The Impossibility of Tomorrow Page 7

  Goose bumps rise on my bare arms. “Strange,” I say, resisting the urge to ask what the dream Cyrus looked like.

  “You know what’s really strange, though? The police haven’t found his body. It makes me wonder.” He rakes his hands through his hair.

  “Makes you wonder what? Oakland homicide is pretty busy, you know. I’m sure they’ll find it eventually.” I’m sure they won’t.

  He shakes his head. “It’s not that. They dredged the lake. I mean, his death was a huge deal. Public-school teacher shot in cold blood—the news people have been all over it.”

  “What are you getting at?” I ask, almost afraid to hear his answer.

  “You’re going to tell me I’m crazy,” he says, jumping up from the couch and pacing back and forth.

  “I won’t,” I tell him. “Swear.”

  “It can only be two things. Either someone doesn’t want the police to find his body. Or he’s still alive.”

  My heart starts to pound. “There were witnesses,” I say, my voice quavering.

  “But maybe the witnesses kidnapped him and made up the whole story of the shooting to cover it up? Or maybe they were his accomplices and helped him fake his death.” He stops pacing and wraps his arms across his body.

  “Why would he do that?” I hate where this conversation is going, but I’m gripped by the destructive urge to continue it, the same way people can’t help but stare at car crashes.

  “Who knows? The guy was obviously brilliant. What was he doing teaching high school biology anyway? Maybe, once he couldn’t find the girl he was looking for, he wanted to disappear and start over. Maybe he thought Seraphina had left Berkeley. Or maybe”—he looks me in the eye—“he finally found the secret to immortality.” He grins, as though he’s said something amusing, but I’m shaken.

  “You’re giving me the creeps,” I say. “Come sit next to me.”

  He obliges, and I’m immediately warmed to the core. “Thanks for listening,” he says, cupping my face.

  The bells hanging over the front door jangle, startling me. I whip my head around to see Kailey’s brother entering the store.

  “Sorry to interrupt you lovebirds,” he says with a smile that reads as anything but.

  “Hey, Bryan,” Noah says awkwardly.

  “We were just having a conversation, I’ll have you know,” I tell Bryan primly.

  “Mmm-hmm,” he answers. “I’m not staying. I’m on a mission.”

  “Which is . . . ?” I ask.

  “Mom wants to know what time you’re coming home. We’re going to see that play tonight—The Nutcracker.”

  “I think it’s technically a ballet,” I tell him. “Anyway, why didn’t she just call me?”

  “First off, stop trying to make me feel dumb. And second, she did call you. No answer. I see now why you didn’t pick up.” He winks.

  “Oh,” I say, defeated. “Well, my phone is on silent.”

  “Sure it is.” Bryan wanders over to one of the store’s many bookshelves and studies the volumes.

  Noah clears his throat. “I should probably get going, Kailey. Let you finish up here. Have fun tonight.”

  “Hey, why don’t you come with us to the show?” Bryan offers.

  “No, that’s okay. I don’t want to intrude on your family tradition.”

  “You’re not intruding. I’m sure our parents wouldn’t mind, now that you’re Kailey’s boyfriend and all.”

  Noah just shakes his head. “I’m supposed to have dinner with my dad tonight—he’d be really disappointed if I ditched him.” I wish he would change his mind, but I understand that Noah needs some time to himself right now.

  “Right, say hi to your dad for me,” I say, playing along.

  “Sure. I’ll call you later.” He kisses me and heads out the door.

  I turn to Bryan with a sigh. “Brother dear, you have terrible timing.”

  But Bryan is too busy flipping through the pages of a leather-bound book to pay any attention to me. “You should reduce the price of this book,” he says instead. “It has a typo.”

  “A lot of old books have typos,” I say in exasperation. “They spelled things differently back then.”

  “No, I mean this is a chemistry book with a mistake in it. It says here that copper sulfate turns fire blue. But copper sulfate turns fire green.” And with that, he snaps the book shut and makes for the front door, throwing it open with a bang.

  Just before he walks out, he winks knowingly at me.

  Long after he’s gone, I remain frozen, staring at the door in a state of shock. I think of Cyrus, pulling a pinch of powder from his leather satchel to toss on the fire. I burn for you, Seraphina. I burn in different colors. Flowers don’t do you justice, so I bring you a garden of flame.

  THIRTEEN

  Please not Bryan, please not Bryan. The phrase slams through my head as I make my rounds, quickly closing up the shop: dragging the sale pieces in from the sidewalk, counting the day’s meager profits, and turning off the lights.

  Out on the street, I can see my exhalations in rapid white puffs as I lock the front door. It’s dark and deserted in the late November gloom. Please not Bryan, I think again as I hurry back to the Morgan house.

  Kailey’s family has already lost so much, even though they don’t know their daughter is dead. I can’t bear the thought of them losing their son too—and to Cyrus.

  I plod up the wooden stairs to the front door. Just as I reach for the handle, it opens, and I come face-to-face with Bryan.

  “How did you know I was here?” I ask.

  “You underestimate me.”

  I stare at him. I watch. I wait.

  He steps outside. “We’re out of horseradish. And apparently our father sees this as a great emergency. I’m going to the store.”

  “It’s his favorite,” I say. Even I know that, and I’ve only been around for a few weeks.

  “Is that right?” Bryan smirks. “You want to come with me?”

  “No,” I say, more sharply than I meant to. I move past him and inside, where I’m greeted by the scent of beets roasting with garlic, but all I can think about is Bryan. How badly I want him to be safe. How worried I am that I’m too late to do anything about it.

  “Kailey? That you? Come set the table.” Mrs. Morgan’s voice wafts out from the kitchen.

  “In a minute,” I promise. In the hallway, I pause in front of Bryan’s room, seized with a sudden urge to go in. To investigate. It’s what Cyrus would do. Before I can argue with myself, I slip inside, shutting the door quietly behind me.

  Bryan’s room is a mess, the unmade bed covered in dirty clothes and mismatched sheets. The walls are lined with posters for the Oakland A’s. An empty aquarium sits on the desk next to a lifeless laptop. I peek into the closet, where potato chip bags vie for space next to piles of sweatshirts. I try to imagine Cyrus here, and fail.

  But then again, what was I expecting to find? Alchemy texts? A well-tailored suit, a briefcase made of fine leather?

  My head starts to hurt from thinking about all of it, and I sink down onto Bryan’s bed with a sigh, only to jump back up again. Something is digging painfully into the underside of my right thigh. I drop to the floor and run my hand between Bryan’s mattress and box spring—and immediately come into contact with something hard.

  I shove my arm under the mattress and lift it up. The entire space is lined with books.

  And right at the top, underneath the spot where Bryan’s pillow would be, is a beat-up leather-bound journal. It opens easily to the page that was last written in, thanks to a Taco Bell receipt for two Doritos Locos Tacos. The receipt is printed with yesterday’s date.

  And the contents of the journal? Not a list of suspects, their names crossed out one by one like the pictures in the yearbook that Cyrus marked off when he was Mr. Shaw. Not a formula for an elixir that grants immortal life.

  It’s a poem. Dedicated to Leyla.

  I know it’s wrong. But I read it anyway.
And my grin grows wider with every line.

  Lady Leyla Ladybug

  Super awesome insect girl

  splashing in my muddy heart

  candy-apple carapace

  softer than spider’s lace

  you’ve got a crazy pretty face

  land on me anytime, little bug

  keep on flashing, flashlight girl

  and keep me in your magenta world

  “Not cool, not cool at all.”

  I snap my head up. Bryan’s face looms coldly in the open door.

  “I’m sorry, I—” My voice falls off. I really have no excuse.

  Bryan steps inside and closes the door behind him. “You so owe me. That’s number three, if I’m counting right,” he declares, sitting heavily above me on the bed.

  I open my mouth but nothing comes out. And then finally, weakly, I repeat after him: “Number three?”

  “Mmm-hmm. First, I covered for your car accident. And second, I sneaked you out of the house when you were grounded.”

  Oh. Oh. Relief breezes through me. I look down, smile, remembering the night he took me to the party in Montclair. This is Bryan.

  “I do owe you,” I admit. “What do you want me to do?”

  He considers this. “Nothing. I’m earning chips.”

  “Chips?” I briefly think of the snacks he has hidden in the closet.

  “Like in poker. Just letting them pile up. No need to cash in yet.” He ruffles my hair. “But for a start, how about you don’t tell me how bad that poem is.”

  I follow his gaze to his journal on my lap. “I thought it was pretty good, actually.”

  “Shut up,” he says, not unkindly, and snatches the journal away. “You’ve told me plenty of times how awful my writing is. You’re the artsy one in the family—I get it.”

  I feel a pang of sympathy for Bryan and his über-jock shtick, his room plastered with athletic paraphernalia while his books are hidden under the mattress.

  “Every writer gets rejected,” I say. “I was just trying to toughen you up.”

  “Pretty twisted, Kailes.”

  “What can I say—I can be mean sometimes.” I stand up, smoothing my skirt. “But seriously, I think you should give the poem to Leyla.”

  “And I think this conversation is over,” he counters, standing next to me and throwing an arm around my shoulders. Before I can react, he digs his knuckle into the top of my head.

  “Hey!”

  “Oh, you totally deserved that noogie.”

  “Okay, okay,” I say, rubbing my head. “I mean it about the poem, though.” I quickly dart out of reach toward the door. “Leyla would love it.”

  “Out!” he yells even though I’m already in the hallway. I steal a glance back, but Bryan’s no longer looking at me. His eyes are trained on the page.

  I can’t contain my smile. Bryan isn’t Cyrus—he’s just regular old goofy, messy, adorable Bryan, who happens to write secret poems comparing his girlfriend to insects. And I love him for it.

  FOURTEEN

  “The Nutcracker is my favorite part of the holidays,” says Mrs. Morgan as we walk toward the theater after Bryan and Mr. Morgan. Her cheeks are rosy from the clear cold air, and her eyes are shining. The combination makes her look girlish.

  I love this ballet too. Charlotte and I attend a performance every year at the War Memorial Opera House in San Francisco. Used to attend, that is, I think sadly. It was our tradition, just the two of us. Amelia came with us one year, but then she spent the entire evening critiquing the dancers’ athleticism under her breath. “Circus performers get no respect,” she sniffed, referring to her previous career as an aerialist. “They can do everything these ballerinas can do, all while swinging in the air from a trapeze.” We left her at home after that.

  Mrs. Morgan loops her arm through mine. “I’ve told you how my father used to put this record on when I was a little girl, haven’t I? And my sisters and I would dance around the living room pretending to be Clara and the waltzing snowflakes?”

  Mr. Morgan chuckles. “You tell us every year, Lisa.” And with that, I’ve crossed Kailey’s parents off my list of suspects.

  The theater is in a converted church, a solid-looking Craftsman building with thick eaves, dark wood siding, and leaded-glass windows. It’s beautiful, but nothing like the grand theaters I’m used to. I think of when I attended the premiere of George Balanchine’s The Nutcracker performance in New York City with Cyrus. He stroked my dark hair and whispered to me that I looked just like Maria Tallchief, the prima ballerina who danced the role of the Sugar Plum Fairy. “Except more beautiful, of course,” he added. “Perhaps your next body should be that of a dancer?”

  Bryan and I follow Mr. and Mrs. Morgan to our seats. I settle in and study the crowd, spotting Leyla with her parents several rows up, close to the stage. They’re carrying an enormous bouquet of poinsettias and brilliant orange dahlias.

  The curtain rises, and the familiar playful strains of the overture fill the theater. I steal a glance at Mrs. Morgan, whose rapt gaze follows every movement on stage. I imagine her as a young girl in Milwaukee, pirouetting with her sisters around a 1970s living room with avocado green shag carpet, their parents trailing them with cameras. In my mind, she looks just like Kailey.

  On stage, Leyla’s sister is beautiful, maybe thirteen, and a perfect Clara. Before long I’m lost in the story, delighting in the family’s Christmas party, dismayed when Clara’s brother breaks her toy, goose bumps rising on my arms as the Nutcracker comes to life and battles the Mouse King. By the time the Nutcracker prince whisks Clara away to the magical Land of Sweets, I’ve almost forgotten about Cyrus. Almost.

  I catch myself thinking about escape. So many of my favorite stories are about escaping to a fantastical world: Dorothy rides a tornado to Oz, the Pevensie children find the portal to Narnia inside a wardrobe.

  My life here with Kailey’s family is my magical world. Noah wants to escape, to travel to other countries and leave his family behind, and I understand why. But as far as I’m concerned, Kailey’s life is wonderful. Kailey’s life is my Oz, my Narnia, my Land of Sweets.

  The orchestra swells, and I feel tears in my eyes. I blink them away as the curtain drops and the lights come up for intermission.

  “I thought that would never end,” says Bryan. “I’m starving. Meet you outside.” He dashes off to the concession stand before it’s fully bright in the theater.

  “Anna was fantastic, don’t you think?” Mrs. Morgan says of Leyla’s sister as we squeeze out of the theater. She yawns. “Eric, would you get us some hot cocoa?” she asks Kailey’s dad. “I’m so sleepy. Maybe the sugar will wake me up.” He nods and strides away.

  Groups of Berkeleyites mill about outside the theater, their outfits running the gamut from floor-length evening gowns to frayed Levi’s, everyone’s breath forming white clouds in the chilly air.

  “There you are!” I hear Leyla’s voice and turn around to see her waving at us. “Come here,” she says. “These heels are impossible to walk in.”

  I burst out laughing as Mrs. Morgan and I push through the crowd to Leyla. She’s wearing the dress she bought yesterday and teetering in a pair of three-inch beige leather pumps.

  Mrs. Morgan frowns at me. “Why are you laughing? Leyla looks lovely.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Morgan,” says Leyla sweetly, putting her hand on my shoulder for balance. “No thanks to your mean daughter.” She winks.

  “No,” I protest. “You look great. Just a little . . . unsteady.”

  Leyla sighs, shifting uncomfortably and tugging at the hem of her dress. “I know, I know. You’re right. I have my cowboy boots in the car, but I’m determined to make it through the night in these torture devices. Where’s Bryan?” she asks.

  “Attending to his appetite,” I reply.

  “I heard that, Kailey.” I whirl around to see Bryan and Mr. Morgan, each carrying two cups of steaming hot cocoa. Bryan has a soft pretzel tucked into each
pocket of his jacket and a brownie cradled in the crook of his arm. “I can’t help it if this play—sorry, ballet—makes me hungry,” he says. “Sugar plums, candy canes. It’s like they designed it to sell food at the concession stand.”

  “I hear Tchaikovsky made a fortune in the soft pretzel business,” Mr. Morgan adds.

  “Chai who?” Bryan’s voice is muffled as he stuffs half a pretzel in his mouth.

  “The composer,” Leyla says with a laugh. “Now give me a bite of that brownie.”

  “I was just kidding,” Bryan protests as he splits the brownie in half, handing Leyla the larger piece. “I knew this was by Chailovsky.”

  I have to giggle. Now that I’ve seen the hidden side of Bryan, I wonder if he’s only pretending to forget the name, clowning for our amusement.

  “Hey, artist girl,” a voice breathes in my ear, and I stiffen.

  It’s Reed, wearing a charcoal wool suit with a forest green handkerchief poking out of the breast pocket. “Hi,” I say cautiously, taking a step back and resisting the urge to wipe my ear where he breathed on it.

  His sister, Rebecca, trails behind him. She’s wearing a vintage plum-colored satin dress that’s gathered at the waist with a jeweled brooch, complete with a fur stole. Dainty gold hoops flash in her ears.

  “How’s everyone doing this fine evening?” asks Reed.

  I stiffen, annoyed at their intrusion. They just moved here, I remind myself. They’re trying to make friends.

  “Great.” Leyla immediately stands up straighter, eying Rebecca’s retro-chic fashion.

  “And you, Kailey?”

  “I always love the ballet,” I say calmly, meeting his gaze.

  “Have you been to The Nutcracker before?” He leans closer to me.

  “Yes,” I reply but don’t offer anything further.

  But he presses on. “Do you come every year?” Behind him, Rebecca watches me with her huge, long-lashed eyes, waiting for my answer.

  I pause and look around at the group. I’m almost certain that someone said this was a Morgan family tradition—but I can’t remember.