ll see them.”

  Finally, I understand. He’s going to give me one day to say good-bye. Perhaps he’s remembering how devastated I was to leave my mortal family with no farewells. He’s trying to be kind. But what can I even say to my friends here? What can I say to Leyla, to Bryan? Nothing.

  And I can’t say good-bye to the person who matters most. I picture Noah, the last time I saw him. Only last night, walking away from me on the Golden Gate Bridge, disappearing into fog. If only I could touch him one more time. It’s not till I taste salt that I realize I’m crying.

  The boy who looks like Noah strokes my hair. He finds my hand and squeezes it so hard I feel my bones sliding against each other. I want to pull back, but I force myself not to move. I pretend I am a statue. A statue doesn’t care what happens to it. A statue doesn’t flinch.

  I know he wants me to forgive him. Killing Noah wasn’t enough for Cyrus. He still thinks, after everything that’s happened, that I will love him. He wants me on my knees, crawling back to his familiar crushing embrace.

  FOUR

  “Come on, Kailey,” Madison Cortez pleads in our art class. “You’re the best artist I know. It can be whatever you want—I don’t know, ice fairies? Snow queens? Deer? You love antlers.” She fixes me with her brown eyes, shining beneath the heavy line of her blunt chestnut bangs.

  I force a laugh, despite the hollowness I feel, knowing my time here is quickly ticking away. I can only hold on to the fact that with me gone, my friends will be safe. “I’m just busy. I have a job and—”

  “And Noah. I know. Hey, why don’t you paint Noah for the mural? Two birds, one stone. Make him into a snowman, whatever.”

  The mention of Noah makes me want to scream. Cyrus has barely left my side today, appearing outside each of my classes to escort me to the next one. He stopped short of actually grabbing my elbow to steer me along, but his meaning is clear. Don’t even think about running, Sera. Not that I plan to. I have nowhere to go, no one to run to.

  Madison snaps her fingers. “Kailey? Hello? The mural for the dance? Will you do it? Please say yes. I need to cross it off my list.”

  This has been going on for the entire class. Normally art is quiet, but the whole classroom has been abuzz, unsettled and loud. Madison is fixated on the dance, but I know what everyone else is talking about: Mr. Shaw’s death. When I got to my biology classroom this morning, there was a makeshift shrine set up outside the door: candles, flowers, and science books laid out in mourning for Mr. Shaw. It made me sick. Cyrus, who has murdered hundreds of humans, being grieved? When he’s not even dead? All day, my rage has been growing, glowing in my belly like a hot coal.

  “I’ll be your best friend . . . ,” Madison tries.

  I was taken aback to hear that Madison is the chair of the winter dance committee, given her rock-’n’-roll bad-girl vibe. I would have pegged her for one of the kids who smoke pot in the parking lot and wouldn’t be caught dead at a school dance. But I guess even after six hundred years, people can surprise me.

  The other girl who shares our table speaks up shyly. “She’s right, Kailey. You should do the mural. It would be good for your soul to honor the solstice.” I don’t know if I’ve ever heard her speak before, and I struggle to remember her name. Enid? Erica?

  She watches me for a few seconds, her eyes outlined in a thick stroke of silver eyeliner that stands out from her dark skin. It mimics the shape of the vintage cat-eye glasses that constantly slip down her nose. She’s wearing neon-blue high-waisted bell-bottoms and a T-shirt that reads I without the initials of any city that would traditionally follow. Metallic gold clogs peek out from the hem of her pants.

  She’s bent over a piece of leather that she’s painstakingly engraving with a blade and an awl. I watch what she’s doing for a bit, until her thick curtain of braids falls in the way. She’s got yarn and ribbons and feathers braided into her hair. I wonder how she washes it.

  Madison sighs, running her fingers through her shaggy brown hair. “Does this mean you’ll do it? The mural?”

  “I’ll . . . consider it,” I deflect. I’ll either be dead or back with the coven by the time the dance rolls around. But even if, by some miracle, I am in Berkeley on December first, I wouldn’t want to do it for one small, yet significant reason: I can’t draw. A fact I’ve only been able to hide thanks to a long ceramics unit.

  “Class, may I have your attention?” We’re interrupted by Mrs. Swan. She stands at the front of the studio with hands clasped, next to a boy I haven’t seen before. He’s wearing a vintage-looking vest over his white button-up shirt, closed with cuff links at the wrists, and striped wool trousers that remind me of the 1930s.

  Mrs. Swan smiles, tucking a lock of long gray hair behind her ear and smoothing her ankle-length skirt around her hips. “Please welc
ome Reed Sawyer to our midst. He joins us from Sonoma, where he worked on his family’s vineyard.” She beams, and the class makes a collective rustling sound.

  The boy is good-looking, though not my type. He’s got very short brown hair that looks freshly attended to with clippers, and he turns a fedora over and over in his hands. I wouldn’t call myself an expert on high-school fashion, but he looks like he’s wearing a costume.

  Mrs. Swan deposits Reed at our table before disappearing in a cloud of her tuberose perfume. He catches my eye and smiles, revealing large white teeth.

  “Hey,” he says, sitting on the stool across from me. “I’m Reed.”

  “I’m Kailey,” I answer listlessly. It feels so pointless to meet a new person when I’m about to disappear.

  “Kailey, huh?” He gazes at me for a second, then smiles. Two deep dimples appear in his tanned cheeks, darkened with a fledgling beard. “You look familiar. Have we met before?”

  “I don’t think so,” I say, though I suppose he could have met Kailey.

  “Have you ever spent time in Sonoma?” he presses.

  “Nope.” Not in this body, at least.

  “Maybe you know each other from a past life,” Enid-or-Erica says in her musical voice as she looks up from her project. “Way more common than you’d think.” She offers her hand to Reed. Her long fingers are covered with at least six silver rings.

  “I’m Echo,” she tells him. Ah, so that’s her name. Like the nymph.

  “I’m Echo,” he responds.

  She throws her head back and laughs, the sound like a carillon of bells. “You know,” she says, looking at him more closely, “I haven’t actually heard that one before.”

  “Probably because people have no idea who Echo is,” he replies. “No one studies Greek mythology anymore.”

  Echo smiles, looking pleased, and Madison introduces herself as well. Her lips have somehow acquired a coat of cherry-red lipstick that looks like fresh blood against her pale complexion.

  “It must be kind of a weird day to be starting here,” she says apologetically, batting her eyelashes, which are coated with several layers of black mascara. “You know, with Mr. Shaw . . .”

  Reed flinches, looking down at our table. “Yeah,” he admits. “My parents are freaking out. People don’t get murdered in Sonoma. Like, ever. They were ready to pack up and leave when they watched the news this morning.”

  “We definitely need some healing energy,” Echo says. “I brought some sage to burn at lunch,” she adds, patting her canvas backpack.

  “And as we all know, sage fixes everything,” Madison says drily.

  Reed ignores Madison and smiles at Echo. “It’s not a bad idea. Herbs are more powerful than people think.”

  “I think we ought to get back to discussing real issues,” Madison sniffs. “Like the mural Kailey should be painting for the school dance.”

  Damn, the girl is persistent.

  The rational piece of me realizes she’s just dealing with Mr. Shaw’s death in her own way, but I’m losing patience with her. My entire life is falling apart, crumbling like an old bridge over choppy waters, and I can’t keep pretending everything’s fine.

  But before I have to answer, the bell rings, and I scoop up my sketchbook and my backpack. “I guess we’ll have to continue this conversation later,” I say, darting for the door.

  Cyrus is already outside. He is leaning against a wall of lockers, arms folded over his chest. Even though I know it’s Cyrus, the sight of Noah’s body brings me, as usual, a fluttery feeling. I walk toward him slowly, wanting to bask in the illusion, wanting to pretend that it’s really Noah. That last night never happened.

  “Everyone’s eating outside,” he says. “Since it’s such a beautiful day.” But then he smiles—Noah’s smile—and leans close to me. Close, closer. His hands are in my hair, his hands are under my chin. And then his lips—Noah’s lips—are on mine, kissing me. I kiss him back. I am dizzy, flames licking the side of my body. His passion is real. Mine is too, but it’s misplaced. It’s almost like kissing Noah. Almost isn’t enough.

  I force myself to pull away. It’s nearly impossible, but I do. I shove the fire down, inside the extinct volcano of my heart. What if Noah’s soul is nearby, watching this? Seeing his body being used as a puppet? Seeing that puppet kiss the girl he loved—the girl who got him killed? Or is Noah’s soul long gone to some other dimension, some peaceful realm far away from here, where everything is starlit and joyful and earthly problems have lost their significance? I cannot pretend to know.

  That’s the thing about Incarnates. We know everything about being alive and nothing about death—except how to cause it, over and over and over again.

  FIVE

  The wind has picked up, warm and dry, the kind of wind that means fire danger for California, no matter how much rain has fallen recently. In the south they call them Santa Anas—up here it’s the Diablo wind, picking up ferocity as it screams through narrow canyons to the ocean. Saint or devil, the result is the same. The whole state is tinder.

  It seems like the entire student body is outside for lunch, taking advantage of the sun. The oak tree we’re standing under shakes, and small dried leaves fall around us like little dead wings. I am surrounded by Kailey’s friends—my friends now, though I feel a tinge of guilt for thinking of them that way.

  The atmosphere is misleadingly festive as we watch a group of students play an acoustic version of “Amazing Grace” in memory of Mr. Shaw. The song is uplifting, and I love the soft jangle of banjo and violin, but I hate that they’re playing it for Cyrus.

  I recognize the band members from the party in Montclair that Bryan brought me to just days after I became Kailey. The girl with blond dreadlocks isn’t playing the accordion this time—she sits with a conga drum clutched between her knees, her flowing mauve dress the same color as the fake flowers she has pinned in her hair. The boy with the violin is wearing the same crumpled cowboy hat he had on at the party, a shock of golden hair peeking out at his tanned neck. His eyes are trained on the banjo player’s fingertips as they move up and down the metal strings.

  They’ve drawn quite a crowd. As I watch the violinist, I smile in spite of myself, remembering how I borrowed his instrument at the party, how I gave myself over to the music. I loved that night. A bonfire, and redwood trees creaking in the wind. Bryan helping me sneak out of the Morgans’ house. The first time I felt comfortable with Kailey’s friends. Noah, standing in the kitchen, giving me a smile that made my pulse race . . .

  Stop it, I remind myself. Don’t think about him. I swallow hard.

  When the song ends, a low murmur of voices ripples through the crowd, rising above the muted applause. Like in art class, Mr. Shaw’s name is on everyone’s lips.

  “I just can’t believe he’s gone. It doesn’t feel real,” Leyla Clark, Kailey’s best friend, murmurs next to me.

  It’s not, I want to tell her, but I bite my lip. The boy who looks just like Noah is on my other side, his fingers firmly laced through mine.

  Leyla’s dressed in purple down to her scuffed lavender high-tops. A knit cap is tugged low over her ears, and her dark, magenta-streaked hair spills out the bottom. The wind keeps blowing into her mouth, where it sticks to her grape-scented lip gloss. On the other side of her is Bryan in his letterman jacket, his sandy blond hair gelled into spiky submission and immune to the wind. She shifts, leaning into him as he puts his arm around her shoulder.

  “I heard he was trying to buy drugs,” says Chantal Nixon, who is, as usual, perfectly composed and ladylike in a headband and blazer.

  Leyla scoffs. “No way. He was a teacher. He just got mugged. It can happen to anyone.”

  “Remind me to stay out of Oakland,” sniffs Nicole Harrison, who wanders up to the group with Madison in tow. Nicole looks uncharacteristically chaste in a black turtleneck under a cable-knit sweater. She doesn’t have on any makeup, and her red, puffy eyes suggest she’s been crying.

&nb
sp; “Don’t be such a priss, Nicole,” Chantal retorts, which is odd coming from a girl wearing pearls. “Lake Merritt isn’t exactly the ’hood. There are worse neighborhoods in Berkeley.”

  “It’s so awful that he fell into the lake after he was shot. I heard they haven’t found the body yet.” Madison’s voice is dull, her face half swallowed by giant sunglasses. Her dark hair sweeps behind her in feathered tangles, and the sun glints off the small diamond stud below her lip. Her hands shake as she fiddles with a lighter. She’s much more somber than she was in art. Her best friend, Piper Lindstrom, isn’t here and won’t be for weeks, maybe months—according to a text she sent Madison, she has mono. Without Piper to gossip with, new boys to charm, or dance business to occupy herself, I suppose Madison has no choice but to face death, just like the rest of us.

  Cyrus tightens his grip on my hand. “The police are still looking?” he asks. “For the body?”

  Madison nods. “They’re going to dredge the lake.”

  Bryan’s brows knit together. “Seriously? Lake Merritt isn’t even ten feet deep. It’s not like the muggers pushed him off the Golden Gate Bridge.”

  “Maybe someone moved the body,” Cyrus says. “Or maybe the detectives working the case are completely incompetent.”

  Or maybe the body is nothing but dust, I think pointedly.

  “There’s going to be a candlelight vigil,” says Leyla. “We should go.”

  “I’m in,” Nicole offers, pushing her shiny curtain of brown hair back from her freckled cheeks. “I heard he didn’t have any family. There might not even be a funeral.”

  Cyrus catches my eye, shooting me an unreadable expression. “If only he had found Seraphina,” he murmurs.

  I stiffen, a spark of rage shooting through me. He’s playing with me, gloating.

  “Who?” Leyla asks.

  Cyrus’s eyes glisten in a perfect replica of human emotion. “No one.”

  I refuse to indulge Cyrus. I keep my mouth tightly shut as the band strikes up another song. They’re covering my favorite Beatles tune, “Blackbird,” about a bird who learns to fly, broken wings be damned. I concentrate on the music, letting it momentarily stanch my anger.