The Impossibility of Tomorrow Read online

  I am silent. It’s him. It’s Noah. My Noah.

  He steps backward, pulling me with him, away from the edge. Away from a death that happened only in my mind. He envelops me. A bird leaves its cage.

  My mouth finds his with windswept urgency, my fingers tangling in his hair. He kisses me back. Hundreds of years have led me here, to this place, to the lip of this canyon, to Noah’s lips.

  “I’m so sorry,” I breathe.

  “What for?” he answers.

  “For being so crazy today,” I say.

  “It’s a crazy day,” he answers. I feel his hands on my shoulders. I feel his lips on my neck. “But everything’s going to be okay. Better than okay,” he murmurs.

  We stay for a while longer, not speaking. Just being. And when we leave, I almost skip down the trail.

  It’s only when we reach the parking lot and see the briefest of red flashes—taillights of a car pulling out, their scarlet gleam bouncing off the asphalt and the trees—that a darkness edges against my euphoria.

  Even though I’m away from the cliffs, I’m still in danger. I could still fall. I could still lose everything. Because there was no other car there when we arrived. Someone followed us. And if Cyrus isn’t Noah, who could he be?

  EIGHT

  Humans love to hate Monday: back to school, back to work. They groan about it constantly. Of course, it’s different for Incarnates. One day feels like an instant to us. It’s over almost as soon as I open my eyes.

  Except for today. Today I feel phantom eyes boring into my back. I sniff the air hesitantly, expecting to catch a whiff of Cyrus’s vetiver soap, but smell only rain.

  Noah is alive. I repeated those words to myself over and over all weekend, like some kind of prayer. I whispered them as I sneaked into the antique store where I work, so that I could return the money I stole—I don’t need it anymore. I’m not going to run away like I’d planned to before I found out that “Mr. Shaw” was dead. I kept the thought of Noah curled around me like a blanket while I drove to the Golden Gate Bridge to retrieve Kailey’s jacket and ID, which I’d left there as the world’s least eloquent suicide note.

  I had to go. I can’t have any concerned San Francisco policemen knocking on the Morgans’ door, wondering why their daughter left her things on the railing.

  But now that I’m back at school, surrounded by people, I should feel safe. In movies, the heroine is never threatened when she’s in a crowd.

  Except that Berkeley High feels more menacing than ever. It’s even worse than when Cyrus taught biology. At least then I knew who he was. I knew when to be on guard. Now he could be anyone. Anyone at all.

  “Today we’re going to talk about an invention that completely changed the way information is shared, that gave common people the power to publish their ideas and spread them throughout the world. Does anyone have any idea what I’m talking about?” Mr. Yee, our history teacher, rubs his hands together expectantly and peers at the class through his Buddy Holly thick-rimmed glasses. No one meets his eyes.

  “Madison? Want to take a guess?” He leans on the desk and folds his arms across his chest.

  “Um, Twitter?” Madison ventures.

  “No—earlier than that.”

  Madison taps her pencil against her cheek. “MySpace?” she tries.

  Mr. Yee sighs. “I’m talking about the printing press. Possibly the most important event in the fifteenth century.”

  I exhale and lean back. I don’t need to listen in history class—I already lived it. I was nearly a hundred when Gutenberg printed his first Bible. Instead I should be coming up with a plan. I know Cyrus is alive. I know it somewhere beyond words, beyond logic, beyond proof.

  Not two days ago I was convinced that Noah was Cyrus. So certain that I nearly pushed him to his death. So now that Noah has proved to be no one but himself, why am I so sure that Cyrus’s soul continues to walk this earth?

  My belief is bolstered by nothing but intuition and gut feeling and everything that Cyrus would call “bad science.”

  I have no proof.

  And if I’m wrong, well, I’ll go ahead and laugh at myself later. But if I’m right? Then every single person in my life—everyone except for Noah—is a suspect. Even my friends. Leyla, Madison, Chantal, Nicole—even Bryan. Even Kailey’s parents. Cyrus could be any one of them. Just as he could be any one of the students in this classroom. Or the teacher.

  “Kailey? Can you pay attention, please?”

  I shake my head, a furious blush heating up my cheeks. “Sorry, what was that?” I ask.

  “I asked what effects you thought Gutenberg’s invention may have had throughout Europe.” Mr. Yee’s normally friendly expression is stern.

  I say the first thing that comes to mind. “That assumes he invented the press. And discounts the work of Laurens Coster, who many say was the first to work with movable type.”

  Mr. Yee raises his eyebrows. “I had no idea you were such an expert.”

  I feel everyone’s eyes on me. Damn it. Just what I need—to stand out when my life depends on fitting in.

  “Kailey’s right,” I hear a boy say behind me. I whip my head around to see Reed, a bowler hat on his head and suspenders punctuating his vintage button-up shirt.

  “Go on,” prods Mr. Yee, amused.

  “Well, there was Hadrianus Junius’s account—I think it was published in the late fifteen hundreds?—that backs up Kailey’s claim.” My hair stands on end. “I studied a bit of typography at my old school,” Reed continues. “We had an antique printing press. It was really quite—”

  The bell signaling the end of class shrieks through whatever Reed was going to say, and I bolt from my chair before it stops ringing. My backpack bangs into several chairs and people as I rush to the door. “Sorry, sorry,” I repeat to no one in particular.

  The air outside the classroom is damp with mist, courtesy of the rain that’s falling softly sideways, making a mockery of the open-aired school’s covered walkway. It’s the kind of rain that makes me feel silly when I whip out an umbrella but nonetheless soaks my hair and my clothes if I don’t.

  I shove through the throng, hurrying to meet Noah, the one person in Berkeley I can trust. I’m watching the floor when I collide with another person in the hallway, the force reverberating through my wrists.

  “Sorry!” I say, bending down to pick up the textbook I’d been holding and coming face-to-face with a familiar boy. Eli’s not wearing his cowboy hat for once, and his ice-blue eyes are more striking without its shadow.

  “No harm done,” he replies, shifting his violin case and scooping up my book before I can grab it.

  “I wasn’t looking where I was going,” I explain.

  “I prefer to think of it as a collision course with destiny,” he replies in a deadpan tone. “As if there was such a thing.” His eyes crinkle at the corners as he grins.

  “Oh, I’m a big believer in destiny,” I say.

  He fiddles with the zipper on his sweatshirt but doesn’t reply.

  “Well, I’ll see you later,” I say, filling the awkward silence.

  His bandmate appears at his side, the short dreadlocked girl who plays accordion and drums. “Eli. I’ve been looking for you everywhere. We have practice.”

  He furrows his brow. “Sorry, I forgot.”

  “Hey, Kailey,” she says, as she leads him away.

  “Hey,” I reply, but they’re already swallowed up by the crowd.

  I find Noah at the end of the hallway, immobile, staring at the memorial shrine for Mr. Shaw outside our biology classroom. His hood is pulled up over his forehead, escaped locks of dark hair coated with droplets that remind me of icy tree branches in New England.

  “Hi,” I murmur, placing my hand on his arm. His eyes warm when he sees me, and I turn him gently away from the shrine. His sweatshirt juts out below his neck, concealing what I assume to be his camera, safely zipped up to protect it from the weather. I poke the lump.

  “Is this y
our battery pack?” I tease.

  “It’s my camera. Contrary to popular belief, I’m not a robot.” He grins, but I can tell he’s making an effort. The shrine, and what it represents, grips him. I take a moment to study the shrine out of the corner of my eye. It’s grown since Friday, flowers and handwritten notes and even laboratory beakers huddled against flickering candles.

  I forge ahead. “Well, you should get some rain gear for your camera. Maybe one of those miniature cocktail umbrellas.”

  Noah’s laugh sounds actually sincere.

  I feel a tap on my shoulder. “Nice escape attempt, Kailey,” a throaty female voice says. I turn around. Madison stands before me, holding a clipboard, a pencil tucked behind her ear. She squares her shoulders inside her oversize blazer, sleeves rolled up to her elbows. Her T-shirt is emblazoned with HER DUMB ALLERGIES, which I can only assume is another band I’ve never heard of.

  “Hey, Maddy.” Noah nods.

  “Sir Noah,” she acknowledges. Behind her, I see Reed making his way down the hall. I think again of what he said in class, and a wisp of nervousness curls in the bottom of my stomach.

  “Did you want to talk about something?” I ask Madison.

  “I thought you’d never ask,” she answers, whipping the pencil out from her ear and holding it up to the clipboard. “Ugh, my notes are getting wet,” she complains, shoving the clipboard inside her blazer. “I wanted to ask you guys if you’d be on my committee.”

  “Are you . . . running for office?” I ask, amused.

  “Kailey, I’m talking about the winter dance. I’m hiring! Except there’s no pay. Just glory. C’mon, will you do it?” She chews on the end of her pencil, lipstick imprinting itself on the eraser.

  “Do what?” Reed comes over, followed closely by a beautiful girl. She’s tall and willowy, and her sandy blond hair falls just under her chin in a neat bob. She and Reed share the same soft features—and classic fashion sense. She’s wearing a dress with pouffed sleeves and a narrow waist, and a tiny feathered hat is pinned to her head. They both look like extras from a 1930s movie.

  Madison brightens at the possibility of new recruits. “I was just asking Noah and Kailey if they’d be on the dance committee, which is going to be awesome, by the way, especially if you’re looking to meet some cool people at school.”

  Noah whistles. “Look at this saleswoman. You two had better run if you want to avoid Madison’s clutches,” he says, nodding toward Reed and the girl beside him. “I’m Noah, by the way,” he adds, offering his hand.

  “Thanks for the warning. I’m Reed. And this is my sister.”

  “Rebecca Sawyer,” she tells us in a formal tone, shaking my hand. Her skin is cool and damp, her handshake limp.

  “How do you know Kailey?” Reed asks Noah, who cocks his head.

  I jump in. “Noah’s my boyfriend.”

  “Boyfriend?” Reed repeats, a mocking glint in his eye. “And here I was thinking I was special, since we know each other from a past life and all.”

  Noah doesn’t say anything, but I can see the telltale twitch in his jaw. Madison is rapt, clearly enjoying the drama.

  Reed forges on. “What I mean is, you’re a lucky guy. Kailey’s wonderful. You should have heard her in class just now. Completely schooled the teacher in the history of the printing press.”

  “Well,” I interrupt. “This has been great, but I’ve got to get home.” I turn to Noah. “Can we leave?”

  “Wait!” Madison clears her throat. “Can I put you guys down for the committee? It’s the kind of thing that looks fantastic on your college application. Plus, we’re going to have the dance anyway—it may as well be a kick-ass party.”

  “Okay, I’ll do it,” Noah relents. “I get the impression you won’t take no for an answer.”

  “Correct,” Madison replies. “First meeting’s this Thursday after school. Kailey?”

  “Sure,” I say, hoping she won’t ask about the mural again.

  Rebecca pipes up. “I’m in too. Is there a theme?”

  Madison’s brown eyes look worried. “The theme is winter dance—I dunno, I was picturing snowflakes and, like, blue. Everything blue. Maybe silver? Is that dumb?”

  Reed hooks his thumbs on his suspenders. “It’s kind of ordinary. And you don’t seem like an ordinary girl.” Madison blushes, and I silently curse her for falling prey to Reed’s flattery.

  “We’ll think of something great,” Rebecca promises her. “I love your blazer, by the way.” She sounds completely insincere, but Madison appears to be eating it up.

  “You just made my day. All of you. Okay, I see Nicole and Chantal over there—I’ve got to go recruit them, too.” Madison flashes her toothy smile and leaves us, fighting upstream through the hallway to Nicole and Chantal.

  “Why do I feel like I just sold my soul to the devil?” Noah muses.

  “You don’t actually believe in the devil, do you?” Rebecca asks, staring at Noah intently.

  He stares back. “It’s an expression.”

  Reed clears his throat. “We were headed to the parking lot. Shall we walk there together?”

  “I just realized I left something in my locker,” I reply quickly. “See you later?”

  “They’re charming,” Noah says once they’re gone, in a tone that suggests the exact opposite.

  “They could use some help in the social interaction department,” I agree. “But we should cut them some slack. It’s hard starting a new school. Not knowing anyone . . .”

  “Like you would know. You’ve lived here forever.”

  “I just mean I can imagine it.”

  Noah grins. “You can imagine anything. You think unicorns exist.”

  “Are you saying they don’t?” I bite my lower lip in a pretend pout, and he laughs, pulling me into a hug.

  “Of course they do,” he assures me. “And speaking of magic, I want to take you out tomorrow night. On a date.”

  I pull back. “A date, huh? Where are we going?”

  “It’s a surprise.” He looks very satisfied with himself.

  “You’re supposed to give me a hint,” I inform him. “So I’m dressed properly.”

  He chuckles. “We’re not going hiking. I’m taking you out to dinner. Do with that info whatever it is girls do.”

  “Anything but hiking gear. Check. Clothing that allows for ingestion of food. Clear as mud . . .” But something has caught my eye, and my voices trails off as I realize what I’m seeing.

  It’s nothing. Just a scrap of paper. So light and small it could have easily been carried away by the wind before I noticed it.

  In the center of Mr. Shaw’s memorial shrine, tucked among the candles and dying flowers, is a sheet of thick, creamy paper. Its edge is jagged, like it was torn from an artist’s sketchbook.

  Written on it, in an old-fashioned, classic script, in handwriting so familiar it could be my own: Love never dies.—C

  NINE

  An indistinct buzzing rings in my ears. I feel the blood drain from my face. I can’t faint. I won’t faint.

  “Kailey?”

  I am frozen. I think of a photograph I saw once, of an apple that was dipped in liquid nitrogen and shot by a bullet. It shattered like glass.

  “Are you okay?” Noah’s hands are on my shoulders.

  I whip my head around. The movement makes me dizzy. The note wasn’t there a few minutes ago. I’m sure of it.

  Or am I?

  The covered walkway is emptier now, sapped of the brief burst of after-school energy. Think, Sera!

  There’s Madison, chattering away about the committee to a politely listening Chantal and a bored-looking Nicole. There are Leyla and Bryan, splashing through puddles, huddled together under her ladybug-print umbrella. There’s Echo, adjusting her floppy, canary-yellow hat before she steps into the mist. And at the end of the hallway, his back to me, a man with thick auburn hair moves briskly through the crowd, through the double doors leading inside, and is gone.

&n
bsp; “Kailey! You’re acting really weird.”

  I meet Noah’s eyes. “I just remembered—I’m supposed to meet with the guidance counselor. I’m already late.”

  “Okay—”

  “Don’t wait for me—I’ll take the bus,” I call behind me as I take off running in the direction the man disappeared. I know it’s dangerous, but if it’s Cyrus, I have to know—I have to see for myself and hope he does not see me.

  I throw open the steel doors, the chipped red surface slippery in my hands, and step inside. I pause. In front of me is a staircase where two students are chatting, a boy and a girl I recognize from my English class. To my left is another hallway.

  “Did someone just come through here?” I ask.

  The girl looks annoyed. “I’m not the hall monitor,” she informs me. The boy just shrugs.

  I cock my head. From down the hall, I hear another door slam. The linoleum is slick with tracked-in rain, and I force my steps to be light so my sneakers don’t squeak.

  I dart past open classrooms, rows of lockers, and a few lingering students. But the man I saw seems to have vanished into the air. When I reach the end of the hall I find another set of double doors, but throwing my shoulder against them results in nothing more than a thud reverberating through my frame. The doors are firmly locked.

  Dejected, I return the way I came. When I come to the staircase, I decide to go up, taking the stairs two at a time and earning myself a puzzled glance from Ms. I’m-Not-the-Hall-Monitor. I couldn’t care less.

  I round the corner at the top of the stairs and find yet another hallway, this one deserted and dim. The school must be trying to save money on the electricity bill. The only light comes from a small window at the end of the hall.

  I am more cautious now, my heart skittering in my chest. I walk softly, hugging the right side of the hall, eyes flitting around, willing myself not to miss anything. Not to get caught with my guard down. The air smells strangely like mint.

  Mint—not vetiver or cedar. I’m not sure what I’m doing here, whether I’m hoping to find Cyrus or not. I’m not even armed. I’m ridiculously vulnerable.