Impossibility of Tomorrow (7 page)

No one ever left the coven. Until me.

My phone buzzes in my pocket, pulling me back to the present, to the world I wish would absorb me and keep me secret. A smile plays across my lips when I see who’s calling.

“Is this the unicorn hotline? I’d like to report a sighting.” Noah’s voice breathes in my ear.

“You’ve got the right number. Give me the details.”

“I’d prefer to report them in person, over dinner tonight.”

“The unicorn hotline will send a representative to your house at eight,” I answer.

A pause. “You don’t have to do that, Kailey—”

“I know, but I want to. See you soon!” I tap the
END CALL
button before he can protest. It’s true—I
do
want to see his house. I’m in love with Noah, and I want to know everything there is to know about him.

“The gods of fashion are smiling upon me today,” Leyla declares, emerging from the dressing room with a pigtail askew. “Operation Retro Chic is a success.”

I make the appropriate admiring sounds as she heaps her finds on the counter and chats with the salesgirl. When
Leyla finishes paying, she tosses her purchases into the huge canvas tote that hangs off her shoulder. “I’m so glad we got the chance to hang out, just the two of us,” she says, linking her arm through mine.

“Me too,” I answer.

“Just because we both have boyfriends doesn’t mean we can ignore girl time,” Leyla says, pulling me out to the sidewalk.

“Wait—does that mean Bryan’s your official
boyfriend
?”

“Um,” she stalls, a blush stealing across her cheeks. “Yes? That’s okay, right?”

“Of course it is! You two were clearly meant for each other.” I laugh. “But if you start coming over only to see Bryan and ignoring me, then you’re in trouble.”

“Never!” She gasps theatrically. “You’re right, though. I think the last time we hung out alone was, what? Three weeks ago, when we got coffee? Way too long.” My heart lifts as she speaks. There’s no way Cyrus could know that.

“Yeah, what was the name of that café again?” I ask. I need to be sure.

Leyla stares at me. “Seriously? You don’t remember?”

My heart starts to pound. “It’s on the tip of my tongue.” My voice sounds strangely high-pitched.

“Jeez, Kailey,” she admonishes. “We’ve only been going to Caffe Strada for three years.”

“Right! Duh. Of course.” I clap my hand to my forehead. Leyla’s shaking her head and laughing at what an airhead I am, but I can’t stop smiling.

“You know what? I think we should hit up Caffe Strada right now,” I say. “Gelato on me.”

It’s a small victory, but I need to celebrate it. Noah isn’t Cyrus, and neither is Leyla. This knowledge makes me feel much less alone in the world: the opposite of how Cyrus promised I would find myself.

It makes me wonder what else he was wrong about.

ELEVEN

When Noah’s father answers the door later that night, I’m blasted with the smell of whiskey on his breath. “Kailey!” he shouts. “Come in, come in.” He closes the door behind me with a slam, the hinges creaking in protest. “Guess I should oil that,” he says.

I just nod. I’ve never actually spoken to Mr. Vander before or seen him up close. He’s got Noah’s deep blue eyes, but his skin is sallow, his nose a garden of broken capillaries. He’s tall, though, like Noah, and strong. His beard covers up what I suspect to be a twin to Noah’s sculpted jawline. It’s grizzled and shot through with gray. He’s wearing shorts
and a stained T-shirt, despite the late fall chill that hangs in the air. The house is freezing.

Noah’s dog Harker bounds into the room, eyeing me suspiciously. He backs up slowly, tail bristling, a deep growl emanating from his throat. “Stop it, you jerk,” commands Mr. Vander. “It’s just Kailey.” Harker yelps and sits down but doesn’t move his eyes from my own. I subtly bow my head, trying to show canine submission in my body language. I don’t blame the dog for not liking me. Most animals don’t.

“I swear, that dog’s insane. He doesn’t like anyone but Noah,” Mr. Vander says, folding his arms across his chest.

“He doesn’t bother me,” I say, looking around. I’ve never been in Noah’s house before. The foyer is covered in dark wooden wainscoting, its oiled finish dull in spots. To my right is a staircase leading to the second floor and Noah’s room. To my left, an open door reveals a small living room, where a TV fills the room with cold blue light. The oak floors are scratched and warped.

“Well,” says Mr. Vander, focusing on me with bleary eyes, “I should go get Noah. It’s not polite to keep a pretty girl like you waiting.” He looks me up and down, and I momentarily regret the dress I chose to wear. Fitted around the bodice before flaring out at my waist, it’s a robin’s-egg shade of blue that reminds me of Noah’s eyes in the sunlight. I wouldn’t call the neckline indecent by any means—it’s just
low enough to frame the birdcage necklace that Noah gave me, on its long silver chain. But the way Mr. Vander looks at me makes me wish for a jacket that buttoned up to my neck.

He puts his hand on the banister of the staircase for balance, running his hands up and down the smooth surface. I shiver. He never breaks eye contact with me. I wonder how he’s even upright. Judging from the whiskey fumes that emanate from him, he’s been drinking all day. But he doesn’t slur his words, not a bit. And somehow that’s more unnerving than if he had.

“Kailey, sorry, I didn’t realize you’d be here so quickly.” Noah appears, clomping down the stairs. “Do you . . . want to come up for a few?” He locks eyes with me, and I nod.

“Yeah.” I have the strange sensation that he just rescued me from something. I could tell when we spoke earlier that he didn’t want me to come over, and now I’m beginning to see why. I follow him up the stairs, turning for one last look at Mr. Vander, but he’s already returned to his ripped leather chair in front of the TV.

Noah’s house has an air of faded grandeur. The stained-glass window overlooking the landing is streaked with dust; the faded Persian runner in the hallway rubbed almost down to the cotton backing in parts. There’s no smell of food cooking, like there is at the Morgans’ house. No clatter of conversation.

No Mrs. Vander. I recall Noah saying she threatened to leave when his father lost his job and started drinking again. It looks like she did, though I’m ashamed to realize I never asked Noah what happened. He doesn’t talk about his family much.

Harker lopes up after us, but Noah stops him when he goes to follow us into Noah’s room. “Stay,” he commands. The dog lies down on the rug in the hallway, watching me warily.

Noah’s room fits him perfectly. It’s cozy, with low, angled ceilings. A huge oak desk holds an old desktop computer, a pile of books, and an open sketchpad. My eyes are immediately drawn to the walls, covered in framed photographs, beautifully arranged.

Some are reprints from famous photographers—Man Ray, Robert Mapplethorpe, Diane Arbus, and a few others I can’t immediately place. Others I instinctively recognize as his own work. There’s a portrait of Harker, his dark eyes liquid and full of love, rendered in black-and-white. There are shots of various locations I recognize from around Berkeley and Oakland: the clock tower at the UC Berkeley campus; a group of kids riding bicycles; birds clustered on a liquor store sign while a man with sad eyes stands underneath.

On the wall above his dresser is a painting, the only
nonphotographic piece in the room. It’s unmistakably one of Kailey’s. I move closer to study it.

The painting shows Kailey from behind, in her room, looking out her window toward the Vanders’ house. The only source of light is the soft glow from Noah’s window, outlining his silhouette—but then I see the small dots of light surrounding the window, illuminating the gutters and the eaves. I smile. They are tiny fairies, their translucent wings delicately rendered. Kailey’s signature touch: magical creatures thrown casually into the real world.

“I like your dress,” he says to my back, and I turn around.

“Thank you,” I answer. “You too.” His brown shirt and dark pants follow the line of his lean, muscled frame. The scuffed combat boots peeking out from beneath his cuffs are the only indication of his usual rumpled style. It looks perfect.

“Oh?” He arches an eyebrow. “You like my dress?”

“Shut up,” I say. “I meant that you look nice.”

He grins. “I was going to wear a tie, but I realized I don’t really know how to tie it.”

“A tie? How fancy is this place?”

He looks down, suddenly embarrassed. “It’s not, but I was having fun with the whole date thing.”

“I’ll tie it for you,” I offer, picking up the tie draped over the back of his desk chair. “You’re going to have to sit down, though. I don’t think I can reach that high.”

He obliges, and I wrap the tie under his collar, brushing his hair back with my fingers. A shivery feeling takes root in my belly. I can feel his breath in the air between us.

“Where did you learn how to do this?” he asks. His voice is low, soft.

“Um, I’ve seen Bryan do it?” I offer. My voice catches as I see the books on his desk and realize what he’s been reading about.

Every one of them is about alchemy. Thomas Vaughan’s
Coelum Terrae
, George Ripley’s
The Mistery of Alychymists
, a title called
The Alchemical Practice of Mary the Prophetess
. I recognize some from Cyrus’s own collection, though these copies have Berkeley library stickers on them. I look past them to the sketchbook and almost gasp at what Noah was drawing—two people standing at the top points of a downward-pointing triangle, silver cords curving out from their navels toward strange symbols in the air. The cord connecting body and soul, the bond that the elixir is designed to destroy.

My god. I hadn’t realized how much Cyrus taught Noah before he vanished. He was clearly grooming Noah for the coven. I’m not surprised—Cyrus loves intelligence and beauty. He especially loves those who are lost and confused, those he can rescue and brainwash and turn into his loyal followers. Noah is all of those things—although Cyrus
would have never accepted Noah if he’d known I’d loved him.

I want to reach out and grab Noah, keep him safe from Cyrus forever. But all I say is “How’s that?”

Noah rises and studies himself in the mirror on the inside of his closet door. “Bravo. Should we go?”

He leads me back downstairs, where Mr. Vander is passed out on the leather chair. I’m surprised, considering how alert he seemed only a few minutes before, but Noah barely gives him a second glance. Harker whimpers when Noah opens the front door. “It’s okay, buddy. I’ll be back later,” Noah says quietly. Harker settles down to wait, and I have the feeling he’ll still be right there when Noah gets home.

We drive to downtown Oakland, toward Lake Merritt. It’s hard to be in this area without thinking of Cyrus—he staged his death so close to here—but I try to brush those thoughts away. I’m with the boy I love tonight. Noah sees me looking out the window and must sense my trepidation. “I swear I’m not taking you here because of Mr. Shaw.”

“I didn’t say anything,” I counter softly. “Besides, it’s okay if you want to talk about him. I . . . I know he was important to you.” I realize that more now than ever.

The restaurant is at the end of a long pier that extends over the lake. From the outside, it looks like a cottage out
of
Grimm’s Fairy Tales
, with its river-stone walls and alpine beams. The interior glows with hundreds of strands of Christmas lights, criss-crossing the ceiling in a hopelessly tangled web. Metal sconces light the way to our table, which sits next to a large window. Outside, the water ripples underneath the nearly full moon.

“I love it,” I tell him. It feels like we’re on a boat.

The waitress brings us mint tea in delicate porcelain cups. “I had a feeling this was your kind of place,” says Noah.

The air is redolent with cardamom and nutmeg. I sink back into my chair, holding my teacup in a decidedly unladylike fashion, fingers of both hands wrapped around its smooth surface to soak up the warmth.

“What should we order?” asks Noah, holding up his menu.

“You pick.” I’m so happy to be in this magical place. I can almost believe in safety again.

“What if I pick lamb brains?” he asks.

I’ve eaten those before, simmered in butter and garlic. I’ve lived all over the world and eaten meals that would probably terrify Noah. “Yum” is all I say, then, “Wait. Do they have that?”

“No,” he replies. “Lucky for you.”

“Don’t hold back on my account.” I scan the menu, and a thought occurs to me. “Wait, Noah, this place is expensive.
How are you paying for this?” Cyrus had extravagant tastes and bottomless wealth, but Noah’s family certainly isn’t rich.

“You’re not supposed to ask that, Kailey!” he protests. “It’s a date. I’m a man of means.” I raise an eyebrow. “Okay, okay, I shot some photos for the restaurant last summer. They’re using it in a brochure or something. My dad knows the owner and hooked me up with the gig. Anyway, it’s taken care of.”

I’ve been observing humans for a very long time, and I don’t miss the fleeting shadow that moves across his eyes when he mentions his father. It’s like a wayward cloud on an otherwise sunny day.

“He’s not doing well, is he.” I say it like a statement, not a question. Noah meets my eye and shakes his head. “You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to,” I add, but I hope he will.

“No . . . I
want
to talk to you. I’m just not sure it’s that interesting. He’s a drunk, my mom’s gone, and I’m stuck there.” His jaw tightens. I don’t say anything, hoping he’ll continue. “I think he wishes she’d taken me with her. So there’d be no one around to make him feel guilty. I know he blames me. He always tells me never to have kids because they ruin your life. Nice thing to say to your son, right?” His eyes are full of pain, shimmering in the candlelight that moves over them like moonlight on a lake.

“Where did she go? Your mom?” No matter how much she hated her husband, I find it hard to understand why she’d leave her son behind.

“She’s in Arizona with my grandparents. When she left, she said she was just going to stay with them for a while. She said she didn’t want to take me out of school. She said she’d call me every day.” He takes a sip of his tea. “I haven’t heard from her once. She’s not coming back. I’m not stupid.”