Autumn's Wish (17 page)

Suddenly he pushes me away. He holds my shoulders at arm's length and stares at me like I'm a demon trying to possess his soul. “What are you doing?”

“I want to be with you,” I blurt. “I was stupid last year. I never should have broken up with you, and—”

“
I
broke up with
you,
” he reminds me, “ 'cause you didn't have the guts to tell me how you really felt.”

The words hurt, but they're true. “I know,” I admit. “But I was wrong. And hanging out with you again…I
know
this is real. And I know you feel the same way. And—”

“Stop,” he says sharply. “You don't get to say that. You don't get to say any of this. Do you have any idea how long it took me to get over you? I was in love with you. I
begged
you not to go out with me unless you knew it was what you wanted, and you didn't care.”

“I
did
care. It's just—”

“
Don't.
Whatever you're going to say, I don't want to hear it. I can't trust it. I will
never
be able to trust anything you say again.”

“That's not true!” I say, but of course I can't explain how I know that, so I just gaze up at him, begging him with my eyes not to be mad and to give us another chance.

Instead of coming closer, he backs away, like he's repulsed. He shakes his head.

“I'm going home,” he says. “Don't follow me.”

He walks away. I stare after him until he disappears into the night.

I shouldn't have kissed him. I pushed him too fast. Just like I pushed Jack and Amalita.

I flop down onto the bleachers and pull the locket out of my dress. The
zemi
glows in the moonlight.

“Please tell me I didn't ruin everything,” I say to it. Then I open it. I close my eyes while I move the dials, trusting the spirit inside to tell me where I need to go. When I open them, I see the dials are set for November 28, ten years from now.

Okay.

I snap the locket shut, close my eyes again, and think hard about the future I want to see.

I'm in a dark room.

Not totally dark. There's a screen in front of me with a picture projected on it. It's a picture of a bunch of people in caps and gowns, throwing their caps into the air. As I peer closer, I recognize Reenzie and Sean, right in the middle of the front row.

So the picture's from
my
graduation.

The picture fades as the lights flick on and people applaud. I look around and see the room's full of round tables where people eat and drink.

“Wasn't that great? Thanks to everyone for sending in your pictures for that slideshow.”

The voice comes from the front of the room, where Carrie now stands at a podium in front of the projector. She's clearly older than I know her now, but she looks even better—more confident and together. She wears her hair in a short pixie cut that accentuates her cheekbones, and her sleeveless black cocktail dress is simple and sophisticated. She's also in great shape. Her stomach is flat, and I can see the muscles in her arms as she applauds with the group. If she had a baby while she was in college, there's no sign of it now.

When the applause dies down, Carrie speaks again into the mic. “As reunion chair, I'm so thankful you all could make it. Have a great evening, enjoy the food and the music, and I hope I get the chance to personally catch up with each and every one of you.”

Everyone claps again, and as Carrie prances off the stage, she nods to a DJ in the back corner who cranks up the tunes. It's a Kyler Leeds hit from our junior year—one off his
As You Wish
album, the title track of which Kyler actually wrote about J.J. and me.

I take it as a sign. J.J. has to be here, right? I follow Carrie, figuring she'll lead me to him, but she beelines to a table with Gus and the Senior Social Committee girls, all of whom get up and hug her, congratulating her on the great speech and presentation.

“This is great!” I gush to Carrie. “You don't hang out with us in the future anymore! I mean, no offense, but look at you—this is a
way
better deal for you than J.J. and dropping out of college and babies, right?” I pull out the locket and keep gushing to the
zemi,
“So I didn't screw everything up at all! This is excellent! What happened to everyone else?”

Carrie, of course, doesn't answer, so I go hunting on my own. I walk around the banquet room, peeking at tables. Most of the people look like slightly tweaked versions of the ones I know now. Maybe they're a tiny bit fatter or thinner, maybe their hair's a little longer or shorter or a different color, maybe they dress with more personal style…but they're easy to pick out as their high school selves.

Then there's the handful of people who look seriously old. As if they're in their forties, even though almost everyone in the room is under thirty. Like Michael Watley, the super-hot basketball player I gave Ames as her Scare Pair. He has a paunch, wears old-man glasses, and only has hair on the back and sides of his head. If he weren't wearing a name tag, I'd have no clue who he is. Same with Denise O'Bryan, who I swear must have spent every single day between high school graduation and now baking in the sun with baby oil slathered over her. Her naturally light-colored skin is mahogany, and she's so wrinkled she looks like a shar-pei.

Then there's one guy who looks like no one I know but who is also weirdly familiar. I see him coming through the main doors—maybe from the restroom? He's quite heavy and looks even more so because his blond hair is so short and his hairline is so far back on his head. What hair exists is gelled and combed into manicured rows. The guy is stuffed into a conservative blue suit, and his tie and tightly buttoned shirt push the fat of his neck up into his chin. He wears round wire-rimmed glasses. Honestly, he looks more like someone political I'd see interviewed on the news than anyone from my class.

No name tag. Is he someone's guest? Maybe, but I can't shake that feeling that I should know him, so I follow him to his table.

“Jack, honey, what took you so long?” a female voice calls as he gets closer. “You missed the slide show.”

“JACK?!”
I roar incredulously.

Jack smiles and plops down onto his seat. “I don't need to see it, dear,” he says. “I lived it. Am I right?”

“
Dear?
Jack
honey
?!” I wheel to the seat next to Jack and point. “She's a
woman
!”

I move closer to her just to be sure. Yup, she's a woman. A really mousy-looking woman with no makeup, limp brown curls, and a super-conservative Laura Ashley dress with a lace-trimmed Peter Pan collar.

“You're
always
right, sweetheart,” she says, patting his hand. Then she looks to everyone else at the table. “I wish we'd brought little Tommy. He'd have loved to see those pictures of his daddy all young and sprightly.”

“Little
Tommy
?” I gape at Jack. “Tell me you didn't name your child after Tom Watson. Tell me you don't have a
child
! You're supposed to be dating a hot guy named Nathan!”

I hear sniffing and I look around the table at Taylor. She wears a frumpy black dress and no makeup. Her head is down and she looks like she's trying not to cry out loud. I bend down next to her.

“Tee? Are you okay?”

“Sorry,” she says to everyone at the table but me. She takes some Kleenex from her purse and dabs her eyes. “It's just…Drew and I wanted to have kids. We even picked out names….”

She can't continue and sobs for real, burying her face in her hands. Next to her, a woman with jet-black hair and heavy black eyeliner leans back in her seat and stares at Taylor. “Car crash in the night…Your true love is now no more….Death comes to us all.” She intones the words dramatically, with a slight French accent, then takes a pause before she adds, “It's a haiku. I wrote it because I knew I'd see you.”

“Wow,” says a guy across the table with a super-dark tan and teeth so white they have to be veneers. I'm so distracted by the color contrast that it takes me a second to realize it's Sean. He sits next to a woman who looks like a living Bratz doll. “Depressing much?”

The Bratz doll giggles and hugs Sean's arm, while the black-haired woman fixes him with a glare. “Life is depressing. You Americans fool yourselves into thinking otherwise.”

“You
are
American,” Jack says. “And life is not depressing. Look at me. Great little wife, great kid and another on the way, great job. We're even thinking of getting a Disney vacation home.”

He says all this like it's a dream come true, but his smile doesn't meet his eyes. He also doesn't make eye contact with his wife at all when he talks about their great life. He just pats her hand. She smiles and looks at him adoringly, but he doesn't even seem to notice.

“Let's not argue, okay?” Taylor asks between sniffs. “I only came here because I thought seeing you guys would make me feel better.”

“There
is
no feeling better,” the black-haired woman says. “Life is unfair. My father died when I was fifteen. My grandmother died two years later, remember that? She was running to give me a hug on Thanksgiving when she slipped and fell and broke her hip. Two weeks later, she was dead. You think that's fair?”

As she speaks, I feel something icy fill my chest, and I walk through the table so I can get closer to the black-haired woman and stare at her face. It's gaunt and overly pale and half hidden by her extreme eye makeup…but it's also like looking in a mirror. “Are you…
me
?”

“Okay, I think Taylor losing her boyfriend three months ago in a car crash is a little more tragic than you losing your
grandmother
ten
years
ago,” Jack snaps to Future-Dark-Maiden-Me.

“I lose my grandmother senior year?” I ask, horrified. “Eddy dies
this
Thanksgiving?”

“Can we just stop talking about it?” Taylor asks.

“Why?” Future Me snaps. “It's life, and it's tragic, and Americans don't know how to cope with it. Why do you think I went to school in Paris? Why do you think I dropped out and stayed there instead of coming back here?”

“Because you couldn't hack the real world?” Sean suggests. “So you just stayed away and did the misunderstood starving artist thing?”

“At least I'm not all fake tan with fake teeth and building my life on fakeness!” Future Me shoots back, though I'd probably have a stronger argument without the fake black hair.

“Sean's not fake!” the Bratz doll squeaks. “He's doing his residency in plastic surgery! He's going to change people's lives! And I'm going to be his first patient. I've made a list of all the things I want him to do to me.”

She bounces in her seat as she runs down the list of surgical enhancements she wants to have done, while Future Me and Sean keep arguing, Taylor cries, and Jack sneaks furtive looks at the dance floor, where Tom Watson and his boyfriend or husband dance and smile and laugh and clearly have the time of their lives.

I can't hang at this table anymore. Instead I walk around the room, hoping for any kind of good news about anyone I love, but it all bites. According to the gossip I hear, J.J.'s now a hermit who lives in Seattle and talks to no one but his dog. Reenzie's a White House page, which sounds good…but she's cut off all her friends because she doesn't have time for them anymore. And Amalita…no one knows what happened to Amalita. Every time her name comes up people just frown and shake their heads.

“I don't get it,” I say. “All I've done is try to make things better, but everything's a total disaster. How did this happen?”

The next thing I know I'm back on the bleachers, the night breeze cooling my face. The Scare Pair dance is still going on, and as a member of the Senior Social Committee I'm required to stay for it all, but I can't deal. I stop at my locker to grab my bag, then walk home, my head throbbing from everything I just saw.

My future with J.J.? His amazing proposal and our road trip around the U.S. and our forever happiness? Never gonna happen. Jack will never come out of the closet. I am going to be a pretentious, depressing disaster. Taylor won't get to spend her life with Drew. And all because I was working so hard to make the future
right.

I'm plagued by a tangle of bad dreams all night, but in the morning I jump out of bed, completely energized. Yes, the future I saw last night was awful, but it's completely within my power to make sure it never happens. I just have to be smart about it. I tug on the chain to pull out the locket, open it, and look at the top window. It shows the number 5. I've jumped five times, and I have five jumps left.

Next I pull out my old journal—the one that had the
zemi
symbol on it two years ago but is now just a mostly filled lined notebook with a sliced-open cover. I flip to an empty page in the back and make a list of everything I need to change before those five jumps are done:

I finish off the list with numbers for my mom/Glen and Erick but follow them with question marks since I don't know where their futures are at the moment. Then I look at the list. What should I tackle first?

“Eddy,” I say out loud. “Today I'm saving your life.”

I check to make sure my debit card is in my wallet. The money I made this summer is in my account, and while Mom wants me to save it for college, I'm sure she'd approve of the things I plan to buy today. At the same time, I don't want to explain my motivation, so I ask Mom for the car instead of a ride. She's thrilled. She knows Dad's accident is the reason I hate to drive, so I'm sure she thinks my request is a big psychological step forward. She falls all over herself to give me the keys.

I drive myself to Walmart, do my shopping, then walk into Century Acres so laden with bags that I have to lean heavily on one of my other purchases: an old-lady rolling walker, the seat of which I've also covered with bags.

“Autumn!” Eddy and Zelda shout from their matching comfy seats. Then Eddy jumps up and runs my way.

“STOP!”
I shout.

“It's okay, Autumn,” Zelda says. “I'll save her seat.”

“It's not the seat,” I snap. “Eddy, do not move.”

“What? Do I have a bee on me?” Eddy asks.

I place all the bags on the floor, leave the cart, and run to her side, then take her arm. “Lean on me,” I say as I gently guide her back into the chair. Eddy looks at me like I have a cucumber growing out of my face.

“Autumn, what's wrong with you?” she asks.

“I want you to be safe,” I say. “I got you some things.”

I hold up a “stay” finger and run back to the bags. I pull out a small metal stick with a hook at one end and four rubber-capped prongs at the other. Eddy narrows her eyes.

“That better be a messed-up looking cheerleader baton for a midget,” she says.

“No, it's a cane!” I enthuse. “It folds up small so you can take it with you anywhere; then…” I yank it out to its full height and lean on it, but I'm much taller than Eddy, so I have to hunch over. Still, I try to make it convincing when I say, “See? Super-comfy! And a great way to make sure you're safe when you walk!”

Eddy looks at Zelda and raises her eyebrows. Zelda sighs and shakes her head.

“Wait, there's more,” I say, running back to the bags and pulling out items as I show them off to Eddy and her friend. “I have these grab bars with suction cups—you can stick them to any wall and put them all over your room so you can catch yourself if you fall. And I got these racks you can put on the sides of your bed so you won't fall out at night. Did you know that can happen?”

“Oooh, so you want me to sleep in a crib?” Eddy asks.

“Not
exactly
a crib.”

“And that cart under all the bags. What's that, a walker?” she asks.

“Well…yeah!” I say. “But look how handy it is. It has four wheels, so it's very steady, the grip handles keep you stable, and there's even a built-in chair so if you get tired while you're walking around, you won't fall—you can just sit!”

“Is that a toilet seat?” Zelda asks; then she turns to Eddy. “Your granddaughter got you a toilet seat. She doesn't think you can handle the toilet.”

“No, no!” I object. “I know you can handle it, but the guy at the store said it's easier for people of a certain age to have a seat that's raised a little higher, so you don't have to crouch as low. That way you don't have to struggle to get up and risk a fall!”

“Zelda, will you excuse me and my
nieta dementa
?” Eddy asks.

“Maybe,” Zelda says; then she nods to me. “Come here.”

I walk over to her. She leans close and inhales deeply.

“Um…Zelda…are you
sniffing
me?” I ask.

“Looking for harsh perfumes. They never come out of the upholstery. You're clean.” She turns to Eddy. “I'll go back to my room and have a nosh.”

“Aren't you guys having lunch soon?” I ask. It was why I rushed through my Walmart trip. In old lady land, lunch starts at exactly 11:00 a.m.

“Yes, but I didn't say I was having lunch. I said I'm having a nosh.
Then
I'll have lunch.” She waves to Eddy. “I'll come get you when I'm done.”

Eddy waves back, then lowers her voice. “The woman eats morning till night. That's why she looks like she has a blimp between her
pechos
and her
caderas.
” She pats Zelda's chair and I sit. She waves toward all my shopping. “This all came from someplace, and I don't mean the store.
Dime.
Tell me.”

I look around to make sure no one is listening in, which is crazy because no one around here can hear; then I tell her all about my dad's latest gift and the things I've been seeing. The only thing I leave out is the most vital piece of information, mainly because I don't want to scare her.

A slow smile spreads across her face. “And you saw me
muerta, sí?
”

My face burns red, but she doesn't seem upset. In fact, she leans in closer, elbows on her knees and chin in her hands. “Tell me, how did I go? Another stroke? An aneurysm? Oh,
lo se
! It was the receptionist,
sí?
He went
loco
and pulled out a gun and shot us all in the middle of music time.”

I rear back and grimace, horrified. “Eddy, no!”

She shrugs. “Nah. Figured I wouldn't get anything that exciting. Plus you got me all that safety stuff. What is it, broken hip?”

I purse my lips together. “It doesn't matter what it was, because it's not going to happen.”

Eddy throws back her head and laughs.

“Eddy, it's not funny! We're talking about your life!”

“Which I've lived,
querida
! So take back all those things. I don't need them.”

“But…it's my job to change things.” I look around again, because I always feel stupid saying the next part, even though it's true. “It's my mission. Peace and harmony, remember? You know it better than anyone.”

“I do. But I also know you can't change everything. And some things you can't change at all. One day I will go to be with
mi amor,
your
abuelo.
I'm not afraid of that. And when it happens, it will
not
be your fault.
Comprende?
”

“But if I can stop it—” I begin, but Eddy silences me, putting her hand on my knee.

“I love you, Autumn. I love you for wanting to take care of me, and your friends, and the rest of your family. You will do great things for all of us. Who knows? Maybe just by telling me you've already changed what you saw. I'll be more careful now, because it would be nice to have a little more time. But when things do go wrong—and they will,
querida
—know that it won't be your fault. Okay?”

I look into her eyes, so alive on her tiny wrinkled body. I smile. “Okay,” I say. I get up, kiss the top of her head, then put all the bags together so I can return them.

“Leave the walker with the seat,” Eddy says. “Zelda and I can take turns pushing each other down the halls.”

I wince. I'm fairly certain Kyler Leeds will hate me forever if his Mee-Maw breaks every bone in her body thanks to a wild walker wipeout, but Eddy's right. I can't protect her—or anyone I love—from everything. Still, I can at least try.

While I'm in line returning everything but the cart, I email Gus and apologize for the way Jack acted at the dance. I tell him Jack's usually a much better guy, that he's going through some personal stuff that makes it rough for him right now, and I hope he and Tom can forgive him. I almost don't hit
SEND
because I know “personal stuff” is code for Jack's fear of coming out. I'm hoping Gus will guess that, maybe talk to Tom, and maybe they can reach out on their own to Jack and try to help. At the same time, I don't want to push too hard. In the end I figure what I'm saying is nebulous enough that it's okay. If it comes back to bite me, I can always say I meant Jack was worried about college or something.

I'm heading back to my car when I get a text from Reenzie.

OMG have you seen this???

Then she sends me a picture. It's Ames, splayed out on her bed. She's lying on her side, propped up on one arm, a smile on her face. That's weird, but fine. What's not as fine is what she's wearing: some super-short slinky nightie with tiny spaghetti straps. I drop my phone and have to rescue it before another Walmart customer runs it over with her cart.

I call Reenzie.

“Tell me you're the only person who has this.”

“Why in the universe would I be the only person who has this?” Reenzie retorts. “Why would she send it to me? You think I want that on my phone? You think I want that in my
brain
?”

I'm getting nothing helpful out of Reenzie. “I gotta go,” I say, and immediately call Amalita, who doesn't answer. Luckily I have the car. I drive to her house and her mom opens the door a crack when she sees it's me.

“Hi, Mrs. Leibowitz,” I say. “Is Ames around?”

She pouts sympathetically. “Autumn, I'm so sorry. Amalita's not feeling well today. She doesn't want to see anyone.”

“Okay,” I say. I turn away as if I'm going to go, then spin back around before she can close the door.
“Una cosa…me gustaría hacer empanadas de Thanksgiving de este año. ¿Tiene una buena receta?”

She brightens immediately.
“Oh, sí! Sí! Adelante!”

It's a cheap play on my part, but I didn't see another way. Ames's mother comes from a hodgepodge of Spanish-speaking cultures. The language is her first love, and the food of her heritage is her second. The instant I opened my mouth and asked her—in Spanish—if she had a good empanada recipe so I could make the dish this Thanksgiving, I knew I had her. She brings me into the kitchen, hands me a pen and a notebook, and rattles off recipes and tips in high-speed Spanish for a full hour. She's so excited about it that I kinda
do
want to make empanadas for Thanksgiving and almost forget why I'm here. Luckily it comes back to me before she shuttles me out the door.