Impossibility of Tomorrow (11 page)

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.”

“No, it’s fine.” My heart takes off like a horse, like a jet engine. I throw out a hand to brace myself. “When did this start?” I hear myself ask.

“Ever since that teacher got killed,” she whispers. “And at first I could understand—we were all shaken up, you know?”

“I know.” The sun shifts. The beam of light disappears from the window.

“Anyway, we’ve been looking for another female singer. We were supposed to meet on Wednesday for auditions. He never showed, which is
so
unlike him.”

Yes, there are a lot of girls,
Julie had said in the hallway the
night of the
Nutcracker
.
Which is why there can be no mistakes.
They were auditioning singers.

“The worst part is, we’re playing tonight on Treasure Island. It’s our biggest show ever. I just hope he can get it together. If he can’t . . . well, we may have to replace him. He can’t even perform anymore. It’s almost like he’s become another person. I just hope he’s not, you know,
on
something.” She wraps her arms around her knees, looking even smaller as she pulls herself into a tight ball.

Fear and certainty explode across me like a dying sun. An easygoing violinist is suddenly mean to his friends? Forgets his songs? I think of how he couldn’t remember loaning me his instrument at the party in Montclair.
Destiny,
he said, when I collided with him in the hallway.
As if there was such a thing.

Eli is Cyrus. I know it like I know that thunder follows lightning.

“I’m sure he’ll be fine,” I say quietly, fingers losing purchase on the slick surface of the piano. “I can’t wait to hear you guys play.”

“Thanks for letting me talk,” she answers, but I’m already halfway out the door.

Tonight, on Treasure Island, I’m going to kill Cyrus at last. I’ve found him before he found me.

I’m closing in. I just pray he isn’t doing the same.

SEVENTEEN

Outside, the sun lingers even while the sky roils with purple clouds. It’s my favorite kind of weather, my favorite kind of light. It’s just past four, and the late November sun will be going down soon, but for now it washes everything with gold.

As Noah drives me home, I watch his profile. After tonight, there will be nothing to keep us apart. He pulls up to the curb outside my house.

“Wait,” I say. “I don’t want to go home yet.” Something unspoken passes between us, some agreement, and we head silently down the street, our feet padding lightly over the
leaves that stick to the pavement in an organic, earthy collage.

Noah pauses and pulls me with him toward a stone staircase, a pedestrian shortcut up the hill to the next street over. I must have passed it a hundred times, but somehow I never noticed it before.

I follow him, trees dripping leftover rain onto my forehead. At the top of the hill is an abandoned fountain surrounded by trees. He pulls me toward him, blue eyes sparkling in the gold light.

When his eyes are like this, I want to tell him who I am, so badly. How can he look at me this way when he only knows a hundredth of my being, when he doesn’t even know my name?

Noah pulls away from me. “What’s wrong?” he asks, searching my expression.

“Nothing,” I answer. “Absolutely nothing.”

“You’re happy, right? With me?” His eyes darken to a bluer shade.

“You make me happier than anyone else I’ve ever known,” I answer, my voice low.

“That’s all you have to say,” he answers, stroking my hair. I lean against his chest, hearing his heart beat under his sweater. “I want this moment forever. This light, you. This place.”

I laugh when he pulls his camera out from the messenger bag he carries. He tells me to sit on the edge of the fountain while he fiddles with the lens and various aperture settings.

He comes closer, closer, till he’s standing right in front of me, looking down. “Just look at me,” he instructs. “Forget the camera’s here.”

I do as he says, looking past the lens to his forehead, to his hair.
I love you,
I think.

Click. “Perfect,” he says.

* * *

Back at the house, I slip unnoticed into the garage. I’m hit with the smell of dirt from Mrs. Morgan’s gardening equipment and an acrid mixture of paint and cleaning chemicals. I run my hand over the nearest wall, recoiling when I touch a thick, sticky spiderweb, but then I find the light switch and flip it up.

In the corner, on a shelf that sags beneath the weight of camping equipment and power tools, I see Mr. Morgan’s fishing tackle box. I hurry toward it, brushing against a rusty pink cruiser bicycle, staining my jeans with grease and rust. It must have been Kailey’s when she was younger.

I pick up the knife carefully and slip it out from its leather sheath. It’s sharp, serrated, and shines brightly in the overhead light. Perfect. From outside, I hear the familiar rattle of Mr. Morgan’s Volvo pulling into the driveway, so I slip
the sheathed knife into my knee-high boots, slip through the garage, and turn off the light.

I dart through the hallway and back into Kailey’s room, exhaling as I flop onto the bed. The weight of the knife feels comfortingly solid against my calf.

Having it there reminds me of my early days with Cyrus. I used to carry a knife at all times. That was before Cyrus brought Jared and Sébastien into our coven, before I was told that keeping me safe was the men’s job. Before Cyrus stopped trusting me with my own weapons.

I think through my plan for tonight. It won’t be too hard to find Eli backstage after their set. But what will I say?
Oh, Eli, your music is so incredible. I’ve never felt more alive
. Truthfully, it doesn’t matter what I say. Cyrus has never been able to resist flattery, especially from a pretty girl.

I wonder if, in the last few moments, as I lean in for a kiss and pull the knife from my boot, he’ll realize his mistake. I want him to know that I’m the one who finally succeeded in killing him. I want him to realize how much he’s always underestimated me.

EIGHTEEN

The cold ocean breeze sweeps across Treasure Island as though we were on a boat tossed by salty waves. I’m glad I listened to Leyla and dressed warmly—even with my wool hat, coat, and scarf, I’m chilled to the bone when the wind gusts, but Noah doesn’t seem to mind when I lean into him.

“C’mon,” Leyla urges us. “I see fire over there.”

In the distance I spot the abandoned naval barracks, orange flames flickering up their graffiti-covered stucco walls and silhouetting the profiles of hundreds of kids who are here for the music.

I take Noah’s hand and follow Leyla, Bryan a few steps
ahead of us. The wet grass has been trampled to mud by hundreds of feet, and it tries to suck my boots off as I walk. According to the texts everyone has been sending, Reed and Rebecca have already joined Madison in the crowd, and Nicole is on her way with Chantal.

We reach the barracks and slip through the crowd in a human chain. There’s a makeshift stage on the steps of one of the abandoned dormitories, and the first band is already playing. It consists of three bearded, skinny guitarists and a drummer. They don’t appear to have a singer but don’t need to, the guitars weaving a chiming wall of sound that’s as complicated as a Bach fugue.

Madison’s standing on a crate so she can get a better view of the band, Reed and Rebecca stationed in front of her like guards.

“This place is amazing,” Bryan admits, and Leyla grins triumphantly.

“I
told
you. Broken windows, graffiti, spookiness galore. And all right next to San Francisco! You guys, we should pretend this whole crowd is a horde of zombies.” She cocks an imaginary shotgun.

“You gotta aim for the head,” adds Bryan, doing the same. “Otherwise they won’t die.”

Madison shakes her head. “You guys both know that zombies are scientifically impossible, right?”

“Science has nothing to do with monsters,” Leyla retorts.

Oh, how wrong she is.

“You clearly haven’t read
Frankenstein
, if that’s what you think.” Reed shoots Leyla a smile that verges on a smirk.

“Good point. Let’s toast to experiments gone wrong, then,” says Leyla, pulling a bottle of wine out of the voluminous folds of her coat—though it might be more apt to call it a cloak, the red wool falling around her like she’s Little Red Riding Hood. She passes it around, and we each take a long swallow. I feel its warmth reaching down into my chest as the song finally comes to an end.

“We’re Firestorm, and we’re from Texas,” announces the lead guitarist to a roar of applause, before beginning the next song, his fingers coaxing an achingly sweet motif from the instrument that’s soon joined by a throb of drums.

I lean over to Madison. “When is Eli’s band coming on?”

“They’re next,” she informs me, with a wide smile. “I’m really excited to hear them play.”

“Me too,” I respond. And I am, though not for the reason she thinks.

Although
excited
is not quite the right word for how I feel, this wrenching combination of dread and anticipation. I’m not looking forward to killing Cyrus, to watching his stolen body disintegrate into dust.

I never wanted to be a killer, even though I’ve killed countless times, just to stay alive. But this is different. Cyrus has already killed Eli. How many more will have to die before he’s satisfied?

I throw my head back as the next song begins, the tops of the buildings looming over me like trees. Noah’s hand finds mine. He squeezes my fingers, then hands me the bottle of wine. I take another drink, watching his profile in the flickering light, before passing it along to Reed.

It’s amazing to think how much has changed since I first heard Eli’s band play at Dawson’s party. It was only a month ago, and Kailey’s friends were strangers to me. I wanted to escape, I wanted to die. Her life was a prison that I’d unwittingly locked myself into.

Now I can’t imagine leaving this life. I would fight for it. I
will
fight for it.

The song ends, and my heart floats back to earth. The band waves good-bye, and the crowd sends them off on an eruption of cheers and applause.

Silence descends as people bustle around on stage, changing out instruments and adjusting wires.

“Their set went by so quickly,” I say.

“Don’t worry,” Madison replies. “The next act is going to be even better.” She wraps her arms around herself. A
chill of danger bubbles through me. As soon as Eli’s band goes offstage, I’ll make my move. Lure Cyrus into a shadowy corner, and end it.

Rebecca nods. “The Travelers are
really
good.” I stifle a laugh. Looks like Madison’s found the perfectly obedient assistant. I don’t think I’ve heard Maddy say one thing that Rebecca hasn’t agreed with.

Reed takes another swig of wine, his teeth slightly purple when he smiles. “You know, I don’t usually go in for this indie rock scene, but that last group was pretty good.”

Just then the crowd cheers as Eli’s band walks out on stage. I see Julie, a fedora perched on top of her hair, and the boy with the stretched-out earlobes who plays banjo. There’s another boy I haven’t seen before who sits behind the drum kit with an inexplicably sad expression on his face.

I don’t see Eli—
Cyrus
—anywhere.