Time After Time

  I haven’t even thought about college applications. “Are the kids cool?”

  Sam shakes his head. “Hell, no. They’re a bunch of spoiled brats with some serious entitlement issues.”

  I laugh. “Way to sell it.”

  “I’m kidding. There are, like, two cool ones. But seriously, you’d be good at it,” he says to me. “You’re good with kids and stuff.”

  “Yeah,” I say sarcastically, “I’m super patient. Especially with the spoiled ones with entitlement issues.” I give him a wide smile and two overly enthusiastic thumbs-up.

  I reach for my water, suddenly realizing what Lindsey meant by her That’s it? question. Everyone’s afternoons are filled with sports, clubs, and community service projects that look good to a college admissions staff. I haven’t even thought about what I’m doing next year, let alone boosting my application.

  The bell rings and everyone dumps their trash in the bins before taking off in their separate directions. Lindsey gives Sam one more eye roll before she pushes his head in my direction. “Watch him,” she says with a wink. I laugh, thinking how much Lindsey and Anna would like each other. The four of us would have fun together.

  I’m glad Sam and I are going the same way, because I didn’t even look at the room number before I stuffed my schedule back into my pocket. As we walk through the halls toward our lockers, my mind drifts back to Anna again, and I start piecing together her schedule, wondering what she’d be doing back in 1995 Evanston. Would she still be in class, or out on the track? Would it be her day to work at the bookstore? Did she, Emma, and Danielle talk about me over lunch? Did Anna tell them that I’m coming back? Did Emma lose it when she found out?

  Sam comes to a stop.

  “What?”

  He points at a row of lockers. “Don’t you need your stuff?”

  “Huh? Oh, yeah.…” It suddenly dawns on me that we’re standing in front of my locker.

  Sam shakes his head and gives me a pitying look. “I swear, man, it’s like you’re back but you’re not.”

  I avoid his eyes as I spin the combination dial.

  I couldn’t have said it better myself.

  After an hour at the climbing gym with Sam and a rushed dinner with my parents, I head upstairs to start on my homework. I navigate to the school website and check this week’s assignments. I have a couple of hours of reading for Chemistry, a paper due in two weeks on the rise of the Tigris-Euphrates civilization, and an essay I’m supposed to begin writing for English.

  I lean back with my arms folded behind my head, staring up at the ceiling. Until recently, I’d never really thought much about my bedroom. Mom had it professionally decorated when we moved in four years ago, and I don’t recall picking out a single thing.

  Unlike Anna’s room, there are no posters on my walls, no maps of the world, no bookshelves filled with trophies and CD cases. It’s just really white. White walls. White ceiling. White rug. White comforter. The desk is glass and metal, but that does very little to break up the monotony. The only color in the room comes from the huge canvas painting my mom bought at an art auction a couple of years ago, and the red glass bowl—overflowing with ticket stubs from every live concert I’ve ever seen—that’s perched on the nightstand next to my bed. Aside from that bowl, this room could belong to anyone.

  Anna was only in my bedroom for a matter of minutes, but in that short amount of time, she must have seen it for what it is: a room that looks like it’s staged for an upcoming sale.

  I should start on homework, but instead I reach for my phone. It’s a little after nine o’clock here and an hour later in Boulder. I type out a message to Brooke:

  U there?

  I wait for her to reply, and finally the phone chirps.

  Yup. Studying.

  How was your first day back?

  I type in one word:

  Sucked.

  Brooke’s reply appears quickly.

  Sorry. :(

  I stare at the screen, thinking about what to say. Finally I type:

  I miss her.

  I look at the words before I hit send. A few minutes pass before Brooke replies.

  I know. Go do something to take your mind off it.

  That’s what the climbing was for, but it just made me wish I were outside on real rocks and reminded me of my first date with Anna.

  Like what?

  I picture Brooke letting out an exasperated huff when she reads my message. She comes back with three rapid-fire responses:

  IDK.

  Something fun.

  Something good.

  I go back to my computer, where I find myself drifting off into thoughts about college admissions and catching up with everyone else on extracurricular activities. I search for volunteer opportunities and find hundreds in San Francisco alone, ranging from part-time jobs that support senior citizens to working with kids in the city’s poorer neighborhoods.

  This one site catches my eye, and the reason isn’t entirely lost on me. I click on it, check out the programs, and watch the video. Then I navigate back to the map. The building is in the heart of the Tenderloin, only a block away from where last Saturday’s fire took place.

  It’s not as if I’ve forgotten about it. It’s been hanging out in the back of my mind for the last three days. But now that this map is filling the screen, I can’t block it out of my mind anymore. Without even thinking about what I’m about to do, I move the cursor to the search field and type the words “Tenderloin fire.”

  There’s a long list of links and I click on the most recent one. It basically says the same thing the TV news story reported last Saturday morning: an apartment fire on the third floor killed two children, a five-year-old girl and a three-year-old boy. Neighbors called 911. Source of fire remains unknown. Investigation underway.

  I scroll down to the bottom of the screen and find an update to the story: investigators are still trying to determine the cause. The parents aren’t speaking to the media.

  When I click the corner of the window, the browser closes and the story disappears. I push my chair away from my desk and reach for the enormous English book I was given today during class. I flop down on my bed and start reading. I’m only a couple of paragraphs into the homework assignment when my mind starts wandering again.

  I stand up and return to my desk. I open the bottom drawer and dig deep, shuffling through a collection of postcards I’ve bought to give to Anna, little scraps of paper I’ve saved for no particular reason, and climbing maps folded haphazardly and stuffed inside. At the bottom, I feel the red notebook I hid when I got back from Evanston last weekend. I open it to a dog-eared page near the back.

  The calculations are especially messy, stretching across the binding and continuing down the sides. Even the pencil marks themselves have a bit of a manic look to them, but with complete clarity, I remember writing them and know precisely what they mean.

  I barely knew Emma at the time, but I stayed up all night calculating and weighing the risks of altering an entire day to prevent an accident and possibly save her life. Sure, I’d gone back before—five minutes here, ten minutes there, each time changing totally minor, completely insignificant events. But I’d never gone back that far or deliberately changed that many minor things. I didn’t even know if it would be possible. And even though it was, I decided I would never do it again.

  But looking at the dates and calculations reminds me how I felt when it was all over and I saw the look of pure relief on Anna’s face. She practically skipped down the driveway after seeing Emma that Saturday morning—all of her various internal organs intact and the skin on her face scratch-free and perfect—and as I stared at her through the windshield, this feeling of intense pride washed over me. I had done that. I made that happen. It was the first time I’d ever felt that maybe I had been wrong about this gift of mine. It was the first time I’d wondered if maybe Dad was right.

  Now I run my finger along the pages, thinking about the look on his f
ace as we stood in the kitchen last week, watching the news on the screen. He wanted to say something, but he knew I wasn’t supposed to travel anymore. Besides, I’d told him so many times that he probably knew it was senseless to bring it up again: I don’t change things.

  I wonder what he’d say if he knew that I once did.

  For Emma, I’d gone back fifty-two hours. Could I go back even further?

  I turn to a clean page and start scribbling some new calculations. I know I’ll never be able to answer the big ethical questions with any certainty, but a few minutes later, I’ve figured out the math. I’ll need to go back about sixty-four hours. Two and a half…almost three days. I’d have to stay back there, just like I did with Emma, and repeat those three days again to be sure that the do-over stuck, that nothing unintentional got altered along the way. I slam the notebook shut, bury it deep in my drawer again, and go back to my homework.

  This is officially insane.

  I’m standing in my room, zipping up my backpack. It’s heavy, filled to bursting with water bottles, Doubleshots, Red Bulls, a wad of cash, a flashlight, a smoke detector, and a fire extinguisher. I look around the room and shake my head. What am I doing?

  Before I can give it another thought, I close my eyes and visualize my destination. When I open them, I’m in the alley I found on Google Maps, just one block south of the apartment complex. I’ve never been here before and already I hope I won’t have to come back again.

  To describe this neighborhood as sketchy would be a massive understatement. It’s only a little after five A.M., but there are pockets of activity everywhere. A group of guys are hanging in front of a liquor store on the corner, and the doorways are filled with homeless people curled up in sleeping bags. There’s an eerie buzz around me, and I feel my guard go up as I walk down the street toward the address. I keep my eyes up, my feet moving.

  I’m relieved to find the apartment and somehow feel a little bit safer as I slip into the entryway. I scan the directory on the wall, reading the last names next to each of the little black buttons until I find Walker. I check to be sure no one’s watching me.

  I close my eyes and when I open them again, I’m on the other side of the main entrance. There are no lights on the lower floor and the staircase is barely visible. I reach into my backpack for my flashlight, and I shine it on the stairs as I climb the three flights that lead to 3C. Closing my eyes, I visualize the other side of the door.

  In the apartment, I sneak down the hallway with my flashlight. School pictures line the walls, and for the first time tonight, I don’t question whether or not this will work, I just hope it does.

  I creep around the corner, past the living room and toward the bedrooms. After I pass the bathroom, I stand frozen, facing two closed doors. I have no idea which one belongs to the kids, so I think back to the video footage of the building on fire and make the educated guess that it’s the door on the right; the one closest to the street. I twist the handle and the door creaks open.

  On the far side of the room, two twin beds bookend a large window that looks out over the street below. A thin stream of light is coming in from between the curtains, casting a soft glow on the dingy carpet.

  The kids are breathing, low and soft, and neither one of them moves as I remove my backpack and cross the room. I crouch down, remove the brand-new smoke detector I found buried in a box out in our garage marked HOME IMPROVEMENT, and position it as high on the wall as I can reach. Back in the hall, I grab the small fire extinguisher I snagged from under our kitchen sink and prop it against the short wall between the two bedrooms.

  I close my eyes and visualize the exact same spot I was in before the fire broke out last Saturday in the early-morning hours. My bedroom.

  By the time I open my eyes, the other me has already disappeared, sent back to who knows where and when, and I’m free to take his place.

  The last time I was here, I had just hauled myself up from the couch downstairs. My head was still aching and my mouth was uncomfortably dry. But right now my heart is racing in a good way, and I’m so full of adrenaline I’m about to burst out of my own skin. I don’t know if I was successful or not, and I won’t know until the news comes on in a few hours, but somehow, I have a feeling it worked. This wasn’t what Brooke meant when she said I should do “something good,” but I’m pretty sure I just did.

  The first time around, I had climbed into bed with my clothes on and fallen back into a deep sleep. But there’s no way I could have fallen asleep tonight. I’ve been sitting here for the last hour waiting to see the first signs of daylight, and thinking about what I just did.

  Suddenly it dawns on me. In fact, it’s odd that I didn’t think of it until now, or factor it into my decision process as I sat in my bedroom on the Monday night I just wiped away. I’d been three days closer to returning to Anna. Now I have to do those days all over again, like I just rolled the dice and landed on the square that reads, Go back three spaces. I don’t know if this do-over will work, but one thing’s certain: it may actually be the most unselfish thing I’ve ever done in my life.

  The TV is the first thing I hear, and when I turn the corner I find Dad in the exact same place he was the first time: leaning against the counter, spooning yogurt into his mouth, watching the news.

  The expression on my face must look different this time, because he takes one look at me and breaks into a grin. “Well, someone’s in a good mood,” he says. “Nice trip?” My heart starts beating fast and I force myself to keep a straight face.

  It’s a completely unfounded superstition, but I still feel the intense need to keep things exactly the same—at least until I know if the do-over was a success. So even though I’m not at all hungry, I head for the pantry and emerge with the same box of cereal. “The trip was great.”

  “The nights must have been cold.”

  It takes me a second to remember what I said last time. “No, the nights were actually really warm.”

  Dad finishes his yogurt and pours his juice while I force down a spoonful of cereal. There’s the same uncomfortable silence. The only voices in the room are coming from the television. Three. Two. One.

  “Breaking news,” the anchorwoman says. I set my bowl on the counter and my head flips around. There’s no fancy TRAGEDY IN THE TENDERLOIN graphic today. Instead, the first thing I see is similar-looking video footage of the apartment building ablaze against the backdrop of a dark night sky.

  An apartment fire broke out in the Tenderloin district in the early hours this morning. Neighbors say they were awoken by a smoke alarm and helped all four residents of the apartment escape before the flames engulfed the building. Two children, their parents, and a neighbor are currently being treated at San Francisco General for smoke inhalation. All five are expected to be released later today.

  I look over at Dad. He’s glanced up at the newscast here and there, but this time, he doesn’t set his yogurt container down or reach for the remote to turn up the volume. On screen, the anchorwoman never breaks to an on-the-scene reporter, because there is no on-the-scene reporter. Instead, the camera goes to a wide shot of the studio, and she turns to her coanchor, who flashes her most concerned expression. “A good reminder to check those batteries in your smoke detectors.”

  The newscast moves to the fender bender that’s currently being cleared from the Bay Bridge. Dad doesn’t notice me staring at him, unable to speak or move or take in a good deep breath.

  I did that.

  “Do you remember that apartment we lived in when you were born?” Dad asks. “It was way out on the edge of the city. We moved to a different building when you were four, but when you were really little, your mom and I lived on the third floor of an apartment complex.”

  I actually did that.

  Now that I know the do-over was a success, I no longer feel the urge to keep every element of our conversation exactly the same as it was the first time around. Which is good, since I’m frozen in place, staring at him while I tr
y to force my jaw back where it belongs.

  “Your mom hated living on such a high floor. We had this rickety old fire escape, and I thought it was kind of cool, but she was always afraid of a fire breaking out and all of us having to use it. She’s still terribly paranoid about fires. Have you seen all the smoke detectors we have in this house?” He laughs. “She even makes me keep spare ones in the garage. Are you okay, Bennett?”

  I have to speak. Now.

  “I did that.” My voice shakes.

  “Did what?”

  “That,” I say, pointing lamely at the TV.

  He turns and looks at it. “Oh? Really? I didn’t know that. I always thought that looked a bit dangerous.”

  The newscast has moved on to a story about this Friday’s Critical Mass bike ride through downtown. “No. Not that,” I say, and Dad looks back at me quizzically.

  I’d better talk quickly. If everything goes roughly the same way it did last time, I have about three more minutes before Brooke arrives. I want Dad to be the first to know what happened. I want to tell him while we’re alone.

  I keep my voice low and strong. “Dad, listen to me. I did that over. The fire in the Tenderloin.” I gesture to the TV again, but he doesn’t look away from me this time. His eyes are locked on mine, hanging on every word. “We’ve been here before, and that story was different then. Those kids didn’t make it out of the fire. They died.”

  My heart was already racing, but now that I’ve said the word “died,” it kicks into a whole new gear. My legs are shaking, so I rest a hand on the counter to steady myself. Dad looks at the TV, then back at me, then back at the TV. “What?” he asks.