Impossibility of Tomorrow (2 page)

When the dizziness subsides, my eyes focus on one of Kailey’s paintings. A vaguely familiar girl with shaggy brown hair stands on top of a cathedral, balanced between two sides of a roof that pitch steeply away. She has a guitar strapped to her back like a quiver of arrows. From the lift of her hair and the sway of her feather earrings, it’s clear that the wind is blowing, but she looks so surefooted. In the sky above her floats another girl with blond hair and wings that glint in the setting sun’s light.

“Kailey! Noah’s here!” Mrs. Morgan calls from down the hall.

Game time.

The kitchen knife is too unwieldy to hide in my bag, so I
rummage through Kailey’s desk for the Swiss army knife I saw there last week. It’s pathetic, but it’s something.

My resolve has not changed. Cyrus has come to drive me back to San Francisco, where he’ll lock me in our condo for as long as it takes to break me, to make me his again. But with any luck, we won’t make it farther than the Bay Bridge. I will attack him the first chance I get.

In the kitchen, Mrs. Morgan is murmuring to the boy she thinks is Noah. He’s wearing an argyle sweater that I’ve never seen before, and his hair is neater than usual. I try to lock my grief in a glass box deep inside me. But looking at Not-Noah—at his broad shoulders, the hands I held just yesterday, the lips I kissed—creates hairline fractures in its walls. Even now I find him beautiful. I grit my teeth and ignore the way my stupid heart tugs at the sight of him.
It isn’t Noah,
I remind myself.

“Hey, guys,” I say carefully.

Mrs. Morgan looks up. “We were just talking about that teacher who was killed last night. It’s all over the news. Awful, absolutely awful.”

His eyes are as bloodshot as mine. “I couldn’t sleep. I kept thinking about Mr. Shaw.”

“Yes. Poor Mr. Shaw.” There is just the slightest hint of bitterness in my voice. Mrs. Morgan would never detect it. But Cyrus does, and his jaw tightens.

He picks up his backpack and tilts his head toward the front door. “We should go.”

My heart starts to pound, and I hug Mrs. Morgan tightly. “Bye, Mom. Love you.”

“Be careful out there,” she says into my hair as she kisses the side of my head. “It’s a dangerous world.”

“I know.” I hold on to her as long as I can, knowing this is likely the last time I will see her.

I’m grateful to Cyrus, at least, for not breaking into the Morgans’ house last night. For not causing a scene or punishing them, too. By pretending to be a boy picking up his girlfriend for school, Noah Vander and Kailey Morgan can simply disappear. It’s tragic for their families, but it’s better than the bloody scene I’d imagined. And with Kailey’s mysterious past and Noah’s unhappy home life, they will likely be labeled runaway lovers.

My throat grows thick, but I swallow hard. I need to stay numb. The only emotion I can allow is my hatred. Hate keeps me strong. Hate will let me exact revenge.

Outside, the sun strains to break through the clouds, the rays too bright for my sleep-deprived eyes. I squint at Noah’s car and touch my pocket, feeling the outline of the knife.

Cyrus’s hand is at the small of my back, urging me forward. I glance at him, but he’s looking everywhere but at
me—at the rippling sky, at the shocking orange blur of California poppies that shiver in the Morgans’ garden. Entering a new body is intoxicating for Incarnates. Colors are more vivid, the breeze is delicious, and the body thrums with a vitality that most humans will never know.

I hope that the beauty of the world will distract him as he drives. I only need him to falter briefly. Then I will strike.

Cyrus opens the car door for me, playing the part of the perfect gentleman, but I feel like I’m climbing into a hearse. The VW that I used to look forward to riding in is suddenly stifling, claustrophobic.

As he pulls away from the curb, I watch out the window. The hundred-year-old houses slide by, the sky half cloudy, half clear. I want to remember every detail—the young bearded father with a baby strapped to his chest, the UC Berkeley students with their messenger bags, the old man who sweeps the sidewalk outside the organic cheese shop. I feel tears in my eyes as I realize how much I’ll miss this neighborhood, this life. My Noah.

Silence reigns until I can no longer stand it. I reach forward and turn on the radio.

“—and police have no new information on the death of Jason Shaw, a popular substitute biology teacher at Berkeley High. Bereaved students have already started an online memorial . . . ,” a newscaster intones. I snap the radio off.

Cyrus shakes his head. “It’s so odd. Everyone is mourning Mr. Shaw, but no one even knows who he really was or that he came to Berkeley to find his true love,” he murmurs, smoothly changing lanes to avoid a bicyclist. “They met when they were just kids—she was fourteen, and he was a couple of years older. It was at a masquerade party.”

I close my eyes, remembering that night, almost able to smell the pomegranate wine, the smoky torches, the roses’ heady perfume. I can recall every detail—the way my mask made it difficult to see, the cool air pouring over my face when Cyrus asked me to remove it.

“He knew that night that he had to be with her, always. That it was meant to be. They ended up running away together. They left their homes, their families, everything. But it didn’t matter. They had each other.”

Oh, it mattered.
I remember sobbing like the child I was when I realized I could never return to my parents. They thought I was dead, and I couldn’t even comfort them while they quietly wept at my funeral. I feel my throat grow thick, and I wonder why he is telling me this, why he’s making our life into some sort of dark fairy tale.

“They traveled the world together until one night, she left him. He didn’t understand why.”

It’s a parable, I realize. A lesson. He’s treating our life like a story because he doesn’t know how to speak to me
directly. He’s telling me how badly I hurt him, how much he loves me.

He brings the car to a stop at a red light. “He was sure she came to Berkeley. He came here to find her.”

I wrap my fingers around the knife in my pocket, pulling it out with a jerk. Fury makes my fingers tremble. I drop my hand down between the passenger seat and the door so he won’t see.

The light turns green, and to my surprise, he doesn’t turn right, toward the freeway. As I watch him, trying to figure out his plan, I slide the blade open in my right hand. I run one finger along its edge, never looking away from him.

“How does the story end?” I whisper.

He guns the engine. “How do you think?”

I am shaking. I am shaking so hard that I drop the knife. My heart sinks—I’ve lost my chance.

But then he makes a sharp left, and I realize where he’s taking us.

Berkeley High.

He jerks the car into an open spot, yanks the keys out of the ignition, and sits quietly. He won’t look at me. The sun has finally won its battle with the fog, and I stare at the motes of dust that twist in the air and settle on the faded dash. All around us, kids stream into school. I can see them laughing, but it’s like watching TV with the sound turned off.

I fight the urge to throw open the car door and run. I wouldn’t make it ten feet.

“Why are we here? At school?” I ask, my pulse wild, my breath rapid. Anything is better than this suspense, this not knowing what comes next.

He leans back in his seat and drapes his wrists over the steering wheel, tucking his chin to his chest. “It does feel a bit ridiculous, doesn’t it?”

“To say the least.”

“Today is a day to be with friends.” His voice is rough. It drags over my heart like wheels on gravel. He meets my gaze. “You never know—it could be the last time you’ll see them.”

Finally, I understand. He’s going to give me one day to say good-bye. Perhaps he’s remembering how devastated I was to leave my mortal family with no farewells. He’s trying to be kind. But what can I even say to my friends here? What can I say to Leyla, to Bryan? Nothing.

And I can’t say good-bye to the person who matters most. I picture Noah, the last time I saw him. Only last night, walking away from me on the Golden Gate Bridge, disappearing into fog. If only I could touch him one more time. It’s not till I taste salt that I realize I’m crying.

The boy who looks like Noah strokes my hair. He finds my hand and squeezes it so hard I feel my bones sliding
against each other. I want to pull back, but I force myself not to move. I pretend I am a statue. A statue doesn’t care what happens to it. A statue doesn’t flinch.

I know he wants me to forgive him. Killing Noah wasn’t enough for Cyrus. He still thinks, after everything that’s happened, that I will love him. He wants me on my knees, crawling back to his familiar crushing embrace.

FOUR

“Come on, Kailey,” Madison Cortez pleads in our art class. “You’re the best artist I know. It can be whatever you want—I don’t know, ice fairies? Snow queens? Deer? You love antlers.” She fixes me with her brown eyes, shining beneath the heavy line of her blunt chestnut bangs.

I force a laugh, despite the hollowness I feel, knowing my time here is quickly ticking away. I can only hold on to the fact that with me gone, my friends will be safe. “I’m just
busy
. I have a job and—”

“And Noah. I know. Hey, why don’t you paint Noah for
the mural? Two birds, one stone. Make him into a snowman, whatever.”

The mention of Noah makes me want to scream. Cyrus has barely left my side today, appearing outside each of my classes to escort me to the next one. He stopped short of actually grabbing my elbow to steer me along, but his meaning is clear.
Don’t even think about running, Sera.
Not that I plan to. I have nowhere to go, no one to run to.

Madison snaps her fingers. “Kailey? Hello? The mural for the dance? Will you do it? Please say yes. I need to cross it off my list.”

This has been going on for the entire class. Normally art is quiet, but the whole classroom has been abuzz, unsettled and loud. Madison is fixated on the dance, but I know what everyone else is talking about: Mr. Shaw’s death. When I got to my biology classroom this morning, there was a makeshift shrine set up outside the door: candles, flowers, and science books laid out in mourning for Mr. Shaw. It made me sick. Cyrus, who has murdered hundreds of humans, being grieved? When he’s not even dead? All day, my rage has been growing, glowing in my belly like a hot coal.

“I’ll be your best friend . . . ,” Madison tries.

I was taken aback to hear that Madison is the chair of the winter dance committee, given her rock-’n’-roll bad-girl vibe. I would have pegged her for one of the kids who
smoke pot in the parking lot and wouldn’t be caught dead at a school dance. But I guess even after six hundred years, people can surprise me.

The other girl who shares our table speaks up shyly. “She’s right, Kailey. You should do the mural. It would be good for your soul to honor the solstice.” I don’t know if I’ve ever heard her speak before, and I struggle to remember her name. Enid? Erica?

She watches me for a few seconds, her eyes outlined in a thick stroke of silver eyeliner that stands out from her dark skin. It mimics the shape of the vintage cat-eye glasses that constantly slip down her nose. She’s wearing neon-blue high-waisted bell-bottoms and a T-shirt that reads
I

She’s bent over a piece of leather that she’s painstakingly engraving with a blade and an awl. I watch what she’s doing for a bit, until her thick curtain of braids falls in the way. She’s got yarn and ribbons and feathers braided into her hair. I wonder how she washes it.

Madison sighs, running her fingers through her shaggy brown hair. “Does this mean you’ll do it? The mural?”

“I’ll . . . consider it,” I deflect. I’ll either be dead or back with the coven by the time the dance rolls around. But even if, by some miracle, I
am
in Berkeley on December first, I
wouldn’t want to do it for one small, yet significant reason: I can’t draw. A fact I’ve only been able to hide thanks to a long ceramics unit.

“Class, may I have your attention?” We’re interrupted by Mrs. Swan. She stands at the front of the studio with hands clasped, next to a boy I haven’t seen before. He’s wearing a vintage-looking vest over his white button-up shirt, closed with cuff links at the wrists, and striped wool trousers that remind me of the 1930s.

Mrs. Swan smiles, tucking a lock of long gray hair behind her ear and smoothing her ankle-length skirt around her hips. “Please welcome Reed Sawyer to our midst. He joins us from Sonoma, where he worked on his family’s vineyard.” She beams, and the class makes a collective rustling sound.

The boy is good-looking, though not my type. He’s got very short brown hair that looks freshly attended to with clippers, and he turns a fedora over and over in his hands. I wouldn’t call myself an expert on high-school fashion, but he looks like he’s wearing a costume.

Mrs. Swan deposits Reed at our table before disappearing in a cloud of her tuberose perfume. He catches my eye and smiles, revealing large white teeth.

“Hey,” he says, sitting on the stool across from me. “I’m Reed.”

“I’m Kailey,” I answer listlessly. It feels so pointless to meet a new person when I’m about to disappear.

“Kailey, huh?” He gazes at me for a second, then smiles. Two deep dimples appear in his tanned cheeks, darkened with a fledgling beard. “You look familiar. Have we met before?”

“I don’t think so,” I say, though I suppose he could have met Kailey.

“Have you ever spent time in Sonoma?” he presses.

“Nope.”
Not in this body, at least.

“Maybe you know each other from a past life,” Enid-or-Erica says in her musical voice as she looks up from her project. “Way more common than you’d think.” She offers her hand to Reed. Her long fingers are covered with at least six silver rings.

“I’m Echo,” she tells him. Ah, so that’s her name. Like the nymph.

“I’m Echo,” he responds.

She throws her head back and laughs, the sound like a carillon of bells. “You know,” she says, looking at him more closely, “I haven’t actually heard that one before.”