The Impossibility of Tomorrow Page 8

  Mrs. Morgan comes to my rescue. “We do,” she answers, “though some of us enjoy it more than others.” She shoots Bryan a pointed look, and he grins, shrugging his shoulders.

  Reed barely glances at her before returning his attention to me. “So what else do you do for fun? Besides painting murals and making people think they know you from a past life.”

  “That’s pretty much it,” I say flatly.

  But Reed’s undeterred by my lack of enthusiasm. “How long have you and Leyla been friends?” This is getting ridiculous.

  “Oh, forever,” I lie. I turn to Rebecca, hoping to deflect some of the attention Reed seems determined to direct my way. “How are you liking the ballet so far?”

  “Well, the second half is always the best part,” she says. “When Clara and the prince dance the pas de deux. It’s so romantic.” She has a trace of an accent, and I wonder if she’s one of those people who try to sound European to make themselves appear more cultured.

  “That’s not Clara and the prince,” says Mrs. Morgan gently. “It’s the Sugar Plum Fairy and her cavalier.”

  Rebecca purses her heart-shaped lips. “That can’t be right. The prince falls in love with Clara when she kills his enemy, the Mouse King. He loves her because she’s so loyal to him.”

  “You might be mixing up the ballet with the original short story,” Reed says. “By E. T. A. Hoffmann. I think it came out in 1816? There are several differences in the plot.”

  “You’re pretty smart,” Bryan tells Reed. “Maybe you should go on Jeopardy!” I smile at the distinct note of sarcasm in his voice.

  Mrs. Morgan yawns, triggering a sympathy yawn from her husband. “Okay, we’re leaving as soon as this is over. The old folks over here are clearly out too late for a Wednesday. Kailey, I think you’re going to have to drive us home. It’s dangerous to get behind the wheel when you’re sleepy.”

  “Sure,” I answer.

  “Kailey’s driving?” Mr. Morgan raises an eyebrow at me. “Better buckle up.”

  “Oh, stop,” Mrs. Morgan says to him. “She needs to regain her confidence. Don’t make her nervous.” My heart starts to thud in my chest. I don’t like the way this conversation is going.

  The car accident that Kailey was in the night I found her is the one thing that completely, irretrievably connects me to her. If Cyrus found out who was in that accident, he knows who Seraphina Ames is pretending to be. And while I trust Leyla and the Morgans, Reed and Rebecca are question marks at best.

  “Are you a bad driver?” asks Reed.

  Behind him, Rebecca cocks her head. “Were you ever in an accident?” she asks.

  “She’s usually a great driver,” begins Mr. Morgan, with an exasperated smile. “Except—”

  Before he can say anything else, I do the first thing I can think of. I fake a sneeze. A big one. And in the process, spill hot chocolate all over the front of my shirt.

  “Ow!” I yell.

  “Are you okay?” gasps Leyla.

  “Here.” Reed presses his silk handkerchief into my palm. I dab at the spreading chocolate stain, but the minuscule swatch of silk doesn’t do much good.

  “Thanks, but I think I need to go clean this up in the bathroom.” I try to give Reed his handkerchief, but he shakes his head.

  “No, keep it,” he says in a low voice.

  My skin crawls. I stuff the silk square in my pocket and hurry off. Even in the middle of the crowd, I feel the hairs on my neck stand up. I don’t turn around to confirm what I already know: Reed is watching me walk away.

  I turn the corner toward the bathroom and hear the girl’s voice before I see her. “No—not her. Definitely not her.” It’s the accordionist from Eli’s band. She’s pacing in the empty corridor, a cell phone glued to her ear. Without thinking, I take a step backward so she won’t be able to see me and peer carefully around the wall. “I’m narrowing it down,” she hisses, blond dreadlocks shaking impetuously. A chill runs across my body.

  “Yes, there are a lot of girls. Which is why there can be no mistakes.” My eyes widen. I think of the yearbook in Cyrus’s hotel room, with the girls’ faces marked out one by one in black Sharpie as Cyrus continued his deadly search for me. “No, I can’t come to San Francisco tonight. You need to handle this on your own.”

  I gasp, and her head shoots up. “Hang on,” she says. “I need to check on something.”

  I don’t wait to hear more. I turn and run down the stairs, breathless, my chocolate-covered shirt sticking to my skin as I stumble back into the theater.

  FIFTEEN

  The next day, Madison sits at the head of her family’s dining room table and clears her throat. “The inaugural meeting of the winter dance committee shall now come to order,” she says grandly, tucking her shaggy hair behind one ear.

  It’s been raining all day, and the Victorian wood-paneled dining room is dark, just the gloomiest bit of gray light falling on our faces from the large bay windows.

  It seems like Rebecca’s style is rubbing off on everyone. Madison has traded her usual lipstick and chunky necklaces for simple pearl earrings and a silk scarf. Leyla is still making an effort, but she’s abandoned the heels for maroon combat boots that are somehow charming underneath her black vintage gingham dress. And Chantal has always had the ladylike thing down pat, so today’s periwinkle sweater set and pressed trousers aren’t out of character.

  I feel a grudging appreciation for Nicole, the only one who’s refused to become a Rebecca clone. She’s sporting her usual haute-yoga look, flowing cotton pants and a fitted Lululemon top that leaves little to the imagination. “Maddy, I think you need a gavel or something,” she says wryly. I can tell the whole group is amused at how seriously Madison’s taking her position.

  Madison flashes a brilliant smile. “That is an excellent idea. Why don’t you be in charge of that? I’ll write it down.” She pulls her clipboard out of her backpack and sets it in front of her with a flourish. “On second thought—why don’t you write it down? You can be secretary of the committee.”

  Nicole accepts the clipboard, clearly annoyed.

  “The first thing we need to decide is our theme,” Madison says.

  Reed immediately leans forward. “I have a few ideas,” he says eagerly.

  We’re interrupted by Madison’s mother, who sweeps into the dining room with a tray in her hands. “I thought you guys could use some snacks,” she says.

  Madison nods. “You can put it down right over there,” she tells her mother coolly, in a way that suggests she’s used to being waited on. Leyla and Bryan perk up, grabbing handfuls of chips and nuts as soon as Mrs. Cortez leaves.

  Reed adjusts the tie he’s wearing, a paisley number that’s screen-printed with the image of a rose. “How about a Twenties theme?” he proposes. “Flappers, fedoras, ragtime?” Of course he’d want that. He and Rebecca could probably costume all of us with the contents of their closets.

  Bryan looks confused. “I thought this was supposed to be wintery? Like . . . snowmen?”

  Leyla cracks open a root beer. “Wait, wait, I’ve got it: ‘Silent Night, Deadly Night.’ It’ll be like a Santa Claus horror movie theme. Bloody bowls of punch, evil elves.” Chantal curls her lip in disgust. Nicole just shakes her head. “I’m totally serious, you guys,” Leyla adds.

  “I’m sure you are,” Madison replies, looking completely unamused. “But it can’t be a Christmas celebration. This is nondenominational.”

  “Roaring twenties isn’t religious,” Reed presses.

  Madison shakes her head. “I’d rather not listen to old-timey music all night.”

  An idea occurs to me. “What about ‘Winter Solstice’?” I offer, remembering how Echo mentioned it in art.

  Chantal scoffs. “That’s so . . . hippie-dippie.”

  But Madison is nodding slowly. “Not bad, Kailey. We can celebrate the return of the sun. That’s really what Christmas is about, anyway—just recycled pagan mythology. But we’ll concentrate on as
tronomy instead of myth. I like it.” I wonder if she and Echo have been talking.

  Reed looks disappointed but doesn’t protest.

  “Kailey, you could do an antique astronomical chart for the mural,” Madison suggests. I was hoping she’d forget about that. I smile and nod, though I have no idea how I’ll pull it off.

  “Excellent. Nicole, write that down. Kailey’s in charge of the astronomy mural.”

  As Madison begins assigning tasks to everyone else, I let my mind drift on the warm buzz of conversation. I can’t stop thinking about what I heard Eli’s bandmate saying last night at the theater. I don’t even know her name. But her words are engraved in my mind: Yes, there are a lot of girls. Which is why there can be no mistakes.

  Her words are a wake-up call. I’ve been limiting my search to Kailey’s friends—clearly, I need to cast a wider net. But I’m not sure how I could approach the blond girl, or where to even begin.

  On the other side of Noah, Nicole is scribbling frantically, copying Madison’s assignments for the group. Leyla and Bryan will be in charge of food, of course. Leyla’s already suggested several different food trucks that could cater the event. Noah’s hiring a photographer to take pictures of couples standing in front of my mural. He offered to take the photos himself, but Leyla squashed that idea, declaring that Noah must be free to dance with me all night long. I had to smile, both at the way Leyla looked out for me and at Noah’s furious blush.

  Madison declares that she’ll be in charge of booking the band—no big surprise for the indie rock queen. But it gives me an idea.

  “What about Eli’s band?” I say quickly. Madison’s head swivels in my direction, and she fixes me with her brown eyes. I wonder if she’s annoyed that I’m treading on her area of expertise.

  “Interesting idea,” she says coolly.

  “Why don’t I talk to them? You’re so busy, and I don’t mind.” My words come out in a rush.

  She stares at me for a long moment, her expression unreadable, then nods. “Thank you, Kailey. Yes, please talk to Eli. Or better yet, Julie. She’s the one who books their gigs.”

  Julie. There’s only one girl in the band—that must be the accordionist’s name. “I’ll talk to her tomorrow,” I promise, a thrill running up my limbs.

  “All right, then if there’s nothing else, I think we’re done here,” Madison says. Noah jumps up.

  “We should go.” He nods at me. “Before the rain starts again.”

  “Wait,” Madison interrupts. “Before you all leave—is everyone coming to the Treasure Island party tomorrow night? There are some excellent bands playing.” Her brown eyes sparkle in anticipation. “Including the Travelers. You know,” she says to my blank expression, “Eli’s band. Kailey’s favorite.” Her voice is laced with sarcasm, and I wonder again if I’ve pissed her off.

  “I’ll definitely be there,” I answer in a neutral tone. There’s a rumble of yeses as everyone else follows suit.

  “Well, Rebecca and I must be going,” Reed says stiffly. “Our parents are taking us to dinner at Range & Saddle. It’s the latest Michelin-starred restaurant.” He smiles, pleased with himself, but no one reacts. I don’t suppose average high-schoolers even know what Michelin stars are. “It’s my birthday,” he adds.

  “Happy birthday,” I say finally, when no one else speaks.

  “Thank you, Kailey,” Reed says warmly. “Do you want to join us?”

  I freeze. “Sorry,” I manage. “Homework.”

  “Another time, then,” Reed demurs.

  Not if I can help it.

  * * *

  Back in Kailey’s room, my phone buzzes with a text from Leyla: new boy luvs kailey, kailey perfects her ice queen bitchface. I would normally laugh, but I don’t share Leyla’s belief that Reed has a crush on me. I’m worried it’s something far more sinister, more . . . predatory.

  I plant myself in the desk chair and flip open Kailey’s laptop, typing Reed’s name into the Facebook search bar and pulling up his profile. Apparently we have dozens of friends in common already: Leyla, Madison, Chantal, even Echo, the ethereal boho girl from my art class.

  Should I be relieved that he hasn’t asked to be my friend? Somehow being ignored feels more ominous. Why is he treating me differently than the rest of the girls in the group?

  Reed’s profile page has his Berkeley address listed. I’ve never seen a home address on Facebook before, and it makes me wonder. I thought most people were afraid of identity theft and Internet stalkers.

  Suddenly, I’m determined to go see Reed’s house. I realize this makes me the kind of bona fide Internet stalker that people worry about. Well, serves him right.

  Before I can change my mind, I’m outside, wheeling Kailey’s bike out to the street and consulting Google maps on her phone in the deep twilight. I refuse to think about the possibility that it could all be a trap; that if Reed is Cyrus, he might have listed an address knowing that I would go there.

  When I finally reach the Sawyers’ street, I’m so warmed by the exercise that I stop to take off my jacket. Mediterranean bungalows loom on both sides of the street, perched above beautifully terraced front yards. The Sawyer house—all soaring glass and slate walls—could not look more out of place. Its sleek front yard is full of smooth gray pebbles instead of grass and dotted with cacti in square orange planters, their color barely discernible in the dark.

  It appears to be completely deserted. There are no cars in the driveway, no lights on, inside or out. If I’m going to see anything, I’ll have to try the backyard. I tuck the bike behind a neighbor’s tree and approach the house, walking softly.

  I’m filled with a strange sense of excitement. For once, I’m the one in pursuit, the stalker outside the house, the monster in the shadows. I’m so used to it being the other way around.

  The side gate is locked, but I easily climb over it, landing with a soft thud in the backyard. I move carefully toward a floor-to-ceiling glass wall and peer inside, using Kailey’s iPhone as a flashlight.

  I don’t know what I expected to find—Cyrus’s bulletin board, covered with girls’ faces marked through with X’s? A makeshift laboratory? But all I see is a kitchen with gleaming copper pots above the stove and a pile of papers on the granite counter. Framed family photos decorate the wall leading into the family room, where a pair of slippers sits next to a white leather couch in front of an enormous television. In the corner, a neat pile of moving boxes waits to be broken down and recycled.

  I let out the breath I’d been holding, and the window immediately fogs up. I back away, sliding my phone into my pocket and retreating toward the street.

  I’m almost at the gate when I feel a tickling sensation in my hair, like a cat whose tail puffs up to twice its normal size. I whip my head around so quickly that my ponytail slaps my mouth.

  A curtain moves in an upstairs window. Someone was watching me.

  I hurry over to where I hid the bike, yanking it roughly toward me and banging my shin on the pedal. Tears sting my eyes, and I mash my lips together to keep from yelling.

  Just then, I feel a vibration coming from the phone that’s wedged against my butt. I tug it out from my pocket and squint in the screen’s sudden brightness. It’s a new e-mail.

  The subject line reads, Reed Sawyer wants to be friends on Facebook.

  SIXTEEN

  Julie’s barely five feet tall, but she moves through the after-school throng with remarkable speed. I nearly lose track of her sunny blond dreads more than once. Finally she glides through the oak doors that lead to the music classroom, and I swiftly follow, pausing at the entrance.

  From within, I hear the muffled notes of a piano. I cock my head, surprised to find that I don’t recognize the song.

  Cyrus can play the piano. All of us Incarnates can, to one degree or another. When you’re alive for as long as we are, you find ways to keep occupied. Cyrus could perform a Chopin nocturne as well as a Satie Gnossienne—with impeccable technical skill but not
an ounce of passion.

  I pause, my fingers tracing the handle of the oak doors. Cyrus could never play the piano with such deep sorrow. It resonates with emotion, with humanity—and what’s more, I think it might be an original composition. I take a deep breath and go in.

  Inside, I find Julie hunched over the piano, her small frame swallowed up by an oversized blue poncho and baggy, patched jeans. Her hands roam over the keyboard with practiced grace, the melody veering from major to minor keys, from classical impulses to a vaguely jazz-influenced storminess.

  I approach, making no effort to conceal my presence, but she doesn’t seem to realize I’m there till I’m right in front of her. Her hands jerk away from the keys as she gasps.

  “Kailey! You scared me.”

  “Sorry.” I smile. “I didn’t mean to. I just wanted to ask you something. The winter dance is coming up, and we need a band to play. At the dance. We were all hoping you guys—you and Eli and—” I break off when I realize I don’t know the name of their third member, the boy who plays banjo.

  “It’s not a good idea,” she says quickly, her lips set in a thin line.

  “It’s a great idea,” I counter, surprised. Cyrus would have leapt at the chance, knowing it was a perfect way to observe students. “Everyone loves you.”

  “We can’t.” Her voice quavers, sounding suddenly fragile.

  “But—” My voice halts when, to my utter confusion, she begins to cry.

  “I’m sorry,” I say and hurry to her side, patting her shoulder awkwardly while she shakes. “What’s wrong?” I ask, after a moment.

  “It’s Eli,” she manages to say finally. “I’m just . . . so worried about him.” She turns her teary face to the window. My heart ricochets inside my chest.

  “What do you mean, you’re worried about Eli?” I ask. I’m suddenly on high alert. She draws her knees up to her chest. “He’s just . . . not himself lately. He’s being distant. And mean. And he keeps forgetting the words to our songs.” She wipes her eye with her wrist. “Sorry to unload on you like this.”